Tag: weed

Brotherly Love, part 2

On By m3mayhemIn Alpha Male Eddie8 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Brotherly Love, part 1

On By m3mayhemIn Alpha Male Eddie2 Comments

Eddie was angry.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“No…no…” he whispered.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles2 Comments

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…

 

Meat Chronicles 19–Halfpipe in the Park, Full Pipe Up the Ass

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles2 Comments

I first see them leaving the skate park and almost give them a pass; after all, if they were leaving the park, they were probably on their way home, right?  And they look like typical teenaged wigger punks; home is probably a nice suburban neighborhood with lots of security cameras.

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

But these boys…there’s something about them, something about the cocky arrogance of their young faces and the lustful wantonness of their hormone-filled bodies.  I turn around and pull over, giving them plenty of headway; they’re riding their boards and I don’t want to overtake them until I can figure out their destination.

 

It turna out to be an improvised skate park in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse some two miles east.  The low buildings of rusted metal are gaunt and desolate in the late afternoon sun.  There isn’t anyone for miles, not even any other skaters.  I pull quietly to the curb and watch the boys practice their moves, away from prying eyes—so they thought.

 

I can’t tell if they’re related.  They took a smoke break a few minutes back, the dark-haired one offering the ginger punk a Camel.  Willing to bet Camel boy is older than eighteen—the legal age for buying cigarettes in this state.  It’s just a guess, though; if he is over eighteen, it isn’t by much.

 

The redhead’s freckled face, squinting in the sunlight, looks younger than that of his companion, but I’m estimating him at seventeen, largely by his outfit.  He’s rigged out in full skater punk gear, from the ped socks and Etnies Fader 2 kicks to the shiny black and blue polyester ball shorts and black tank top with the Adidas logo in white, all kinda generic.  But like a true douchebag, he’s wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap with the sales tag still dangling from it.  It’s dark green with white piping and a white logo; I’m too far away to make out the logo, but I don’t need to.  Those colors are the colors of a high school not far from my home.  And that big squarish glint of gold on his finger is obviously a class ring.

 

So gingerboy is a high school senior and his douchebuddy is probably a recent graduate—jobless punk, just fuckin’ around.

 

Nobody’ll miss him.  Nobody’ll miss either of them.

 

I decide on a tried and true lure.  Quietly starting my van, I circle the block away from them. I light up a joint and quickly take a couple of deep hits, making sure that the cab reeks of weed.  I then whip a corner and come upon them suddenly, as if I didn’t know they were already there.

 

“Yo!  Dude!” I call out.  The older one is closer; he eyes me warily but comes towards me.

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

His face is smooth except for a very faint haze of new hair growth on his cheeks and chin, and across his upper lip.  He’s wearing a gray knit cap pulled down over the tips of his ears, but his black hair is long enough to stick out underneath.  I like it.  I’ll let him keep his cap on as he dies.

 

He’s wearing a thin, tight tank top, gray on the front with the words “U Mad Bro?” in black.  Below a pair of faded red chino skater shorts, he’s got on a pair of Osiris NYC 83 hightops in brick red.  Little fuck thinks he’s stylin’…

 

“Hey, man,” I call out, an easy grin on my masculine face.  Nothing wrong here, motherfucker.  “I been drivin’ round for half an hour—where’s the fukkin’ highway?”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s that way,” the kid mutters, pointing to the left.

 

“Yeah, well, what I really wanna know is, where can I get some beer?”

 

Skaterboi becomes a little more enthusiastic about helping a stranger in need.

 

“Well, yeah, there’s this place…it’s kinda hard to find, though…”

 

He’s giving me an opening and I take it.

 

“Wanna show me the way?” I ask.  “I’ll getcha high on the way.”

 

He lights up, his youthful face glowing with pleasure; just looking at him makes my dick hard.  But then his expression clouds over and he looks anxiously back at gingercunt.

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” I grin, “I got enough room—and enough weed for him too.  Here, lemme pull into the lot and open up the back.  We’ll get good an’ fucked up before we pick up some brewskis.”

 

Now the kid’s all kinda cheerful and helpful.  “Hey, Steve!” he calls out, gesticulating at the redheaded punk, “Getcher ass over here!”

 

“Whassup?” Steve the ginger says, popping up his board into his hand and heading over.

 

“We gotta real bro here, man—he’s gonna get us high an’ then I’m gonna show ‘im how to get over to Wegel’s so we can get some brews!”

 

Gingerfuck lights up, too.  Goddam, this is like shootin’ fish in a barrel.  Stupid little asswipes actin’ like they’re big, swinging dicks in the world—lessee how big their dicks are when they’re ridin’ mine.

 

Having pulled into a space in the lot, I shut the engine off.  This neighborhood is as good as any, nice and isolated, but a few random vehicles parked here and there so my van doesn’t stand out.  I get out of the driver seat, my big black leather harness boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  I make sure the huge bulge of my manhood is visible in the crotch of my skintight but worn jeans.  These little cocksuckers are gonna see they’re dealin’ with a real man.

 

They don’t notice at first, as I slide open the door to the rear of the van; that’s ok.  I can wait.  They’ll have plenty of opportunity to notice my cock when it’s buried in their asses.  “C’mon inside, dudes,” I say jovially; both boys show their eagerness by hustling their lithe, smooth bodies with alacrity.  So young, so hot, so stupid—goddam, I can’t wait to off these little fucks.

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

“Steve,” he hastens to remind me, “And he’s Jeff.”  Like I give a shit.

 

“Here ya go, Steve,” I say, tossing him a hard Marlboro box.  “Gotta couple of jays already rolled in there.  Y’all help yerselves; I got enough to roll one for me up here.”  And with that, I settle into the driver seat, waiting for the Xanax-laced joints to start taking effect.  While I wait, I quietly slip a pair of handcuffs out of the center console and into my pocket.

 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes before the sounds of muttering and giggling fade out in the back.  I step back into a thick haze of sweet blue smoke to find both boys stoned out of their fucking minds.  They managed to polish off a joint each; Steve it completely blitzed.  He’s laying back against the side of the van.  He’s grinning so hard his eyes are squinted and his tongue is out; his face is so flushed his freckles have nearly vanished.  As I watch, he lolls his head back, knocking off his cap and revealing the short, spiked orange hair on his head.

 

Jeff is on the other side; his face is heavy and vacant, but he’s still conscious and somewhat lucid.  He hasn’t completely finished his joint yet.

 

“Hey, wanna see something really hot?” I leer at him.

 

“Yeah, what?” he asks, grinning dopily.

 

“Here, lemme start with this.”  I whip out the handcuffs.  Before Jeff has a chance to react, I cinch one cuff around his left wrist and the other through a pair of holes drilled in the van’s body ribbing.  Now the punk can’t move more than a few inches from that position.

 

“Wha?” he grunts, looking foggily at the cuffs.

 

“Over here,” I say, snapping my fingers and approaching the other punk.  “I’m gonna take yer buddy here—”

 

“Brotha…” Jeff mutters, “He’s m’half brotha…”

 

“He’s fuckmeat, asshole,” I snap.  “I’m gonna stick my dick in him and unload in his ass as he dies and yer gonna watch.”

 

Jeff stares at me, gape-jawed.  It’s difficult to tell how much of his impassivity is due to shock or fear and how much to being drugged, but it doesn’t matter.  The drugs will have worn off long before I’m done with the first piece of boymeat.  By the time I get to little Jeffie over there, he’ll be plenty awake enough to know what’s going on.

 

And that’s good.  I want him awake and suffering by the time I fuck him.  I want to feel his agonized screams as they reverberate in his strong smooth body and vibrate the root of my cock…

 

First things first, though.  Gingerfuck needs a little lesson on his proper place in the world first, just as a little foreplay.  Something to get Jeff and me both into the right mood, to get the juices flowing, so to speak.

 

And where is red-headed skaterboi Steve’s proper place in the world?  It’s taking a dirt nap with my manseed coating his guts.  Just thinking about it’s already got me hard.  Fuck it, I’m goin’ in—need to get those punk threads cut off the fucker.

 

Time to start the fun.  Crouching in the center of the van—I’m too tall to stand up in here—I unzip my fly and let my huge, throbbing hog flop out.

 

Both pieces of fuckmeat stare groggily at my engorged rod, but only Jeff has retained enough motor control to speak coherently.  Well, kinda.

 

“Wha…” he mumbles, “Why…whyyerfuckin…dickout…” His dark, heavy-lidded eyes focus on my manhood.

 

Little redheaded Stevie just giggles.  I turn and grin at Jeff.  “It’s out cause I’m gonna stick in ya, cunt.  But first, I’m gonna stick it in yer brother.  Oh, and this, too,” I add, holding up a specialty tool I’ve made by grinding down the head of an eight-inch long screwdriver, leaving a pointed tip on a nearly half-inch diameter steel shaft.

 

Jeff is inarticulate; he shakes his head wildly, but is unable to speak.  I note, in passing, that his knit cap stays in place no matter how vigorous his movements.  Wonder if he had an idea he’d die wearing it when he slipped it on today…

 

I turn to Steve.  He’s still lying limply against the far side of the van from his brother, too high to move.  I know he heard my words, and I’m fairly certain he understood them, but it doesn’t matter.  If he didn’t understand them, he soon will.  I bend down and yank of his ball shorts, tugging them down his legs and over his Etnies kicks.

 

Of course the punk-ass faggot is commando, letting his thick teenaged dick swing free between his legs; it lies, limp but long and veined, against the boy’s smooth inner thigh.  His shirt is easier to dispose of; I shove the toe of one boot into an armhole, bend down, and tug.  It takes no more than a moment to rip the thin tank top off and leave the meat lying nude but for his sneakers and socks.

 

“Steve,” Jeff calls out hoarsely, his voice scratchy with effort, “C’mon…gotta wake-wake up…dude’s gon-gonna rape yer ass…”

 

“Yours too, cocksucker,” I grin at him, “Don’t forget.”

 

“No…” the ginger youth moans as I force his firm legs apart and knelt between them, my massive tool fully erect and oozing in anticipation of his taut young fuckhole.  “Whaddaya mean, no?” I jeered, “Fuck yeah is whatcha mean.  Feel this shit, bro.”  Leaning over his slim, muscled frame, helpless on the floor of the van, I pressed the pulsing head of my cock against his quivering sphincter and applied pressure.  Not a lot—just enough to let him know I was there.

 

“Ah—ah—no, p-please…” he whimpered, his cocky face twisted with fear.  So fuckin’ erotic—but not enough.  It needs to be twisted in pain, too.

 

“Fuck you, skatefag,” I whisper and thrust my hips forward, spearing the punk’s colon with my enormous shaft—dry.  I can feel some resistance on the head of my dick, then there’s a parting sensation as something in gingerfuck’s asshole tears open.  The meat squeals like a stuck pig and my rod slides home, buried so far deep into the teen skateboi’s guts that my wiry pubes are grinding his smooth buttcheeks.

 

“Aw, shaddup, cunt!” I snarl and pound my balled-up fist into his face.  My blow lands on his chin; his jaws slam shut, driving his teeth through his tongue.

 

“You goddam asshole!” Jeff sobs, his voice stricken with anguish as he looks on at his brother’s abuse and torment.  “Don’t get jealous,” I tell him, grinning.  “It’ll be yer turn to enjoy my cock soon enough, bro; let the kid here enjoy it first.”  Then I punch Steve again.  Fuck, that feels good—I can feel his entire body stiffen and clench my dick in reaction to the impact.

 

“Goddam, you really are a sick little queerfuck, aintcha?” I jeer into Steve’s swelling, tear-streaked face, “Yer really handlin’ my dick good—yer jest fuckin’ lovin’ it when I hit ya, too, huh?  Ok, ya perverted little piece a’ shit; ya like the pain—I can sure as fuck deliver.  Buckle up, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad, you’ll cum in sheer joy!”

 

It gets kinda loud in the van for a couple of minutes, between Steve’s cries of pain, Jeff’s helpless invective and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh.  By the time it gets quiet again, gingerfuck is barely conscious and his brother is hanging limply at the side of the van, weeping quietly.  It’s warm in here; I take a moment to slip out of my shirt—there.  Damn, I’ve been sweating enough to mat down my chest hair…

 

I leer down into the dazed teen’s face—so young, so beautiful, so punchable—and run my hands down his firm, lithe torso, feeling his smooth skin slick with a film of cold sweat forced out of him by his suffering.  His dick is semi-soft and getting stiffer by the second; it’s a reaction to the vigorous prostate massage he’s enjoying.

 

Unfortunately, he’s going loose on my shaft.  I need to fix that.  I don’t think he’s going to be enjoying his assrape for much longer—but I’ll give him a chance, first.

 

“Hey, buttfuck,” I smirk, “You’re failin’, dude.  Only reason I’m keepin’ ya around is to get off, an’ here you are, going slack on my hog.  Here, I’ll give ya—” here I set the timer on my watch— “thirty seconds to start workin’ my dick good, or I’m gonna make ya work it.”

 

And I spend the next thirty seconds counting down and plowing his rectum remorselessly.  His ass doesn’t get any tighter—I didn’t expect it to—but the increasing panic in his bewildered face is intoxicating.

 

“…three…two…one!  Ok, fuckwad, now it’s my turn.”  I show him my pointed steel shank.  “See this, bro?  This is gonna tighten yer ass up real good.”

 

I’d been so busy fucking with little Stevie that I’d almost forgotten the second course.  A gasp and moan from the side reminds me that I’ve got more meat to tenderize.  I hold up the screwdriver so Jeff can admire it too.

 

“Hey, dude, yer little faggot bro here likes to get fucked, yeah?  He likes a good skullfuck?  Cool, man—I’m gonna fuck his skull with this.”

 

I don’t think he’s following me.  I know Steve isn’t, but that’s ok.  I’ll manage to get it into his head somehow—heh heh heh.

 

By now the teen fucker I’m rammin’ is panicking.  He knows something bad is about to happen, so he’s pawing at my chest.  I’m laying across him, feeling that young, strong body writhe in terror beneath me—his legs are wrapped around my waist.  His Etnies are drumming on my firm asscheeks; a minor distraction at most.  And for all this activity and exertion, the stupid little sack of shit still can’t tighten his sphincter.

 

“Awright, enough of this shit,” I snarl, “You really are a lousy lay, fuckhead.”

 

I force his head to the side and plant one of my big hands on it, splayed out and taking all my weight, pinning it to the floor.  Then I take the screwdriver and start shoving into Steve’s ear.

 

Gingerfuck’s howls of pain take on a more intense quality as the sharpened steel punctures his eardrum and starts tearing its way through the delicate structures of the middle and inner ear.  Suddenly the skateboi isn’t fighting me any more—he’s clinging to me tightly, desperately, afraid to move, as if remaining completely still will lessen the torture being inflicted on him.

 

It won’t.  Stupid little shit.  He’s holding me like a lover, and I’m about to ream his cockpig brain with a homemade shank.  His head is still twisted to the side, of course, but when I look down, I can see the wide, shocked edges of his eyes as he tries to peer at me.

 

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, grinning, and apply more pressure to the screwdriver, “Enjoy the pain asswipe; you’ll be dead in minutes.”  There’s a faint moist crunching sound as the sharpened steel shiv punches through Steve’s inner ear and begins tunneling into his cerebellum.

 

The punk vomits; I’ve destroyed the mechanism that provides his sense of balance and he’s experiencing profound vertigo. He hasn’t stopped holding me, though; as the screwdriver sinks deeper into his skull, Steve clutches me ever more tightly.

 

I look up at Jeff.  “Hey, man,” I call out softly.  He turns and looks at me unwillingly, his large dark eyes reflecting his horror and despair.  “Watch it, man.  Watch me fuckin’ cum up inside yer bro as he dies on my cock.  Watch me fuck his brain into hamburger, motherfucker—it’s so goddam hot.”  I give him my best shark-like grin.  “But don’t worry, dude—I’ll have plenty of spunk left over to hose down yer corpse, too.”

 

The older skateboi moans softly, like he’s not really paying attention.  That pisses me off.  In a couple of minutes, I’ll make goddam sure the fuckin’ faggot is payin’ attention.  He’ll be hangin’ on my every word like it’s life or fuckin’ death—but all it’s gonna be is fuckin’ death, heh.

 

In the meantime, I’ve got the screwdriver halfway into little Stevie’s head.  I’m amazed the high school punkboy is still functional; he’s gotta be suffering some pretty serious brain trauma by this point, but he’s still squirming deliberately, which means someone’s still home.

 

Time for a fuckin’ eviction.  My toes curl, digging the soles of my big black boots into the floor of the van as I brace myself and shove the steel shank in up to the hilt.

 

There’s no resistance; it’s like poking a knife into a mass of scrambled eggs.  And scrambled is the right word; as massive brain trauma makes the little bitch’s colon wrap around my thick, pounding shaft like fuckin’ velvet, I slowly start to churn the metal shaft inside Steve’s skull.

 

I make sure to catch Jeff’s eyes.  Huge as they are, they’re easy to catch; huge and round with shock.  He stares at the horrific scene unfolding in front of him.  Teenaged fear and despair wash off him in waves, his adolescent pheromones filling the heavy, lust-soaked atmosphere in the back of my van—it’s makin’ my cock throb so fuckin’ bad…

 

“Look at ‘im,” I hiss at Jeff, “I done banged yer little bro so hard I fucked ‘im into a retard, an’ he still ain’t made me cum yet.  Worthless fuckin’ faggot—you better get me off, you sack a’ shit, or the pain I put you in will make this look like an owie for mommy to kiss.”

 

I pull out and stand up, my massive manshaft still glistening with Steve’s ass juices.  The young ginger is lying on the floor of the van, his smooth, sweat-lubes body stiff, rigid and trembling.  His teeth are clenched, his eyes rolled back in his head—and his cock his hard and dripping.  He’s not dead yet; his heart is still beating and he’s still breathing, independently if irregularly.

 

But I’ve left the screwdriver buried in his head, the orange-and-blue plastic handle protruding incongruously from his ear.

 

I cross over to Jeff and uncuff him; the hardbodied skateboi sinks blubbering to his knees.  As he curls up, I bend down and rip off his shirt, then jerk him up and yank off his shorts.  He falls back to the floor as I toss them aside.

 

“Get up, pansy-ass,” I snarl and give the fucker a swift kick.  The impact of my steel-toed boot on his flank elicits a grunt and then—amazingly; I thought the asshole was too scared to speak—a reply.

 

“I—we ain’t no faggots” Jeff manages to gasp between broken sobs, tears accumulating on his long dark eyelashes.  Fuck, that’s so sexy.  He needs to cry more.  He deserves it, the fuckwad.

 

“Yeah?  Sez who, you?” I chuckle.  “Dude, yer gonna be suckin’ yer bro’s dick here in a second.”

 

“Fuck you!” Jeff yells in an access of fury, spitting at me.  A nice sharp backhand gets a yelp from the skatepunk and puts a stop to his pussy little rebellion.  “No, no—fuck you,” I reply calmly, “But first, wrap yer fuckin’ lips around your brother’s dick, cocksucker, or I’ll fuckin’ kill yer ass right now.”

 

There’s a knife I keep stashed in the back, a long, serrated hunting knife that just holding gives me an erection.  It’s one of my favorites, although I’m not using it today.  Jeff doesn’t know that, though, so when I brandish it, he gets quiet and pale.

 

“Down on yer knees, fairyboy,” I command and he does it.  Stupid fuckin’ asswipe.  He’s looking right at his brother’s tool—it’s standing straight up, more than six inches of vein-wreathed cockmeat, pulsing and oozing precum.  Still holding the knife, I circle around and kneel down by Steve’s head.

 

“Now put it in yer mouth, cocksucker,” I demand coldly, “Open wide and gulp it down.  I wanna see you chokin’ on yer brain-dead bro’s dick.”

 

Jeff blanches and gags, then swallows heavily.  “Get that fuckin’ dick down yer throat now!” I yell and the teen punk holds his breath and deepthroats his half-brother.

 

I lean forward and shove Jeff’s head down with one hand.  With the other, I grab the handle of the screwdriver and start churning Steve’s brain matter into pudding again—only this time, I’m aiming for the mass of cells that control the pleasure center of the brain.  It takes seconds to mince that section, shorting out the dying kid’s nervous system and inducing a hyper-extended orgasm that wouldn’t have been physically possible in the course of normal sexual function.

 

The red-haired skateboi literally floods his brother’s mouth with hot teen spunk.  Jeff’s on his knees, between Steve’s smooth, firm, still-twitching thighs, looking right at me as his bro unloads down his throat.  As he pulls his head up, gagging and choking, a thick wad of jizz slipping out of his mouth, the brain-dead meat just keeps spewing into the open air.  Damn, I’ve triggered a geyser.

 

I feel like I wanna do the same myself.  “Time to saddle up, Jeff, my balls need drainin’ too,” I mutter, rising to my feet, knowing the dark-eyed skaterboi with the knit cap can’t hear me—he’s too busy retching up his brother’s semen.  Steve jerks violently as a brief rain of semen falls in the van, then goes quiet–but not quite still.

 

But I have the other cunt to deal with.  Let’s see, what do I wanna use to off this fucker?  Lessee—oh yeah.  This’ll fuckin’ work.

 

As Jeff leans forward and, still gagging, gets on his hands and knees to rise, I jump forward and mount him doggie-style, plugging my big thick tube of manmeat up his tight little boyhole before he has a chance to resist.  I punch past his sphincter like a jackhammer and am buried balls-deep in his ass, my massive jizz-filled sack slapping against his scrote, before it even registers that he’s been violated.

 

When it does, he shrieks, and for a moment I devote myself to pure physical pleasure.  I wrap my hands around Jeff’s torso from behind, fondling his pecs and nipples, feeling his firm, boyish chest heave in anguish and his smooth skin grow slick with cold sweat squeezed from his youthful frame by pain.

 

Then I wrap the bungee cord I picked up around his neck and pull it tight, garroting the skatepunk from behind as I fuck him like a bitch.

 

In his sudden confusion and panic, Jeff collapses.  The sudden cessation of air can cause intense focus as a rational man plots his defense.  Dumbass faggots like Jeff, though, just kick and die.

 

And that’s just what the dumbass faggot is doin’ right now, with my cock wedged up his ass.

 

“That’s it, motherfucker, keep fightin’ it,” I whisper encouragingly into the teen’s ear, “The harder you fight, the better you work my cock.”

 

Jeff struggles beneath me, his strong, wiry body thrashing violently.  It’s more than the usual panic—oh yeah; he’s just realized he’s gettin’ assraped on top of his brother’s corpse.  If the little cunt is dead yet, that is.  Fucker’s still twitchin’.

 

I don’t care why; it just feels good.  “That’s it—ya like that, huh?  Ya like the thought of a real man takin’ yer worthless punk ass out, huh?  Fuck, you goddam sack a’ garbage, keep milkin’ my shaft!”  The elastic cord stretches in my hands, but from the corners of my eyes, I can see how the tats on my bulging biceps seem to swell as I cinch the cord even tighter around the young boy’s neck.  It’s sunk so deep into his flesh it’s barely visible.

 

He’s trying to talk, the motherfucker.  “Gh! Ng! Ng! NG!!” he grunts thickly, clawing at his throat, like that’s gonna do any good.  “You stupid fuck,” I laugh at him, ramming my pulsating shaft into his ravaged colon, “Keep tryin’ to pull it away, dipshit, it’ll keep ya busy as ya die.”

 

He reaches behind himself with one hand, awkwardly trying to reach me; it’s an utter failure, of course.  He’s twisting his head violently from side to side like it’s somehow gonna magically give him air; in the process, he dislodges his knit cap, revealing near shoulder-length russet hair, stringy and matted with desperate sweat.

 

Again, my boots are planted wide for traction.  Between them, skatemeat’s Osiris hightops are drumming frantically at the floor of the van.  He’s not just twisting his head now, he’s thrashing it, flinging foamy streamers of drool as he kicks and flails  and slowly strangles to death.

 

Just like his worthless brother, Jeff’s brain is dying.  I can feel his firm young body become less controlled in its movements at it struggles beneath my hard, muscular form, the teen’s slick, sweat-lubed skin sliding easily against my own furry flesh as the cunt dies with my cock inside him.

 

“Jeez, ya fuckin’ useless piece a’ meat, ya didn’t get me off either,” I mutter, tightening the cord—and then there’s a loud crunch, and the cord gives way as I crush Jeff’s esophagus into a wad of bleeding gristle.

 

The reaction is immediate; Jeff’s ass grabs my dick and begins to jack me off like that was its original design.  Under me, the docile, brain-damaged skaterboi suddenly erupts into a physical frenzy—motherfucker convulses violently, his young, strong body suffering extended death throes.

 

It feels so fuckin’ good, the way his dying, oxygen-deprived brain makes his body jerk and flail, as if the whole point of his death is to earn my load.  And it is, really.  So I give it to him, grunting and beating on his smooth, bare back, as I pump what feels like quart after quart of searing hot manseed into the teenaged faggot’s guts.

 

I spend a few moments on top of the fagmeat pile, my cock still sunk in Jeff’s ass as Jeff’s corpse drools out onto Steve’s still-trembling form.  I need to catch my breath, and it’s warm and moist and cozy up here.

 

After a bit, I get back up, tuck my still-pulsing manshaft back down the leg of my jeans, and slip my shirt back on.  Heading up to the front of the van, I do a quick recon and make sure the coast is clear before dumping the meat.

 

I dunno if these two fuckers built this place or if they had help, but there ain’t no one else around, and that’s perfect.  I open up the back and drag Jeff out.

 

There’s a halfpipe in the center of the park. I seat him on the ground leaning back against it, his head tilted back into the bottom of the pipe.  Then I drag Steve over.

 

It was seeing all that cum of Steve’s glazing Jeff’s face that gave me the idea.  I drape Steve into the pipe facedown and plug his dick in Jeff’s mouth.  Retreating five yards, I examine the tableau for effect.

 

Two teen boys, nude except for their skate shoes—one seated on the ground, legs spread, the other leaning over him into the halfpipe, getting a BJ.  It’s perfect.  You need to get real close to see that they’re dead.  If they are; gingerfuck still seems to be quivering. I thought he’d be goin’ stiff by now.

 

I’ll toss their clothes and boards into that canal I passed.  Think there was enough water and a  fast enough flow to confuse things whenever they’re found.  I gotta go, but I’m gonna be paying close attention to the news.  I love it when they linger on the artistic touches I give to a kill.  I not a butcher, for fuck’s sake; I take pride in my work.

 

 

News item, dated next day:

Two teenaged youths, half-brothers from the same household, found attacked and sexually assaulted on abandoned property used as skate park by local youths.  Jeff Lansing, age nineteen, was reported dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital.  Steven Lansing, age eighteen, was reported in grave condition upon arrival.  Sources report the surviving victim has suffered such severe brain damage that he has been placed on full life support and is not expected to recover.

Immediate response from the authorities has been to demolish the unapproved skate park.  A representative from the sheriff’s department told this reporter that…

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

On By m3mayhemIn Rigler County Snuff Squad3 Comments

It was past five at the end of a long slow day of paperwork and Dan was uptight.  Too long at the desk tended to do that to him; he was a man who craved action.  Right now, he needed something to break the tension before driving home.  Three days ago, he’d busted a low-level weed dealer and confiscated his pot—there were still several rolled joints in his desk drawer.  Unlocking it, he pulled it out and extracted one of them.

 

He had no qualms about lighting up in his office; no one would dare enter without knocking.  And anyway, the building was practically empty.  The first shift had left and second was out on its rounds.  Cooper was manning the duty desk on the other side of the building, and Schumacher was tending the two drunks in the basement cells.  Only other person around was Pete, and he—

 

There was a rap at the door.  “C’mon in, Pete,” Dan said.

 

The heavily-muscled deputy entered the room and sniffed.  A conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome, hirsute face, and he eagerly accepted a toke from the smoldering jay Dan handed him.

 

“You wanted to see me, Cap?” he croaked, trying not to exhale too much of the sweet-scented blue smoke.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, taking the joint back and tossing him a manila folder full of papers instead.  “Here, before you get too high, read this an’ tell me what ya think.”

 

“What is it?” Pete asked, then answered his own question by reading the header on the first page.  “Autopsy report?  Whose?  And who’s this Dr. Herrera?”

 

“Herrera is the county medical examiner.  Corpse is some kid from Corrington.”

 

“Corrington?  That’s south of here, isn’t it?  Not far from the Quail County line?”

 

“Southwest, yeah.  Little podunk place—you ever been there?”

 

Pete, who had moved to Rigler County recently, shook his head.

 

“It was the original county seat,” Dan continued.  “The old courthouse is still down there, but there ain’t more than three or four thousand folk down in that whole southwestern corner now.  That’s what makes that report so interesting.”

 

Pete turned his attention back to the autopsy.  “Lessee, Caucasian male, late teens to early twenties…found partially submerged in moderate state of decay…proximate cause of death, traumatic dislocation of spine between first and second cervical vertebrae…”  He turned back to Dan, who was proffering the joint again.  “I don’t get it,” he said, “So we got a dead kid with a broken neck.  So what?”

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

“Ok, Pete said resignedly, “Where was I…oh, here we are…broken fingers on left hand…shattered right patella…nose broken…what the—?”

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

“Crushed esophagus indicative of violent manual strangulation…clear evidence of sexual assault…sperm recovered but likely too degraded for local analysis; recommend the State Bureau of Investigation be involved…”

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

“Body was ID’d through fingerprints.  Twenty-three year old waste of human flesh called Travis Egerton.  Couple a’ rednecks out frog-giggin’ found him floatin’ in a swamp.  Thought we might take a ride out to Corrington tomorrow, yeah?  I wanna find this guy—for several reasons. I really wanna find him.”

 

There was something in Dan’s smile that made Pete’s dick stiffen until it tentpoled his tan chinos.  “Me too, Cap,” he replied, his broad grin lighting up his youthful face, “Me too.  Count me in.”

 

 

The county road was poorly maintained; Captain Dan’s pickup bucked and rocked on the crumbling, pitted asphalt.  Pete, grateful for the four-wheel drive, peered at the paperwork again.

 

“Where is the place—this 1805 CR 83 west?  I couldn’t find it online.  Who are we looking for?”

 

Frowning with concentration, Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly, his high glossy boots working the pedals carefully as he maneuvered the truck around the worst of the potholes.  “It’s where that Travis fucker was stayin’.  I did a little research after you left last night—turns out our dead meat was a known associate of that other dead piece a’ shit, Robbie Clebbs.”

 

As Robbie’s name was mention, an image flashed briefly through Pete’s mind—the look on the teen cunt’s face when Pete knifed him in the throat.  Instantly, the groin of his tight chinos was bulging as the erotic pleasure of the memory warmed his blood.  A quick, surreptitious glance at Cap’s crotch showed he hadn’t been immune to the power of flashback.

 

“Anyway,” Dan went on, grinning, “That gave me enough to roust Judge Wheeler outta bed early this mornin’ an’ sign a search warrant for the dude’s last known address.”

 

“Awful long—” Pete started when the truck hit a deep pothole with a resounding bang.  Dan cursed under his breath.  “Awful long way to come for this,” the deputy continued, “We coulda done what the ME suggested and called in the SBI to test the cum in the punk’s ass.”

 

“Yeah,” Dan admitted, “We coulda done that.  But I wanna keep control of the situation.  I wanna decide what to do when we find this guy…”  His voice trailed off and he seemed to grow contemplative for a moment before returning to himself.  “He clearly has certain…talents that might come in handy.  If the state’s involved, there’s nothing I can do, you got me?”

 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Pete replied thoughtfully.  “You thinkin’ about hirin’ another deputy?”

 

“We’ll see,” Dan said.  “Depends on his attitude towards Authority.”

 

Pete, who understood and shared Dan’s dedication to Authority, said nothing more until Dan swung off the road onto an even more rutted dirt track.  Several hundred yards off the road, they came to halt in front of an old single-wide trailer with a jacked-up black pickup parked in front.  They got out of their vehicle and mounted the shoddily-built wooden stairs to the front door; Pete noted how the thin wood steps gave under his Danner Tachyon boots.

 

Dan found it necessary to bang repeatedly on the hollow aluminum door before he got any kind of response.  At long last, the door was slowly—and, it seemed, grudgingly—unlocked.  It opened a crack and a bleary, scruffy face looked out.

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

Dan held the search warrant up so the dude could read the name on it.  “That you?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Brody said with a deep sigh as he opened the door and reluctantly let the cops in.

 

They stepped inside the dimly-lit space.  The trailer had an unhealthy, musty smell comprised equally of stale beer, manscent and the taint of formaldehyde-treated plywood.  Neither cop minded the smell, though, they were both looking intently at Brody.

 

He was a little large and a little older than Pete—and, by the same token, younger than and not quite as muscular as Captain Dan.  He was wearing nothing but cutoff jean shorts, white tube socks that covered his meaty calves, and a pair of untied Redwing construction boots.  Even in the low lighting, it was impossible to miss his ripped abs and broad, hubcap pecs with jutting erect nipples.

 

Brody ran his eyes over the two men standing before him, his gaze magnetically drawn to the older cop’s trooper boots, admiring the polished brown leather.  The other one was younger, his scruffy face somehow intriguing the well-built redneck.

 

Then Dan began.  “You know a kid named Travis Egerton?”

 

“Yeah,” Brody replied with elaborate nonchalance.  “He lived here for a coupla years, but he ran off a few weeks ago.  Dunno why and don’t care; little faggot wasn’t pullin’ his weight ‘round here anyways.”

 

“So he just left?  Didn’t leave any forwarding address?  Did he have a job?”

 

Brody’s face assumed an expression of impassive reluctance; he was clearly uncomfortable speaking to them.  “Yeah, like I toldja—he just left and I don’t know where.  And yeah, he had a job—kinda.  Worked part time at the Kum ‘n Buy up the road.  But they don’t know where he is either, I already asked.”

 

Pete was learning his trade quickly.  Like Cap, he’d picked up on Brody’s discomfort.  “Thought you said you didn’t care what happened to him,” he put in.  “So why’dja go ask about him?”

 

“I wanted them to gimme his last paycheck,” Brody snapped, his eyes hooded and cautious, “Motherfucker owed me back rent, so I figgered it belonged to me.  Fuckin’ chink bastard who owns the place wouldn’t give it to me.”

 

“So he left without picking up his last paycheck,” Dan mused aloud meditatively.  “Did he ever mention or hang around with another kid called Ronnie?  Eighteen, slim, kinda curly black hair, not quite as long as yours—ring a bell?”

 

“Yeah, I heard ‘im mention the name a coupla time.  Thought it was just another one of those little pansy friends of his.  Never met the queer.  Anyway, why are ya askin’ all this shit?  What’s goin’ on here anyway?”

 

Dan paused for a moment, letting his ice-cold, ice-blue eyes roam over Brody’s physique, noting the redneck’s overdeveloped musculature.  Then he glanced up into the redneck’s deep dark eyes and told him about the discovery of Travis’s corpse and the autopsy report.  Brody not only took it in stride, he barely blinked.

 

Dan’s suspicions were confirmed.  He glanced at Pete and they locked eyes only for a second, but it was enough for the Captain to understand that his protégé had been quick enough to pick up on the same signals.  Pride flowed through his huge, powerful body—he’d make something of Pete yet.

 

But they had other fish to fry at the moment, and the first thing to do was to land the one that had already swallowed their bait.

 

“Little homo got himself fucked to death, huh?” Brody jeered.  “Can’t say I’m surprised; the bitch was a major cockwhore.”

 

The tone of his voice and the look in his face made both Dan and Pete more certain in their convictions.

 

“Yeah?” Dan said evenly, “Y’know, the Clebbs punk went out the same way.  Naw, his neck wasn’t broke, but he got it good up the ass and then he died—hard.  We’re, uh,”—and here he glanced sideways at Pete—“we’re goin’ on the theory that it’s drug-related, maybe gang work.”

 

Brody’s reaction to Dan’s words was an immediate relaxation that was so abrupt as to be almost physically tactile.  And with it came something else.  Even before another word was spoken, there was something electric in the air between the three men; something dark and primal.

 

It might have had something to do with the massive wood all three men were sporting as they discussed the rape and murder of a couple of twinks.

 

“So anyway,” Dan continued, “We’re lookin’ for any of Travis’s associates—anyone you can think of that was into the same scene and might have some info for us.”

 

Brody paused for a moment.  “You want someone like Travis…” he muttered sotto voce, as if speaking only to himself—then a broad grin spread over his ruthlessly handsome face.  “Yeah, bro, I got the dude for ya.”

 

Dan nudged Pete, who whipped out his phone and began to take an audio recording.  Brody was never asked for permission or advised of his rights; this was a strictly extralegal procedure.  Nothing that was said would be given in evidence.

 

“His name’s Eric,” Brody went on eagerly, “Eric—hell, I can’t remember his last name.  But I think he was the one helping Travis to esca—er, get high.  An’ I ain’t talkin’ just weed; I know they was doin’ meth.”

 

“Ever hear them mention the words “China white”?” Pete inquired.  Brody shook his head mutely.

 

“You know where we can find this Eric?” Dan asked.  “Can you take us to him?”

 

As Brody stood facing the two cops, a large bead of transparent fluid ran down his thigh from underneath his shorts.  Both Dan and Pete noticed it.

 

“Yeah, I can take you to him.  Thought about makin’ a visit there myself, but with you guys comin’ along…”

 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the huge viscous drop of precum that had leaked out of his throbbing cock onto his thigh pretty clearly showed his opinion of making an unexpected house call on that little cunt Eric in the company of two armed and heavily-muscled studs.

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 

 

After he’d snuffed Travis, Brody had accessed the dead kid’s email and had managed to retrieve some of his deleted texts; as a result, he had quite a lot of info on Eric.  He was able to lead the cops directly to the punk’s house.

 

The kid rented one side of a tiny duplex on a gravel road on the other side of Corrington.  He was a bartender at The Well, a little dive bar that was known to law enforcement for occasional arrests for indecency in the men’s room.  Pete didn’t have Dan’s familiarity with the place, but he’d heard of it.

 

As they all headed over in Brody’s truck—Dan’s idea; he didn’t want to spook the kid by pulling up in a police vehicle—the redneck sadist told them some of what he’d learned.  Like how Eric’s pay wasn’t enough to cover his rent, his car payment, and his drug use, so he supplemented it with some pay-for-play activities with dudes in the parking lot of the bar.  He refused to do anything inside the bar, though; he said he didn’t want to get fired.

 

“So is he into the drug scene big-time here in Corrington?” Pete asked.

 

“Well, I dunno about big-time,” Brody replied, scratching his rough, unshaven cheek, “With him, it’s more a matter of variety, y’know?  He likes coke, meth, and weed, but he’ll do whatever’s available.”

 

“Good.  If there’s a possibility that he knows anything about China white comin’ into this county, I wanna hear it,” Dan growled.  “And I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.”  The angry gleam in his eye showed his seriousness; he wasn’t kidding.  He wasn’t going to have his county become the epicenter of an outbreak of fentanyl overdoses—even if he had to kill to make sure.

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

They pulled off the road and parked behind an old Ford Focus with oxidized paint by the side of small structure of gray weathered clapboard.  There was a single porch with two doors; the door on the left had a metal letter “A” nailed to it, as the one on the left had a “B.”  Brody’s Redwing boots thumped loudly on the deteriorated floorboards as he crossed the porch and knocked loudly on the left door.

 

The door swung open and revealed a young man, shirtless, in jeans and sneakers.  His hair was deep blond and fairly short, like a golden aurora around his head.  His large eyes were pale blue and ringed with long lashes; a spattering of freckles ran across the bridge of his slightly-upturned nose.  Below lush, full lips, there was a large dimple in his chin.

 

The boy’s smooth chest was broad and muscled.  His build wasn’t of the caliber of the three men who confronted him, but was more like that of a high school quarterback, in keeping with his youthful face.  His firm, flat belly, barely covered with a fine down like peach fuzz, vanished into the waistband of jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on.  The denim clung with such faithfulness to the punk’s package that it was damn near possible to pick out individual veins on his dick.   The jeans left little doubt as to the musculature of Eric’s legs as they descended to the checkerboard Vans hightops the kid was sporting.

 

Dan, Pete, Brody—all three—were able to take all this in in a split second.  It was all that was allowed.  The moment Eric’s eyes landed on Brody’s face, they widened with fear and he slammed the door.  One thing Brody hadn’t counted on was that Eric knew as much about him as he did about Eric.  Travis had kept his friend informed of the escalating violence in their relationship, and while Eric didn’t know that Travis had been murdered, he suspected Brody in his disappearance.  He was terrified of the older man.

 

“Go away!  I know who you are!  I’m gonna call the cops!” he screamed through the locked door.

 

“Dude, I got the cops here with me,” Brody responded.  “They wanna talk to you.”

 

There was a pause, then the sound of the bolt sliding back.  Opening the door cautiously, Eric peered out and, for the first time, sighted the two massive alpha studs, uniformed and booted, standing beyond Brody.  In spite of his nervousness, the kid felt his dick stir; in his tight jeans, the reaction was obvious to all three men.

 

“Well, uh, okay,” Eric said hesitantly, then stepped back to let them in.  “But I, uh, I gotta leave for work in an hour or so.”

 

Dan looked at Pete with a grin on his face, then turned his icy eyes back to the blond faggot.  “That’s ok, boy,” he said, “I think we’ll be done with you by then.”

 

The front room was small and dark, with blankets nailed up over the windows.  The air was thick and nauseatingly sweet with the scent of weed, crack and incense.  It was also uncomfortably warm; the window AC unit roared like a jet engine off on one side, but made little difference in the ambient temperature.

 

With four muscled male bodies—two already half nude—crammed in a room barely ten feet by fourteen feet, the acrid odor of mansweat began to take precedence.  And Dan was determined to make Eric sweat some more.

 

“Ok, wh-whaddaya want?” the kid said defensively, his eyes darting between the three men.

 

“Siddown,” Dan ordered him, “I’m gonna ask you some questions.”

 

“Um, okay,” Eric said, sitting on the battered black leather loveseat that was the only article of furniture in the room besides the TV stand.  The three hardbodied alphas all stood in front of him, Pete kicking a game console that was sitting on the floor in front of the TV out of the way.

 

“Hey!” Eric yelped, “Dude, careful with that thing!”

 

“Shaddup!” Dan barked.  Eric’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d been slapped.  He stared silently up at Dan, his big blue eyes wide—more with anxiety than fear.

 

Dan smirked down at the little punk.  The fear would be there soon enough.

 

“You’re Eric, right?  Bartender at The Well?” he began.

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

Now fear appeared in Eric’s eyes as he shifted them quickly to Brody.

 

“Yeah, I know ‘im, but I ain’t seen ‘im around in a while,” the kid admitted.

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

The blunt nature of the question startled Eric, who had no intention of admitting drug use to a cop.  “I, uh, I don’t know…” he muttered, looking away.

 

“You lie to me, you little cocksucker, and I’ll fuck you up worse than your little brain can imagine,” Dan snarled.  Eric’s face drained of all color as he stared up as Captain Dan in utter shock.  Almost mindlessly, he turned and looked at Pete.

 

“You’d best tell him, boy,” Pete grinned, “Or he ain’t gonna be the only one who gets to fuck you…up.”

 

Eric caught the slight pause at the end of Pete’s sentence.  It’s unlikely his shallow, drug-addled mind would have understood the significance of the remark if he hadn’t already been sitting at eye level with the muscle studs’ groins.  Even in his sudden fear, the randy young faggot couldn’t help to notice how each man in front of him had a visibly throbbing bulge in his crotch.

 

It was almost like a scene from one of Eric’s favorite porn flicks…so why was he so scared?

 

“C’mon, you little fuckwad,” Brody snarled suddenly, “You heard the man.  I know you and Travis were fuckin’, an’ I know he toldja all kinda shit.  So you better start tellin’ this here cop what he wants to know—an’ I mean the right stuff—or I’ll stick my dick up yer fuckhole and show yer little faggot ass what a real man feels like.”

 

Eric was a strung-out little cocksucker, but even his limited intellect picked up on the emphasis in Brody’s words.  He understood the message.  He could blab all he wanted about Travis buying drugs, but the moment he mentioned the shit Brody had done to Travis—well, his mind didn’t go any further down that path.

 

“Well, uh—” the kid faltered.  He still didn’t want to admit to anything that would get him in trouble.  “I dunno.  Seriously, bro, I dunno where he got his shit.”

 

“Not good enough,” Dan said calmly, then sighed, as if what he was about to do made him sad.  The bulge in his groin belied that.  “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.  Get him, boys.”

 

As if choreographed in advance, Pete sprang up and grabbed Eric’s left arm as Brody pinioned his right; together, they yanked him up off the couch.  Trapped in the painful grip of the two muscle studs, the kid boldly looked Dan straight in the eyes, but the paleness of his youthful face showed his fear plainly enough.

 

“You gonna tell me where Travis got his shit?” Dan asked, a note of final warning in his voice.

 

Eric gulped, his throat making a dry clicking sound.  “Well, I—uh…he bought weed from Charlie Baler and his brother Eddie…”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And where’d he get the rest of it—coke, meth…China white?” Dan watched the boy’s eyes closely, noting the way they darted downward, trying to avoid his gaze.

 

“I dunno,” Eric replied sullenly, “I dunno ‘bout that stuff, bro; I don’t use.  I mean, I did, but…I don’t anymore.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dan snorted with a contemptuous laugh that was echoed by Pete.

 

Eric’s fear momentarily spilled over, giving him a fleeting and spurious sense of courage.  He began struggling, his smooth sweat-slick skin pressing tight against Pete and Brody.  As he tried to free himself, the thick, snake-like muscles in his arms pulsed and bulged, but were utterly useless against the more massive strength of both Pete and Brody.

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

“Whaddaya gonna do, beat it outta me?  Fuck, bro, I’ll sue the fuckin’ county for millions—”

 

“Hey, Cap,” Pete broke in, “Y’know, we got a civilian here too.  Not like he’s a county employee.”

 

Eric stopped talking, his face ashen gray and his jaw hanging open.  Dan grinned in his face and stepped quickly to one side.

 

“C’mere,” he told Brody, “I got ‘im,” as he reached out and grabbed the punk’s wrist, keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back as Brody stepped directly in front of Eric and peeled his shirt off.

 

“There ya go, faggot,” the sadistic redneck sneered, “Gave ya some eye candy, huh, ya worthless cocksucker?  Haw!”

 

Despite having heard tales of Brody’s capacity for violence, Eric was still unable to keep his gaze from locking onto the buff killer’s well-built torso.  His eyes slid down the broad hairy chest, following the dark trail of body fur down the washboard abs until it disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts.  Still entranced, the kid kept going, noting the ridge in the denim and tracing it down to the thick purple tip just peeking out below the cuff of the shorts.  He watched a thick transparent bead ooze out and fall, splattering on the toe of Brody’s untied construction boot.

 

It was instinctual.  Eric had no control over the fact that he suddenly had a raging, almost painful erection.  He also had no control over being such a homo whore that he’d gotten hard fast enough for the movement in his groin to be visible.  Brody noticed it.  So did Pete, who’d been looking down over Eric’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, Captain,” Pete said eagerly, “I think we need to unzip the perp’s fly.  Looks like he may be carryin’ a weapon—or maybe just somethin’ that’s achin’ to get into the open air.”

 

Dan guffawed.  “Go ahead,” he chuckled, nodding at Brody, “Unzip ‘im and lessee if the little pansy-ass junkie likes gettin’…interrogated.”

 

“I ain’t no junkie!” Eric squawked as Brody stepped forward with a broad grin and jerked down his fly.  Reaching in with one big beefy hand, he hauled out the kid’s dick—long and thick, but nothing to impress any of the three men surrounding him at the moment.

 

“Wonder how long he can keep it up,” Pete said casually to Dan.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out,” Dan replied with a dry chuckle.  “You know what to do, I guess,” he said to Brody.  “I’m gonna ask questions.  He’s gonna give answers.  You’re gonna make sure he gives answers.”

 

“Yeah,” Brody said abruptly, staring Eric in the eyes.  The broad grin never left his face and he fondled his crotch as he spoke.

 

“All right, you worthless little fuck, where did Travis Egerton buy his coke from?  His meth?” Dan hissed viciously into Eric’s ear.  Even though his cock was hard, the boy was scared, very scared.  But he still scared of the wrong things.

 

“Tim Ventnor, ok?  Lemme go!  He got the coke from Tim Ventnor.  Meth too, when he didn’t get it from Hector Casias.  Ok?  That good enough for you?”

 

Eric wasn’t in a position to see the signal that passed between Dan’s and Brody’s eyes, but it was so quick and so subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker of that deep-seated flame of lust and rage in their eyes—that it’s unlikely Eric would have understood or even noticed it if he could have.

 

What Eric could see was the way the deltoid and bicep on Brody’s right arm bulged, swelling almost grotesquely as he pulled the arm back.  The helpless, struggling twink had a split second to notice, to appreciate the sheer force and power contained in those muscles before they released with the relentlessness of a coiled spring and drove Brody’s fist deep into Eric’s gut.

 

“HOOG!” the kid hacked out as his abdomen absorbed the blow, shoving his diaphragm up and violently expelling all the air from his lungs.  His entire body bucked and jerked, his exposed cock swinging and bobbing wildly—but staying erect.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Pete said happily, his face beaming, “That’s how you conduct an interrogation!”

 

“You lied, you useless sack of shit,” Dan said flatly.  “Ventnor’s been in jail on a weapons charge for six months.  And Casias left the state.  So since yer such a fuckin’ dumbass, I’ll start nice an’ slow, ok?  Where—did—Travis—Egerton—get—his—coke?  Think you can answer that one without too much strain on yer pathetic faggot brain?”

 

Tears streaming from his eyes, Eric gasped helplessly, trying to regain his breath.  Despite his blurred vision, he could see what effect his suffering was having on Brody’s cock—and it scared him.  The guy was oozing precum like a soaker hose—after a single gutpunch.  How far was this actually gonna go?

 

Pete, picking up on Eric’s fear, reached around and grabbed the latter’s chin, his powerful hand clamped on the punk’s jaw with the inexorably rigidity of a bear trap.  The buff young deputy forced the faggot’s head forward, bending his neck until the kid was looking directly into Brody’s face.

 

“Look at him,” he told Eric coldly.  “Look into his face, ya homo cunt.  You see what he wants to do to ya?  Only reason he can’t is cause we’d stop ‘im.  And if ya don’t quit lyin’—we ain’t gonna stop ‘im.  Ya feelin’ me, asswipe?”

 

Eric moaned, a faint pathetic sound of despair.  Dan was proud of his protégé; the boy was learning the art of first-rate questioning, and he had clearly taken his lessons to heart.

 

The older cop motioned for Pete to come back and resume restraining the perp.  Dan moved slightly to the side to get a better view of Eric’s face, his enormous cock visibly swollen in his chinos.

 

Ain’t nothing more erotic than a round of bad cop/bad cop.

 

“Ok, you worthless waste of flesh,” Dan sneered, “I gotta name.  I want you to tell me all about him.”

 

Still breathing heavily, Eric glance dully at Dan, then lowered his gaze.

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

In a flash, Eric’s head was back up.  “Aw, I don’t nothin’ about that!” he wheezed out excitedly.  “I ain’t seen him in months!  Bro, I dunno jack shit about him gettin’ offed like that!”

 

Dan smiled grimly.  “Then yer about to learn somethin’ about it.  And I ain’t yer bro, you queer-ass fuckwad.”  He turned to Brody and said, “I ain’t heard an answer to my question.  Back to you.”

 

His face alive with malevolent glee, Brody took time drawing back for the next blow, giving Eric time to anticipate the impact.  The hulking redneck watched the kid quiver in fear for a moment before driving a roundhouse blow straight from his shoulder to Eric’s sternum.

 

Eric couldn’t breathe.  At all.  It was like being hit by a car.  He wasn’t given time to fully process the situation, though; in quick succession, Brody landed three more blows, battering the boy’s flat, smooth belly and firm chest.

 

Realizing Eric wasn’t in a position to resist at the moment, Pete let him go.  The young slut slumped to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry, gagging and dry-heaving.  Dan kicked him in the ass, the worn denim of his jeans offering little protection against the steel toe of the cop’s trooper boot.

 

“Now, where were we?” Dan asked conversationally.  “Oh, yes, Mr. Clebbs.  Robbie.  I wanna know what kinda shit you got from him.  And I wanna know where he got it from—I know you know.  Start talkin’.”

 

Still gagging, Eric raised his head feebly from the floor, a stringer of drool dangling from his chin.  He tried to speak but went into a coughing fit that left him dry-heaving again.  It took him several minutes before he regained enough control to speak clearly.

 

“I-I…ain’t s-seen…R-Robbie in thr-three, three months…”

 

“See, this is what happens when these fuckin’ faggots come into my county,” Dan sighed.  “Little cumguzzlin’ pansies get all drugged up and get the gangs in.  And then they fuckin’ lie about it!”

 

These last words were said in a crescendo of rage that managed to penetrate Eric’s suffering.  He already knew what was coming—but he was unaware that his dick knew, too, and was giving an entirely different signal.

 

“N-no, p-p-please…” he begged, “Tellin’-tellin’ the truth…”

 

His plea went unheard, overridden by Pete’s raucous laughter.  “Look, Cap, lookit the faggot’s dick!” he chortled.  “I swear, the moment you yelled at ‘im, the cunt got all hard again!”

 

“God, n-no,” Eric sobbed, still drooling and wracked with fits of coughing, “S-swear ‘m tell-tellin’ the truth!”

 

“Goddam,” Dan muttered, “Pathetic little faggot crawlin’ on the ground and he still ain’t gonna tell me what I wanna hear.”  He paused for a moment and looked down at Pete, then looked over at Brody.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said to the white trash alpha, “You warned the homo perp that you’d show ‘im what a real man in his ass would feel like.  You still up to making good on that threat?”  There was no need to answer; a single quick glance at the thick tube of manmeat that hung, pulsing and oozing, out of Brody’s shorts.

 

Brody answered anyway.  “You know it man—I always back the blue.”  Grinning wildly, he kicked Eric viciously so that the moaning punk rolled onto his back.  From that position, it was easy for the hardbodied redneck to bend down, clamp one hand around Eric’s throat, and deadlift him straight into the air.

 

Both Dan and Pete were impressed with Brody’s strength—Dan could have done the same, but Pete wasn’t there yet.  The fact that Brody was almost as strong as Dan himself was a mark in his favor.

 

Still holding the choking homo aloft by his throat, Brody carried him down the dark, narrow hallway to the tiny bedroom at the back of the house. Blankets dyed jet black had been nailed up over the windows; most of the room was bathed in the vivid ultraviolet of a blacklight.  There was a bedside table that held a small lamp—off at the moment—and an enormous bong in elaborately-blown glass.

 

In the center of the room was a twin bed—a twisted pile of dirty sheets on top of an old, stained mattress.  All three men—Eric was no longer defined as such—filed into the room; then, without a word needing to be said, Brody stood aside so that Pete had enough space to quickly shove the bed linen to the floor with a single sweep of his arm.

 

Even then, Brody didn’t release Eric.  He held him up, his maniacal grin still lighting up his face, and stared the kid straight in the eyes as Eric’s checkered Vans kicked and flailed five inches above the warped wooden floorboards.

 

His heart and his head pounding in frenetic syncopation, the strangling punk clawed at Brody’s fingers.  Everything Travis had ever told him about Brody came back to him and suddenly it took every fiber of his being to fight off the cold panic that rose inside him.

 

“Chill out, bro,” Brody whispered seductively, the grin never leaving his face, “We’re jest gettin’ started.  Here, lemme make ya a little more comfortable.”

 

Reaching down with his free hand, he unbuttoned Eric’s jeans, then reached down and pulled the zipper down.  Once that was done, a single quick jerk dropped Eric’s jeans to his ankles; as they fell, Eric’s cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, making Dan and Pete grin and Brody  chuckle derisively.

 

Brody lowered Eric just to floor level, then placed his big Redwing boot between the kid’s legs, on the jeans.  Bearing down on Eric’s throat, Brody jerked the boy upwards, keeping his foot in place; the movement was swift and violent, but it effectively pulled Eric’s jeans off over his feet, leaving him nude with his kicks still on.

 

Brody’s grip on his windpipe left him in agony too, but no one else gave a shit.  With a satisfied grunt, the redneck tossed the flailing punk onto the bed.  As Eric writhed and gagged, Brody slowly hiked up the cuff of his shorts, exposing more and more of his massive erect dick.  He didn’t see the need to get any more undressed; he could plow his shaft into this faggot without bothering to go to that much trouble.

 

“Hang on a second there,” Dan suddenly commanded.  “Maybe you can fuck the truth outta him, but if he lies, he needs to learn to respect Authority—and that means us.  Pete, get up there and haul out yer junk and every time this little sack a’ shit gives me a bad answer, I want you to stick yer meat down his throat until he chokes on it—and not let go until I tell ya.  You got that, deputy?”

 

“Sir, yes sir!” Pete responded happily.  Scrambling up onto the bed, he got up on his knees, unzipped the fly of his chinos and extracted his huge, throbbing cock.  “Ready for duty, sir!” he cried, with a mischievous wink.

 

“Awright,” Dan barked, “Phase two of the interrogation.  Start now.”

 

Brody wasn’t used to taking orders, but he had no problems obeying this one ASAP.  He reached out and grabbed at Eric—and missed.  Eric had twisted to the side to avoid him.

 

It wasn’t as if Eric had a hope of escaping; he moved instinctively.  He’d been too busy fighting to breathe to hear every detail of Dan’s words, but he’d been able to make out the gist of it.  Earlier, the thought of getting plowed by these muscle studs had gotten him horny; now, it just got him scared.  This wouldn’t be a fun fuck.  These dudes were gonna hurt him—and if half of what Travis had told him was true, Brody was gonna like hurting him.

 

Eric had been used like a whore and slapped around, but he’d never had to deal with anyone who got off on causing prolonged human suffering.  The urge to dodge Brody’s hand was as involuntary at it was useless.

 

“Where the fuck you think yer goin’?” Pete demanded as he caught Eric’s upper arm and forcibly rolled the kid onto his stomach.  Once the punk was in that position, Brody, still standing at the side of the bed, grabbed Eric’s hips and dragged him around until the kid’s fuckhole was aligned with his thick, throbbing shaft.  At the same time, Pete maneuvered himself to Eric’s head.  Still on his knees, he snatched a handful of the boy’s short blond hair and, pulling his head up, slapped Eric’s face with his swollen cock.  Each blow landed with a wet smacking sound and left a spatter of precum on Eric’s face.

 

“Okay, ya worthless little faggot, when was the last time you saw Robbie Clebbs?” Dan snarled, bending down over Eric’s face, inches from Pete’s engorged member.

 

“Th-three months ago!” the boy wailed, his quavering voice cracked with fear.

 

Dan sighed as if upset but the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his groin said otherwise.  “Ok, boys,” he said evenly, “Motherfucker keeps on lyin’—y’all know what to do.”

 

They did.  Before Eric had time to brace himself, he was rammed so full of cock it hurt.  Badly.  In fact, it was fucking agonizing.

 

Brody’s enormous rod, thickly wreathed in veins, forced the faggot’s sphincter to open wider than it ever had before, and it didn’t happen slowly.  Eric would have screamed at the slashing, razor-like pain in his asshole as his delicate rectal lining was torn like wet newspaper—except that Pete’s long, leaking tool was jammed so far down his throat he couldn’t breathe.

 

The boy’s hands beat wildly at Pete but the buff young deputy simply swatted them away.  He laughed, a deep but boyish sound of amusement, as he watched the lean blond homo suffer and choke.

 

“Awright, deputy, stand down.  Gotta give the perp a chance to talk.”

 

Pete was having fun with his dick down Eric’s throat, but he obeyed the Captain unhesitatingly.  He pulled the punk’s head up off his shaft and shoved it aside like garbage.  As Eric coughed and gagged, the deputy unbuttoned his khaki short-sleeve shirt and, reaching to the side, tossed it onto the dresser.  His white cotton t-shirt soon followed, leaving Pete’s broad furry chest, already glistening with sweat, exposed to the open air.  The acrid scent of testosterone in the air increased.

 

Dan noted it and smiled approvingly.  “You know the drill now, asswipe.  You gonna tell me what I wanna hear?” he hissed at Eric.

 

The smooth, slender faggot was moaning and sobbing; he was too focused on the horrific pain in his rectum to be able to answer Dan, although he not only heard the words, but finally understood them.  It didn’t matter that the last time he’d seen Robbie really had been three months ago—that wasn’t what this psycho wanted to hear.

 

Dan, meanwhile, had turned his attention to Brody.  “Think you can make him talk?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” Brody grinned and began plowing his huge rod into Eric’s ass; it was as if a motor had been shifted into high gear.  Eric’s eyes widened; his expression was that of utter helpless pain as he screeched in a high falsetto.

 

Dan, standing next to where Pete was kneeling, drew his fist back, his bulging bicep stretching the cuff of his short-sleeve button-down.  “I said talk, not squeal like a little girl, you useless fuckin’ bitch!” he barked and punched Eric in the face.

 

All but unconscious, the kid went limp.  He was in a gray twilight haze, but he could still feel his asshole getting rammed with the brutal relentlessness of a steam piston.  He had to speak.  He knew it; if he didn’t speak, he’d be dead.

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

“I think he’s tryin’ to say somthin’, Cap,” Pete said.  Dan lowered his head to hear better.

 

“Las-last w-w-week,” Eric groaned.  “S-saw him l-last we-week…”

 

“Well, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Dan said.  “All that fuckin’ trouble just to get one honest answer outta ya, you lyin’ piece a’ shit.  I gotta lot more to ask you, boy, so you either better start tellin’ the truth—or hope your little twink body has the stamina to finish the interrogation.  You feelin’ me, cocksucker?  Cause I know yer damn sure feelin’ my buddies here, ha!”

 

Then the smile vanished from his face.  “Okay, then, next question.  Who was the Clebbs fuckwad gettin’ his drugs from?  Who was helpin’ him bring the fentanyl in?”

 

Eric—who didn’t know the term “China white”—despaired.  He had no idea who Clebbs was buying from and this was the first he’d head of fentanyl.  But he also knew that if he didn’t come up with satisfactory answers, he was likely to get fucked to death.  And as much fun as that would have sounded as little as an hour ago, Eric now knew from personal experience that if he didn’t tell these hardbodied sadists what they wanted to hear, he was gonna suffer—a lot.

 

“R-Rusty Tur-Turner,” the young fag squealed, his voice forced into a staccato rhythm by the brutal repetitive force of Brody’s ass-pounding, “Rust-Rusty and J-Josh Perez, man, that’s wh-who he was buyin’ from!”

 

Eric didn’t know if either Rusty or Josh knew Robbie; they were just a couple of dudes who came into The Well from time to time and had sucked him off on occasion.  But he needed names, and he needed them fast.

 

“Yer lyin’ again, cocksucker,” Dan snapped, “I can tell.”  But he noted the names down carefully anyway; it certainly would hurt to have a few of the fag’s friends to interrogate as well.  Once you start turning over rocks, all kinda insects start scurryin’ from the light.  “Hey, Pete—make sure he’s tellin’ us everything.”

 

Pete didn’t need to be told twice.  Jerking Eric’s head back up, he looked into the boy’s frantic eyes.  The look of desperation on the youth’s face make his cock throb so hard he could barely stand it.  The deputy spat contemptuously into the homo’s face, then forced Eric’s head remorselessly into his crotch, shoving his oozing dick inch by inch down the helpless punk’s trachea.

 

As the engorged, precum-lubed head slipped slowly down his windpipe, Eric had to call on all his strength—strength no one who knew him would have supposed he possessed—to stave off panic.  The struggle was partly physical, and Brody was the one who benefitted by it.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” the muscle-bound redneck alpha grunted as his hips pumped his swollen member rapidly and rhythmically up Eric’s ass, “Little cunt’s startin’ to get into it now.  Toldja I’d fuck the right info outta the cum-guzzlin’ pansy!”  The huge purple head of his dick ground relentlessly over the slut’s prostate, keeping Eric in an involuntary and excruciatingly constant state of erection.

 

Dan, standing next to Pete, slowly unbuttoned and peeled his own shirt off.  Like Pete, he tossed it and his cotton undershirt onto the dresser.  The next time Eric looked up, his entire field of view was taken up by the Captain’s massive chest, his dark blond chest hair glinting with beads of sweat.  “Hold ‘im there,” Dan ordered, and Pete, his thick tool so completely blocking the lean punk’s airway as to choke the kid, obeyed immediately.

 

As Eric flailed, thick gagging sounds erupting from his closed-off throat and large tears rolling down his darkening cheeks, he heard the sound of a zipper.  It was another couple of seconds before he felt the blow across his face; it was like he’d been hit with an iron bar.

 

His bulging eyes were too blurred by tears to see that Dan had hauled his monstrously large cock out of his chinos and had dickslapped Eric with it.  But the sheer weight and size of Dan’s member left a bruise on Eric’s blackening face.

 

“Ok, pull it up and let it talk,” Dan said in a tone of derisory amusement.  His change of pronoun was noted by the others, but not by Eric—which was probably for the best, since he would have shit himself in terror if he’d known what it signaled.

 

Dan had what he wanted.  He’d milk the cunt for any more information he could get, but it was just about time to dispose of the disgusting little pervert.  Dan had plans for this one, though.  He’d done some research and wanted to fine-tune this snuff.

 

Or, rather, he wanted Pete to fine-tune it.  It was time to break the boy in, pop his snuff cherry. Dan hadn’t planned on a civvie being present for this, though; he was still concerned about Brody’s presence.  Sure, the hyper-masculine hick knew how to handle faggots, but did he respect Authority?

 

The question was, did he have the discipline that Dan was looking for?  It was a very rare, quality, this discipline; Pete was the only one he’d met so far who understood it—except for may Pete’s uncle.  But there it was; it was hereditary in his deputy.

 

But that all passed through his mind in a fraction of a second.  Pete had pulled Eric’s head back up; once again, the kid was coughing and gagging, long streamers of drool running down his chin and drizzling onto Pete massive, glistening cock.

 

“J-J-Jo-Joey B-Bes-Bessemer, Wa-Wade Pl-Pl-Plymouth…” the faggot managed to retch up between the wracking coughing fits that caused his whole body to clench and give such obvious physical pleasure to the muscle-bound cracker alpha whose cock was buried in his ass.

 

Dan smiled—a cold, sharp, mirthless smile that Eric could barely make out but which still chilled him to the bone.

 

“Yer sayin’ Robbie got shit from Joey and Wade?” he asked sneeringly.

 

“Oh God,” Eric suddenly sobbed, “Pl-please stop this…I-I can’t…no-no more…c-can’t…”

 

“Answer me, motherfucker, or I’m gonna jam my own cock down yer faggot throat and shoot so fuckin’ hard you drown in my cum, you hear me, you pansy asswipe?

 

“R-Robbie got h-his outta t-town sh-sh-shit from-from Wade,” Eric wailed helplessly, “T-Travis tol’ me he g-got his co-coke an’ shit like-like that from Jo-Jo-Joey…”

 

Dan stood straight, a satisfied smile playing across his features.  He had four good leads.  “So tell me about Joey,” he said.  “Think he was the one who killed Travis?”

 

Despite everything he’d already endured, Eric’s reaction to this statement was extreme.

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

“We hauled him outta a swamp a few days ago.  He’d been beaten, raped, strangled and his neck was broken.”

 

Suddenly Brody’s pumping intensified; Eric’s was being rammed so hard he felt like he was literally being fucked in half.  Despite the nightmarish agony in his reamed-out colon, he struggled to speak.

 

“N-n-no!  Th-they…no…n-not AHHH MY ASS not them…” he sputtered.

 

Brody tensed, his huge muscular body on high alert.  This was one of his hottest fantasies; snuffing a helpless faggot.  The fact that there were a couple of cops helping him intensified the eroticism more than he could have imagined—but as hot as it was, he had no intention of being revealed as an already-experienced murderer before two members of the sheriff’s department.  His next movement was a deliberate as it was cum-inducing.

 

Jerking Eric’s head up, Brody slammed his fist into the back of the faggot’s neck—a donkey-punch with the power of hate- and contempt-driven muscles behind it; Eric never had a chance.  His cervical vertebrae shattered like glass, bone shards shearing mercilessly through the twink’s spinal column.

 

Dan realized what was happening.  “NO!” he shouted, but it was too late.  Eric had gone rigid in his death agony; the searing chemical-electric bolt that overwhelmed his nervous system locking his lean, hard young body into the perfect position to receive Brody’s manmeat.

 

No one was in a position to see the twink spew his deathload but the intense pain of his boysperm being violently and involuntarily expelled was one of the last sensations Eric experienced in his short, useless life.

 

As the corpse convulsed and flailed, Brody’s face twisted into a grimace of pain and pleasure.  “FUCK!  AW YEAH, FUCK!” he screamed as his huge tube of manmeat pulsed and pumped more than a quart of steaming hot manseed up the dead kid’s ass.

 

Pete had been too close to unloading to stop once Brody took over; as Eric’s head was jerked up off his cock, Pete began to squirt uncontrollably, his swollen shaft spurting gush after gush of thick, milky cum over the dying punk’s head, the pearly geysers of manspunk jetting upwards, only to fall back in thick ropy strands on Eric’s congested head.   Under the deep ultraviolet hue of the blacklight, the huge creamy spurts of hot sperm were illuminate with a surreal glow.

 

“FUCK!!” Dan cried, partly in orgasm induced by watching the worthless faggot die, partly in frustration, as his enormous rod spewed his steaming, potent manseed over everyone involved.  The reactions were telling; Pete gloried in wearing his Captain’s spunk—Brody shuddered and quickly looked for something with which to wipe it off.

 

The three alphas laid back, an unspoken mutual agreement to catch their individual breaths.  It had been an intense—and as far as Dan was concerned, fruitful—interrogation.  The dead fag had provided useful info.

 

“Awright,” Brody said, grabbing one of Eric’s soiled t-shirt from off the floor and using it to first swab the sweat off his hard muscled body, then ground it into his crotch to soak up his cum, “So who’ve we got?  Joey Bessemer…”

 

“He’s dead,” Dan responded quickly, “OD’d a month and a half ago.  Cunt was lyin’ about him.”

 

“So we got Wade Plymouth and Josh Perez, yeah?  I know where Josh hangs; I can go question him for ya…”

 

Dan had some deep concerns about Brody, but he decided to let the situation play out on its own.  “Ok,” he said, quickly shoving his thick cock back into his chinos, “Lemme know what he tells ya—remember, dude, I need names, yeah?”

 

“I gotcha,” Brody said confidently, stuffing his massive, cum-smeared cock back down inside his jeans.  “I’ll letcha know anythin’ I find out, yeah?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Dan said hesitantly.  He knew the score; he knew he was dealing with a faggot serial killer.  He also knew that if he let Brody realize he knew, his own life might be forfeit.  He thought he could take Brody in a fight to the death if he had to, but this was neither the time nor the place.

 

“Awright, then,” the Captain said, turning to Pete, “We’ll head out later this week and, er, “talk” to Wade.  C’mon, deputy, get yerself cleaned up; you’re a disgrace to the department.”

 

Although this last was said tongue-in-cheek as Dan ran his eyes over Pete’s muscled torso, glistening with sweat and carpeted with dark body fur, Brody took the words literally and smirked as the buff young cop selected another cast-off item of Eric’s wardrobe and used it to swab his chest and abdomen.  Dan had already done so; by the time Pete tossed the rank, cum-smeared pair of jeans to the floor, the Captain had already slipped his undershirt back on and was buttoning his khaki shirt.  He nodded Brody out of the room as Pete completed dressing.

 

When the deputy had finished, he took one look back at Eric’s splayed-out corpse.  The blond’s body was face down with a thick milky trail of cum leaking out of its asshole.  It was still jerking, random nerves firing through the remains of its shredded spinal column.  As Pete watched, one of the dead twink’s feet twitched violently, the sole of its checkered Vans hightop scraping audibly against the mattress as a muscle in the firm smooth calf spasmed visibly and frenetically.

 

The image and the sound were enough, if not to get Pete hard (he still was that), to keep him erect and further, to make him stiff in the crotch every time he recalled the scene later.

 

When he got back to the tiny living room—which, thanks to the lackluster AC, was approximately two degrees cooler than the bedroom—Brody was leaning against the door with his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face.  Dan had one foot up on the couch and was polishing the high shank of his trooper boot with a handkerchief.  His expression seemed grimmer than merely focusing on his task would require.

 

“Ready to go?” Brody asked, opening his eyes at the sound of Pete’s boots crossing the wood floor.

 

“I am,” Pete said, looking at Dan.  Silently, the Captain stood up and nodded, then all three left.  Dan was the last one out; he knew he’d have to leave the deadbolt undone but he turned the latch on the doorknob itself to leave the door locked behind him.

 

When he got out, the others were already in Brody’s truck.  The drive back to the trailer was quiet.  Brody was relaxing in his “freshly fucked” after-sex glow, Dan was tense and worried, and Pete, sensing his superior’s mood, kept his peace.

 

Dan finally spoke once they arrived back at Brody’s.  “Remember,” he told the buff redneck, “Don’t go back there.  Let someone else find the body.  And remember this—you contact me before you go out to Perez’s place, you hear me?  It’s possible I may have some new information and I may have some specific questions for him.  You got that?”

 

“Sure, I got it,” Brody said nonchalantly as he swaggered towards the trailer.  Dan and Pete watched him, his heavy Redwing boots thumping as he climbed the set of wood steps up to the front door.

 

“Get into the truck,” Dan said quietly.  Pete didn’t need to look at the Captain; the tone of his voice alone was enough to command obedience.

 

It took another ten minutes—by which time they were speeding back down the county road toward town—for Pete to work up the courage to question his superior.  “What’s goin’ on, Cap?” he asked shyly.  “I thought you were gonna offer him a job.  He was the one, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan replied stonily, “He was the one, all right.  Snuffed this faggot just like the other one.  I had…I had plans for this one, but that don’t matter; I’ll make sure that gets taken care of.  The problem here, deputy, is that this psycho fucker don’t respect Authority.”

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

“Lemme ask you this—if he thought he could make a quick buck by squealin’ about our interrogation method, do you think he would?”

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

“Ok, lemme put it this way—do you trust that he wouldn’t?”

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

“Ok then, we’re gonna need to keep an eye on this motherfucker.  Let’s see what happens with the Perez cunt.  Tell ya what the first clue is gonna be—he ain’t gonna gimme a heads-up before he goes out to question him, like I told him too.  Now reach into the glove compartment and fire up that thick jay I brought.”

 

Pete lit the huge joint, inhaling deeply, and handed it to Dan.  As he exhaled the cloud of fragrant blue smoke out the window, he turned back to the Captain.

 

“So what’re we gonna do if he does that?  If he goes out there and gets ahold of Perez without letting you know?”

 

“Well, we ain’t gonna lose any info–Perez was in county lockup for three weeks, remember?  He ain’t got nothing to do with Clebbs or his China white.  Joey Bessemer might, though.”

 

“I thought you said he was dead!” Pete protested.

 

“Naw, he’s alive, but I don’t want this Brody dude goin’ near ‘im.  I wanna find out what he knows myself.”  Dan took a deep hit from the joint.

 

“Ok, I get it,” Pete said, “But how are we gonna handle this Brody dude?”

 

Holding his smoke, Dan waited a few moments before exhaling and replying.  “I don’t know,” he said flatly.  “A lot is gonna depend on the situation.  It may be dangerous; this guy is strong.  He ain’t a match for us together, but we’d have a hard time with him physically on an individual basis.”

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Dan said in a quiet tone, “This guy is a serial killer and a loose cannon.  We’re gonna hafta do somethin’ about him—but I damn sure don’t know what.”

 

As the harsh sunset faded into indigo, the big truck headed back to the sheriff’s department, its cab redolent with weed and echoing with the silence of the two men lost in their own thoughts, wondering what it would take to bring down the hulking, hardbodied redneck.

M4M4Schoolboi

On By m3mayhemIn Uncategorized4 Comments

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“NEED A POWER DADDY—

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You a virgin, boy?” Joe grunted.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe said nothing.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Joe’s edge was razor-sharp.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe pressed himself against the wall, keeping silent.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Ride-along with Captain Dan

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff7 Comments

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

 

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

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Pete did.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

“Anything else?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Adam Anew

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories5 Comments

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.

Fantasy Scenario 18

On By m3mayhemIn Fantasy Scenario Series1 Comment

 

The kid’s in his late teens, I think.  He’s walking away from me, so it’s kinda hard to tell.  I’d spotted him instantly; the guilty way he’d looked around before stepping into the dark alley was much more obvious than the little shit thought it had been.  He wasn’t in there long—it was empty.  I knew that because I’d already scouted it myself.

 

I was out on the hunt again.  It’s been a while; I had to clean house after my last kill.  That’s too cumbersome—I got a different place now for a killing pit.  For transport, I got another van.  I didn’t bother to carper the back; I laid down Astroturf.

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

I’ve been trolling the street for meat; there’s not much out.  It was a rainy day, but the clouds cleared at sunset.  For some reason, the rentboys stayed inside, so I decided I need to look elsewhere.

 

Which led me here—lotta drug traffic on this block, at times, but not tonight.  There’d been a raid here two days ago; it had been on the news.  It was a chance, but it paid off.  Some stupid white kid in from the suburbs, looking to get high.  Poor little fucker, he’s gonna get in trouble wandering around this neighborhood this time of night…

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

He’s wearing skinny jeans that cradle his firm ass and cling to his legs all the way down to his red and white Air Jordans.  Above the waist, he’s got on a red hoodie and—oddly enough—a red ball cap.  His hair is russet brown; I can tell by the sideburns that slope down to a thin line of facial hair that runs along the jaw line and that the punk evidently thinks is a beard.

 

Little boy pretending to be a man.  The aching stiffness in my groin makes me shift in my seat; my feet, tightly laced into black combat boots, shuffle eagerly on the floor.   I’m parked near the corner; starting the van, I swiftly pull up to him.  He turns to me, startled, his youthful face openly suspicious in a way that seemed to emphasize his true innocence.

 

After all, if he knew what I had planned for him, he wouldn’t be suspicious; he’d be terrified.

 

“You, uh, lookin’?” I ask him with a knowing leer.  “Whatcha want?”

 

Again, the kid glances furtively up and down the street before giving me the hairy eyeball.

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

“Cause I heard if you’re a cop and you get asked, you can’t lie,” he came back.

 

“Fuck, dude, I ain’t a cop,” I snapped.  “Ya want anything or not?”

 

Suddenly, he blushed and grinned.  “Sorry, man, I just—well, anyway, yeah.  I, uh, I was just hopin’ to score some weed and some coke.  Say, a half and a couple of eightballs?”

 

I grin at him.  “I got ya covered, dude.  Climb in.”  He hesitates, of course; he’s a stupid little fuck but he does have basic survival skills.  Let’s see how basic.

 

 

“C’mon, man, I ain’t got all night.  You don’t think I’m ridin’ dirty, do ya?  I don’t do my business out in the street.  I gotta place around the corner where you can get a little sample.”

 

The kid is clearly a newbie at this.  He actually falls for it; I’d expected a bit more of an argument.  When he opens the door, I can see by the dome light that his eyes are a dark hazel brown.  His smooth cheeks are lightly sprinkled with freckles and despite the thin line of fur on his jawline, I can see the dimple in his chin.

 

He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door.  “We, uh, we gotta go far?” he asks, fastening the seatbelt.

 

“It’s just around the corner,” I reply, “No more than five minutes.  There’s a jay in the ashtray if ya wanna hit; it’s the same shit I’m sellin’.”

 

The boy snatched it up, digging a lighter out of his pocket.  His jeans are so tight, I can recognize the oblong shape of a pack of cigarettes still there.  He lit it and inhaled deeply, leaning back in the seat.

 

“You haven’t asked my prices,” I commented dryly.

 

The punk exhaled, filling the air with sweet smoke; I cracked the windows.  “As long as it’s reasonable, man.  Name’s Toby.  My bro Ernie’s gettin’ married this weekend—poor dickwad knocked that cunt Amy up, so he’s gotta marry her.  Asshole—he’s only a coupla months younger than me and now his life is all fucked up at age eighteen.  Anyway, we’re gonna give him one fuckuva sendoff with a kick-ass bachelor party.”

 

“So you’re in charge of gettin’ party supplies?” I ask, like I give a shit.  I’m gearing up to make a move I’ve been practicing for a while.

 

Toby takes another lung-busting hit off the joint.  This time, he at least has the presence of mind to exhale out the window; I don’t want the cab of my van reeking of weed.  “Some of ‘em,” he says slowly.  He turns languidly to me, his eyes red.  He’s stoned as fuck and I didn’t even lace this one.  “See, Chuck’s over 21, so he’s gettin’ th’ booze, an’ Dan’s gettin’ th’ pussy an’ Arnie’s lettin’ us use his basement—”

 

A line drive blow straight out from the left shoulder isn’t an easy move to perfect, and I don’t claim to have done so, especially given the results.  I put out the kid’s lights with a hefty, satisfying smack to the jaw; but in the end I should have pulled the punch a little.  Motherfucker went into the passenger window so hard he broke it.

 

I put the still-smoldering joint out in the ashtray and headed west.

 

 

 

I’d found this place some time ago, but I had to scope it out a while to make sure it was as isolated as it seemed.  A large warehouse property, it was the abandoned distribution center of a grocery chain that had withdrawn from the region over a decade before.  Technically for sale, the site was full of loading bays and storage areas that had become the hangouts of local gangs and the homeless.

 

One end of the massive building was left utterly deserted, though, and by its very nature could be sealed off and made soundproof.  It was a complex of industrial freezers at the north end of the structure; it was deserted to the point that it even lacked graffiti tags.

 

I switched off the lights as I pulled onto the property, driving around the back to the small loading bay on the north end.  It was little used as well and was a perfect place to conceal the van.  I only had to drag the unconscious meat a few dozen yards into the small freezer space I’d located and “decorated”.

 

It was no more than two hundred square feet; I have no idea what the original purpose was.  I strung up some lights, with a battery generator.  It’s an emergency power backup device, but it’ll work for my purposes.  Except for the ceiling, every surface of the room is covered with painter’s plastic—makes for easy clean-up.  Down the center of the ceiling runs a line of meat hooks.

 

In one corner is a folded, oversized TV tray, next to a small tool chest; as the name implies, I use the latter for my tools.  Dumping the boymeat on the metal-lined floor, I open the chest and retrieve a zip-tie.    Returning to the limp sack of boyflesh, I swiftly pull his hoodie—and the t-shirt he had on under—off over his head.  Leaving his jeans on, I bind the cunt’s hands in front of him.

 

Then I lift him up, slipping the plastic tie over the meat hook.  It’s perfect.  He dangles from his arms, the toes of his b-ball kicks swaying four inches above the metal floor.

 

And his ass is right at the level of my crotch.

 

His hat had fallen off in the van when he broke the window with his punk-ass head—stupid motherfucker.  His red-brown hair is short and wavy, somewhat matted with blood on the right side—the impact had broken the skin, but not badly.  He’s gonna suffer a lot more damage than that over the next hour.

 

Suddenly, he twitches and gives an almost inaudible moan.  His long eyelashes flutter; he’s starting to wake up.  I need to get into position.

 

I’d already removed my jacket and t-shirt outside the freezer.  My skin-tight jeans are tucked into my combat boots; I don’t wanna take them off.  And it doesn’t matter; this pair is old and stained with paint and grease, the denim worn thin in places.  They’re garbage.  Doesn’t matter if they get a few more stains.

 

I stand in front of the hanging fucktoy, my boots spread wide.  Reaching down and unzipping my fly, I hauled out my thick, pulsing hog, letting it dangle, semi-hard, between my legs.  I wait with my arms crossed across my hairy, muscled chest; I’ll be the first thing the little fuckwad sees when he wakes—which he does, almost immediately.

 

He groans loudly and my cock stiffens slightly.  His eyes open, but they’re rolled back.  He gurgles and chokes on his tongue momentarily, then jerks violently—and regains consciousness.

 

He looks at me, his eyes wide.  He’s confused and in pain.  “Wha…wha…”

 

I grin and fondle my cock.  He looks at me, then glances down at my groin.  His eyes widen.  “Dude, wh-what the fuck?” he quavers.  His eyes are bloodshot; he’s still high.  That’s ok; I’ll sober him up soon enough.

 

Silently, I step forward and begin fondling him.  He grunts and kicks wildly as I reach out and grab the crotch of his jeans, massaging the thick tube of flesh that even now seems to be getting a little hard.   “Get the fuck offa me, man; I ain’t no faggot!” he yells in angry denial.  Ignoring him, I run my hands up his smooth, firm chest.  His pecs and trapezius muscles were painfully elongated, causing his small dark nipples to thrust upwards.

 

He shudders under my hands.  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I got snatched by a fuckin’ pervert,” he snarls as I run my fingers through the wiry hair in his pits.  He’s already starting to sweat, not just from anxiety, but from the sheer physical stress of hanging by his arms.  “Lemme down!” he squawks.

 

I let go and step back, still grinning, still silent, before turning back to the tool chest.  “Ya hear me, motherfucker?!” the cunt shouts.  “Get back here, asswipe!  Get me down from here!”

 

Having retrieved what I want, I wheel back to him.  “That’s it, buddy,” he calls, “now get over here and—”

 

That was when he glanced down and saw that I was holding a knife.  He shut up quick.  Suddenly, he seemed to have a lot less desire to have me approach him.  Not that his desires matter; it’s mine that are gonna get satisfied tonight.  I need to let him know that—but first, I want him nude.  Walking behind him, I reach down and grab the Air Jordan shoe on his left foot.    I grip it tightly, expecting him to kick, but he doesn’t—he’s too intimidated.

 

“What ya doin’, man?” he whispers hoarsely, his voice tight with fear.

 

Again, I don’t say a word.  I insert the tip of the knife blade under the cuff of his jeans, above the left shoe, and slice upward, slitting the fabric cleanly up the back of his leg.  I keep going up to the waistband and cut through it, rapidly sawing through his belt.  It’s a Ka-Bar Bowie with a nine-inch serrated blade; it went through the inch of thin leather like it was paper.  Another slice up the other leg and the slut hung there, nude but for his kicks.

 

I walk back around to the front.  His large hazel eyes watch me anxiously.  I’m actually kinda impressed; he’s clearly a lower-middle-class teenaged punk—I’d’ve thought he’d already be crying and pleading to be let go.  Well, I can change that soon enough.

 

I need a staging area—I grab the TV tray and, setting it up, lay the knife on it.  Then I return to the tool chest.  The tray is positioned so that the boycunt can see it clearly, but just enough out of reach if he starts to kick.

 

I think he’s gonna kick.  Especially once I turn back with the item out I got out of the chest.

 

I hold it up to him; it glints in the light.  He looks at it, his long-lased eyes blinking slowly, like a cow’s.  He doesn’t get it—so I help him get it.

 

“It’s a staple gun,” I say.  It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s regained consciousness; his eyes immediately snap to mine.  “I’m gonna hurt you with it.”

 

His face pales, making his freckles stand out.  He’s more confused than ever, so I help him out.  I step forward and, placing the staple gun against his firm, flat belly.  “Like this,” I say helpfully, and squeeze the handle.

 

With a loud “chunk”, the device slams an inch-long roofing staple through the kid’s smooth skin.  I was right about making the bitch kick; he squeals in pain and flails his legs.  The only sign of exterior damage, though, is the barely-visible glint of metal on the fucker’s heaving belly, from the ends of which two tiny trickles of blood leaked.

 

“Ya see, boy, I’m gonna rape yer ass,” I drawl casually.  The hanging boyfuck stops whimpering and gasps, but I keep on going.  “But a worthless little sack of shit like you—yer ass ain’t gonna get me off, bitch.  And I need to get off, bad.”

 

I leer cruelly at him; his brown eyes are huge as he stares at me in disbelief.  “Ya know what will get me off?  Making you hurt.  Before I fuck you and as I fuck you, I’m gonna hurt you.  I’m gonna fuck you up so goddam bad.  But ya know what the best part of all this is?”

 

He’s breathing deeply, but he flinches as I lean in close to his youthful, innocent face.  I want him to hear me as I whisper, “The best part is that yer gonna get off too.  I’m gonna put you in so much agony that yer gonna cum—and if ya don’t think I can do that, then ya better buckle up, cause I’m gonna prove it to ya, startin’ now!”

 

Balling up my fist, I slam it into the teen’s abs, a swift and powerful gutpunch directly on top of the staple.

 

The meat’s eyes and mouth both open wide, the latter a perfect O of shock and pain.  The breath rushes out of his lungs with a loud gurgling grunt as his lean form twists and kicks vainly in the air.  His red Air Jordans flail uselessly several inches above the ground as his long, thick hog slaps audibly against his smooth thighs.  I reach out and grab his cock, nimbly avoiding his jerking legs.  I stroke the teen’s meat as I swing the staple gun up and drive a pair of sharp metal prongs into his having flank.

 

He thrashes and squeals again—but there’s a reaction in his dick, too.  It was faint, but I could feel the punk’s semi-soft trouser snake throb slightly as he twisted in pain.

 

I knew it.  Moment I laid eyes on him, I knew the little fuck was into pain.  They all are, really, even the stupid little shits like this one who try to pretend they’re straight.  They’re just waiting for a real man to come along and dominate them.  And after all, what’s the ultimate show of power?  Making the victim suffer and die.  That’s what they want, what they crave in their sick souls—they wanna suffer and die.

 

I’m more than happy to oblige, of course.  I let the meat know.

 

“Ya like that shit, dontcha, faggot?” I sneer.  “Toldja so—yer dick is gettin’ hard in my hand.  Fuck, cunt, yer gonna love what I’m gonna do to ya—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ night!”  Raising the staple gun to his chest, I slam one into the center of his stretched-out pecs.  Each time the thin metal points pierce his skin, he yelps in pain.

 

I step back for a moment to consider my next target.  That’s when he finally starts pleading.  “Stop it, man, please,” he sobs, his voice cracking with fear and distress, “Please, please, I’ll do anything ya want, just stop hurting me…”

 

“Will you?” I ask, grinning.  “Really?  Anything I want?”  Bending down, I pop a staple into the silky-smooth flesh of his inner thigh.  He shrieks.  “And what if I just wanna keep hurting you?  What if I just want you to keep hanging there like a good piece of fuckmeat while I torture you to death?”

 

Tears are streaming down his young, freckled-filled face; they dampen and darken the narrow line of fuzz that the punk pretends is a beard.  His long-lashed eyes are closed, though; he can’t bring himself to look me in the face.  “Y-you can fuck me…” he whispers so reluctantly it’s almost inaudible.  “I-I swear, ma-man, I won’t tell no one, if you’ll j-just lemme go…”

 

As I return to the tool box and get another toy, he breaks down and starts sobbing.  “P-please don’t k-kill me,” he gasps out between tears, “I prom-promise I w-won’t tell any-anyone about this—”

 

 

The sight of me and my toy cuts him off violently—it’s a set of brass knuckles.  I start with a line drive straight form my shoulder to right side of his chest; I can feel that the impact of my fist, amplified by heavy metal, is strong enough to shatter a couple of ribs, expelling a violent grunt of pain from the kid.

 

The meat stops crying and stares at me, his face darkening as he struggles to breathe.  I’ve knocked the air outta him and with those broken ribs, it’s gotta hurt to inhale.  He will eventually, of course; he has to.  As he struggles painfully in mid-air I stand and grin at him, holding up the brass knuckles for him to admire.

 

“Yeah, meat, bet that one got ya all horny, huh?  Hell fuckin’ yeah, boy, there’s a lot more where that came from.  And this is just foreplay, bitch; you ain’t suffered near enough to even get my dick hard yet, let alone to make me cum once I’m buried balls-deep in yer ass.  If yer a religious type, ya need to be thankin’ Jeebus for thowin’ you in my path, cause I’m gonna purge you with pain and fuck you into eternity on a violent, agonizing sea of cum!”

 

He loses it; shrieking and kicking, he thrashes like a wild man.  I knew this point would come—this is why (and where) they need tenderizing.  Managing to keep away from his flailing legs, I rain blow after blow on his lithe, nude, twisting body.  I’m punching him hard enough to do internal damage; even as he screams in panic, he has to grunt in pain as the physical pain overrides the mental terror while I pound his smooth, wiry abdomen.  I snap another rib on his right side; I’m amazed that I haven’t punctured his lung yet.

 

He’s young and strong; his panic is powerful.  Body blows aren’t getting his attention.  I focus on his face.

 

The first blow snaps a cheekbone; the second crushed his nose.  I can feel the cartilage crunch under my fist.  It works; he quiets down and simply dangles there, whimpering and sobbing softly.  I still want to smash his beautiful young face to hamburger and have to restrain myself from shattering his jaw.  But I’m still a long ways form being done with him, and I still wanna hear him bleat and squeal.

 

“That’s it,” I tell him, “Now you’re startin’ to get it.  You’re just gonna hang there and accept whatever I do to you.  You’re nothing but fuckmeat, strung up in a meat locker and ready for butcherin’.  Ya feel me, boy?  Ya get what I’m sayin?  Here and now, I own yer ass and I’m gonna do what I wanna with you.  As of now, your only purpose on this planet is to make me cum—and the only way you’re gonna do that is to suffer.  How long you live depends on how much you can endure, but know this—the rest of your short, worthless life is gonna be nothing but horrific, nightmarish pain—and my cock.  These will be the only two things in your universe for the rest of your life.”

 

I reset the tray within easy reach as I step behind the kid.  At the height he’s hanging, his ass is perfectly lined up at my groin; I don’t need to adjust anything at all.  My cock is full erect by now; the swollen purple head is glistening with precum.  It’s all the lube the boycunt is gonna get.

 

I probe his fuckhole with my shaft, feeling the tight resistance of his sphincter against my firm mushroom tip.  Oh fuck yeah, this meat’s deep in the closet; no one’s been up here yet.

 

“Savin’ yerself for me, huh?” I whisper in his ear as I reach around his slim, slick torso and pull him close.  I can smell his rank, fear-laden boysweat, thick with adolescent pheromones as I press my muscled chest to his back and slowly tear apart his straining ass muscle, penetrating the sobbing youth remorselessly.  “Ain’t gonna help ya, bitch; it’s only gonna make this hurt so much worse.  But I fuckin’ love rippin’ virgin boycunts open, faggot; this is gonna be yer first, last and best assfuck ever.”

 

He screams as I give a sudden violent thrust; my shaft scrapes against his rectal lining, causing an excruciating internal tear, before my long, vein-wrapped rod plows into his prostate.

 

Slipping my other hand around to the punk’s crotch, I find that the prostate impact has had its usual result; the fuckmeat’s cock is hard as a rock.  It’s an almost involuntary reaction to a nice internal prostate massage.  The head of my dick keeps traveling deep into the boy’s velvety guts, but as long as the throbbing length of my shaft presses against that gland, I can keep the meat erect, no matter what I do to him.

 

He still doesn’t like it, though. He hasn’t accepted his rightful place on my cock; he squeals like a pig and clenches his arms.  His biceps and triceps aren’t huge, but I can see them bulge as the teen punk tries desperately to raise himself up off the impaling shaft of my dick.

 

“Aw, no, cunt,” I bark, “Where ya tryin’ to run to?  Ain’t no way you’re gettin’ off my cock, ya stupid sack a’ shit—this is where yer gonna die.  Get used to ridin’ my rod, motherfucker, yer gonna be doin’ it for the rest of yer suck-ass life!”

 

He snaps.  The terror and the agony are too much for him.  “No!” he screams.  “Lemme down! Get offa me!  Get the fuck outta me, asshole!  Get the—URK!”

 

As he yelled, I reached down, snatched the Ka-Bar, and rammed it into his flank on the right-hand side.  He chokes on his shout as the pain overwhelms him, but I’ve been kind. I didn’t sink all nine inches of the blade into his lean, lithe abdomen; I only sank the carbon-steel knife in to a depth of five inches.

 

All I did was slash open his intestines and maybe pierce his spleen.  Theoretically survivable, if he gets help in time.

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

But he’s still a long way from death.  The teenaged punk is alive and kicking—and responding to the pain.  “Oh yeah, that’s it, fuckmeat,” I whisper in his ear, letting him know what a real man’s beard feels like, scratching his cheek as I lean forward to taunt him.  “Yer guts tighten up around my cock so fuckin’ good when I stick ya.  Fuckin’ deathpig—all you hot little twinks, huh?  Just waitin’ for the right man to come along, stuff ya fulla dick and put ya down like the garbage ya are, huh?  You’re such a lucky cumdump—tonight yer gonna get it, ya hear?”  I jerk the blade back out, quickly, and hold it up in front of his face as he shrieks and his taut, lean body shudders in my arms.  “Lucky little deathpig is gonna get pumped fulla long lard manshaft and long hard manshank—I wonder which one is gonna make you cum hardest, huh?”

 

He gasps and kicks, the heels of his b-ball kick drumming into my shins; it’s annoying as fuck.  “Calm down, meat,” I hiss and flip the blade around, driving it deep into his belly.  “HOOG!” he yells, adding to his repertoire of inarticulate cries.  Again, I don’t shove it in up to the hilt—this time, more outta self-preservation.  If I’d stuck it all the way in, it’d have come out his back and stuck me.

 

Which isn’t to say it won’t get shoved into the tender young boyflesh up to the hilt at some point; just not yet.  After all, I haven’t hit anything vital yet.  I can still play with the teen meat for a while yet.

 

And besides, it feel so good on my engorged tubesteak.  His warm, satin-smooth colon wraps around my cock and squeezes like a hand every time I stick the blade in…

 

…it’s almost like his ass is responding to him getting fucked by the blade.

 

Oh, this really is a sick little pervert.  Teenaged deathpig out lookin’ for party supplies—ha!  He’s havin’ the party of his fuckin’ life now.  Bet the faggot ain’t high no more.

 

Well, maybe he’s high on life—what little he’s got left.

 

I yank the blade back up, again holding it upright in front of his face. “Look at it, meat,” I whisper, nuzzling his shuddering head again.  “See those pink bits dangling from the serrations on the blade?  That’s your guts, bitch.  That’s what yer insides look like.”

 

He moans breathily, then, unexpectedly, speaks.  “Toby,” he moans, “My name…Toby…”

 

Little piece of shit is trying to establish an emotional connection by telling me his name.  “Meat doesn’t have a name, asswipe,” I remind him.  To drive the point home, I stick him again, this time on the left side.

 

He bleats like a dying lamb.  Helplessly impaled on my cock, he thrashes vainly as I twist the knife in the wound, grinding a massive hole in his liver.  Not enough to make him bleed out, but enough to make the cunt go rigid with shock from major organ trauma.

 

“What’s yer name, meat?” I hiss, reaming the blade in his side as he rides my cock.  “What’s yer fuckin’ name, huh?”

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” I jeer.  “You’re nothing but a sack of boymeat.  You’re only here to suffer so I can cum.  You’re gonna drain my cock and die, you worthless fucker.  I’m gonna use you as my personal cumrag and throw you out after like the garbage you are, you got it?  Yeah?  You got yer place in the general scheme of things now, deathpig?”

 

The boy trembles and sobs, a low whimpering sound, as I run my hands down his chest.  I’ve left the blade in the wound; it bobs back and forth as I continue to pound the punk’s asshole.  I hold him to me, his back pressed against my chest, the slick boysweat forced from his young body matting the fur on my thick, broad pecs.  My nipples get hard as he writhes against me, his smooth skin slipping over them as if lubed.

 

And all the time, he’s working my cock.

 

Poor boy, he’s in so much agony.  He leans his head back as I fuck him mercilessly so I can see his pain-wracked face, taut and gray with shock.  His thin line of facial fur tangles in my scruff and he inadvertently nuzzles my cheek as he begs.

 

“P-please…” he moans weakly, “S-stop…no-no more…fuck, g-god, no more…any-anythin’, du-dude, just…just please fuckin’ stop…”

 

“You ain’t made me cum yet, cunt,” I murmur in his ear.  “You don’t stop sufferin’ until I’ve emptied my load in yer guts—ya feel me, cumdump?”  I prod him in the back with the blade—not badly; I only sink the blade in a couple of inches.  He stiffens and gasps.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, “That’s what I’m looking for.  See what I mean, bitch?  Every time I stick ya, yer ass gets all nice and tight.  So I gotta keep pokin’ ya till I blow my load.  If ya live long enough, I’ll make you cum too.  It’ll hurt like all fuck, bro, but I promise you—you’ll never shoot a bigger wad in yer life!”

 

He keeps struggling, his slender body thrashing against mine as his Air Jordan hightop kick futilely at my shins.  He’s jerking his arms, his delts and triceps bulging pitifully as he desperately tries to pull himself up off my thick, throbbing shaft.

 

“Where ya think yer goin, motherfucker?” I jeer.  “Still think yer gonna run away my cock, huh?  Only escape from my pulsing manmeat is death. Get it, fag?  You ain’t gettin’ off my dick till you’re dead.  Take it, you stupid sack of shit, just accept my cock and make me cum.  Once my hot seed fills yer guts, I promise the pain will stop.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The tortured, abused teen moans in despair.  His lithe, lean body slips and slides along mine as he still vainly tries to release himself from the horrible impaling pain of his virgin buttfuck.  Fuckin’ idiot, he still doesn’t get it—but he reacts so well to pain.

 

I wrap one hand around him, sliding it up his blood-smeared chest to his mouth.  I can feel his lips working against my palm as he continues to beg and plead silently for his worthless life.  “Fuckin’ teenaged meat,” I mutter contemptuously.  “Always has to learn the hard way.”  I ram the blade into his back, this time up to the hilt.  It slashes on a downward angle though his lean, tender flesh like a carving knife through rare roast beef, ripping right through his kidney before it emerges from the lower right quadrant of his abdomen, just above the pelvis.

 

Once again, major organ trauma has a magical effect on the cumpunk’s asshole.  Fuck, if they could control their colons this well voluntarily, I wouldn’t need to snuff them…

 

…well, no.  Worthless painpig cumdump, they all need to die, preferably in horrible agony, with my dick up their asses.  Like this one.

 

“Hey, cunt,” I whisper in his ear as he shudders violently and rigidly, his rectum squeezing my cock to tightly, I need a lot of self-control not to cum right now.  “Yer gettin’ me close, boy.  Think I’m gonna spunk soon.  Gonna anoint yer worthless guts with my potent manseed, yeah?  You ready, fuckmeat?  You ready to feel my sperm ticklin’ yer innards?  It’s almost time to make you into my personal cumrag.  Gonna make you into meat, boy, gonna make you into fuckin’ meat!”

 

I lower my hand from his mouth to his dick.  Of course it’s still hard; with my own enormous tool plugging his colon and pressing on his prostate, he physically can’t go soft.  No matter how much pain and terror he’s experiencing, his seven-inch cock remains involuntarily erect and pulsing.  As I slip my hand over the purple, spongy, engorged head, his precum smears over the palm.

 

I use it as lube while I jack his teen dick.

 

He responds, his body going rigid again, pressing back against me—whether in resistance or pleasure, I can’t tell, but he rides my shaft rhythmically, squeezing his sphincter as it slides along every vein-wrapped inch.

 

I beat his oozing tool, feeling his hard young body trembling in my arm as his ragged breathing speeds up.  Bleeding and in excruciating pain, the meat is still so full of adolescent hormones that he’s leaking a steady stream of precum.

 

This is why I like ‘em young.  Horny little fucker—even in mortal agony, he relaxes into my arms, letting me jack him off.

 

I don’t want him relaxed.  I want him tight on my rod.  He moans and stiffens slightly—not enough.  He’s about to cum, but I ain’t quite there yet.

 

“Die, you worthless piece of faggot shit,” I snarl, and slam the Ka-bar knife horizontally through his throat.

 

It’s what he needs, what he wants.  As the cold steel blade slashes through his larynx, he makes a high-pitched shriek, the death-squeal of a true pain pig.  His body, already traumatized, goes into shock; his strong young muscles snap into a rigid rictus of agony.

 

His ass tightens like a cockring around my pulsating shaft.  I can feel my balls boiling over, the hot strong squirts of my manseed flooding the dying teen’s rectum.  “Aw fuck!” I yell and slice the knife forward, sawing my way out of the cunt’s throat from the inside, “Die, motherfucker, die!”

 

I’m holding the knife in one hand—I’m still beating him off with the other.  As my blade rips open his throat, sending spurts of hot, coppery blood across the room, I can feel a massive spasm in his cock.  He’s blowing his death load so fucking hard, I can see it shooting up like a pearly geyser over his shoulder.  His steaming deathwad splatters back on my face as the teenager’s final convulsions clench my dick and his ass seems to literally suck my scrote dry.

 

I’m kinda out of it for a few minutes as I empty my pent-up load into the shuddering boycorpse still dangling by the hands and impaled on my dick.  The quivering meat is soaked in agonized deathsweat, his russet hair dark and matted, individual beads of perspiration still trickling from his rank pits—just as pink, frothy blood leaks from his slashed throat and translucent beads of jizz are still dripping from his purple head.  Even dead, he’s still leaking his bodily fluids.

 

Sighing deeply, I step back, my still-hard cock popping up as I pull out of the dead kid’s ass, spattering my oozing spunk everywhere.  I use the boy’s t-shirt to wipe my dick off, then replaced all my toys back in the tool chest.  Well, all the ones I’d taken out.

 

Getting myself dressed, I go out to my van—and drove home.  I’m tired, I need sleep…and I want the meat to stop bleeding.  I’ll come back for it tomorrow.  Who know?  I might not be done with it, if it ain’t too ripe when I get back.

 

And besides, I need to get the passenger window fixed.  Stupid piece of fuckin’ meat, I was too easy on him.  I shoulda really hurt ‘im…

M4M4Black

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories6 Comments

Joe’s phone beeped.  Actually, it wasn’t his phone; it had belonged to one of his kills—Joe had kept it for the gay hookup app the cunt had installed.  After altering the dead kid’s profile, he was using it to troll for victims.  Seemed he’d found one.  Glancing down, he read the screen—

 

Tapdisazz: hey daddy wassup

 

The buff sadist quickly replied—

 

Powertop4boi: my dick.  what ya want

 

Tapdisazz:  ur dick

 

This was accompanied by a pic.  It was a neck-down nude body shot of a young man, not powerfully built but with well-defined muscles.  Based on the lighting, the dude was black; his skin was a relatively light mocha shade, but his thick cock was a seven-inch bar of dark chocolate.

 

Joe was intrigued.  He hadn’t wasted a nigger before.  This could be fun.

 

Powertop4boi:  yeah I can slip ya the D.  u host?

 

Tapdisazz:  can host 962 walnut st apt 7H how long

 

Joe knew the street, if not the specific address; three block south of the MLK Boulevard exit on the interstate.  Bad neighborhood for an evening stroll—but as a predator among predators, the experienced killed wasn’t afraid.  He knew he could handle himself in any situation.

 

Tapdisazz: u comin man need to get fucked bad

 

Powertop4boi: gimme 20 will plow ur hole

 

Tapdisazz: k homey hurry want ur nut in my azz

 

Joe chuckled.  Faggot was gonna get his cum and a fuck of a lot more.

 

It was already past midnight—he’d been lying nude in bed; he jumped to his feet quickly and crossed to his dresser.  It was still record-breakingly warm for the time of year, so he slipped a black sleeveless muscle t-shirt over his head; it clung to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on.  Next on was a pair of beige cargo shorts that reached just below the knee.  They were tight enough to clutch his firm, rounded ass tightly but still displayed no more than his hard, hairy calves—half of which the well-built stud immediately covered with white tube socks.

 

He’d had to pull the socks so high up his legs to make sure he could get on his sand-beige combat boots.  They rose halfway up to his knees; once he had them tightly laced, he checked himself in the mirror.  In a way, he had kinda a casual-military-commando thing going.  It was unintentional, but he liked the result.

 

Slipping his wallet into his rear pocket and his keys into his front, he headed out to his car.  Within five minutes, he was on the interstate—and in another ten, he’d reached his exit.

 

Turning south on MLK Boulevard, he slowed to a halt a red light.  The first couple of blocks were lined with tote-the-note care lots, pawn shops and shade-tree mechanics.  Back in the darkness off the main street, there was a fair amount of furtive activity that melted away briefly on the odd occasions that headlights turned down the side streets.

 

The next major cross street to the south was Lamar; every weekend, there was guaranteed to be at least two murders within a five-block radius of MLK and Lamar—usually drug, robbery or gang-related.  And this was despite a large police presence; Joe passed two cruisers and a motorcycle cop during his three-block trip from the interstate.

 

Turning left onto Walnut, he followed the potholed street for another two blocks before arriving at his destination.  The address turned out to be located in a complex of dilapidated two-story buildings of fourteen apartments each, seven upstairs and seven down.  From the open parking lot in the street, the complex was laid out on a slope that led down to a malodorous, weed-choked drainage ditch at the back of the property.  Building H was next to the ditch, last building on the right side.

 

The unseasonal warmth did nothing to help the dank stench wafting up from the ditch.  Even so, several people were out in the dark—mostly young black dudes.  One punk in dreads, wearing sagging jeans showing the top three inches of plaid boxers, gave Joe a particularly hostile glance as he slipped by on the other side of the concrete steps.

 

His paramilitary appearance was arousing suspicion in an area rife with drug trade.  Again, he wasn’t concerned with his own safety—but his dick was hard and he didn’t wanna go home without burying it in nigger ass.  If one of these motherfuckers started some shit before he got to the meat’s apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d have the chance to fuck the asswipe before real trouble started.

 

In any advent, it didn’t matter; he reached building H without incident.  Apartment 7H was the one at the far end of the building on the ground floor.  The thumping of his hard-soled combat boots on the cement walkway was drowned out by music that turned out to be coming from apartment 6H; someone into old school gangsta was blaring Tech N9ne’s “Breathe” so loud the flimsy, hollow-core front door of the unit was visibly rattling.  Joe had to beat his fist heard against the door of 7H to get a response.

 

After a moment, the door opened and the towering alpha found himself facing a kid in his late teens—no older than twenty, certainly.  The boy was almost assuredly mulatto.  It wasn’t that his skin was so light that indicated that one of his parents was white—it was his stunning, startlingly light blue eyes.  His nose was broad but not overly so; his lips were thick, but they looked soft and luscious, not like a caricature.  Short curly hair like steel wool covered his scalp.

 

The punk was shirtless; his broad smooth chest was tattooed with the words “Lamar Pride” in three-inch-tall calligraphic letters in an arc descending from one shoulder and rising to the other.  Joe wasn’t aware of any local gang known as Lamar—but he did know that Lamar High School was a couple of miles away.

 

Around the black fag’s neck was what looked like a thick-linked dog chain, looped back into itself in a slipknot.  The kid sported a pair of UA Mo’ Money basketball shorts in shiny gray; despite their bagginess, they did nothing to hide his long, semi-erect cock.  Under the shorts, the boy had stayed true to form with a pair of Adidas “Light Em Up” basketball hightops.

 

Little fuckin’ gangsta wannabe.  Joe grinned broadly—wastin’ this little nigger cunt was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

 

“Holy shit…” the kid gasped, gazing up at the hard-bodied stud looming in his doorway.  Joe’s body was bulked out from his recent workouts and it was obvious the black kid was into well-built white tops.

 

“C-c’mon in,” he stuttered.  “I-I’m Deonte.”  Stepping to the side, he let Joe into the apartment.  The towering alpha filled the doorway momentarily as he paused and glanced around.  It didn’t take long—there wasn’t much to glance at.

 

The apartment was an efficiency—a single room with a closet and a couple of alcoves.  One was the bathroom, the other could best have been called a kitchenette.  There was a small fridge, a sink and a two-burner cooktop but no oven.  On one side of the room was a large flat-screen TV; facing it was an unfolded sofa bed.  To one side was an overstuffed armchair in the same light floral upholstery—now dark and stained with age—as the sofa; the set had probably belonged to the cocksucker’s gramma or something, Joe figured.

 

Interestingly enough, the off-white sheets covering the two-inch thick foam rubber mattress were that color by design; they, along with the pillowcases, were all clean and in good condition.

 

Not that he cared.  Good a dump as any to put down the black boy.  He turned back and grinned at his prey.

 

Deonte couldn’t believe his luck.

 

The nineteen-year-old really was a gangbanger wannabe; he worked at the local fast-food burger joint for minimum wage and supplemented his income by dealing drugs.  Nothing on a huge scale, but right now there was half a pound of skunk weed in the closet and about thirty dime bags of coke in a baggie taped under the toilet lid.

 

Competing as he was in a hyper-masculine culture, he’d always wanted to be dominated by older white daddies; he wanted to be violated by “the Man”—and the hulking, toned dude standing here now fit his desire perfectly.  And it was the first time.  No other white guy had been brave enough to come down here to the hood.  This fucker was hardcore…

 

He was so lost in lust he was unaware of how far out his now fully-erect cock was tenting his ball shorts—and was utterly unaware of the small but growing circle of precum that darkened the material at the tip of the tentpole.

 

It darkened even more once Joe spoke.

 

“So ya wanna real man’s cock, boy?  Think yer thug enough to handle my cock?  Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch, I wanna see if ya got as big a dick as niggers are supposed to!

 

Deonte’s face blushed visibly against his pale brown skin.  Grinning, he shucked the ball shorts, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of smooth but muscled brown legs and a jet-black dong the size of a Louisville Slugger—almost as big as Joe’s.

 

The sex killer chuckled.  “Damn, I guess they were right.  You jigaboos got nice big dicks.”

 

The black youth stiffened; he expected a certain level of racial abuse in the encounter, but this guy was going a little far.  Still, for that body, the horny young fag was willing to endure a lot.

 

It was probably a good thing that he had no idea how much he’d have to endure over the next hour.

 

Joe reached down and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt, then slowly pulled it up over his head, revealing his incredibly toned torso, covered with dark wiry fur.  Deonte swallowed loudly—more of a gulp, actually—and his thick cock suddenly pulsed and began oozing clear beads of precum.

 

His already-broad grin widening, Joe slid his hands down to his waist and, with a quick shove, dropped his shorts.  As they pooled around his combat boots, Deonte literally gasped aloud at the huge shaft that rose straight up in a tube of thick, throbbing manmeat to press against the white alpha’s hairy, ripped abs.  He’d been with punks better hung than he himself was, but no one anywhere near this big.

 

“Fuck, dude,” the young thug said, wiping his thick, soft lips with the back of his hand, “You got some serious junk, dawg—ain’t sure that’s even gonna fit.”

 

Joe’s handsome face twisted into a smirk.  “I’ll make it fit, cunt.  Now be a good little bitch—come over here and put those fat nigger lips on my nipples.  Now, boy!”

 

Deonte jumped to attention and moved towards the leering stud.  Still standing near the door, Joe reached a hand behind himself and made sure the keyless deadbolt was on, then swept his arm around to catch Deonte by the back of the head and jerk him closer.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ nappy-ass head down and work my nips, ya worthless coon!” he barked.  The black kid flinched at the words but before he could do anything more, his face had been mashed into the top’s hairy, hubcap-like pec; a rock-hard plug of flesh penetrating into his mouth.

 

Obeying instinctively, the black punk began tonguing it, despite his rising concerns about this white motherfucker.  Dude was gettin’ too race-heavy for Deonte to feel comfortable; he wanted to be dominated, not treated like shit.

 

Which was a shame, really, since he was about to be treated like much less than shit.

 

“Work it, fucker, lemme feel yer tongue,” Joe grunted, clamping his large hands on Deonte’s head and feeling the short, tightly-curled hair scraping his palms like steel wool.  He dragged the kid’s face across his chest, making sure to grind the thug’s face into his own wiry chest fur.

 

“Now work the other one, ya nigger faggot,” the brutal alpha hissed as he roughly manhandled the young buck’s head onto the other large, erect nipple.  “That’s it, work it good or I’ll beat like a fuckin’ field hand!”

 

It was too much for Deonte.  Bracing his strong arms against Joe’s chest, he pushed off abruptly enough to startle the sadist, despite his experience.  Whirling in his expensive (for him) Adidas kicks, the youthful thug tried to twist his way around his now-frightening hookup—only to find that the front door wouldn’t open to his frantic fumblings.

 

Then a large hand slapped down on his shoulder; before Deonte knew what was happening, he’d been flung back a yard and a half, landing on his back on the hard wood floor with enough violence to force the breath from his trim, firm body.  As the trim black homo gasped for air and blinked his bright blue eyes in pain, his field of vision was filled by the image of Joe looming ominously over him, nude except for the boots that indicated he expected lots of combat tonight.  It was an overwhelmingly intimidating sight, made even more so by the huge straining shaft jutting out in front of the white hunk, dripping searing beads of boiling precum.

 

“Big mistake, ya fuckin’ jungle ape,” Joe chuckled, reveling in racist cruelty.  He lashed out with one powerful leg, showing Deonte that his Desert Storm combat boots had steel toes with a swift kick that caught the nigger slut on the hip and fractured his pelvis.

 

The pain was sharp and shattering; the black punk swiftly shed his tough nigga image as he writhed and squealed on the floor.  Even though the vision in his amazingly bright blue eyes was blurred by tears, he could still make out the contemptuous way in which Joe curled his bottom lip as the toned and fit killer planted one of his boots on his prey’s heaving chest and bent down over him.

 

“Stupid-ass little coon pansy,” he sneered with a hard, sharp edge to his voice, just before he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on Deonte’s face.  Leaning forward, the sadistic alpha put his weight on the boy’s chest, the thick sole of his boot crushing the slut’s ribcage until he could no longer inhale.

 

Deonte’s beautiful eyes widened almost comically as he struggled to breathe.  His mouth gaping like a fish, the young black stud grabbed frantically at Joe’s thick, hairy calf, trying futilely to pry the white dude’s foot off him.  As his hands clutched the top’s leg uselessly, the alpha bent down and viciously swatted them away before reaching out and gasping the loose end of the slipknotted chain around Deonte’s neck.

 

Wrapping it around his hand, Joe jerked it, simultaneously removing his boot and standing up straight in a single, almost graceful movement.  Deonte took a deep breath the moment the pressure on his chest was removed—

 

—only to find it cut off again, infinitely more painfully, by the chain-link noose he’d voluntarily slipped around his own neck.

 

Now the black cunt’s eyes were bulging grotesquely as his b-ball hightops kicked helplessly in mid-air.  Raising his powerful arm over his head, Joe hoisted Deonte up to his own eye level.  “I ain’t playin’ no games with ya, you black-ass cumsucking fag—yer takin’ my dick, now, ya got me, ya nigger bitch?  And ya better take it good, ya fuckin’ spade, or I’m gonna beat ya like a field hand!”

 

The struggling thug grasped and clutched at Joe’s thick and incredibly powerful forearms, his fingers prying at the killer’s hands, desperately and futilely trying to break free of his strangling grip.  His eyes rolling wildly, he kicked and jerked like a fish on a line—his head was buzzing and panic was setting in; he didn’t know how much longer he could remain conscious.

 

Then Joe turned to the side, drawing his arm back and swinging Deonte around like a pendulum.  With a swift twist, the cruel top snapped the kid in the air like cracking a whip, flinging the flailing faggot face-down onto the bed where he landed spread-eagled.

 

The black teen was too brutalized to be fully functional; as he floundered on the thin foam mattress, clawing the chain away from his throat, he could hear the steady, measured tread of the buff alpha’s boots approaching from behind but was unable to react.  He was awake enough to know that something had gone horribly wrong with his hot white daddy fantasy.

 

Since he sold drugs—even if just on a low-level scale—Deonte carried a 9-mm piece with him at all times.  He’d rarely have more than a grand of cash on him at any one time, but in this hood, that was enough to justify a home invasion; as a result, Deonte never went anywhere without his gun—except that when he got back from his last delivery, not twenty minutes before he’d found the hot honky online, he’d left the gat in the car.

 

The realization that he was defenseless entered the young buck’s head just before Joe’s gigantic cock entered his ass.

 

Deonte was starting to rise and had gotten up on his hands and knees.  As the cruel sadist reached the foot of the bed, he was presented with a smooth black bubble butt, the asshole pulsing pinkly in the middle like a target for his thick, oozing head.  Without hesitation—and without lube—Joe instantly plunged his massive shaft into the faggot’s fuckhole up to the hilt.

 

The teenage homo screeched as Joe’s hog split open his sphincter, tore past his prostate and buried itself agonizingly in his soft, tender guts.  He tried to pull forward, away from the searing pain impaling his ass; he only succeeded in enraging his tormentor.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya stupid-ass piece of shit!” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing at the dog chain, “Just can’t control yer howlin’ either, can ya, you fuckin’ baboon?  That’s ok—I know how to make niggerboys like you obey!”

 

With a loud grunt, Joe yanked the loose end of the slipknot, sealing off Deonte’s throat and pulling the kid’s head back and up, making him arch his back in an excruciating semi-circle.  The strong, smooth light-skinned youth clawed the air in front of him as Joe began riding him like a rodeo cowboy, one arm out to the side as he used the other to jerk the chain like a bridle slung round the neck of his mount.

 

“Take it, nigga, take that white dick up yer jigaboo ass,” Joe chuckled maliciously as he pounded the black boy’s hole.  “That’s what ya wanted, right, bitch?  Cracker cock tearin’ yer coon ass up?  Fuck, yeah, boy, ya gotta be lovin’ this shit!  Enjoy it, ya lucky fuckin’ nigger fag!”

 

Keeping his tight combat boots planted firmly on the floor, the overpowering alpha shifted his positon slightly so he could thrust his throbbing manmeat even deeper into his prey’s rectum.  His powerful thighs bulged as he sped up the tempo of his pumping, driving his engorged rod further into his panicked and writhing victim.

 

On his hands and knees, with his spine bent achingly backwards, Deonte was still aware of his own thick, erect shaft and the way it slapped against his belly with every thrust of his assailant’s hips.  His right hand was fumbling vainly at the chain, which was sunk too far into his neck to reach—his left hand was on the bed supporting him; if it didn’t, he’d have fallen forward and dangled from his choker.

 

The young thug queer could hear the frantic tempo of his pulse pounding in his head as pressure built in his chest.  At first, the horrible reaming agony in his ass had been overwhelming; it was only when the oxygen deprivation reached a certain point that the nigger teen, his smooth chest slick with cold sweat squeezed out of his lean form by force, began to feel the true pain of being strangled to death.

 

As it so happened, the moment he hit that point, Joe gave some extra power to his thrust and sank his tool further into Deonte’s shredded innards than ever before.  It was too much for the gangsta-wannabe; reacting reflexively, he jerked with all the force of a bucking bronco.  The violence of the motion caught Joe momentarily off-guard—enough to make him lose his hold on the chain.  Before he realized it, the smooth black buck had slipped off his dick, leaving it bobbing and dripping fat translucent beads of precum onto the spotless sheets.  Deonte blindly yanked the dog chain away from his throat.  He’d expended the last of his oxygen in shaking off his rapist; the slim but muscled punk could only flop onto his back, gasping desperately for air as the pressure and the pounding in his head began to decrease.

 

Glancing towards the foot of the bed, the black cocksucker had a view down the entire length of his own firm, smooth body, brown and glistening with sweat in the dim light.  His dick, a seven-inch shaft of jet-black meat stood tall and straining between his legs; beyond that, his feet, still tightly laced into his Adidas kicks, were spread wide.

 

And towering between them was the crazy white dude, his hairy, muscled body also gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration.  And his cock was hard and straining, too—but it looked like it still hadn’t reached its full erect length.

 

When it did, getting raped was gonna be like being impaled on a caveman’s club.  And as his glance moved further up the stud’s body (some fuckpig corner of his brain still lustfully noting the alpha’s broad furry pecs and bulging biceps), he couldn’t help but realize that the cold, icy glint in the older top’s eye was the look of death.

 

This motherfucker was gonna kill him.

 

Even though his young and well-built body had been nearly put out of commission by oxygen deprivation, panic provided the desperate thug with enough of a jolt to propel him up off the bed.  It took a mighty heave to bring his slim but strong form away from the sagging coil net and thin mattress and Deonte wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular.

 

Since the move was totally unexpected, and Joe had to go around the chair (toss it aside, actually, but it still took a moment), Deonte had time to reach the door and, opening it, get his head outside to call for help.

 

Unfortunately, in his disorientation, he didn’t realize it was the closet door.

 

It wasn’t until his eyes focused on the large bag of weed he’d hidden that Deonte realized his error.  By then the clumping of the sadist’s thick boot soles on the wooden floor told the terrified youth that the man was almost on him again.

 

He almost pissed himself in terror, but his traitorous erection prevented more than a dribble from coming out—and that little burned like fire along his urethra.  It didn’t matter; his mind was suddenly and utterly diverted from his dick.

 

He was face down, head halfway into the closet, so he couldn’t see what his assailant was doing; he felt the closet door being ripped from his well enough, though.  And he damn sure felt the door again when the killer stud slammed it on his head.

 

Leaning on the door, crushing Deonte’s head between it and the jamb, Joe kicked the moaning, writhing teen in exactly the same spot he had before, grinding the fracture of the pelvis into an outright break.  The boy shrieked, then sank into a subdued blubbering.

 

Joe had caught sight of what was in the closet.  As he kept his prey’s head pinned in the door, he bent down and whispered into the trapped kid’s ear.

 

“So yer a pansy-ass nigger drug dealer, huh?  Fuck, they’ll gimme a medal for this kill.  Ya hear that, ya worthless gangbanger wannabe?  I’mma be a goddam hero for snuffing yer faggot ass!”

 

Standing back up, he spoke again.  This time, he put some emphasis on his words by repeatedly slamming the door on the black teen’s head.

 

“So now it’s time to learn (WHAM) yer goddam place (WHAM), you fuckin’ uppity (WHAM) niggerboy (WHAM)!”

 

Deonte cried aloud with each blow, his entire body jerking with the force of the impacts and making his hightops kick the floor.  But it was the final blow on the final word that quieted him down, largely because it was the one that fractured his skull.

 

It didn’t cause major brain trauma but it was painful and terrifyingly loud; the young black thug heard his skull crack like an eggshell.  He instantly became light-headed with shock and did not resist as Joe dragged his limp form back to the hideaway and tossed him onto it on his back.

 

It was only when the larger, more muscled alpha actually climbed up on him that he came out his daze; the white dude’s weight on top was driving Deonte down into the crossbar of the folding frame.  Even with this new pain, the slim black buck was still unable to do more than moan inarticulately as Joe propped his legs up on his shoulders and began to stuff his—finally—fully-erect cock into the punk’s reamed-out ass.

 

“Do-don’t…no, stop…p-p-please, d-dawg, ya ai-ai-ain’t got-gotta do this…” the boy begged.

 

Joe leaned over and grabbed the chain, spitting into Deonte’s face before ramming his cock all the way up the homo’s ass—and jerking the chain tight.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ faggot junglebunny.  Only thing you homo niggers are good for is killin’—dark meat is real good at soaking up the cum of a good white man, boy, didja know that?  Yer about to find out, you stupid black bitch!”

 

And with that, Joe assumed the killing position.  He was fucking Deonte missionary style with the kid’s “Light ‘Em Up” sneakers on his shoulder while boy was getting lit up good.  The alpha was hunched over him, one hand pulling back hard on the choke chain around the black thug’s neck, the other hand splayed out over the punk’s forehead, pressing down for support—and squeezing, right along the fracture line, because he knew it caused the dying nigger agony.

 

“How ya likin’ that, boy?” Joe grunted gleefully as he shagged the teen as remorselessly, making sure the kid felt every thrust.  “That what ya were lookin’ for tonight when ya said ya wanted my nut?  I bet not, ya ignorant fuckin’ nigger.”

 

Pushing forward on Deonte’s head, Joe pulled backward on the chain to counterbalance, tightening the metal links around the boy’s throat.  As they sank into the skin, the kid’s finger’s clawed at his neck, scraping and breaking the skin but unable to grasp the slick metal surface.  The teen’s pale blue eyes bulged as his face swelled, but his field of vision was filled by Joe’s face; Deonte could look at nothing but the man who was killing him.

 

“See,” Joe said in a maliciously conversational tone of voice, “The problem with you nigger fags is that y’all never learn yer place.  And yer place is on the end of my cock, milking out my spunk.  So I gotta make ya learn, boy.  I can tell yer a stupid-ass fuckin’ coon, too, just by lookin’ at ya, bitch—ya know what that means?”

 

Deonte was in an uncharted world of pain and terror; his secret sex fantasy had turned into a nightmare.  The crushing pain in his closed-off throat was preventing him from screaming from the slashing, searing trauma being inflicted on his anus.  Amazingly, his own dick was still so hard it literally hurt.

 

And somehow, through it all, the youthful thug could see the cheery insanity in the cold killer’s light in Joe’s eye when he spoke next.

 

“It means I gotta hurt ya.  Yeah?  You get it, yeah?  Niggers learn best by beatin’, so I beat into yer head over there that you were my bitch.  An’ now I’m gonna make the lesson stick by wastin’ ya.  After all the last thing ya learn sticks with ya forever.  So once ya learn how fuckin’ good white man seed feels inside yer nigger fuckhole, I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out and leave yer reamed-out corpse for yer homies to find.  What ya say, dawg, we tight?”

 

Then Deonte learned that the nightmare could get worse.  Joe’s jackhammer thrusts mangled the teen’s innards, the thick, unlubed shaft of flesh, wreathed with veins like barbed wire, tore at the punk’s rectal lining and ripped into the lower duodenum.  As the chain sank deeper into his throat, small areas of skin were forced agonizingly through the openings in the large links.  Unable to loosen it in the slightest, Deonte transferred his hands to Joe’s wrists.

 

It was like trying to pull down concrete posts.  The flailing black youth was sweating harder now, his own distinct musk adding to the heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline filling the room.  His struggles intensified as his thick lips parted, forced aside by his swollen purple tongue, slowly pushed out his mouth on a tide of drool that trickled down Deonte’s chin and streaked his face with white foam.

 

He no longer tried to pry Joe’s hands away from his throat; realizing the futility of the attempt, the dying nigger clawed desperately at his killer’s handsome, contempt-filled face but the powerful top was both larger and stronger and was easily able to avoid his blind thrashing.  His expensive Adidas shoes kicked and jerked without making contact with his assailant.

 

The horrific pain in his mangled ass and his broken his had faded into a kinda buzzing in the background, overtaken by the relentless pounding and pressure in his head, amplified by the way the sadistic alpha was squeezing his damaged skull; even the fiery tightness in his chest was fading.

 

Funny thing was, even as his brain began to die, Deonte could still feel his own raging hard-on.  Somehow, through the cold grayness that was creeping inexorably over his firm, lithe body, the black fag could feel the pulsing warmth of his deathload boiling in his puckered balls, waiting for the final traumatic signal to erupt in a burning froth of DNA.

 

As his wasted life began to fade, the nigger thug’s struggles began to slow into caresses.  His hands, no longer claws, gently slapped at Joe’s massive, hubcap pecs, almost as if they were stroking the wiry fur.  His entire body bucked and curved, griping his rapist’s cock firmly holding it in place as the rectal muscles began to convulse.

 

And then Deonte reached the tipping point of brain death.

 

Joe knew he’d reached the sweet spot when the punk’s random thrashing became more rhythmic and less focused.  The nigger was already meat.  Joe merely confirmed it when he gave one last final violent jerk to the chain, sinking it deep enough into the slut’s throat to crush the esophagus with a loud cracking sound.

 

Perhaps it was the final blast of pain that flipped the switch in the black fuckpig’s shorted-out brain, but that was the moment that Deonte’s swollen scrotum exploded, sending jet after jet of ropy streams of cum spurting from his hard dick.  Joe could feel the wet warmth splatter across his ripped abs and spew across his chest.

 

At the same time, the gangsta wannabe—now nothing but fuckmeat—went rigid with orgasmic convulsion, making his sphincter—despite being torn now in two places—clamp down around the root of Joe’s shaft like a cockring while his colon rippled in its death throes like a velvet glove over the alpha’s huge, engorged rod.

 

With a loud, deep grunt, Joe unloaded in the nigger’s ass, his scalding sperm flooding the black boy’s guts.  Some faint spark of Deonte’s faggot soul was left to respond to getting knocked up by his killer; as Joe shot his wad, the teenaged homo erupted with one last fount of spunk before the kid subsided into quivering meat that hadn’t quite realized it was dead yet.

 

With a deep and satisfied sigh, the vicious killer withdrew his still-erect tool from his victim, stood up and glanced around.  Locating the bathroom, he crossed to it and washed himself up, tossing the towel he’d used into the toilet and flushing it.  He closed the door on the overflowing mess as he walked out.

 

Deonte was lying sprawled on his back, cum leaking from his ass, stained pink with blood from his shredded colon.  His pale blue eyes were less stunning now that they bulging grotesquely and utterly bloodshot with petechial hemorrhages.  White foam had dried to a crust on his face while large pools of his own spunk slowly congealed on his chest.

 

Joe slipped back into his shirt and shorts, glancing around the shitty efficiency apartment, partially in contempt, partially to ensure he’d left nothing behind.  Pausing for a moment, he turned back and snagged the bag of weed from the closet; he might be able to use it a lure for fresh meat.  He shoved it into his pocket and left, leaving the door closed but unlocked.

 

He’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall when the little fucker’s homies learned that he was a faggot—and he’d lost a half pound of weed.  Poor niggerboy; his rep was gonna be total shit.