Fantasy Scenario 18

 

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

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.

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

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

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And he was right.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

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

 

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

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Internet Snuff Star Buck [1st Thread}

Buck was out cruising for supplies. He was recording another episode tonight, and his fans wouldn’t keep paying if he didn’t give them a good show.

The last show hadn’t been great. The hustler had already been under the influence of something when Buck had drugged him and he’d died before Buck had even gotten him on camera. Buck, horny and very angry, had filmed himself fucking and beating the corpse, but the revenue had been down. The audience wanted something else.

They wanted to watch the little fucks struggle and die.

A hard smile crossed Buck’s face. He wasn’t a man to disappoint his fans.

He was a lean, hard man in his early 30’s, with shoulder-length brown hair and a trim goatee. Tonight he was in hunting gear—a wifebeater showing his muscled chest and arms, cutoffs displaying his thick thighs. The sweat socks showing just above his construction boots completed the outfit. Just another fag on the prowl for a rentboy. A roll of bills in his pocket served for his lure.

In three years, he’d never pulled a single bill off the roll. By the time he was done with them, they had no use for money.

Tonight he was hunting for general meat. On occasion, he’d recorded private commissions, for a large fee. These jobs had usually specified a type of victim or mode of death, or both. Most of these jobs he’d accepted—he’d only turned down the ones he found personally repellent, like requests for minors or excessive gore. But after the last show, no new requests had come in. Tonight needed to be good.

Buck parked at the end of a dead-end street, facing out, and put out his lights. This street ran parallel to a major road and afforded access to small alleyways that were used by the businesses facing the road. At night, the alleyways were popular with hustlers. It had been a while since Buck was here; he never used the same hunting grounds twice in a row. But this had been a good spot and it still was. In a couple of minutes, Buck had two targets in view.

They’d emerged from an alley about half a block up. One was short and had short blond hair. Jeans, sneakers, no shirt. He was young, maybe too young. Buck ignored him. The other was taller, with curly black hair–looked to be in his early 20’s. He wore a sleeveless denim vest with no shirt and tight jeans. On his feet were partially-laced combat boots pulled up over the cuffs of his jeans.

Buck recognized him. His last victim had pointed him out as Buck had driven the slut off to his killing pit. “Stay away from that dude,” he’d said, “He says he’s straight. Great at sucking dick, though. Put one of his tricks in the hospital after the dude wouldn’t pay—slammed his head in the car door till his skull fractured.”

Just what Buck was looking for. This one wouldn’t go quietly. This one would kick and fight for his life. When he finally submitted, it would be so fucking hot…

The bargaining process was brief. The whores had split up before Buck had started his truck, so the pick-up was unseen by anyone else. The kid agreed to go back to Buck’s place for a blowjob for thirty bucks. He explained frankly that he wanted to re-up; he only had one rock left and he was going to smoke it before blowing Buck.

Back at Buck’s place, the hustler pulled out a glass stem.

“Before that, smoke one of these with me,” said Buck and handed the kid a joint. Buck then lit one of his own, knowing the kid wouldn’t be in the mood for crack after the doctored joint.

After five minutes, the drugs had taken effect. The kid wasn’t unconscious, just very, very stoned.

“Come into the next room. That’s where I want you to blow me,” said Buck and opened the door.

In the center of the room was a double bed. At each corner of the bed was a metal post, from each of which dangled various forms of restraint. In the center of one end of the bed was a smaller device made of metal poles.

There were multiple webcams pointed at the bed, covering many different angles.

Buck took off his shirt and, leaving his construction boots on, stepped out of his shorts. Then the boy-whore groped unsteadily into the room. Buck grinned—the little shit must’ve read his mind. He’d stripped down to nothing but his combat boots.

“Lay down on the bed,” Buck commanded.

“No way, dude,” slurred the boy.

Buck sprang upon him unexpectedly. Suddenly the kid found himself on his back, his hands shackled to the metal posts by straps pulled up by nylon cords. Buck quickly strapped another set of restraints around the boy’s legs just above the knee and then a third set at the ankles. The whore was flat on his back, arms above his head, with his legs raised and spread.

Prime fucking position.

“What the fuck are you doin’ dude?” the slut demanded groggily. The sedative was wearing off. It had already done its job.

Buck had started locking cameras into place. He paused. “I’m going to rape and strangle you; that’s what I’m doing. And I’m recording it. A lot of men are gonna cum watching you die. Don’t worry, you’ll cum too.”

The kid’s face clouded with rage. “Lemme outta this, you crazy fucking faggot! I’m gonna fuck you up bad, you bugshit motherfucker!!”

Buck put the final restraint into place. This was the smaller device at the end of the bed. A pair of poles, just above the kid’s shoulders, with a looped cord between them. Buck maneuvered the rope over the boy’s head and around his neck. A set of pulleys on one end allowed the device to act as a garrote. Yanking on the control cord on one side would cause the loop to tighten. The cord on the other side would ease the tension.

Buck kept it loose for now. He wanted the kid to talk. He wanted to hear him lose his tough attitude and plead for his life. He wanted hear him cry and scream as he was raped. This room was soundproof. Let him shout.

Buck got himself into position, kneeling on the bed. He gently nudged the whore’s pink quivering asshole with the thick head of his dick.

“Get the fuck away, fag! Don’t touch me!” screamed the kid.

Buck spat on the punk’s asshole and thrust his rigid member in hard. The kid screamed, struggling violently, only able to move his hands and feet.

Buck slowly pulled out, then rammed his dick back in all the way. The kid’s cry became a drawn-out howl of pain. For all his noise, though, Buck was sure the whore had had other cocks up his ass before. It might hurt, but it was familiar. The boy wasn’t scared enough yet.

Well, that was easy enough to take care of. Buck leaned forward and grabbed the control cord, giving it a couple of yanks. The cord around the kid’s neck tightened—not enough to cut off his air completely, but enough to get the point across. The boy fought to speak, having to gasp for air at each word.

“Please…don’t…don’t…kill…me…please…”

That was better. The boy was staring at him, eyes wide with the realization that he might actually die today. He hadn’t truly known it before. Buck made sure it sank in.

“Oh yeah, you’re gonna die, bitch. Thousands of guys are gonna shoot their wads watching you die on my dick,” he whispered to the helpless punk. “You’re gonna ride my cock all the way down and you’re gonna blow your load as you slowly choke to death it the end. You won’t be able to stop yourself.”

The rentboy started blubbering. Tears streamed from his eyes as his combat boots jerked uselessly in Buck’s hands and his legs pulled at the restraints.

Buck kept reaming the boy, pulling all the way out before shoving his swollen cock back into the hustler’s traumatized hole with a brutal thrust. He gave the cord a couple more yanks. Now the kid could only give a throttled croak.

The kid was overwhelmed with the agony in his ass and in his throat. Panic swept over him as he strained to breathe and remain conscious. His drug-numbed brain was trying to grasp the fact that the john whose dick he was gonna suck, the faggot he was planning to beat down and rob, was choking the life out of him.

Buck felt his balls tighten at the base of his dick and knew that it was nearly time. Never missing a stroke in his vicious pumping, he learned forward and gave another couple of yanks, cutting off the kid’s air completely. He gripped the kid’s chin and turned his face to the camera.

“Come on, man, let ‘em watch. Let ‘em see your eyes glaze over as your life ends. They want to see you spunk and die,” he whispered.

The whore’s eyes bulged as the lack of oxygen increased the pressure in his head. His tongue protruded and a string of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. His struggles became more frantic, his hands grasping the empty air, his boots twitching wildly.

Suddenly Buck had an idea. He reached down by the side of the bed and pulled out a bottle of poppers. He opened the bottle and capped it with his thumb. The he used the release cord to ease the tension on the kid’s throat.

After allowing the rentboy a couple of shuddering, sobbing breaths, Buck lay on top of him, between his strapped-back legs and clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth and nose, blocking his air again.

The boy began jerking and turning blue. Buck held him down, feeling the kid writhe beneath him. After about 45 seconds, he released one nostril, holding the poppers up to it. The kid inhaled deeply and reflexively. In a flash, Buck tightened the cord down on his throat again. Recapping the bottle after taking a hit himself, Buck started pounding the kid’s ass like he was trying to fuck him in half.

The whore’s dick began to swell. Somewhere in the loud banging darkness that had become his world, the hustler knew that he was dying, that he was dying so that this stranger could use him as a cum dump and toss his stiffened body into a ditch to rot., that he was being brutally raped and was going to die on this guy’s dick…and he knew that he had the most painful, intense hard-on he’d ever had in his short, worthless life.

The kid’s body had settled into a rhythmic convulsive movement that matched Buck powerful pumping. Suddenly, the boy’s body went rigid. Buck gave a loud grunt as the little fuck’s asshole clamped down on his engorged cock. He tried to control himself as he watched the boy’s half-opened eyes start to drain of life. Then he felt a spurt of liquid on his chest and another on the underside of his chin. In the agony of his final seconds on earth, the rentboy was shooting massive loads. Long ropy strands of cum splashed over Buck’s chest.

Buck lost control. “Oh fuck,” he groaned as he unloaded in the dying boy’s ass, “fuckin’-A!”

The last things the kid felt as darkness closed over him were the incredible agony of his orgasm, as if his life was spurting out through his dick—and the searing, red-hot pain of cum splattering the inflamed nerves of his rectum.

Buck had lost all control with his orgasm. He’d screamed and shouted. At one point, he’d realized he was beating the dead whore’s face with his balled-up fist. He spunked several times, punching the corpse with each load and shouting, “Take my load, you fuckin’ whore! Die on my fuckin’ cock, bitch!”

When he finally shuddered to a stop, he felt limp and drained. He quickly released the body from its restraints and removed the cord from the neck. Then he lay on top of it for a while, enjoying the feeling—two cum-covered sculpted chests, one warm and heaving, one cooling and still, pressed together. He kissed the boy’s dead, staring face, licking off the cum. Keeping it in his mouth, he frenched the corpse, leaving the kid’s cum in his own mouth.

Rolling off the body with a happy sigh, Buck switched off the cameras. This had only been round one with the kid. He had to reposition things for round two…

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Buck lay on the bed with the corpse, kissing and fondling it. He reached down and grabbed the balls, squeezing and twisting the violently.

He started biting the dead boy, leaving deep marks in the neck. He worked his way down the chest to the nipples. Buck chewed on them for a little while, getting more and more excited. Soon his erect, throbbing cock was prodding the kid’s nutsack.

Time to turn the cameras back on.

Buck maneuvered the body into a kneeling position at the foot of the bed, crouched between his construction boots. He sat on the bed with a commando knife by his side and forced the boy’s mouth open. With each hand grasping a hank of the kid’s curly black hair, he pulled the open mouth down onto his dick. The swollen, protruding tongue rasped on the underside of his straining rod. It was a little too dry.

Again, easily fixed. Buck tipped the head back and spit several times into the corpse’s mouth, then lowered back onto his cock. Best lube around.

He slowly bobbed the head up and down, feeling the head of his dick pressed against the back of the boy’s throat. The dazed death stare in the eyes was making him intensely horny.

“Guess you’re givin’ me head anyway, bitch,” he whispered. “But you ain’t getting’ paid for it.”

He began to fuck the head harder, pressing the nose flat against the root of his cock and burying the face in his pubic hair. He slammed his long member down the congested windpipe. If the kid had still been alive, he would have been choking and gagging.

Buck couldn’t believe how hard he was right now. It’d been a while since he’d fucked one of his playmates twice during a kill.

He sped up his pace, fucking his spit down the kid’s throat. He could feel his precum oozing out and knew he was going to
unload into the dead boy-whore’s mouth soon. Suddenly, he lost control again.

“Fuck! Yeah! Fuck!” he cried.

A spasm shot through Buck as his cock erupted in a burning spray of cum. He grabbed the knife in one hand and stabbed it into the kid’s back. He came several times, each as intense as the first, stabbing the corpse with each wad. He was like an animal in his orgasm, just thrust and spunk and stab, thrust and spunk and stab. Each painfully powerful spray of cum caused him to yell.

“Yeah! Fuckin’ yeah, bitch! “

As he shot his last load of sperm into the kid’s mouth, he pulled the head up off his dick and slashed the throat twice.

Buck let go of the hair. The body hit the floor with a thud. Buck could see his own cum oozing from the gaping throat wound.

He went and cleaned himself up. When he returned, he pulled off the boy’s boots and socks; these were his trophies. The rest was just dead meat that would soon be disposed of, to be found turning stiff and green in a trash bin or alleyway.

When he’d gotten back from the trash run, Buck found a message waiting for him. It was a private commission that made his eyes light up. It was a twofer, and Buck had set up a potential supply for just this scenario—he’d wanted to do this for a long time.

But he’d need some help. And he knew just the right dude for the job…

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It took Buck a couple of days to get things set up for the special request he’d received. The commission had been for two victims and had specified that they be straight, if possible, and not street whores. Buck kept several supply lines open simultaneously and one had showed itself as a match for his current needs.

Joey was new to the city and worked as a mechanic. He was young, about nineteen, and bleached his mullet blond. He was thin but not scrawny, with something of a swimmer’s build. He’d approached Buck on the street one night to buy weed. Always looking for new meat, Buck had become the kid’s dealer. He was perfect for the job, just another drug-using bottom feeder that no one would miss.

Three weeks ago, Joey had brought his cousin Tim along on one of his pot runs. Tim lived out in the boonies, a good two hours out of town and was pure redneck. He didn’t help his limited brain power by getting almost catatonically stoned on every occasion. He was similar to his cousin in age and build, but was taller by about six inches.

Tim had wanted to set up a large buy, measuring in pounds. He had ambitions of being a major player in the drug scene in his rural county. Buck, planning ahead, agreed and told Joey he’d let him know when the deal was ready so he and Tim could pay and take delivery.

Buck, of course, didn’t have pounds of pot waiting, but he didn’t need to. By the end of the night, these two little fucks would have lost all interest in weed.

The scenario helped Buck in another way—it gave him an excuse to have someone else there as “security’. No one would be stupid enough to make a deal of this size and then show up alone. And Mark was back in town—he’d be willing to fill the position.

Buck had seen Mark’s work online and they’d met personally, but they’d never worked together. Mark was an ex-Marine who claimed he was straight and only made snuff clips for the money, but it was obvious he enjoyed it way too much for that to be true. He was big and well built, with a deep scar across his left thigh. His hair was black and buzz-cut, usually covered by his baseball cap worn backwards. There were tattoos on both shoulders and upper arms.

A couple of quick phone calls and everything was set. Tim would be in town by tonight; he and Joey would bring the money. Mark had agreed enthusiastically to be his backup (and co-star). They would split the cash the punks were bringing for the buy—no sense in letting it go to waste.

Mark arrived about an hour before the deal was to go down. He was filled in on the details by Buck and they set up an additional restraint with cameras. This had upright poles attached to a base and was designed to keep the victim upright in a kneeling position. Jaw spreaders kept the mouth open and prevented biting down. Mark would man this station with Joey strapped in for submission and death. Buck would take Tim out on the bed.

Buck and Mark had dressed alike, tight black t-shirts and jean cutoffs. The only difference was their boots; Buck wore his construction boots while Mark preferred his combat boots—he said they gave him extra traction to ram his dick in. His dick was more than eight inches long; he needed all the traction he could get.

Buck was relieved when there was a knock at the door. He’d been getting hard in anticipation and the head of his dick was starting to slide out from the cover of his shorts. A little more and he’d have spooked the prey.

Joey entered first; he was still wearing the dark-blue coverall he wore at his job. His work boots were pulled up over them and the name “Joey” was stitched to the left side of the chest. Tim followed, wearing a torn white t-shirt and tight jeans. There was a camo pattern printed on both his cap and hunting boots.

The outfit was more appropriate than the kid thought—he actually was being hunted.

Mark offered the boys a joint as a “sample”. Within a matter of minutes, both were so drugged they could barely speak.

“Dude, I am so fucked up,” muttered Tim.

“You wanna get even more fucked up?” asked Buck.

“Sure, dude,” the kid replied with a goofy grin. He was wasted.

“Don’t worry,’ Buck answered with a smile, “we’ll get you fucked up. We’ll get you both so fucked up you’ll be crying for Mommy. C’mon in here.”

The kids were so baked that Buck and Mark had to help them to their feet and guide them to their restraints. Joey was easy to strap in. Forced to his knees, his wrists were cuffed to keep his arms straight down his sides. He gave no resistance when the jaw spreaders were inserted.

Mark unzipped Joey’s jumpsuit. Reaching down into the groin, he pulled the kid’s package out, staring into his face. Joey’s half-open bloodshot eyes returned a dull questioning look; he had no idea what was happening to him.

Mark spat in his face. The punk would figure it out soon enough. Painful death has a sobering effect.

Tim was just as docile; he just required a little more work. The shirt and cap came off. Buck then placed him face-down on the bed and secured him at all four corners. Tim’s mouth was sealed with duct tape before Buck cut the seat out of his jeans and briefs.

Time to get it on.

Mark stuffed his dick down Joey’s throat. Joey gagged and choked as the thick tube of meat blocked his airway. Mark held it in for a while, then pulled out slightly—just enough to let Joey suck in a frenzied gasp of air—before plugging the kid’s hole again.

Buck spit into Tim’s asshole to loosen him up, then shoved in the swollen head of his cock. Tim was amazingly tight; no one else had been up there before and it had been a while since Buck had had a virgin hole to wreck. He made it hurt as much as possible for the boy, hearing Tim’s struggling boots beat against the bed and his muffled screams as he writhed in pain.

Buck pulled completely out on each stroke before ramming himself back in all the way, bruising and tearing Tim’s traumatized ass with each thrust.

Joey was coming to realize that the enormous rod in his mouth could choke him to death. He tried to time his breathing to the brief respites that Mark gave him, but Mark had other ideas. He held himself in longer this time, watching Joey’s face turn blue. He only pulled out when the kid’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp with unconsciousness.

Joey took a couple of reflexive breaths and slowly woke up. Unable to speak because of the jaw spreaders, he gave a feeble groan. He looked pleadingly up at Mark, his tears mixing with the snot running from his nose.

Mark punched him in the face as hard as he could, spit on him, and slammed his cock back down the boy’s throat. Blood from Joey’s broken nose trickled around the base of Mark’s dick. He’d facefucked the kid enough. This time the dick wasn’t coming out till it was over.

”Ok, ya little punk-ass bitch, time to die,” Mark muttered, “time to spend your last seconds alive choking on my cum.”

Buck was lying on top of Tim, his throbbing cock buried deep in Tim’s ass. Grabbing Tim’s hair, Buck forced him to watch Joey die.

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna get wasted too,” he whispered into Tim’s ear. “You’re gonna get filled with spunk as I ram my knife into your brain. It’s gonna hurt bad. But first, you’re gonna watch your cousin shoot his wad as he strangles on that dick.”

Buck shuddered slightly as panic made Tim struggle violently beneath him. He wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer.

Things were going dim for Joey. The world had shrunk to nothing more than pain, pain in his face and throat and chest and dick. He was vaguely aware that the massive rod that was blocking his air was matched by his own cock, rigid with asphyxiation. Then there was nothing left but the burning agony of his explosive orgasm.

Mark had felt the kid’s tongue swelling and pressing against the underside of his dick. He knew Joey was close to death and waited for the signal. It came soon enough—literally. Mark felt Joey’s hot wads splash against his scrotum and thighs. At the same time, the boy’s throat tightened convulsively and began milking out Mark’s sperm. He unloaded repeatedly into the kid’s throat, filling his obstructed esophagus with cum.

Buck had clamped Tim’s nose off to use the poppers again, freeing one nostril, then the other, allowing the redneck punk nothing to breathe but a steady flow of the fumes for a bit. When he was done, he pounded the kid’s ass roughly. Under the influence, Tim moaned softly behind the duct tape and actually thrust his bleeding, ravaged hole back onto Buck’s cock.

Buck knew he was going to shoot. He took the knife by his side and jammed into the back of Tim’s neck. The knife crunched through the bottom of the skull and up into the brain.

Tim’s body went instantly stiff, shooting out a solid stream of cum between his belly and the bed. At the same time, his rectum clamped onto Buck’s dick like a glove, forcing an identical stream of cum out of Buck.

Buck gave a loud groan and began skullfucking Tim with his knife, shredding the boy’s brain. Massive brain trauma caused Tim to twitch and convulse, each jerk squeezing more spunk out of Buck.

When he was finally finished—it seemed like several minutes later—Buck pulled his dripping member out of the corpse. He released the still-quivering body from its restraints and turned it over. Tim’s face was beautiful, with the glazed eyes staring at nothing in pain and terror. A trail of blood led down from the nose.

Mark was seated in a chair, wiping himself off, still fully erect. He was admiring his work as well. Joey’s corpse hung limply in its straps with the face congested and bloody, cum trickling from the pried-open mouth.

“Are we done with these fucks yet?” asked Mark.

“Not sure. Why don’t we put our head together and see if we can find something fun to do with the meat?” responded Buck

————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Buck and Mark shared a joint while planning their abuse of the boys’ bodies. Since Joey and Tim couldn’t be forced into position under their own power anymore, a decision needed to be made on the best way to fuck the corpses.

Buck was sitting on a sofa up against a wall of the room. Like Mark, he was still nude except for his socks and boots. From where he was sitting, he could see Tim’s face. It was a mask of shock and pain, and Buck felt himself getting hard while looking at it. The dull, dazed look in Tim’s eyes was too hot for him to resist.

“Dude,” he said, “I’ve gotta go stick my dick down this fucker’s throat.”

Mark, who was next to Buck on the sofa and just as erect, said, “Go for it, man. I’m gonna cut my own fuckhole in this piece of shit.”

Buck switched the cameras back on as he approached the bed. Tim was lying on his back, with his head hanging over the edge. The body was still twitching spasmodically. It was possible, thought Buck, that the kid wasn’t clinically dead yet, despite the brutal brain damage. But if he wasn’t, all that was left was a quivering pile of meat, jerked into brief seizures by the uncontrolled firings of random nerves.

Mark had repositioned his camera. He unstrapped Joey from his frame and dragged the body several feet across the floor by its hair. Joey’s work boots scraped against the floorboards. Mark dropped the corpse with a dull thud when he got to the proper filming distance—he already knew the right focus for this job—and knelt beside it.

He rammed the commando knife he’d picked up on the way over into Joey’s belly and twisted it several times. When he was done, he placed the knife by Buck’s side on the bed. Buck was already on (and in) Tim, in a 69 position. He was holding onto the body by its camo hunting boots and Mark could see the outline of Buck’s thick dick as it relentlessly pounded its way down the corpse’s throat.

Mark turned back to Joey, admiring the confused look in the half-lidded eyes, the glaze of his own dried spunk on the swollen lips and tongue. In an overwhelming burst of lust, he crouched over the kid and, using the hole he’d just cut, impaled Joey with his rigid dick.

Mark could feel the belly split more as he violently thrust in his fat cock—the hole had been too small. Joey’s still-warm guts squirmed around Mark’s thick purple head and tickled it. Mark braced himself by pressing down on the kid’s face with both hands. His thrusts became faster and rougher as the corpse’s intestines tangled around his dick.

Behind him, Buck was pumping Tim’s body furiously. Tim was brain dead, but the body was still trying to function at a primitive level. Trying to breathe with a thick tube of meat blocking the way, the esophagus had closed up and was working Buck’s shaft like a moist, pulsating glove. With one hand still holding the body down by a boot, Buck was twisting and pulling the kid’s junk with the other.

Suddenly Buck felt the familiar tightening in his balls. With a strangled grunt, he started unloading down the boy’s throat. Releasing Tim’s boot, he grabbed the knife beside him. He pulled Tim’s cock and nutsack out and sliced them off, completely castrating the kid.

Tim finally gave up the struggle for his life. With his last unconscious breaths, he inhaled Buck’s cum.

Buck’s orgasmic groans had spurred Mark on. He stabbed his cock repeatedly into Joey’s belly, feeling a warmth build in his groin. It became unbearable. He began shooting his seed into the boy’s guts, cursing and punching the corpse in the face with each new spray of cum. He’d beaten Joey to a pulp by the time he’d finished hosing the body’s innards with spunk.

Buck had stuffed Tim’s genitals into his mouth. The head of Tim’s dick protruded between his own lips, glistening with Buck’s cum.

After they had rested for a while, Buck was the first to speak.

“Time to dump this meat before it starts rotting.”

“I know a place,” replied Mark, “but how are we gonna get them there?”

“This fuck left a pickup outside,” said Buck, slapping Tim in the face; ”We’ll dump ‘em in the bed and cover ‘em with a tarp. You drive and I’ll follow on my bike. You can climb on behind when we dump the truck. But first, give me a hand here. I want their boots.”

Cut Throat Sex

The boy is starting to wake up. Damn, I thought I’d knocked him out harder than that. He’d smoked the doctored joint quickly enough, that’s for sure.

I think he’s about eighteen or so. I found him in the parking lot of a big box in the ‘burbs; he was looking to score some weed. I’d already rolled a “sample” joint with some trank tabs ground in. The kid was out cold after a couple of hits. I drove him back to my killing pit.

He was still out when I stripped him and tied him to the framework around the bed. He’d been wearing all white, for some reason. White baseball cap worn backwards, white t-shirt, white satin sports shorts and white canvas high-tops. I let him keep his shoes and his cap.

He has a tight, smooth body that I fondle as I strap him into the steel frame I’ve built around the bed. It’ll keep him still at the end; makes less of a mess. This abandoned house is perfect. It’s far enough from any neighbors that no one will hear any sounds that manage to escape. And when I’m done with my fucktoy, I can torch the place. It’ll be a while before anyone notices—much less before the fire department actually gets here. Any evidence will have gone up in flames.

But that’s for later. Time for fun first.

The fuckmeat is strapped face down, his hands and ankles are tied to posts at the corners of the bed. He’s immobile and completely helpless. And still out, at this point. I stuff my hard dick into his virgin ass. He doesn’t need to be awake for this part; I’m just priming my pump.

Oh god, that tight hole…no one’s been up there before. Smooth and sweet. While my cock is spearing the kid’s ass, I reach around and fasten a ball gag onto his mouth. It’s secluded here, but there’s no sense taking any chances.

And by the time I’m done with him, he’ll be screaming his little punk life out.

The drugs are wearing off faster than I thought they would. He’s starting to groan and struggle. I don’t think he’s awake enough to realize he’s being raped. He’ll figure it out soon enough. I’m tearing his tender asshole with every thrust and can feel his blood on my meat.

He’s awaking in agony. Really starting to moan and yell. I love it when he screams; it makes his rectum clench and vibrate.

His muffled voice begs and pleads for me to stop. Like that’s gonna happen. His boymeat just feels too good around my cock.

He struggles violently but all it’s doing is massaging my dick more. I lie down full length on top of him and whisper in his ear.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little fuckin’ bitch. The more you squirm, the more I tear you open. Just lay there and enjoy my tool deep inside you.”

He squirms and moans, but he’s listening.

“Yeah, this is what you want. Little fuckin’ punk wanted to get taken down by a hard man. You like my rod rippin’ you apart? Enjoy it now, faggot, ‘cause you’re gonna be screaming and bleeding out your last few seconds on earth. You’re gonna die on my dick.”

He doesn’t like hearing that. Even with his mouth gagged, his cries and screams are getting me hot. Little teen punk, dumb and full of cum, spending the last moments of his life trying to escape my cock. Each panicked spasm grips the swollen purple head of my cock tightly.

I’m getting close. Gonna blow my load soon. Time to amp up the terror. I can feel the muscles in the fuckbitch’s smooth calves tighten against my legs. The boy is tensing up; on some level, he may know what’s coming.

Time for show and tell. I show him my knife and tell him how I’m gonna kill him with it.

It’s a huge hunting knife with a viciously serrated blade. I hold it directly in front of the kid’s eyes so he can’t help but see it.

“See this?” I whisper. “In a few minutes I’m gonna cut your throat with it. You’re gonna feel each one of these jagged serrations rip into your throat. It’s not gonna be a neat little slit; I’m gonna tear your fuckin’ windpipe open. You’ll feel the gaping gash in your trachea but you won’t be able to cry out. You’ll just moan and start gurgling as you inhale your own blood. You’re gonna die, choking and gagging, your mouth full of blood and your ass full of cock. Your death throes will clamp your hole down hard on my dick. I’m killing you because your death will make me cum, fucker. You’re just here to die on my dick and get thrown out like rotting meat.”

Oh yes, there’s the panic I was looking for. The ball gag muffles the teen punk’s cries but I can make out the words. It’s the usual. Begging for his life, pleading for mercy. He doesn’t get it yet. I’m only interested in him as fuckmeat and that means he has to die. That’s all the bitch is good for.

I’m lying on top of him full length, not moving, not thrusting. I won’t need to; once I cut his throat, all I’ll need to do is hold on while his thrashing body works my cock for me.

As I lie there with the kid impaled on my rod, I reach around with one hand and pull the boy’s chin up. The knife is in my other hand; I press it into his tender flesh and start sawing his neck open.

The shriek that erupts from his blocked-off mouth ends in a high-pitched squeal as I puncture his trachea.

He backs his ass up on my cock. The sound of gushing blood can barely be heard over the kid’s labored breathing—each bubbling gasp accompanied by a moaning sound that escapes convulsively from the boy’s severed windpipe. I hold his violently jerking body down on the bed by placing a hand on each of his shoulders.

“That’s it,” I whisper into the dying teen’s ear, “just ride my cock as you bleed out. Feel it, punk; this is what a real man feels like inside you as you die. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted a hard man to take you and breed you and waste you. Don’t worry, you fucking cumdump pig, the last thing you’ll feel as life drains out of you is my load burning in your ass and then your job will be done, bitch.”

“MMMM-hmmm!” He gives a deep moan. There’s almost a sound of pleasure in it; he’s finally getting it. Getting me off is the last thing he’ll do in life and the best use of him. He wants it. He wants to feel my spunk in him before he fades out.

“Work it, you dying faggot bitch. Work my dick. Make me cum before you die, you useless punk.”

There’s a gurgle. “MMMMmmm!” His rectum clamps down and stokes my tool. He gurgles and moans a second time and a third; each time his tight virgin hole gasps my rod like a hand, jerking my meat in the agony of death.

The kid’s fourth moan is faint and despairing; it’ll be his last. His heart is spasming irregularly with the loss of blood; his consciousness is fading into a white haze. In a final, intense twitch his body grips my dick and I blow a hot geyser of cum deep into his quivering intestines. As his corpse goes limp in death, I fill his rectum with semen.

Still deep in his ass, I lie on top of him for a while, loving him now more than ever. I’d love to stick around and fuck his cold meat again but my phone tells me there’s already an alert out for him. Time to get a little fire going.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.

Casual Hit

Ricky eased his seat back and rubbed one hand on his crotch. He was very, very high and horny as fuck. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough time to jack off, though. Jeff had gotten out of the van a couple of minutes ago—to go take a piss, he’d said.

Probably just beatin’ off, thought Ricky. No telling how soon he’d be back. He and Ricky had banged the same chicks, so Ricky had heard some things. Like how Jeff would shoot his load at the slightest touch when he was super-randy. Either way, he’d be back before Ricky could rub one out.

That was ok, though. Jeff was the one with the weed. And Jeff had cut him in on this gig when he didn’t have to. He was getting a hundred bucks for just sitting here. Well, that and not asking questions. Something weird was going on with this job and high as he was, Ricky was a little nervous.

He’d originally just had his usual Saturday night plans—go get fucked up and try to get laid. That meant finding someone to get him drunk or high—he was nineteen and well-known as a worthless little punk in his little town. Jeff was his best friend and was twenty-one. If he didn’t have any pot, he could always buy the booze, so Ricky went looking for him.

Ricky had dressed to show off his body; anything to help his chances of getting some pussy. He was a country boy so his tight jeans were faded and the ropers they were tucked into were scuffed. His white t-shirt was clean, at least, and was tight enough to highlight his well-developed chest. Ricky earned what little money he made by doing odd jobs on local ranches and physical labor had given him a lean, hard body.

Ricky didn’t own a car. The autumn chill filtered through his denim jacket as he walked into town. The wind had picked up and the baseball cap covering his short brown hair didn’t protect his ears. He felt lucky when Jeff pulled up next to him. Jeff said he needed some help and it would be easy money, so Ricky climbed into the van.

Jeff had been hunting. His tight jeans were also tucked into boots, but they were camouflage patterned combat boots. There was camo pattern on his t-shirt, too, as well as on the cap covering his red-gold hair. He wore a simple brown leather jacket and there was no trace of bright orange anywhere—which meant he’d been on someone else’s land, illegally.

Jeff had said he’d been approached by a couple of guys—strangers–when he’d got back to town. They’d offered him two hundred dollars to transport them and their motorcycles that night. He wanted Ricky’s help loading and unloading the bikes and would pay him half and get him high. Ricky jumped at the offer.

The first part of the gig had gone smoothly enough. They’d each smoked a joint on the way to the pickup spot, which was on an isolated back road in the state park to the north of town. This was where Ricky got a look at the two men.

Both of them had hard, grim faces. They were well built and quiet, almost emotionless. Each was in black, from their tight knit caps to their combat boots. Ricky caught sight of a knife in a boot sheath as he was helping to place a bike in the back of the van and wondered what he’d gotten into.

As they settled into the back beside their bikes, one of the men spoke, issuing orders in a gruff voice. They were to proceed to a specific point to the west and unload the bikes. The men would leave on the bikes while Jeff and Ricky waited. When they returned, the bikes would be placed back in the van and they would be driven back to this spot.

Ricky was worried. These guys looked like commandos. What the fuck was going on? Not that he’d ask—there was something in the cold faces of these men that said questions were a bad idea.

So they’d driven to the point they had been told and stopped at what seemed like random on a dirt road. The men had ridden away and Jeff had rolled more joints. Ricky had gotten high enough to forget his concerns and get horny.

He quickly jerked his hand away from the ridge in his jeans where his hard cock was throbbing—Jeff opened the driver’s door. “C’mon,” he said, “they’re back. I can hear the bikes.”

The two men seemed a bit less tense when they returned. Clearly whatever they had planned had gone well. They remarked that they still had a little “cleaning up” to do and they wanted to get it done with. The drive back to the park was made in silence.

Ricky was relieved when they pulled to a stop and Jeff turned the van off. The thought of money prompted him to speak. “You dudes need anything else or are you gonna pay us now?”

“No,” replied one of the men over Ricky’s shoulder. He was crouched right behind the passenger seat. The other was similarly poised behind Jeff. “Your job is done. We don’t need you anymore.”

And before Ricky was aware it happened, a nylon cord was whipped around his neck and pulled taut.

In his heavily drugged state, it took Ricky a couple of seconds to react. He knew that Jeff was thrashing in the driver’s seat, his hands flailing at the steering wheel and his boots jerking and catching the pedals. Ricky’s hands moved instinctively, trying to release the crushing pain in his throat.

He turned helplessly to Jeff and saw that he was being strangled. The cord was buried deep in his throat above the adam’s apple. It was tight enough to pucker the skin around it. Jeff’s face was a mask of pain and shock. He batted uselessly at his assailant. His bulging eyes stared at Ricky and foam drooled down his chin.

Ricky panicked. He was being killed, they were both being killed. They had been going to get fucked up tonight and get their dicks wet. He couldn’t be dying. This couldn’t be happening. Ricky screamed in terror but the only sound he could make was a frenzied grunt.

“Shut up,” muttered his killer into his ear, “this ain’t personal. Just tying up the loose ends. Shhhh. It’s almost over.”

It was almost over with Jeff. Despite his overwhelming panic and the progressive damage to his oxygen-deprived brain, Ricky was aware that he was watching Jeff die.

Jeff was convulsing violently in the driver’s seat. His bloodshot eyes gazed into nothing. His dying spasms thrust his pelvis up, his erect cock clearly straining inside his jeans. Spittle trailed from his blackened, swollen tongue.

The sound of death filled the van—the drumming of the victims’ boots against the floorboards, the labored breathing of the hitmen, the faint gagging sounds emerging from clamped-off throats.

Jeff’s body suddenly went rigid, bending backwards and thrusting his hips up. A dark stain formed in his crotch and the writhing of his cock could be seen through his skin-tight jeans. He remained in that position for what seemed like a long time, groin in the air and streams of spunk soaking his jeans, spreading through his pubic hair and onto his thighs.

Jeff went limp. The large dark spot on his jeans grew larger as his bladder emptied. The corpse shuddered in the pool of piss that collected in the seat.

Jeff’s death was the last thing Ricky saw. His vision became obscured by silent fireworks. The insane racing of his heart filled his ears. His tongue was agonizingly huge—it had forced his mouth open and he could feel it protrude. He could still feel lots of things.

He could feel that he was drooling uncontrollably. He could feel snot and tears running down his face. He could feel pain—crushing pain in his throat, burning pain in his chest and a fiery pressure in his engorged cock.

As more of Ricky’s brain shut down, more of his world disappeared. He could see nothing and the pounding in his ears was now a faint and irregular throb.

That’s my heart, he thought in a dim confused way; it’s stopping. Why am I dying? Why is this man killing me?

The pain swallowed him. Darkness and agony rushed over him in a tide. The pain in his throat, the pain in his chest—the pain in his dick.

Then that’s all there was. The final sensation in Ricky’s worthless life was the burning of molten metal as thick gobs of cum erupted from his dick. As his brain shut down and his heart failed, his seed spewed desperately out of his swollen shaft.

The hitman kept the cord cinched tightly around Ricky’s neck for another two minutes. By the time he released the corpse, the death throes had stopped. Ricky was nothing but dead meat soaking in its own piss.

Once the hitmen had removed their cords, they discussed what to do with the bodies. The longer it took to find them, the better. They’d reconnoitered the area thoroughly and knew there was a deep ravine in the woods, several hundred yards to the northwest.

Hoisting the cum-and-piss soaked bodies over their shoulders and carrying them uphill to the ravine was tough. The corpses were dumped in unceremoniously. Jeff stared up with dull glazed eyes from the bottom of the ravine. Ricky lay across him; face down, one arm twisted back behind him.

They were left to bloat and rot. There was a chance they’d be cover with snow soon and wouldn’t be found till spring. There wouldn’t be much left of them by then.

The hitmen drove the van to a spot on the other side of the park and left on the side of the road, keys in the ignition. They had finished “cleaning up.” Time to go…

Jack, Offed

Jack walked warily down the rain-slicked sidewalk. He was drunk, and angry—and horny—but not enough of any of them to risk getting the new gray Etnies skate shoes laced tightly around his feet getting wet. He was higher than fuck, too, having burned an entire joint himself in the men’s room back at Club 69.

He was high enough to be seeing tracers, making his ability to avoid the large puddles on the pavement seem miraculous. But then, Jack had always had the ability to perform well while impaired; he spent most of his life drunk or stoned or cranked out of his head, but he still managed to hold onto a job and an apartment.

Not much of either one, which was fine with Jack. His goals in life were to stay as fucked-up as possible and to get fucked as much as possible. It actually took a great deal of skill to manage. Jack wasn’t intelligent, but he had street cunning and a lot of drive. He’d kept his body slim and taut, looking far younger than his true age of twenty-three; he looked like he was mid- to late teens.

His short black hair was draped across his forehead, arranged with careful negligence, giving him a scruffy look. He was short, about five-seven at the most. His emerald eyes glittered out from behind long dark lashes, his full lips parting almost to a pout in resting position.

He’d have had the face of a model if he hadn’t abused his body so much; he’d been active with both drugs and sex at a very early age and nearly a decade of hard living had taken a toll—still subtle, but present, and becoming much more obvious year by year. Even now, his skin wasn’t clear and there was a dark shadow under his bloodshot eyes. His nose was large and getting larger (and redder) as his drinking increased over the years.

Jack was still hot, but he was wearing out. And he knew it. It was why he was so angry tonight. He was horny as fuck, and he couldn’t get fucked. All the studs on the dance floor—the big strong types Jack liked—had blown him off and gone for the other twinks.

Jack had been devastated. He worked hard to maintain his firm, smooth body. He knew he looked good, dressed as he was. Under a plain gray t-shirt, he wore a long-sleeved skin-tight black thermal shirt that he’d tucked into black skinny jeans. The jeans ended just above the ankle to show an inch of his white socks above his skate shoes.

At one point, he’d discarded the t-shirt to show how tightly the thermal shirt clung to his lithe but developed chest. But even with clothing so tight that very little imagination was required to picture Jack nude, there was still a hard edge to his face and manner that put dudes off.

And so Jack stormed angrily out into the rain, grabbing his leather jacket—a simple windbreaker—on his way out the door, but leaving the t-shirt on the dance floor.

He had no idea it’d be retrieved later as evidence.

Although Jack wouldn’t admit it to himself, the fact that none of the twinks had come on to him made it worse. He wouldn’t have touched them; he had standards, after all. He liked his tops bigger, stronger, slightly older than he was. When he’d been younger, he’d been offered money by twink types that wanted to bang him. But he wasn’t a whore; money gave the other guy too much control. And Jack liked to get fucked, but there was a limit.

But by the same token, he was a slut, willing to get fucked bareback by any stranger who actually did turn him on. Problem was, he was a picky bitch and only wanted to get fucked by muscle studs.

Alpha muscle studs were hard to find, though. And while he had the perfect teen body, his abuse of it over the years was finally catching up to him. The few tops he’d wanted were all snagged by younger kids.

So here he was, walking home in the rain like a Hemingway hero. Not that he’d heard of Hemingway, or could be considered a hero; he was just a drunk, stoned twink who was pissed off because he wasn’t quite enough of a twink.

He didn’t have his shit together enough to afford a car, but he managed to hold on to a shitty hourly job and filthy cheap-ass efficiency apartment. So he was gonna go back, drink some more, toke some more, and pass out with the TV on and his dick hard.

He turned the corner and walked past the parking lot behind the clubs. Club 69 was where he’d ended up; he’d run the entire circuit on the strip. So there was no use in trolling the parking lot; no one coming out was interested. He’d already tried. Fuck. If he’d had a car, he might have tried The Underpass, but it was too far to walk. And he was way too drunk to drive, anyways…

Jack was three blocks down, deep in the gay ghetto, before he remembered he needed to go two blocks south; he had just kept staggering drunkenly (but amazingly around anything that might soil his shoes; high as he was, he’d paid too much to want to ruin them this soon) after he turned the corner, ruminating angrily over his slights. At the next intersection, he turned left onto the dark, unlit side street.

Halfway down the block was the entrance to an alley that gave access to parking in the rear of all the properties that faced the main street. The side street was dark but there were security lights down the alley from the parking lot of a house that was divided into apartments.

Jack paused a few steps down the street. There was a shadow stretching out from the alley, the elongated, backlit image of a man standing with his legs spread. Some guy was just standing there, in the alley, out of sight behind the wall that ran along the pavement. Jack felt a chill for a moment but kept going. He could handle himself. He might have the body of a sixteen-year-old, but he was lithe and deceptively strong.

Jack moved quickly, increasing his step as he approached the alleyway, determined not to look or draw attention to himself. He flipped the collar of his leather jacket up, ducked his head and strode quickly along the sidewalk.

The voice, when it came, had something in it—a quality, a timbre—that made him listen and obey. “Hey,” was all it said, a deep, basso voice that seemed to reverberate along his spine and command him to stop. So he stopped. And looked.

All he could see was a silhouette. One of the security lights was angled down the alley to the street; the glaring halogen blinded Jack, but he could see a large, tall man standing there. As Jack paused, shading his eyes with his hand, the man slowly began to move towards him. Perversely, as the man blocked out more of the light with his body, Jack could see his body more clearly than he had with the light in his eyes.

This dude was huge, well over six feet. His biceps and thighs were larger than Jack’s torso. His hair was black as well; it had an almost blue glint and curled tightly, a feature it carried down the side of his face to merge with a thick goatee covering a strong, firm jaw. Even with his face in shadow, the dude’s eyes sparkled in pools of darkness.

He wore what looked like a plain white cotton t-shirt under a thick leather biker’s jacket with zippers at the cuffs. His tight denim jeans sank into a pair of black leather harness boots with buckled straps.

Jack’s fear was gone, instantly replaced with lust; this was exactly the kinda stud he’d been looking for. He grinned up at the man, a giant towering over him, praying that he could lure this incredible stud back to his place. “Hey,” he replied, “what ya lookin’ for?”

The stud stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned to face Jack, leering down at him. Jack could see the left half of his face illuminated by the alley light. The dude’s eyes were an extraordinary pale blue. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw covered with the same curly black fur that circled his mouth. His lips were full and red, but compressed into a hard, tight line.

“I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck,” the dude drawled lazily. “I’m lookin’ for someone who can take my cock.”

“I can take it,” gasped Jack, trying to contain his excitement.

“Yeah?” asked the leather-bound stud. “Gotta warn ya, punk, I fuck hard. Ain’t found anyone yet who could stay the whole course. If ya get what I mean.”

Jack smiled, an almost contemptuous look on his face. “I know what ya mean. I can take you, dude. I can take anything you give me.”

The man stepped forward into the light; Jack got a much better look at him. He was somewhat older, but his age was hard to discern; he was well-built and his body was incredibly developed; the arms of his leather jacket and the legs of his jeans bulged with muscles. He could have been anywhere from his early thirties to his early fifties; the only evidence that he was at the younger end of the spectrum was his jet-black hair with no trace of gray.

He looked down at Jack, smiling faintly. “Can you, dude? Can you take whatever I give ya? Let’s find out. You got someplace private I can stick it in ya?”

Jack gasped as lust flooded his body, triggering the flow of hormones. “Yeah, man, just follow me back to my place.” He wheeled about and began staggering down the street. He was more fucked up than he thought—but he attributed his difficulty walking to the fact that his cock was harder than a brick.

Across one more street, then up the alley to the right—this one far less well-lit than the other—to the rear parking lot of Jack’s little bills-paid complex. He led the stud around to the rear-most unit on the left on the ground floor.

It was a squalid affair; Jack’s job didn’t pay much. He had a memory foam mattress—but no bed to put it on; it sat on the floor. He had a decent chair and an expensive TV and game system. On the other side of the large room, next to the open closet displaying Jack’s expensive clothing, was a cheap desk supporting an equally inexpensive computer and printer. Jack’s priorities were fairly clear; especially when one took into account the amount of booze in the kitchen, pot in the bathroom, and coke in the closet.

But this guy didn’t need to know any of that, Jack decided; he just needed to stick his hopefully enormous schlong up Jack’s ass.

The older man glanced coldly at the squalor around him—despite Jack’s care with his new clothing, anything that remained in his possession more than two months was considered too used to be worth caring for. As a result, costly designer shirts and name-brand jeans were massed in piles on the floor. Soiled sheets of high-grade Egyptian cotton twisted across the bed and dragged onto the filthy floor.

His eyes, ice-blue and utterly emotionless locked onto Jack’s own. Jack felt a tremor run through his body, but was unable to define the emotion associated with it. Lust and unease and the sense of something hidden and unknown stirring deep inside him.

The older man shrugged off his heavy leather biker jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a thump. Under it, he was wearing a thin white cotton wifebeater which he proceeded to pull off as well.

He stood before Jack, almost literally taking the boy’s breath away. His thick, taut torso descended in a V-shape into the top of his tight jeans, his waist circled by a belt woven of black leather strips. It had no holes; the shaft of the buckle could be jammed into the weave at any point.

But Jack’s eyes didn’t linger on the belt. They were drawn back up to the six-pack abs and rippled chest, covered with thick, wiry black fur. It spread over the dude’s chest but concentrated in a distinct line as it got lower, a line running straight down to his crotch.

The stud sneered at Jack as he spoke. “On your knees, bitch. Suck on it. I wanna see how far I can stick my cock down your throat.”

Jack’s green eyes glittered defiantly as he replied. “You can stick it in my ass if ya want, but I don’t take any guy’s dirty piss-stained dick in my mouth.”

The alpha dude’s expression changed from contempt to terrifying rage instantly. He stepped forward and snatched a fistful of Jack’s shirt, jerking him forward and twisting the fabric. As he did so, Jack’s collar tightened into a near chokehold.

“Listen, cunt, you’re gonna get on your knees and suck on whatever I put in your mouth. There is no ‘or else’; you’re gonna do it. Your only choice is gonna be how much it hurts.”

Jack made his fatal mistake. He hesitated. That was all it took to establish the balance of power, once and for all. And although he wasn’t aware of it at the moment, ‘for all’ wasn’t going to be much longer for Jack—say forty minutes at the outside.

Depended on how strong he was, really, although that could work against him, too. Somewhere near the end of those forty minutes, it was likely that Jack would be hoping that the end of ‘for all’ was imminent.

But as Jack sank to his knees and the black-haired stud unzipped his fly, letting his thick, veined hog flop out like a butcher laying out a slab of prime beef, the end of it all was still several minutes in the future. Jack paused, looking at the enormous organ with trepidation. His useless bravado aside, Jack was no stranger to BJs; he’d swallowed enough sperm to float—well, if not a battleship, at least a dinghy. But this was something else, a tool big enough to completely plug his esophagus.

Even with the amount of use—he called it ‘experience’—Jack had undergone, he knew that this fuck was gonna hurt worse than anything he’d experienced before. Even so, he had no concept of the pain in store for him as the dude’s rough, strong hands grabbed Jack’s face and roughly forced his mouth open.

There was no tentative exploration. Before Jack had the time to react, his mouth and throat were full of cock. He could feel the thick oozing head plugging his windpipe, its ridged length lying on top of his epiglottis, preventing him from breathing.

He grunted in panic, his hands pummeling the dude’s legs. It felt like (and seemed to have the same effect as) beating on tree trunks. As tears welled from Jack’s bulging eyes and saliva bubbled out in a foam past the massive tube of meat jammed into his mouth, he could feel the hard manstud’s pubic hairs scratching his face. He turned his eyes upward, trying desperately to catch those of the stranger choking him, but his vision faded into the dark forest of fur hanging above him.

Gasping and choking, Jack placed his hands against the stud’s rock-hard thighs and pushed with as much force as he could muster. The top clamped his hands down onto the side of Jack’s head. With excruciating, inexorable force, he exerted a vise grip on Jack’s skull, causing him great pain as he forced his dick even further down the slut’s gurgling throat.

Jack’s resistance was useless. The tender flesh on the inside of his lip was torn against his teeth as his face was forced relentlessly into the top’s groin. He squealed and gurgled; his tongue wriggling reflexively along the underside of the alpha stud’s shaft, making the man grunt and apply yet more agonizing pressure.

Jack could feel himself going under; as he coughed and spewed foam, darkness was closing in around him. He was going numb. His body was fading…foam dribbling down his chin past the manmeat in his mouth…why was his dick hard…

Suddenly, it was gone. He could breathe. Jack took a deep, whooping gasp of air and fell back onto the half-stripped foam mattress. He laid back, eyelids fluttering, as he spent the next two minutes coughing foam up onto his cheeks, the darkness in his face slowly fading.

The alpha top glared silently down at him, waiting for him to recover enough to obey. He decided a couple of minutes were enough. “Okay, bitch, strip. Still think you can take me? Let’s see what my shaft feels like up your ass, cunt. Get outta yer clothes, slut. Now.”

Jack pulled his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing his firm, slim, smooth torso, shiny with sweat. The deep register of the older man’s voice had vibrated through his tender ass to the root of his cock, already erect. Even though he hadn’t recovered enough of his wind to be able to think clearly, he knew that he had to do as he was told.

He sat abruptly on the edge of his mattress as he pulled off the new sneakers. Standing up immediately, he wriggled out of his jeans. He stood before the dominant stud, nude except for the white athletic socks climbing his calves. His cock, unaccountably, was jutting out in front of him, despite what he had just been through.

Jack faced the unknown man, letting his eyes slowly slide up the dude’s hard body, starting with his black harness boots. They moved up the thick calves and thighs, tightly wrapped in worn, frayed denim. His long, thick, cock, still only semi-hard, dangled out in front like tackle, its swollen purple head shiny with saliva and precum. His scrotum was still in his jeans; they still clung firmly to his tight ass even with the fly and waist open, peeled back to show a black, hairy V from which his throbbing, veined shaft protruded.

Jack’s attention was momentarily diverted by something shiny—it was just the dangling buckle of the woven leather belt catching the light—before it was drawn upwards along the stranger’s body, almost hypnotically. The stud’s furry, rippled abdomen, his heaving, sweaty flanks, the muscles in his chest bulging as he breathed—Jack took them all in greedily, knowing that no matter how much this might hurt, he was gonna be able to beat off to the memories for the rest of his life. This motherfucker was the perfect stud; exactly what Jack had wanted. Even the skull tattoo on the right shoulder.

Then up to his face. Dark curly hair covered a strong jaw and circled a full mouth set in an emotionless straight line. The beard merged with the thick hair that was just as black and curly. But the eyes; those icy blue eye…Jack stared directly into them—

WHAM

It wasn’t a punch; it was a backhand blow hard enough to raise a bruised welt on his cheek. Jack was both physically and emotionally unprepared for the assault, though, and crumpled to the mattress as if he’d decked in the jaw. As he cowered, clutching his face, the older man spoke.

“You don’t get to look at me, cunt. Only time my bitches get to look me in the face is when they make me cum. Got that, you fucking worthless faggot? You wanna look me in the face, you gotta earn it by milking the sperm outta my dick. Now roll over and get on your hands and knees, slut, I’m gonna fuck ya like the homo dog you are. Gonna take ya from behind, boy. You won’t get to see me, but ya damn sure get to feel me.”

As Jack positioned himself on the mattress on his hands and knees, he felt almost nothing at all. It was due more to denial than anything else—yes, he was a bottom, but he’d been a desirable one, able to command respect. He’d never anticipated so completely losing control of a situation. He was shocked; he felt nothing.

The top lived up to his word. Jack felt something soon enough. His response started as a moan but quickly escalated to a shriek as the dude’s massive tool stretched his sphincter past its breaking point. Instantly a hand clamped tightly and painfully over his mouth and a voice snarled, “Goddam, cunt, ya squeal like a fuckin’ pig,” so close he could feel the breath hot on his ear.

It took forever. The stud was enjoying Jack’s pain, holding him close with the brutality of iron clamps as he slowly slid his cock into Jack’s torn, quivering fuckhole. Jack’s arms beat frantically against the mattress, his fingers tightly flexed, his toes curling visibly in his white socks, his jerking feet confined between the alpha’s boots. Holy fuck, it felt like he was getting raped with a baseball bat…

Then, there was blessed relief. It stopped. The dude wasn’t shoving it in anymore; he was kneeling behind Jack with one hand spread on his back, holding him down, the other hand over his mouth, pulling his head back.

Suddenly both hands were gone.

Jack gasped and whimpered, his entire body trembling. He was still upright on his hands and knees. He felt full of cock. The pain, the trauma to his lower colon, had taken his breath away, but at least it had stopped. Christ, any farther and he’d be getting fucked in his guts—there’d be internal damage…

He’d known it’d hurt. He’d been willing to accept that as the price for the perfect fuck. He hadn’t known it would be this bad—but it was still worth it. If he could just take a moment to let his ass muscle collapse and accept the stud’s shaft…

As usual, Jack’s grasp of reality was weak. This time, though, the contradiction was about to be driven home, brutally. It started with a faint rasping sound.

It didn’t last long, and Jack couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then he realized the alpha stud was slowly slipping his belt out the loops on his jeans. Jack almost went faint with relief; the dude would have to pull out of him to undress further—maybe Jack could talk him into some lube—

It was a brief relief. As Jack trembled on his hands and knees, with an excruciatingly huge cock shoved up his ass and sweat running down his face, something flashed in front of his eyes—something that looked like woven leather straps.

Then the top’s belt cinched brutally around Jack’s throat, instantly cutting off his air.

Jack’s hands frantically scrabbled at the leather mesh digging into his neck, leaving his upper body unsupported. The older man threw himself down on Jack’s back, letting the young slut feel the dude’s muscles rasping his belly fur against Jack’s smooth, slick back. They boy fell forward, the thick choking grunts emerging from his closed-off windpipe directly into the mattress as his face was buried in it.

There was a terrible, tearing pain on the right side of Jack’s neck. His hands found the spot, clawing desperately at the piece of metal cutting into his skin. It was the belt buckle—the alpha wasn’t using the belt like a cord; he’d made a basic noose by looping it back through the buckle.

The stud took control immediately, locking Jack into place by grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of his head; with the head immobilized, he only needed to pull on the belt with one hand to tighten the leather mesh through the buckle.

Jack’s mind was aflame with sheer panic. He’d never known—never had any reason to consider—that sudden cessation of breath could be so terrifying. The only thing that kept his weak psyche from disintegrating in a white-hot sheet of terror was the pain; as scared as he was, he couldn’t escape the agony of his physical suffering.

It wasn’t just the strangling; the top had started shoving his dick in again. Jack braced himself up on one arm, bending the other behind him at an almost impossible angle in his desperate attempt to reach his torment.

“Stop it, you worthless fuck, you ain’t gettin’ away,” the dude growled, then spit on the back of Jack’s shuddering head. “Only way you’re getting’ off my dick is with my load inside you. Sooner ya make me shoot, the sooner I let ya go. Whaddaya think, cocksucker, think you’ll last long enough for me to cum? I bet not. You’re a useless fuckin’ faggot, not even good at gettin’ fucked. Look at ya, bitch, look at this place. Ain’t no one gonna miss ya.”

Jack couldn’t see that his face was turning purple, but he could feel it swelling painfully. His throat was blazing agony, the woven straps sinking ever more deeply below the surface of his skin, making impossible for his fingers to find a purchase. It pulled violently at the buckle, jerking his skin up and tearing it, a trickle of blood dripping onto the mattress and soiled sheets.

There was a huge, swelling pressure in his chest. His air had been shut off for almost two minutes, most of which time Jack had been struggling and burning the limited oxygen in his bloodstream. But his years of drug use had conditioned his body to functioning under extreme conditions—which meant, unfortunately for Jack, that he was a long way from going numb or losing consciousness.

Already, despite his instinctive fight against the overpowering force crushing the life out of him, part of Jack’s spinning, frantic brain craved oblivion—even death, if it meant an end to the pain.

His ass—oh fuck, it was being torn wide open. He could feel the burning shaft of ridged flesh penetrating deep into his guts, tearing him on the inside. He’d never felt so full, so completely violated before. But as painful as it was, it had to come second in his attention. Breathing came first. Jack jerked and writhed, anything, anything to release that horrible crushing pressure in his chest, oh shit his lungs were gonna pop move move get away…

Then came the voice. Even in full survival mode, there was something in the deep bass timbre of the stud’s voice that reverberated along the root of Jack’s unaccountably hard dick.

“Now you got it, fucker. Goddam, your quivering and trembling feels so good on my tool. Gotta get ya to do it some more. Let’s see—ya like that, pig? Fuck yeah, that made ya kick! Goddam, I gotta do more of that; you milk my cock good, you fucking squealing cockwhore!”

The top had shifted himself slightly and ground his engorged rod into Jack’s bleeding fuckhole at a different angle, tearing the rectal lining in a new spot.

Jack had bent his back upwards, his hands clawing the air in front of him in mindless agony. The tip of his black, swollen tongue was already forcing its excruciating way out his mouth as thick foamy drool spilled down his smooth, weak chin. His bulging eyes leaked tears as petechial hemorrhages formed in the lids and blood vessels ruptured, red blossoms appearing in his green eyes. In some deep recess in his fear-wracked mind, some part of Jack was screaming at the thought that the nightmarish pain and terror he was experiencing was sexually arousing to his assailant.

That was the true, mind-shattering revelation for Jack. He’d just planned tonight to be like any other. Get a little stoned, get a little drunk, let some stud fuck him. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Tonight there’d be no repeat. This guy wasn’t just gonna kill him; this guy was gonna get off on killing him as slowly and painfully as possible.

The realization was accompanied by an icy coldness flooding Jack’s body. Through it all, he could still feel his own dick, traitorously hard, slapping against his thighs as his body bucked and jerked. He wasn’t paying attention anymore, though, huge black roses were blooming in his face; they made a buzzing sound that got louder. He could still the alpha stranger speak, but the words had no real significance to him…

“Almost there, you faggot piece of shit. Almost ready to shoot. Goddam, I had to work you over good—you really are a stupid cunt, ain’t ya? Don’t even know how to make a guy cum without choking the fuck outta ya. But ya like it, don’t ya, whore? Ya like that mancock rippin’ into your soft homo guts, huh? Are ya ready for my load, faggot? Think ya can take it? Ready to look me in the face as you get my spunk, you worthless queer? Get ready, motherfucker, here it comes—UUURRRGHHH!!!!”

With a loud cry, the dude hunched down over Jack, his cock swelling and pumping a solid stream of boiling semen into Jack’s torn colon. As he did, he locked the buckle into place around Jack’s neck so the belt wouldn’t loosen.

Then, still clutching a hank of hair at the back of the head, the alpha reached around, grabbed Jack’s jaw in the other hand, and twisted his head through 180 degrees.

Even in the extreme last moments of consciousness, Jack was aware of what had happened. His protruding eyes gazed in utter, absolute horror at those of his killer, ice-cold and remorseless. The sound was that of a tree limb snapping, but Jack felt it as well as heard it. It was the last thing he heard or felt.

The sensation was that of a massive electrical shock running through his body. He had no awareness that his erect cock had blown a huge load of creamy sperm onto the bed as his neck shattered. He didn’t feel it; what he did feel was the shattering of half a dozen vertebrae that sent bone fragments slicing into his spinal cord.

His entire body went intensely rigid, every muscle clenching tightly. Even torn and mangled, his sphincter was able to tighten around the base of the killer’s dick, making the stud cry out and collapse on top of Jack’s quivering body, punching the shuddering mass of flesh repeatedly.

As the universe faded into a cold sheet of dark eternal ice, Jack’s consciousness faded to a pinpoint focused on the rage and lust of the man who was beating him while filling his abdomen with semen and spitting into his gasping, dying face. It was the last thing he saw.

The dude didn’t stay around long. He stepped into the bathroom to wash up. When he came out, slipping his wifebeater back over his slick, heaving torso–still breathing deeply with exertion–Jack’s body was still convulsing on the mattress, face up but chest down. His white tube socks were still covering his twitching calves and white foam still trickled down his blackened face from his blue lips, parted by his grotesquely swollen tongue. Even from here, the dude could see his own cum oozing out of the corpse’s ravaged ass.

The killer stuffed his thick cock back inside his tight faded jeans and zipped the fly. Approaching the bed, he bent down and grabbed a handful of Jack’s sweat-soaked hair, lifting his head. It lolled forward easily with no functioning spine to stiffen it. Keeping a firm grip on Jack’s hair, the dude worked the fingers of his free hand up under the belt; his nails tearing open the purple flesh of the slut’s crushed neck. The buckle had become embedded deeply—it took a few minutes before it was pulled off and slipped back around the top’s waist.

Jack’s eyes, now faded to a cloudy green ringed with red, stared into his killer’s face. Blank and dull, they gave no hint of the terror he’d experienced at being forced to give up his useless, wasted life.

Slipping his leather jacket back on, the stud smiled to himself. He always enjoyed putting down a pig; it was a good workout. Kept him in shape. And it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless little homo slut anyway…

Another Skater Bites the Dust

“Hey, dude, ya got any smoke?”

I sit forward on the bench and take a closer look at the kid. He and his friends had been riding their boards around all afternoon—or at least as long as I’ve been sitting on this bench. This boy has taken a couple of good long looks in my direction but he hasn’t indicated any interest, till now.

Maybe that’s because his friends had left. There’s no one to see what he does now. Which is good for me.

It’s very bad for him, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He’s no older than eighteen, if that. Shoulder-length brown hair, with large dark eyes. He’s about 6 feet tall, but not big—he has more of a swimmer’s build, lean but muscled; not scrawny. He’s wearing tight grey jeans that just cover his ass and a black t-shirt with some band logo on it. On his feet are what look like purple suede hightops, tightly laced…

He’s beautiful. And he’s hoping to get high with me.

Sure, I’ll get him high. And then I’ll put him down like a dog.

“Ya wanna smoke?” I ask him. He nods eagerly. “Sure, I got some weed back at my place. C’mon, we’ll go get high and see what happens. I’m parked over here.”

He follows me back to my van like a puppy; the little fag was eager to “see what happens”. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him massaging his dick with one hand. Horny little fucker thinks he’s gonna get his cock sucked or something.

He’ll get something, all right. I grin at him as he climbs into the seat beside me. Poor little boy grins back. He has no idea what’s in store.

Back at my place, I roll a joint while the kid gets undressed. “What about my kicks?” he asks. “Some guys like watchin’ me jack with ‘em on.”

“Yeah, go ahead and put ‘em back on,” I tell him, wondering how many guys he’s been with. I don’t think it’s been very many. He’s too—oh, how do I put it? Too soft. No rough edges; he’s a sweet but kinda stupid suburban kid whose main interests are clearly getting high and draining the copious amounts of semen his raging teen hormones are producing.

Other guys like watching him cum while he’s wearing his kicks? I’m gonna like watching him die wearing them.

See, I knew it. I tell him I’m gonna fuck him and he gets all nervous. A virgin; at least anally. And he protests too much. “I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot! You wanna suck my dick, fine, but I ain’t lettin’ no dude stick anything into me!”

Of course he wants my thick purple rod up his ass; for all his words, the look on his face and the gleam of lust in his eyes as he stares at my meat show the truth. I push him over onto his back, spread his legs with my arms and plow my cock straight into his tender hole.

He tries to scream. I quickly let go of his legs and clamp both hands over his mouth. Gotta keep the fucktoy quiet for now. He struggles beneath me, the heels of his hightops beating on my asscheeks. I’m reaming him violently, penetrating deep into his rectum with each thrust. His cries emerge as plaintive moans from behind my hands, clenching painfully tight on his mouth.

I spend a good ten minutes ramming his virgin teen fuckhole with no lube but my own spit. Then I let up on his mouth; his cries have tapered off. He’s still moaning, but now it’s in pleasure. He’s a natural little homo all right; he just loves it up the ass.

Shame to have to end it all, now that he’s found out what makes him happy.

It looks like a simple length of white clothesline. It’s just a nylon cord. The skater punk is lying back, eyes closed, a huge happy grin on his face. He never sees it.

I lift him up and gently loop the cord about his neck. Then I pull tight—hard—straining to tighten it as much as possible.

The kid reacts instantly. His eyes wide with horror, he claws frantically at me, at my arms. I’m pressing him down onto the floor with the cord around his neck and my dick still in his ass. I’m dominating him to such an extent that he can’t really move. He gyrates his ass side to side in an attempt to break free but all he’s really doing is massaging my cock.

“Ooh yeah, ya little fuck,” I mutter in pleasure, “that’s it, bitch. Struggle and die. Milk my cock as you kick away your last few minutes on earth. I wanna feel you suffer. C’mon, boy, die for me, let me feel your agony in my dick. Useless fuckin’ skater punk…”

He’s beating and slapping at my face now, but he’s so panicked that he’s not doing any damage. I can see the terror in the kid’s face; the stunned disbelief that this can be happening to him. He’d planned to go to the park, show himself off, maybe get high, get sucked off–he hadn’t known that he’d die today.

But he is dying. He’s dying like a fucking cumdump whore on my cock. He’s thrashing violently, but there’s no concerted effort to escape. He’s in a state of blind panic; his conscious mind is still there, but it’s nothing but a solid shriek of terror. He’s sweating heavily with the strain and the lack of oxygen.

His face darkens from red through purple to a near black color. As it darkens, it swells. His eyes bulge, seeming to stare frantically at me as the tiny vessels hemorrhage.

The boy gags horribly as his tongue swells and protrudes. Drool leaks out both corners of his mouth and his eyes have become so red it looks like he’s gotten higher than his wildest dreams.

Maybe he has. The oxygen deprivation has taken a toll. He’s not fighting me any longer. His movements have slowed, become much gentler. He’s caressing me now. He’s sweat so much his body is covered with a fine oily sheen that slips and slides against my own.

I tighten the cord, brutally. It sinks into the teen’s neck so deeply it can’t be seen. There’s a loud cracking sound as the kid’s hyoid bone shatters. I could release the little shit now; it wouldn’t matter. I’ve crushed his windpipe. He’s dead meat now, no matter what. I’ve wasted the little fucker. From here on out, it’s mindless nerves and dead meat. The punk is toast.

He leans back, in extremis. Suddenly he arcs his body upwards intensely. His smooth, firm chest and belly slide frictionlessly over my body and I feel a sudden warmth blazing against my stomach.

Skater punk has shot his load all over me.

He falls back into the rhythmic convulsions of fatal brain trauma. Oh god, the inside of his little virgin bitch hole feels like velvet as it flutters against the head of my dick in its dying spasms. I can’t control myself.

The last thing I remember, as I unload what feels like a solid quart of spunk into the dying teen’s ass, is that I’m cursing and punching the boy in his face as hard as I can…

-————————————————————————————————–

It’s very late when I wake up. I’m still on top of the kid and my limp cock is still in his ass. He’s cool to the touch now, but I’ve been out for a while and I think rigor mortis has passed already.

Oh, my poor little skater boy. So alone, so utterly helpless—now he needs me more than ever. And he’s sticky and dirty. There’s blood on his face—he must not have been completely dead when I punched him.

I draw a nice warm bath and get in—not alone, of course; he’s the one who needs it. I lower his body down onto mine as I sit in the tub. I take soap and a washcloth and I gently bathe my boy.

He lies in my lap, so peacefully, so willingly. I clean his beautiful body all over. I wash the scales of dried spunk off his tight, smooth belly. I carefully clean his adorable face, washing off the blood and snot and foamy drool. His thick cock floats limply in the water as I clean it, too.

When we’re done, I dry myself off, then my boy. We lay in bed, together, he and I, and I kiss him deeply, passionately. I force my tongue against his, swollen, bulging, rough, dry. His bloodshot eyes are turning milky in erotic death. He wants to get fucked again and how can I resist such innocent beauty? I slip my swollen tool back into his cool smooth teen fuckhole.

He jerks limply with each thrust of my dick. He’s so pretty, so totally dependent on me, so helpless in the face of my every whim—how can I deny him my seed?

I shudder and cry out as I fill his cold dead guts with spunk.

It saddens me to know that I’ll have to dispose of him soon, but he won’t be fit to keep for much longer. Such a shame; he was so adorable. But there will be others.

There are always others.

Threesome

Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.


The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.


 

Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.


Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.


 

Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.


Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.


Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.


The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Good meat never goes to waste in the forest.