Trucker Continued (from m3m1)

Ok, folks, here's the next installment. May be old news by now; it's been up on my blog for nearly a week by this point.
 
Trucker 7--Trucker v Street Whore

The wind had died down a little but was still brisk. It had gotten colder and a heavy mist, just short of being rain, was obscuring the quiet streets. The Trucker had left the stripper’s apartment hot and hard, still flush with the excitement of the kill, but the raw chill in the air soon sapped both his physical and his emotional heat. Everything was quiet and dim as he walked back to his rented room.

The haze got appreciably thicker the closer he got to the hotel, which was why the Trucker didn’t notice the boy until he was within five feet of him. The hulking stud had just passed the gay bar (now closed for the night) and rounded the corner, the firm tread of his thick-soled boots muffled in the chill dank mist. Stepping into the glowing orange ball of fog surrounding a streetlight, he noticed a dark shape just beyond.

As he approached it, its features resolved into those of a young man. Despite the thick, distorting atmosphere of the incoming cold front, it was obvious right away that the youth was on the make. No one who wasn’t selling his body would be out at this hour dressed like that—little whore must be freezing, the Trucker mused.

Tempting as it was, he was no longer in the mood. Ignoring the street slut, he plodded on through the murk.

“Hey, dude, wanna play?” It was a hoarse whisper from off to the side. The Trucker paused, then turned and spoke to the kid.

“Naw, bitch, not now.”

The boy whined, “Why not, man? I’m just looking for a hit or two, buddy, I won’t charge much. Do whatever ya want, forty bucks.”

The Trucker snorted derisively. “Yer flatterin’ yerself, cunt,” he grunted.

“Whassa matter, man,” the cheap hustler jeered, “that high-priced cocksucker you picked up in the bar take all your money?”

The Trucker froze. “What?” he snapped, glaring at the youth.

“Y’know,” the kid drawled. “Randy. Stripper at the Cowboy Lounge back there. Sure, I know him, I’m from around here—and I know what he charges, fuckin’ whore. Anyways, I seen ya goin’ up to his place.”

As the Trucker processed this information, the boywhore continued to throw shade on his rival. “Dude, I’m better than that fuckin’ cunt ever could be, and I’ll do it for less money. Bet he didn’t even drain all yer load…”

This, the muscular killer realized, was bad. He’d never realized there was a witness—was he slipping? It had been in the backyard of that house, the garage apartment—where had this kid been hiding?

Whatever the case was, the Trucker realized he needed to take care of this motherfucker quickly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said curtly. “He wasn’t a good fuck. Didn’t get me off. Think you can?”

“Fuck yeah, dude, for forty bucks I’ll suck your cock dry and swallow the last drop of your jizz.”

“Ok, cunt, prove it,” the Trucker said in a level voice. “C’mon, I gotta room a couple blocks over.”

The whore’s slim shape trailed in the mist behind him as the hard-bodied alpha made his way back to the motel. His room was on the ground floor; his key allowed them entry through a side door, bypassing the lobby. It wasn’t until they were in the room, with the door locked behind them, that the Trucker got his first good look at the street hustler.

The boy was just under six feet tall and looked no older than twenty. His hair was long on the top, swept forward, and cut very short on the sides and back. The longer part on top was frosted an almost strident strawberry blond that didn’t match the dark, shaved hair on the lower areas. His green, almond-shaped eyes glittered with the cold greed of the hardcore prostitute. His high cheekbones added a kind of calculating felinity to his expression.

He was wearing what appeared to be a simple unlined denim jacket over a slim-fit t-shirt that emphasized his chest by comparison to his slender waist. His tight jeans were the same pale, faded blue as his jacket, but they were considerably more revealing. Not because they clung like a second skin to his long, firm legs—which they did—but because of the ragged slashes deliberately cut across the thighs.

With every movement, the material parted, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth pale flesh on the hustler’s inner thigh, an alluring inducement to spending money in order to possess his lithe young body for a few minutes—or a few hours. The Trucker wasn’t impressed—he’d seen better.

He’d snuffed better.

The whore stood defiantly, staring at the incredibly well-built stranger he’d accosted. His arms were crossed and his black and white Nike Air Jordan 5s were planted far apart on the thin, threadbare carpet. “So,” he drawled, “what up, dude? You gonna whip yer cock out or what?”

The Trucker grinned easily. This little cunt wasn’t worth his time, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. “Sure,” he said, slipping his leather jacket off, “but I wanna see yours, too. Strip your shirt off, man, and haul your dick out. I like to see what I’m payin’ for.”

The hustler paused, then smiled. “Ok, stud, whatever ya want. I’m Cody, by the way. Gonna put my stuff over here, K?” He turned towards the desk/dresser as he shrugged off the denim jacket. As he laid it across the desk, the Trucker couldn’t help but notice that the rear of the homo slut’s jeans had been cut as well, sliced under the seat and ripped to show the cunt’s bubble butt, his asscheeks slightly shadowed with soft, sandy peachfuzz.

The Trucker grasped his own shirt, pulling the thermal up off his massively-muscled chest. The dogtags he wore were caught in the olive-green fabric; when they finally pulled free, they jingled as they fell back and bounced off the alpha’s broad pecs. The whore didn’t notice; he kept his back to the Trucker as he slipped off the black slim t-shirt. He evidently thought the Trucker was still undressing when he slipped a small glass item out of his pocket and slipped it into the folds of the shirt.

The experienced alpha knew a meth pipe when he saw one. His grin grew broader and more shark-like. No one was gonna come lookin’ for a faggot methhead whore. He approached the cunt silently.

He could waste the witness and no one would care.

When Cody turned back to face his john, he was stripped to the waist, the dim lighting giving his lean torso a soft and almost sultry focus. His firmly-packed jeans still clung to his legs, his Air Jordans were still tightly laced on his feet with the tongues outside the hem of the jeans. Like a good whore, he’d complied with his trick’s orders and opened his fly. He’d worn no belt, so he’d left the button fastened at the waist, but beneath that his long dark cock jutted from an exuberant tangle of brunette pubes.

He whirled around to gasp involuntarily at the powerfully-built stud looming over him. This close, he could see the hard, chiseled angles of the Trucker’s scruffy face—and the sharp, steely light of a predator shining coldly and cruelly from his ice-blue eyes. Cody wasn’t naïve; as the heady, pungent reek of manscent filed his nostrils, he was alert to all the warning signs.

Still, the blow was so swift, he never saw it coming. There was a concussive blast of pain in his face accompanied by a dull, thudding smack, like a sledgehammer striking a side of beef.

Dazed, Cody blinked and wondered why he was on his knees; he didn’t remember stumbling back and falling under the impact of the sucker-punch. The stunned boywhore reached up and poked gingerly at his bruised, swelling cheek. His green eyes, wide with shock, turned up to the scowling face of his john.

Swiftly, the Trucker bent down and grabbed a fistful of the slut’s hair—the long dyed hair on the top of the boy’s head offering an excellent handhold. “So ya saw me tonight, huh?” he snarled, his face twisted with cold rage. “I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t see anything else, cunt.”

Cody gasped and tried to block the blow. He was too slow—the Trucker popped him hard on the jaw, driving the slim youth back into the desk and knocking over the chair.

The groggy youth struggled back up to his knees. He was breathing deeply, almost sobbing as he tried to understand what was happening. His rattled, drug-fogged brain found nothing in the muscled stud’s words to cling to; they made no sense.

“Wha—“ he started, then stopped cold. Kneeling, his eyes were crotch-level to the Trucker, and for the first time, he noticed the alpha’s thick, swinging dick. Even limp, it was more than seven inches, glistening and wreathed in dark veins. Bursting out of a black bristling mass of pubic hair, the Trucker’s cock recalled every clichéd snake and python metaphor Cody had ever heard.

And just as snakes reputedly hypnotize their prey, the young street whore found himself mesmerized by the massive tube of flesh. It was several seconds before jagged darts of pain began to push their way through Cody’s consciousness, forcing him to tear his tunnel vision away from that frighteningly huge tool and focus on his imminent danger.

“D-dude,” he stammered, “I-I didn’t see nothin’—“

The Trucker lunged. The half-dressed whore squealed in shrill terror and tried to cower under the desk. It was a futile gesture; the older, stronger alpha had no difficulty dragging the whimpering youth from his inadequate hiding place.

Cody was slim, but not scrawny. The hard life of a street whore had had multiple impacts on his body; he damn sure didn’t work out, but he had developed some muscles.

Even so, when the Trucker’s huge hands clamped onto the kid’s upper arms and lifted him into the air, they completely encircled the slut’s biceps with the inexorable strength of iron fetters.

The gasping rentboy started mewling in pain as he was lifted; the hulking sadist had squeezed the boy’s arms in slightly before using them to raise him straight up. His entire body weight was being supported by his shoulder joints—it was excruciating. Blubbering and sniveling, the helpless young slut kicked his Nikes pointlessly six inches off the floor.

The Trucker brought the shuddering kid closer to his face. “You didn’t see anything?” he hissed.

The terrified punk couldn’t speak; wide-eyed, he shook his head desperately. He was starting to sweat in fear and the long dyed hair on his head was dark with perspiration as the rapid motion of his head made it flutter.

Still glowering with a brutal rage, the Trucker spat into the boy’s face, then shook him violently. “So what were ya sayin’ to me when you hit me up, cunt? Huh? Answer me, you worthless sack of shit!”

Cody’s head hung forward limply. “R-Randy,” he whispered, barely audible, “y-ya left wi-with him…”

“Look at me, whore,” the Trucker said with a tone of cold command. “Look me in the face.”

The trembling hustler obeyed the hard ring of domination in his assailant’s voice. As his eyes rose, his field of vision was filled first with the Trucker’s hulking, muscled chest, sweat matting the wiry fur. With each breath the strapping alpha took, the dogtags lying on the dark curls of hair shifted and glinted in the light.

Rising higher, his gaze swept up the dude’s thick neck, the tendons showing some of the strain from the effort of keeping him aloft. Above that was the guy’s face…

Cody hadn’t seen it clearly this close. The strong jaw and firm lips, circled by a black goatee just slightly longer than the scruff darkening the sculpted cheeks entranced him, but the blue eyes, cold and glittering as ice, held his attention intently.

Then the Trucker spoke—harshly and gleefully.

“Yer little pal Randy? He’s dead. I fucked him and snuffed him. He died squealing in pain and fear like the little faggot pig he was.”

He smiled broadly at the gaping youth and spat in his face again.

“So ya saw me with that useless homo, huh? And now he’s dead. So, whaddaya think I gotta do to you, queerboy?”

And with that, he dropped Cody.

The street whore fell in a crumpled mound of flesh and denim with his legs curled under him, only the black-and-white Air Jordans showing under his huddled body. Curled into a fetal ball, the weeping boy tried to understand what was happening.

After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced danger in past. He was a back-alley whore and drug addict; he’d been beaten, he’d been robbed, he’d even been raped. And each time he’d gotten smarter and stronger. He’d been selling his body for cash and drugs for more than five years; now, at the age of twenty-one, he thought of himself as street-smart, able to spot the red flags and handle himself.

The Trucker nudged the scared youth with his foot, poking the toe of his boot into the boy’s ribs. “C’mon, cunt, look up here at me. Up here, bitch.”

Unwillingly, Cody lifted his head and peered at the towering stud through eyelids swollen with tears. The Trucker stood over him, legs spread and hands on his hips, sneering down with anger and contempt—and that was when Cody saw something that froze his blood.

The muscled alpha’s cock wasn’t limp anymore. It wasn’t fully erect yet, but it was swelling and darkening. As Cody watched in horror, it started to throb visibly. He knew why.

This buff, strapping older dude was getting hard at the thought of offin’ him. It was the only answer.

As this awareness percolated through his soft, drugged brain, it sparked a deep, feral panic in the heart of the cheap rentboy. Self-preservation kicked in and, with help from his innate arrogance, overcame his cowardice. The cowed youth rose up in defiance.

It was the worst choice of his short, wasted life.

Curling his legs under him, Cody felt his tight Air Jordans gain traction on the thin carpet as he propelled himself upwards, his smooth, lithe body tensed in stress and effort.

The Trucker was ready for the whore, naturally. He’d seen and recognized the gleam of desperation in the hustler’s eyes and was expecting a panicked lunge. As the kid popped up, the brawny top swung his powerful arm and backhanded the punk in the face.

Cody’s rebellion came crashing to the ground as his wiry young body slammed into the dresser. The slut dropped back to the floor like a sack of potatoes, frantically gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him. Clawing his way back to vertical, he threw up his arms to block the Trucker’s lunge.

It was useless. The older, stronger man knocked the hustler’s arms away and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat. He squeezed and lifted, raising the slim youth into the air once again.

Cody clutched at the vise-like grip on his neck, instinctively and ineffectually trying to pry the Trucker’s fingers free. His hightops kicked and flailed in pain and panic as his esophagus collapsed under the weight of his entire body, dangling from the alpha’s steel-like grip.

The sadistic strongman spat a thick wad of phlegm into the boy’s darkening face. He grinned in a rage that scintillated with psychotic glee as the struggling youth clawed desperately at his wrists. “Shoulda kept yer eyes shut, huh, you worthless cumsuckin’ faggot?” he sneered. “Now I gotta waste ya. And since I gotta do it anyway, I might as well enjoy myself, right, cunt? Yeah?”

Squeezing his massive paws more tightly around the slut’s throat, he drew the jerking youth in closer to him. “Y’wanna know what I enjoy?” he hissed, his breath hot and malevolent on Cody’s swelling face. “I enjoy hurting fags. I like snuffing homo cunts. Get it, cocksucker? The more you suffer, the more I like it.”

Shaking the lean, shuddering form violently, the Trucker laughed aloud, a cold, harsh sound that was somehow more intimidating that his overt anger had been. As Cody felt his body flop limply in the air, helpless in the top’s powerful, bulging arms, he could also feel the truth of the stud’s claims.

Every time his smooth torso and strong but slender legs swung in towards the dominant killer’s body, some part of him made contact with the dude’s huge, hot cock. The massive spear of flesh was fully erect by now and Cody realized that it had been getting progressively harder as the psycho dude had been beating him. As the hard, spade-shaped head impacted the punk’s soft, creamy flesh, it left a smear of clear, slimy precum.

The crazy motherfucker wasn’t lyin’—he really did get off on inflicting pain.


The Trucker looked the terrified rentboy directly in the eyes as he spoke. “Tonight ain’t just gonna be the last night of your short life, you unlucky sack of shit—it’s gonna be the worst. And it’s gonna be worse than you can possibly imagine, you disgusting pansy-ass fairy!”

With that, he turned abruptly and hurled the young hustler into the chair and the small round table on the far side of the room, across from the bed. With a loud crash, the whore’s limp form knocked the furniture aside like bowling pins. Cody, as a result, impacted several hard objects before his battered and bruised body came to rest on the filthy thin carpet.

The young whore twisted and writhed in agony. He wasn’t mentally capable of understanding the details of the situation; his meth-tweaked awareness was swamped with torment and fear. He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the Trucker’s heavy tread that signaled his approach.

He became immediately much more aware of the cruel muscleman’s presence when the Trucker swung his heavy steel-toed engineer boot back and delivered a brutal kick directly to the slut’s vulnerable torso.

Cody writhed and convulsed as the devastating blow from the alpha’s thick black boot shattered two of his ribs, sending razor-sharp fragments of bone to rip through the youth’s internal organs. The whore squealed in horrific agony as his spleen, stomach and left lung were peppered as if by shrapnel. Reflexively, he rolled onto his right side in an involuntary attempt to escape from the source of pain.

“Fuck yeah!” crowed the Trucker triumphantly. “Now yer feelin’ me, huh, queerboy? Hope ya like it, motherfucker, cause this rodeo’s just gettin’ started!” And digging his heel brutally into the young boywhore’s soft belly, he rolled the shuddering, sweating kid onto his back. “Did ya like that one, whore? Course ya did, you faggot cumdump, lookitya squirming with pleasure. Just love a real man puttin’ ya in yer place, dontcha, you sperm-suckin’ homo? Then yer gonna love my boot in yer face, asswipe. Enjoy it, you pansy fuckwad!”

The Trucker raised his leg and paused. Flinching, Cody hesitated, then peered up at the thick sole of the boot hanging directly over his face. It was all the vicious older stud had been waiting for. Tensing the huge muscles in his bulging, denim-wrapped thigh, he stomped on the cheap slut’s head as hard as he could, driving his booted foot down and feeling it grind squelchingly into the wailing punk’s vulnerable, unprepared face.

The sharp, deep tread of the thick rubber sole tore at Cody’s skin as his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch; the tread pattern was pounded so hard into his cheek that it was clearly visible in the bruises.

The Trucker drew his leg up again. For a brief moment, the traumatized whore had a glimpse of his attacker looming over him, about to inflict more pain. The well-built stud seemed more domineering than ever as he snarled down at the pain-wracked boy, his lips curled in disgust. His broad, hairy chest, shiny with sweat, expanded with each effort-borne grunt torn from the killer by the exertions of his thick muscles.

Again, the boot hung over Cody’s face. The rentboy made a half-hearted motion to dodge it, but the alpha dropped his foot with the speed and force of an industrial piston, catching the slut full on the mouth.

This time, the crunching sound was louder. This time, his black leather boot did much more damage. And this time, he was rewarded with a loud gurgling shriek as Cody’s lower jaw snapped in three places.

The young hustler rolled violently on the floor, squealing and mewling in wordless agony with his arms wrapped about his head. His flailing Nikes scraped furrows in the thin carpet. Sweat beaded on his smooth flat abdomen as he rode vast waves of pain and terror.

Some part of his cold and calculating street whore mentality was still functional; it had noted that the brutal stud had paused the attack. Lighting a smoke from the pack on the bedside table, the buff sadist was sitting on the bed and admiring his work. As he fondled his dogtags idly with one hand, his thick cock jutted like a prow from his crotch, angry and dripping in anticipation.

If Cody had a chance to escape, this was it; this was the longest and the farthest he’d been out of his assailant’s reach. But escape was no longer an option for him. Not only had his body been stomped and crushed, his mind had been beaten as well. His street-smart but drugged brain was unable to wrap itself around the events of the last half-hour.

What was happening? He’d followed this hot john back to his room. He was gonna earn a little money, drain the dude’s balls down his throat, take his forty bucks (and whatever else he could get without being noticed) and go hit up his dealer. Now—

But he couldn’t complete the thought. As his nervous system handled the unspeakable torment by going into physical shock, his psyche did much the same thing, blocking his panicked thoughts from reaching the logical conclusion.

Cody shut down, physically and mentally. He curled into a ball again, sobbing and wailing, thrashing about in pain as drool leaked from his twisted, misshapen mouth. The Trucker watched him intently, deeply enjoying the youth’s nightmarish suffering. He honestly hadn’t expected to get hard again tonight—after all, that last homo fucker had been a real workout—but damn if this smooth hot little faggot didn’t make his junk all stiff. And, as he’d said, he needed to make the cumsucking shitsack witness into meat anyway—might as well get his money’s worth, so to speak.

Leaving his butt to smolder in the ashtray, the Trucker rose and crossed swiftly to the shuddering ball of misery making him so unexpectedly horny. Swooping down, he snagged a handful of long blond hair and jerked the sniveling youth upright before pulling him excruciatingly to his feet the same way. The punk shrieked and quickly found his feet, standing up voluntarily to avoid having his scalp ripped open.

But the Trucker didn’t want him on his feet, he wanted him on the bed. Still grasping a fistful of hair, the older, stronger man tightly gripped the lower half of the boy’s face. With cruel and deliberate sadism, he squeezed viciously, feeling the jagged edges of broken bone grinding together in horrific torture under his relentless handhold.

The punk’s eyes rolled back in his head as the pain exceeded his toleration and he trembled on the edge of consciousness. His eyelashes fluttered as his body twitched limply against the killer’s hard, sculpted mass. With a swift, graceful twist, reminiscent of a master martial arts move, the Trucker flipped the slim, smooth cunt in an arc that spun him in the air before slamming him down onto the bed.

Cody found himself surfacing in a searing pool of sharp anguish. His breath was coming in jagged, painful gasps. He had no way of knowing that the splintered remains of his broken ribs had torn his left lung so badly that it was collapsing. Added to the constriction of his airway caused by his crushed nose and broken jaw, the young hustler quickly learned that the only thing more terrifying than the prospect of being beaten to death was that of suffocation.

He croaked and gurgled, clawing frantically at his face and throat. Each time he pawed uncontrollably at his jaw in a desperate attempt to improve his respiration, he suffered unbearable agony, but the fight for survival took precedence over the mere physical torture.

The Trucker watched in malevolent, erotic joy. Grinning, he approached the bed, his powerful, towering form imposing itself between Cody and the light, casting a huge dark shadow of doom over handsome, unlucky punk. Even in his hypoxic panic, the cheap drugged-out cunt was aware of the hard, cold killer.

As the alpha reached the bed, his erect shaft swam into Cody’s field of vision. Blurred as it was, it could still make out the dark purple mushroom-like head, visibly pulsing, each throb forcing a trickle of clear precum out to stream down from the tip like string of spit. Soon the Trucker was close enough that his eager ooze was splattering on the whore’s smooth, silky skin like hot candle wax.

The ice-cold, cruel killer looked down at his victim and gave the stunned and bewildered youth a smile so charming and charismatic that even in the depths of his wretched distress, the hardened street fag felt himself drawn in. For a split second of soft-focus blur induced by oxygen deprivation, Cody felt himself not only forgiving his attacker for the pain he’d endured, but also falling in love with him.

Then the Trucker spoke.

“Time to die, motherfucker. Time to take you out, you worthless cumdump. Before I do, though, think I’m gonna unload in ya. Might as well, since yer gonna get dumped in the garbage like soiled, cum-soaked underwear when I’m done with ya. Ain’t like anyone’s gonna care, not about you or your friend—you know, wassisname, the one I offed earlier. Heh, wonder if the disgusting cumpig has gotten stiff yet.”

An evil light of sadistic viciousness sparkled sharply in the Trucker’s blue eyes as he leaned down and whispered to the helpless, frightened, desperate young hustler. The well-used assfuck whore stretched his battered face into a silent plea for mercy from the stronger, older, more powerful man who now held his future existence in his rough, callused hands.

Mercy had never been on the table.

Sitting on the bed and spreading his thick, powerful legs, the Trucker snatched a handful of hair and Cody found himself being jerked roughly forward by his scalp yet again. Still using the better part of his strength just to remain conscious, the youthful slut found his face being used as a towel as the Trucker dragged his bruised and tender cheeks over his strongman’s massive pectorals, the alpha’s wiry, curly chest hair scraping the kid’s damaged cheeks like steel wool.

The punk’s face stung and burned as the stud’s salty sweat was rubbed into his open cuts; the sharp edges of the dogtags inflicted new slashes for the Trucker’s reeking perspiration to burn. The muscled alpha dragged the boy’s torn face back and forth across his chest several times before pulling his head back up.

“Lookitya, you stinking, disgusting pansy motherfucker. Time to die like a disgusting faggot worm. So ya like tellin’ folks what ya seen, huh? Ya like openin’ yer big fat fag mouth, huh? Good, cunt. Open it now. Open it and choke, you cocksucking piece a’ shit!”

The Trucker forced Cody’s head down onto his erect shaft, locking his arms into place behind his back with a single hand, strong as a steel bar.

The huge, oozing rod plunged deep into the whore’s esophagus; the large, spongy spear-shaped tip plugging his windpipe with brutal effectiveness. And that was when the ultimate twist of nightmare came into play—with his jaw broken, Cody couldn’t close his mouth.

He couldn’t bite down. And he wasn’t even remotely strong enough to break free from the powerful sadist’s grip.

He couldn’t breathe. He was choking to death on the dude’s cock.

Instantly, a white-hot sheet of panic inflamed his mind. Slim but strong, the lithe street punk didn’t just struggle, he fought for his life like a feral cat. He kicked and clawed frantically, managing to work his right hand free.

Then he made another bad mistake. Curling his fingers into claws, he flailed his hand until it found purchase in the killer’s curly fur and yanked out a few hairs.

Grunting more in anger than in pain, the Trucker knocked the offending hand away. “You stupid asswipe,” he hissed, “So you like pain, huh? Motherfuck, I’m gonna make sure you get plenty!” Glancing around in a blood-tinted rage, the furious savage killer spied a ball-point pen on the nightstand; a cheap promotional giveaway with the motel’s name and address printed on it.

In a towering paroxysm of wrath, he snatched up the pen and, wielding it like a knife, stabbed it through the hustler’s back and into his right kidney. It was blunt; it took a great deal of effort to drive the dull tip through the multiple layers of flesh and muscle until it reached the organ.

It took time, too. It wasn’t quick. And as the hard plastic was punched through his helpless, splayed body, Cody gagged and foamed on the huge throbbing tool plugging his throat. The tortured youth was making thick desperate gurgling sounds that didn’t sound human as his straining, tormented body responded to the intense trauma by flooding his bloodstream with hormones.

Cody writhed in the Trucker’s lap, his smooth back wet and glistening with a cold film of sweat stinking of adrenaline and testosterone. His slim, firm legs, still tightly wrapped in his skinny jeans, thrashed violently on the bed, his hightops catching at the sheets.

The Trucker left the pen in the boy’s back as he forced the cunt’s head down on his dick. He didn’t force it all the way down, though. The cunt had just enough space in his throat to suck down a minimal amount of oxygenated air before vomiting it back up in a frothy mass of drool.

“Goddam ass-lickin’ queer!” the powerful alpha grunted. “Take it, homo, or I’ll stick ya again—and this time I’ll make it hurt. You kick too much, bitch, and I’m fuckin’ sick of it. I’m gonna make sure this goes nice and smooth. Your fuckmeat friend took a lot outta me—drained my balls as he died in screaming agony. Ain’t gonna fight with you, you cheap faggot whore; you ain’t worth it. He was better lookin’ and a better fuck, dickbag. Lessee now, what’s a good way to teach you what happens to fuckin’ fag garbage that don’t know its place?”

It was probably for the best that Cody was incapable of seeing the Trucker’s face’ the expression alone would have made him lose control of his bowels.

“I got it, dude. Pigs don’t fly, fuckwad. I’ll clip your wings.”

The Trucker had such complete control over the weeping boywhore that by putting his elbow on the back of the slut’s head, he was able to keep his engorged shaft jammed down the shuddering boy’s throat. With both hands free, he was easily able to bend the kid’s left arm up. Gripping the arm just below the elbow with one hand and the wrist with the other, he applied pressure.

It really didn’t take too much before he was rewarded with a loud double cracking sound as both the radius and the ulna snapped like toothpicks under his bulging biceps. The unfortunate hustler convulsed in agony, his mind a blank sheet of flaming pain.

Next, the Trucker brought up the boy’s right arm. He stroked the pale, silky-smooth skin for a moment before brutally breaking that arm as well. This one didn’t go as well—at least not for Cody. The bones shattered into a greenstick fracture, tearing through the skin.

For the next few minutes, Cody ceased to exist. It was too much. The tough, street-smart, fucked-out boywhore who prided himself on being able to take anything his johns imposed on him, sank into a sea of pain. The kaleidoscopic colors danced in his nightmare of torture and trauma, red and white—and then, finally, black…a dark, cold, fiery, silent, screaming darkness…

The Trucker wrapped his hands in the long dyed strands of the punk’s hair, raising his head up just enough so that the kid didn’t pass out with the shaft plugging his throat. The vicious killer wasn’t done with Cody—yet.

He was close, though. Real close.

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to blow another load tonight; the last few days had been—energetic. Or was the word dynamic?

He paused to consider the best adjective to describe his brutal, manic killing spree as the battered and broken youth quivered in unconscious agony.

“Hhhuuunnnhhh…” Cody groaned as the pinpricks of awareness slowly intensified into excruciating pain. The Trucker’s evil smirk grew wider as he felt the whore’s smooth, slim body writhe and struggle in his lap with returning consciousness. “That’s it, cunt,” he whispered, “come back to me. Almost over now. Work for it, bitch, work for my load.”

Slowly, he began to force Cody back down, impaling his head a fraction of an inch at a time. The mangled rentboy was utterly enmeshed in an electric net of pain as his nervous system tried to process his physical agony, but (unfortunately) the nerves still functioned—all of them. He could feel the massive throbbing head of the alpha’s cock slip down his esophagus on a slick film of drool and precum. Each tiny motion of his head downward sent a fresh slash of fiery torture from his shattered jaw.

“Does it hurt, motherfucker?” the Trucker hissed quietly. “Toldja ya shoulda kept yer mouth shut—now ya can’t, huh? So you’re gonna take my dick all the way down, dude. All the way down into Hell. Here’s a protip, bitch—the sooner you make me cum, the sooner I’ll end it. Remember that, when it gets too intense for ya, you useless faggot. Milk me and I’ll end your pain forever.”

Cody understood what was happening; the mind-bending agony would have told him he was gonna die even had the muscle-bound killer’s taunts not laid out his immediate future with cruel glee.

He knew he was gonna die but he didn’t know why. And by now, it didn’t matter. The shuddering sack of meat that had been Cody was beyond the point of wondering about the motive for his murder.

The lean, sexy youth had started that evening using his streetwise skills to lure johns, trading his body for money and the money for drugs. Now his feral cunning was focused on surviving just a few more seconds.

Writhing in unspeakable agony, the punk gasped wetly as the thick pulsing shaft plugged his windpipe with excruciating slowness. Each panicked breath required more effort to draw—and more effort meant more pain wracking his helpless, half-nude body as the jagged edges of his broken bones tore new wounds inside him.

The Trucker felt the smooth, sweat-soaked body tremble in agony. “Fuck yeah, dude, that’s it,” he muttered softly, sighing with pleasure as the cunt’s esophagus quivered around his swollen mushroom tip. “Work it, ya pansy shitsack. Choke on my fuckin’ cock, you worthless faggot whore. C’mon motherfucker, fight it. Death is gonna be cold, bitch, so fucking cold. Keep fightin’ it, cocksucker, your last desperate panic feels so goddam good on my dick…”

The dying hustler had no choice but to obey the powerful stud who was now controlling the last few seconds of his life. The Trucker’s enormous tool was fully inserted. Wiry pubic hair scraped the slut’s face like steel wool—a mangled face, mashed against the Trucker scrotum, increasing the cunt’s misery as the strapping alpha’s huge balls pressed relentlessly into his jaw, grinding the serrated ends of broken bones together.

Worst of all, though, was the pain of suffocation. A huge, pulsating tube of flesh completely filled his throat, the thick blood vessels wrapped around it acting as gaskets, utterly plugging the flow of air.

The red, slashing haze of agony that enveloped the kid was thicker than the fog outside—but it all stemmed from the enormous cock choking him. As the oxygen level in his blood dropped, he began to thrash, desperately seeking more air. The harder he jerked, the more his wounds opened. The pen that had been jammed into his kidney slashed its blunt tip through that organ while his broken arms flopped uselessly. Slow asphyxiation even increased the pain in his crushed nose as the cunt kept trying to fill his sinuses in a vacuum.

The only parts of him that still functioned were his legs, kicking and flailing violently as his Air Jordans snagged on the cheap sheets. The punk’s jerking sneakers tangled in the thin material, though, limiting their usefulness to the dying whore.

Actually, though, there were other parts of him that still worked. His brain was suffering progressive damage from hypoxia, but it was still able to process the input from his screaming nervous system. The quivering, dying boycunt was beyond all concepts of life and death and was now little more than meat responding to stimuli.

One piece of meat that was responding was his dick. He was face down on the bed, his head clamped immovably in the Trucker’s crotch. As his lean, lithe body shuddered during his drawn-out agony, it slid and slipped on the cold, rank sweat that was squeezed out of him in his death throes. His thin but long dick, pressed between the moist sheets and his equally slick, smooth belly, was being rubbed into an involuntary state of erection.

The more Cody kicked and died, the closer he got to cumming.

“Fuckin’-A, fag, die,” the Trucker grunted as his powerful muscles tightened with approaching orgasm. His entire body, glistening with mansex sweat, shuddered with pleasure, making his dogtags jump and jingle on his huge, furry chest. “C’mon, you worthless piece a’ shit, take my load and die on my dick. So close, cocksucker, so fuckin’ close to puttin’ yer lights out for good—FUCK!!!”

Cody’s brain had been starved of oxygen too long; it lost control of the voluntary nervous system. The maimed, damaged cunt convulsed frenetically, twisting his fractured arms into agonizing positions as his legs kicked uncontrollably. The sheet was still tangled around his sneakers; as his feet jerked violently, the thin, yellowed fabric failed under the strain and tore noisily.

It was his head, though, that was responsible for the Trucker’s outcry. It bobbed up and down as the helpless rentboy contorted in his death throes. The dying whore spent his last moments alive giving his killer involuntary head; it made the sadistic killer blow his load.

The unfortunate Cody had a last hint of what was happening as the final spark of life guttered out in his terror-wracked mind. It was a final nightmarish impression of drowning, not in water, but in lava…or maybe molten lead…a hot thick smoky liquid searing his lungs…

A white-hot bolt of excruciating electricity fired in his groin; the trembling hustler never knew that he’d shot his death load onto the stained mattress, the warm milky wad smearing between the scratchy fabric and his smooth, flat belly.

The corpse’s blackened face was all but invisible in the cruel top’s crotch. The rhythmic convulsions of a dying body were replaced with the random but intense twitching of a body already dead. Each time the boywhore jerked, thick pearly foam that was equal parts drool and spunk was forced past the swollen, blue lips, matting the Trucker’s pubic hair.

The Trucker gasped and shuddered, sending one last powerful jet of semen deep into the faggot whore’s lungs. The corpse was still quivering, mindless meat with no control, as the Trucker pulled the head up off his sticky, glazed shaft. Tossing the head away from him like the garbage it was, the Trucker reached over and grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He leaned back, admiring his own erect cock, still throbbing and oozing from the tip.

The dead whore slowly slid halfway off the bed, headfirst, landing with the dark, mangled, spunk-smeared face buried in the filthy carpet. Up on the bed, the cunt’s expensive kicks were still jerking as the corpse began the long process of cooling and stiffening.

The Trucker flicked his ash around randomly; he damn sure wasn’t gonna sleep here now. He was gonna jump in the shower and head back to his truck. He was still making plans as he ground out his smoldering butt in the small of the fag’s back, the dead skin sizzling and blackening as the cherry scorched it.

Heading into the bathroom, the Trucker had already decided what he needed to do next. He was tired, but he didn’t have any time to rest. He needed to put some distance between these dead homos and himself. Not that he regretted tonight; this last little fucker had taught him a valuable lesson about witnesses.

There was a loose end he needed to handle. He’d get clean, get out—and get that one fuck who could ID him.


========================================================================


By the evening of the same day, the wind had picked up again, blowing the haze away. The night was clear but cold as Mark raced down the highway towards San Amadeo. The news of a double killing in the next state had electrified the profiler; he knew, just from the initial reports of the crimes, that it was the serial killer he was tracking.

As his government-issued Ford hurtled east, he devoutly wished he’d been able to reach Dan. These murders had stirred something deep within him. Viewing the bodies, he’d he been horrified—and aroused.

And the things he’d found on that trooper’s phone…

He hadn’t reported the texts—the photos—the videos, dear God, those videos—that he’d found stored on the dead cop’s phone. But as he watched them in his car, he’d felt his cock stiffen.

Mark was terrified. He didn’t know why these gruesome scenes of rape and murder got him hard. And Dan was on assignment, out of pocket. Dan could have talked him down.

Mark thought that phone sex with Dan was almost as good as the real thing—almost. It sure would have made him feel better about whatever the fuck he was feeling right now.

That wasn’t an option at the moment, though. And he couldn’t ask were Dan was. Both were so deep in the closet that no one at the FBI realized that either one was gay, much less that they fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance.

So Mark was on his own, chasing a killer with more than just professional interest. He had personal questions, and this vicious serial killer might have the answers. He needed to find the dude before anyone else.

He put his foot on the floor. The Ford whined as it accelerated, speeding into the frigid night towards a murder scene.
 
The thoughts of his Nike Air Jordans kept me going. A very detailed story!
 
Ok, new Trucker will (finally) be posted tonight. Written and in final proofing. May take a bit; turns out this is the longest I've written so far. Will be posted first at m3mayhem.com because I can edit things there; I'm kinda a grammar nazi.
 
Trucker 8--Trucker v Loose End

Mark was livid.

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

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

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

Where the fuck was this guy?




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, the insects died horribly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kid was taking the bait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young cockpig loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer. For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed. Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself. “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped? Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!” Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure. He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

He damn sure felt it.

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe. The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain. His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen. As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass. Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking. The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum. The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out. “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch? You got it, cunt. I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are. Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft. Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick. “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently. “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh? Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare. The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in. When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length. The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view. “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily. “And I have. Right here. Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion. Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled. “Or the first time you laid eyes on me. Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body. And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes. That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar. He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him. Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell. He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed. “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya? They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock. Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too. Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

“It took him a long time to die. And it hurt—I made sure of that. When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.” The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear. “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet. You squealed about me to the cop.”

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body. He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

“The cop, yeah? You remember him? I raped and tortured him to death, too. I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass. You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

Zach understood. He knew what was about to happen, and why. He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic. He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips. As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager. “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger. “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya. But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing. “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw. The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue. The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply. He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others. He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it. Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt. Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe. Nothing. Nothing he could do. He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists. Nothing. That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die. The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage. As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick. The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation. As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge. He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape. It was too much. It was overwhelming. His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though. He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot. “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers. Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out. Does it hurt, you worthless cunt? Ya want me to stop it? I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck. Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die. Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear. C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick. Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection. As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under. He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

He was edging—literally. Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

The Trucker grunted in anger. He wasn’t even close to cumming. Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die. The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts. He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up. The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to. The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off. On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly. With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely. “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply. “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet. Ya know what that means, meat? It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet. You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin. With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath. Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head. Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

He did so. The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey. “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh? You a pain pig, cunt? Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so! Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms. The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli. His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault. The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore. He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack. The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand. The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.” He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek. “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay? Huh?”

Then the Trucker paused. At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy. Bad mistake. If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze. Maybe. Lemme take a look. If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud. He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak. His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon. But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful. He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

It never occurred to him that he liked it. On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects. No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end. He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck. Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

This time, the response was much stronger. This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently. His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

“Ok, meat, that’s it. Yer done.” Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand. Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple. A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool. Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock. The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound. He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth. Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat. The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots. His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood. His blood.

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face. That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions. The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror. The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights. As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath. Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant. It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away. That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes. Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

And then Zach was snapped out of it. In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever. With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side. The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him. He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room. Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory. Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy. That whore. He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy. The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again. In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight. He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened. His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt. Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

The Trucker approached. He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth. While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen. Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids. “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

He bent down. Zach saw him coming. He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

It was. Instantly. The Trucker snatched the belt again. This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror. The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down. The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey. Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail. For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

Actually, threw him at the bed. Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed. His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him. The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum. Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten. The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time. Death was staring him in the face.

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter. At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man. The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma. Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why. But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…” Here the slender kid gave way. Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap. He burst into tears. “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode. The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat. With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony. “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck. The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him. Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest. And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror. He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts. The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly. His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail. As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex. His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered. “Yer lovin’ this shit. You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha? Yeah? Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain. The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons. As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure. He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck. Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror. The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim. “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt. You did this. Does it hurt? Good! I want you to hurt. I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot. You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch? Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row! Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge. Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut. Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery. The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air. He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life. As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness. Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl. Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him. He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him. A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

It hurt. The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken. Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much. Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck. The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass. Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

It was getting a good workout, too. The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously. Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body. In the end, even the physical started to fade. The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets. He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged. The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

In a way, it was a shame. Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

Fuck, it felt wonderful. The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson. He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls. He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded. The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood. With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin. In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm. As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest. The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat. Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse. Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed. The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor. As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass. Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh. Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly. A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals. The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way. If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

Above the chest, things got ugly. The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy. And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun. As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust. Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips. The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping. At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder. The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer. This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes. Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom. Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur. Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers. Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat. Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag, and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene. He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin. He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

It was dark and still outside. The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop. That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street. Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long. But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

The muscled hardman grinned coldly. He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.
 
Two new stories posted at m3mayhem.com--a new Miscellaneous Sex Snuff and a new Fantasy Scenario. Also, I am accepting stories for posting. If you have something you'd like to post, check out the rules at m3mayhem.com!
 
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