Greg was no easy mark, even for three strong and experienced killers—not if they wanted to do it their way. He was physically perfect by nearly any definition. Lean as a body-builder in his prime, muscles in high relief under tight, tan skin that had a natural glow, the sight of him working would stop anyone cold—man or woman, straight or gay. When he was working at a sawhorse with his shirt off, it was like seeing a work of art in motion.
God-like Greg...that of course made him a prime target for a trio of rapists, but Cole was driven as well by Greg's indignant, attitude. He was disdainful of ex-cons like Cole and the rest. Something in his past had made him particularly judgmental of anything with a whiff of a criminal element, but his intuitions were more than right about his co-workers. And the more he trusted his instincts, the more he went from laconic to borderline rude with the others...and so the more he sealed his fate as their next mark. He was a good carpenter, and Cole couldn't wait to put a dozen nails in him. Then a dozen more. Then a dozen more.
That was how this was going to go down, but grabbing Greg for the show meant they were bound to suffer a few blows, maybe worse. Cole never underestimated a mark. He learned that when he was enforcer, seeing guys like himself get taken out by someone smaller when they got cocky. Sure, he had a few inches on Greg and he had Gordon and Logan, but he didn't want a brawl. He wanted Greg to go down fast and hard so there would be no delays or injuries when they dragged him into a van for the last ride he would take.
It turns out, a taser, a rag and a bottle of chloroform sufficed without inflicting any premature damage. Greg fell hard under the taser and would have put up a nasty fight had Gordon not bravely (stupidly) lunged in quickly with the rag and put him under as he was just standing up. All Gordon suffered was a bruise on the upper arm where Greg grabbed him and tried to tear him off in vain.
When Greg came to, they were still in the van, but he was gagged and hogtied. He started thrashing around before he even had fully assessed where he was. Logan was sitting in the back with him and was ready to put him under with another dose from the rag. He was half conscious as he was pushed through the tunnel to the kill room, still hogtied and on his side on a creaking cart.
Cole liked taking precautions with prey like this, and when done right this had the added benefit of making them feel powerless repeatedly. Cole enjoyed that immensely. When they were in the kill room and Greg was starting to come to his senses again, he did the honors of applying the rag, looking right into Greg's deep green eyes as he did, watching them droop beneath a choppy mop of stiff golden hair.
“Fuck, this is gonna be good,” Cole muttered.
They cut off the binds and all of Greg's clothes, revealing a physique that was so defined that it seemed coiled and ready to strike even in this slack state. They used metal cuffs to secure his wrists, which were then looped over a hook, hoisting Greg upwards, sagging with his legs splayed out beneath him. The legs were bound to separate winches. They cranked the right one until the right leg was parallel to the floor. His corrugated abdomen and grooved serratus muscles maintained their definition even as they stretched under his own weight. Greg's downcast, dozing head glowed golden in the dim light and dripped long, thin strands of drool after they put a spider gag tight around his head.
“It's like killing a god,” muttered Logan softly. The three killer's dicks grew stiffer at the thought.
Gordon applied some grease to the end of a hose while Logan inspected Greg's hole, whispering softly against it, “Can't wait to pop you open,” and gently nudging a finger in up to the knuckle. It was dank with sweat and very tight, but Greg stirred only the slightest bit as Logan pried just a little deeper then withdrew. He was already kneeling, so he accepted the hose from Gordon and fed it firmly into Greg's hole. Six inches were planted when he gave the signal to Gordon to turn on the water.
Almost immediately, a trickle started flowing down around the hose and Greg was alert, grunting around the metal that kept his mouth pried open. He swiveled his head around at first, just trying to assess his position, location, and why his limbs were stretched so oddly. He got his one free foot planted on the ground to take pressure off his wrists and hips, and in that moment he realized that someone was feeding a hose up his ass. He tried to turn his head around to see who was doing it and locked eyes with Cole, staring over his right shoulder with a wicked grin.
“Welcome to hell,” Cole said softly. Greg snarled and thrashed, and in response Logan started feeding more of the hose into him. Water was flowing freely down the left leg and the hose itself, having filled with rectum entirely and only feebly trickling up into the colon. Assisted by that pressure, Logan was soon able to force the hose into the colon itself. Greg threw his head back and moaned pitifully as he felt his innards breached and begin to fill with cold water. His abs were heaving wildly with his breaths and spasms from the cold fluid pressing them out slowly. The water pressure was high enough to bloat him with two gallons in a matter of minutes. His eyes rolled back and his legs trembled. Cole ran two hands along his solid flanks, still maintaining a sinewy definition as they bloated around the middle.
“Pull it out,” he commanded. Logan complied, yanking the hose out roughly in two strokes and standing aside for the inevitable blasts of water. Greg squirmed under Cole's touch and began to press the water out of himself. Tears and sweat flowed freely as he strained to pump out the water in great blasts, filling the room with the stink of his innards.
Cole got in front of him and clasped him in a crushing hold. He squeezed the breath out of Greg, along with more of the water. The victim gasped airlessly and looked upward at the ceiling. Cole withdrew and Greg wheezed and heaved, forcing more water out in little bursts as he struggled to breathe deeply. Logan was blasting the fetid water away with the hose, and when Greg seemed to have lost the drive to squeeze out more, he knelt down and looked at the hole, already puffy and red. Before Greg could react, the hose was plunged back inside. The bound body trembled as it was forced even deeper than before.
Greg was red-eyed and sobbing, looking down at his distending gut. His wrists were bruised and bleeding. He had lost feeling in his right leg, and his left leg was ready to collapse under the weight of the rest. A few times, he had tried to straighten it and then whip the handcuffs over the tip of the meat hook holding them overhead, but he couldn't maintain balance. Each time, his body crashed downward, only to be stopped by the metal slicing into his wrists. His audience would then laugh and remark how futile it all was. Even if he got free of the hook, where was he going next?
“Into the pit, pretty soon,” Cole remarked. Greg didn't hear or comprehend.
When the hose was yanked out and he tried to empty himself, bloated more precariously than before. The water was coming out mostly clear, and Gordon decided he could wait no longer.
“Mind if I start?” he asked the other two. They just smiled and shrugged. He stripped naked and padded up behind the victim as Logan continued to spray away the backwash from the floor. 7 inches long and 7.5 inches around, nestled in the sopping crack of Greg's spread ass. The heat of it smoldered against Greg's cold skin, and he panicked, screamed and arched his body forward. Gordon grabbed him by hips with both hands and slammed him back. The dick popped up into the small of Greg's back. Quickly, he grabbed his dick with one hand and Greg's stretched right leg with the other, aligned with the dripping hole and slammed home the whole dick to the root.
Greg had been loosened, but not that much—not nearly. He felt his asshole rip, felt a trickle of warm blood join the trickle of cool water down his thighs. He squealed in a way he hadn't since he had been a child, but his mind was clear of such memories. Only a searing pain filled his mind, burning up from his torn ass, through his distressed guts, shoulders and neck into his panicked brain.
Gordon immediately went into a brutal, moderately paced fuck intended to evoke a conscious submission. Greg wouldn't lose all his fight—no one wanted that—but he would know who was really in charge. The other two men undressed and dragged out the other implements of Greg's torturous death while Gordon reamed him for a good 10 minutes straight. By the end of it, Greg was screamed himself hoarse and had lost feeling in his hands. They would have to make sure the feeling returned, along with his screams.
Cole and Logan pushed a large heavy plank along the floor between Gordon's legs. Greg looked down and saw the end of it jutting out beneath him. He didn't like the look of it, though he had no idea what its use would be. He had a vague sense when he saw Logan slide two lengths of rope underneath it. Gordon knew what was coming, and the thought of it pushed him over the edge. He grabbed Greg in a bear hug, squeezing the air from his victim and screaming in his right ear as he dumped a thick load into Greg's torn ass.
“Fuck yea,” he said breathlessly. “Gonna have to dump another load in that cunt before this is over.” He ran his hands over the corrugated flesh of the bound man, feeling the heat of the body, and he shivered to think how it was soon to be cooling in the pit behind them.
All three men surrounded Greg when lifting his handcuffs off the meat hook. They were expecting a struggle, and they got one for a moment, before Gordon kicked his free leg out from under him and Greg crashed backwards onto the plank beneath him. Before he could even clear his vision of stars from landing on his head, Cole was roping his arms at the elbow just over his head and Logan was strapping the free leg down at the knee and ankle.
“Don't forget the other leg, dumbshit,” said Gordon in a cocky, post-coital glow.
“Why don't you help with it so I can, motherfucker?” snarled Logan. Cole paid no mind. He and Greg had locked eyes. Greg was seething, thinking of all the ways he would like to kill the lot of them. Cole was of a similar mind, regretting that you can only kill a man once, even a god-like one like Greg. He would just go down harder.
They couldn't really bind Greg securely in this state, as evidence by the way he arched and twisted his torso, slipping a bit beneath the binds when he wasn't held down—not nearly enough to escape, but enough to get him out of the position they wanted. It took Logan and Gordon both holding him down and gut punching him to keep him from wriggling too much. Cole made a brief round trip to a table where the next implement was lying ready. His bicep bulged as he lifted it and swaggered back to the others. Greg didn't notice him standing there are first, and it took him a moment to see in the poor light what Cole was holding, but when he figured it out, his eyes bulged and he screamed anew. The others laughed, including Cole, who then knelt at the top end of the plank, out of Greg's line of vision.
“This party is really about to get started,” he said, and pressed the nail gun down on Greg's right palm, who thrashed and, for the first time, began to plead incoherently around the gag in his mouth. Cole let the moment linger, waiting to see if Greg would stop fighting quickly. A minute passed and he was still thrashing. This was going to be good.
The first nail punched through flesh and wood, shattering little bones as it went. Greg went stiff then shrieked. Cole lifted the gun and smashed it down into Greg's other palm, waiting another moment before firing off the second nail. There wasn't much blood yet coming from the wounds, which pleased Cole as he wanted to inflict as much injury as possible before Greg bled out or went into shock.
Logan and Gordon came close to inspect and help steady the powerful arms now pinned to the plank in three places. Cole nudged the cuffs further down Greg's forearm and aimed the gun at the center of Greg's wrists, taking care to not put the next nail through a major vein. He pressed down and Greg was already wailing with renewed vigor before the nail went in. As it missed the bones, it was actually less painful than the first two, but this was cold comfort. The other wrist got the same treatment. Four fat metal nails protruded from his flesh, not flush with it as they were hitting concrete on the other side of the wood.
Cole stood and took a few steps and peered down at the legs bound beneath him. They were sculpted so beautifully, right down the the high arches of the quivering feet. He knelt down and pushed the left foot out, exposing the inner ankle. Gordon and Logan were rubbing and slapping Greg's body and face, crushing his nipples between their fingers and punching his gut. Greg hardly registered what Cole was doing until he felt the nail gun rest against his flesh. He tensed, ready to try to kick it away, but then it went off, planting a nail just behind his Achilles tendon, and then another just through the base of his calf. Still not too much blood. This could go on for a long time if done right, and that's why he was the one with the gun. He didn't trust the other two to not fuck it up.
“How ya feeling, Greg?” he asked. Just two more and we're gonna move on to the next phase. I'll bet you are so excited.” Cole ran his hand up Greg's right leg, over the ropes binding it just above the knee. “So glad you didn't skip leg day, man. These are beauties. Gonna be real nice taking them apart.” Cole leaned forward and took Greg's shriveled, mid-sized cock and balls in his hand and squeezed. “These, too.”
Greg started thrashing anew, but everyone could tell he was reaching a point of exhaustion. Without further delay, Cole gave the other leg the same treatment, sinking two nails into the base of his leg, then setting the nail gun aside.
“Time to fuck that throat of yours. Logan, get on it.”
Logan almost knocked Gordon on his ass as he immediately straddled Greg's head and let his dickhead nestle into the metal ring wedged into Greg's mouth. The tongue was flickering inside, enticing him further, as if Greg was hungry for it when in fact it was just a final, futile defense against intrusion. The ways that a man unwittingly invites his own ruin are sometimes subtle, sometimes laughably obvious, and indeed Logan did laugh as he plunged his club-like dick into the throat, then giggled as the flailing tongue bathed it in spit. The ring was only just wide enough to accommodate the rod, but the throat—the real prize—required force to push into. Unlike the ring, it naturally sought to shrink around him, to expel him, but in doing so only brought greater pain to Greg and greater pleasure to Logan. In essence, Greg's entire being, body and mind, had brought him to this demolition, and continued to justify it to the one's demolishing him.
Your usual throat-rape will hurt, of course, but because he was already dehydrated and raw from screaming, the heated pillar of flesh was literally tearing open his gullet. Greg felt like a blowtorch had been turned on in his throat each time Logan thrust the full length in, and as he could not breathe fully, the fire extended into his lungs. Beneath the silhouette of Logan's meaty ass pumping over his eyes (and the heft of Logan's balls crushing his nose) Greg's eyes bulged and reddened and pumped their own payload of tears. He had already cried more this night than he had in total over his entire adult life. His green eyes were changing color, darkening like his face as his mouth was reduced to a hot, dry, bleeding hole that served no purpose but to cause him pain, as much as it provided pleasure for the man fucking it. Even at the point of madness he had now reached, this much was evident to him.
Logan slowed his pumps to further suffocate Greg and prolong his pleasure, then drew out slowly, savoring every last convulsion until his dickhead was again bobbing against the swollen tongue. A quick, desperate intake of air coursed over the wet head, and Logan shivered and had to fight the urge to thrust back in as Greg fought for oxygen, but Logan knew that there was more to come and he let the cock fully emerge and slide over Greg's nose and cheeks as he stood to watch the agonized face and chest heave and sweat and regain its natural color as air was able to flow freely again into the still magnificent body.
Gordon and Cole had watched it all in a state of bliss. The former was pumping his dick while Cole sucked on a cigar.
“You want to fuck that throat next?” Cole asked nonchalantly.
Gordon shook his head. “No. I can wait. I wanna rip that ass again. Fucker bruised me when he was going down and I am going to enjoy paying him back where it counts the most.” He moved closer and leaned a little over Greg, who was still in a state of panic. “You hear me, you fuck?! I'm going to make you wish you were never born.” He hocked up a wad of spit and aimed for Greg's mouth. He missed and the wet glob spattered across the victim's nose and eyes. Greg was still wincing and gurgling his protest when the second wad was launched—bulls-eye—right into his throat, which sent him into a new set of convulsions as it ricocheted into his trachea. The other men hooted at Gordon's success.
When Greg regained control of his breath, he just stared straight at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Cole grimaced. Greg was starting to check out. He expected more fight than this. If he couldn't get more fight, he was sure he could get more despair.
“Well, seems to me we gotta get those legs up and that cunt open again, which means we gotta get those nails out.” He turned back to the tool bench snapped on some safety glasses and lifted a jigsaw. “That ought to be easy enough.”
He started it and it gave a nasty whirr that made Greg turn. Through his tears, he couldn't make out what was being held, but he guessed by the sound, and as he stared at Cole as the towering killer approached, he got a better glimpse, then shut his eyes tight and began weeping again.
Cole smiled and turned it on and off a few more times. Greg's whole body was shivering and his mouth was pulled into a rictus that slowly cracked open, then shut while streaming a little drool. His head shot up and looked down the length of his battered body when Logan and Gordon knelt and lifted the plank by the ropes and set a block under the edge, giving Cole clearance to saw through the board. He rested the blade against the side and turned it on again briefly, send a flurry of sawdust into the air. Greg let out a sob, and then a scream as the saw came on again and he felt the vibrations, heat and dust around it as it sawed closer toward his left heel. The shriek that issued from him as the saw blended blood and flesh with splinters of wood could have stopped a lesser man's heart. The tendon was tough to cut through, but eventually it parted and the saw gave its own nasty shriek as it bit into the edge of the nail planted behind. Cole yanked the saw up and immediately went to the edge of the plank again. Greg's shrieks had momentarily become bellows again as the saw worked toward his lower calf. And then an intelligible “NoooooOOoooo!” as flesh ripped and parted (more easily than the tendon) and the blood spewed and ran down the sloping wood. Chunk! The saw hit metal and shut off. Cole yanked it out and stood while Logan and Gordon undid the rope around his legs, grabbed the leg and yanked at it in unison to pry it free of the plank.
The foot swung grotesquely around when the leg came up, dangling by ligaments and turning at odd angles now that it was dislocated from the calf. The bind they wrapped around it was against bone on one side. They squeezed it tight and attached it to a tether, keeping it pulled taut toward the ceiling and giving access to his ass once again. Cole kicked the block out the edge of the plank, letting it crash down onto the cement. Greg went blind with the pain as his leg was ripped further upward. It was as if flames were searing off his foot at the ankle, radiating a terrible heat through the upper leg, sending streams of hot blood along his thighs.
He had to look up again when he felt a man's weight on his right leg. It was Gordon. He was the one holding the nail gun now.
“Just gotta get those boy balls of yours out of the way.” He grabbed the drooping scrotum and pulled it by the skin so that it was taut over Greg's cock and groin. The two lumps of his testicles prominently bulged beneath a layer of hair. Greg's eyes bulged and his head shook like a paint mixer as the nail gun descended and was aimed into the balls.
“NooooAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUURK,” he projectile vomited a spray of bile across his own chest as the right nut was crushed and skewered, pinned into the base of his abdominals. He was heaving and convulsing still when the second nut got the same treatment. His ass was good and tight again thanks to this treatment, and Gordon wasted no time in handing off the gun to Logan and jamming his dick in again, forcing past the already torn ring of muscle, feeling it break open further and bathe him with a mix of hot fluids.
Gordon groaned and his eyes rolled back at the sensation. Part of him was worried that the nails had pushed all the way into Greg's rectum and he was going to tear up his own cock but, in fact, they had entered at angle keeping Gordon's cock safe from harm. It was lucky for Gordon, as even though he had his initial concerns, his fuck had turned frenzied almost immediately and he could have done harm to himself. This was, of course, all the more unlucky for Greg, who had to endure twenty minutes of being torn at the leg and ass before Gordon unloaded a second time that night. By the end, Gordon's crotch was matted with sticky blood from the various wounds channeling Greg's life fluid into that agonized meat of mangled cock and ass.
Greg was catatonic when Logan replaced Gordon and sank his own prong into the prolapsed and wounded hole. Logan was consciously stuffing Greg's meat back into his body for the first minute, just as an entertaining task, then went on fucking. The flesh stretched and churned like putty around Logan's cock. He tortured Greg's left leg to send waves of pain down to inspire feeble tremors of contraction that were still stimulating, albeit subtle.
It was all too subtle to Cole, though. Twenty minutes had passed and Greg had hardly reacted, let alone screamed in that time. He grabbed the nail gun again and knelt behind Greg's head.
Leaning over, he smiled and said, “You're boring me, Greeeeg.” He let a stream of drool flow down into the gaping mouth. It flexed to swallow, but otherwise Greg hardly flinched. Cole scowled and placed the nail gun in the center of Greg's sternum. He and Logan locked eyes, smirked. Chunk! Greg's body convulsed once and wheezed horribly as the chest muscles were traumatized back into action. That's not all, though.
“Oh, man, Cole. Do him again. That did wonders for his hole.”
Cole moved the gun a little further up. Chunk! Greg convulsed and inhaled with a horrible, wet wheeze, then began coughing. Specks of blood were starting to redden his teeth. He would potentially drown in his blood given time. But he was running out of time faster than that as these last convulsions milked Logan over the edge.
“FUCK YEA. AGAIN, FUCKER,” Logan roared as he came.
Cole had already moved the gun to Greg's forehead. Chunk! Greg's pupils dilated as he got a shiny, metal third eye. Logan was babbling in the throes of his orgasm. Even without further provocation, Cole stimulated the pair one last time, popping a nail into the front of Greg's cranium. It gave such a satisfying crunch to Cole's ears. To Greg, the crunch was like lightning splitting rocks off the face of a cliff, echoing through his spinning head.
“Let's put a bow on this one,” Cole growled. Greg's limbs were cold and shock was setting in. He would go comatose in a few minutes even without the aid of what Cole had in his other hand.
A wood mallet. Logan slid his blood gunked cock out of Greg's thoroughly demolished hole and slid away. Cole turned the mallet in his hands, brought it overhead and slammed it with all his might into Greg's gut. Even those magnificent abs couldn't fully damper a blow like that had they been flexed, but they were already weakened and unprepared, and organs were mushed on the first blow. The fourth split a kidney. The fifth and sixth each shattered a rib. Greg was spewing blood with every breath now. Blows seven and eight further mashed organs. Nine obliterated his skewered right testicle. Ten caved the stomach in fully.
All men were soaked in sweat, but Greg's was a cold sweat as he began the final slide into non-being. Cole straddled the ruined god and flicked his fingers to Gordon, who presented a ka-bar. Cole leaned back and put the point of the blade into the top center of Greg's perfect, concave abs, still pulsing shallowly. Greg's body had ceased to exist as he had always known it. It was know an indistinct ooze of pain gurgling around his mind, slowly oozing into a cold void, ebbing with each agonizing breath. But suddenly, there was a hot, pillar of flame in the midst of it, a blowtorch on his solar plexus, then retracting, leaving new ripples of pain, joining the radiant ache of nails embedded in his sternum. Cole slid over him and jabbed his cock into the wound, renewing that rippling pain, thrusting slowly but fully in and out. He could actually feel the lungs shudder and heave irregularly as they took evermore shallow breaths, expelling streams of blood from Greg's mouth as it gaped slack. The eyes were staring unseeing now. The green had turned brownish and hazy as capillaries had burst throughout the whites. Cole looked into them, lost track of the slacking lungs, but still felt the faintness of Greg's heart beating its last. Though it was just inches away from his cock, Cole's own heartbeat was what he felt throbbing into Greg's perfect, pierced chest, still beautifully sculpted though the life was draining from it as the killer cock plowed the air and blood out of it. In the dark pit of Greg's final awareness, he was conscious of a strong, rapid heartbeat within him—a sign that he was still there, still fighting even as the blood ceased to flow to his brain. It was Cole's heartbeat—a final deception—pulsing through the prong stabbing into him, and it was still resonating in his chest when his last awareness was plunged from freezing pain into nothingness.
It was as if Cole registered this subconsciously, this giving up of Greg's essence, for in a few breaths Cole was pumping his own essence into the gorgeous torso, still hot as an oven and ready to receive so much more seed.
Cole dismounted and ordered Logan to slice off the hands and feet so the body could be pulled from the plank. He watched the grey circle steam and spatter streaks of blood and flesh across the floor. He thought about leaving those streaks there and forcing the next victim to lick them up before they demolished him, but he also knew they would have to lay low and not pull another job too soon. The next one would have to be someone less obviously connected with them, too, though he was not worried about being a suspect in this case. He liked playing it safe. Still, the vision of Logan's sweaty, thick arms working the saw through Greg's bones was too much of a thrill to not re-enact sometime soon. He was ready to fuck again by the time Logan was passing the blade through Greg's suspended leg, letting it fall with a wet smack, followed shortly by the foot itself, which landed smack on the shattered remains of Greg's cock and balls. They all saw it happen and all let out a laugh at the same time.
Logan moved away to clean the blade and Cole and Gordon hefted the body up toward a table on Cole's command. Greg's face (now gaunt and still dark with the strain of screaming in death) lolled over the edge of it. Trickles of blood were congealing in his hair where they had streamed from embedded nails, and a fresh trickle spilled thin and watery from his mouth. Cole pulled the chin back to open the mouth a little wider before prodding the tongue with the tip of his cock, then sliding past it and planting all the way into the throat. As always, he felt a surge of pride and lust as he saw the neck bloat around the end of his dick. Logan and Gordon watched admiringly, too, as their lead man cleaned Greg's blood off of his dick by repeatedly swabbing it through the dead man's mouth.
The torso was turning purple in places from mallet-induced hemorrhaging, but it was still gorgeous. Cole thought of cutting it open, bathing his arms in the smashed intestines and liver, punching through to the spine and yanking it out with one snap. The vision was enough. He didn't need to execute it at this point, dealing with the stink of it all, not when Greg wasn't going to feel it. He wasn't even going to feel it when Cole seeded his lungs (this time from the inside) and that filled Cole with rage. The fucker had gotten off too easy. He started brutalizing the face with his thrusts and pounding with his fists on the chest. The other men watched in slight fear and awe as Cole rained blows with all his might and they heard ribs snap, saw the chest look like it caved in at points (only to bounce back). Cole was strong, but not that strong. And just as his arms started to cramp with exhaustion, his legs locked and he roared, unleashing a second torrent of cum into Greg's chest. Cole's mind was as white as the jizz, with blood red spots popping here and there. It was one of his most intense orgasms ever, and it was involuntary when he fell forward, planting his face against Greg's damp, warm belly. He licked the sweat and blood from it. Some of it was his own sweat—sweat from his ass, back and balls from when he had fucked Greg's chest earlier. The two were bonded in the most mortal, final way men could be bonded. He didn't romanticize it, but he felt it all the same.
He slowly lifted himself up and looked down at the body, then at Logan and Gordon, both grinning with a mad gleam in their eyes.
“Holy fucking shit,” Cole said breathlessly. “That was a good fuck.” He slowly extracted his dong, shivering still at the intense sensations coursing through him. A strand of jizz and mucus joined his cockhead to Greg's lungs. It quivered as Cole quivered. He took a step back and it snapped, leaving a pearly droplet on the tip of nose—still the centerpiece of a stunning face.
“Get him in the pit,” Cole said, and turned to get a cigar and light up. The others followed the orders. They would also do the clean up while Cole sat and smoked and pondered who his next target might be. Someone he knew? Not yet. Not this time. Fate would deliver something his way, that much he knew. He would need to take some time. After a fuck like that, one might have thought he would be satisfied. But no, he was now hungrier than ever to demolish another man.
Logan called out to him, “Definitely the prettiest fucker we've wasted. Even now.” He and Gordon were looking down at Greg's remains (some of which were still nailed to pieces of wood) mangled in a heap atop the other decaying bodies in the pit. They were almost reluctant to shovel the lime and dirt over him, but when they did, it had a ghostly beauty of its own.
Gordon muttered jokingly, “I wonder if he had a brother.”
Cole heard it. His gut churned. He began to sweat a little. 'If there is a brother,' Cole thought, 'I have my target.' He smiled, his dick hardened at the thought.
In a few days he would learn that Greg didn't just have a brother; he had a twin.
God-like Greg...that of course made him a prime target for a trio of rapists, but Cole was driven as well by Greg's indignant, attitude. He was disdainful of ex-cons like Cole and the rest. Something in his past had made him particularly judgmental of anything with a whiff of a criminal element, but his intuitions were more than right about his co-workers. And the more he trusted his instincts, the more he went from laconic to borderline rude with the others...and so the more he sealed his fate as their next mark. He was a good carpenter, and Cole couldn't wait to put a dozen nails in him. Then a dozen more. Then a dozen more.
That was how this was going to go down, but grabbing Greg for the show meant they were bound to suffer a few blows, maybe worse. Cole never underestimated a mark. He learned that when he was enforcer, seeing guys like himself get taken out by someone smaller when they got cocky. Sure, he had a few inches on Greg and he had Gordon and Logan, but he didn't want a brawl. He wanted Greg to go down fast and hard so there would be no delays or injuries when they dragged him into a van for the last ride he would take.
It turns out, a taser, a rag and a bottle of chloroform sufficed without inflicting any premature damage. Greg fell hard under the taser and would have put up a nasty fight had Gordon not bravely (stupidly) lunged in quickly with the rag and put him under as he was just standing up. All Gordon suffered was a bruise on the upper arm where Greg grabbed him and tried to tear him off in vain.
When Greg came to, they were still in the van, but he was gagged and hogtied. He started thrashing around before he even had fully assessed where he was. Logan was sitting in the back with him and was ready to put him under with another dose from the rag. He was half conscious as he was pushed through the tunnel to the kill room, still hogtied and on his side on a creaking cart.
Cole liked taking precautions with prey like this, and when done right this had the added benefit of making them feel powerless repeatedly. Cole enjoyed that immensely. When they were in the kill room and Greg was starting to come to his senses again, he did the honors of applying the rag, looking right into Greg's deep green eyes as he did, watching them droop beneath a choppy mop of stiff golden hair.
“Fuck, this is gonna be good,” Cole muttered.
They cut off the binds and all of Greg's clothes, revealing a physique that was so defined that it seemed coiled and ready to strike even in this slack state. They used metal cuffs to secure his wrists, which were then looped over a hook, hoisting Greg upwards, sagging with his legs splayed out beneath him. The legs were bound to separate winches. They cranked the right one until the right leg was parallel to the floor. His corrugated abdomen and grooved serratus muscles maintained their definition even as they stretched under his own weight. Greg's downcast, dozing head glowed golden in the dim light and dripped long, thin strands of drool after they put a spider gag tight around his head.
“It's like killing a god,” muttered Logan softly. The three killer's dicks grew stiffer at the thought.
Gordon applied some grease to the end of a hose while Logan inspected Greg's hole, whispering softly against it, “Can't wait to pop you open,” and gently nudging a finger in up to the knuckle. It was dank with sweat and very tight, but Greg stirred only the slightest bit as Logan pried just a little deeper then withdrew. He was already kneeling, so he accepted the hose from Gordon and fed it firmly into Greg's hole. Six inches were planted when he gave the signal to Gordon to turn on the water.
Almost immediately, a trickle started flowing down around the hose and Greg was alert, grunting around the metal that kept his mouth pried open. He swiveled his head around at first, just trying to assess his position, location, and why his limbs were stretched so oddly. He got his one free foot planted on the ground to take pressure off his wrists and hips, and in that moment he realized that someone was feeding a hose up his ass. He tried to turn his head around to see who was doing it and locked eyes with Cole, staring over his right shoulder with a wicked grin.
“Welcome to hell,” Cole said softly. Greg snarled and thrashed, and in response Logan started feeding more of the hose into him. Water was flowing freely down the left leg and the hose itself, having filled with rectum entirely and only feebly trickling up into the colon. Assisted by that pressure, Logan was soon able to force the hose into the colon itself. Greg threw his head back and moaned pitifully as he felt his innards breached and begin to fill with cold water. His abs were heaving wildly with his breaths and spasms from the cold fluid pressing them out slowly. The water pressure was high enough to bloat him with two gallons in a matter of minutes. His eyes rolled back and his legs trembled. Cole ran two hands along his solid flanks, still maintaining a sinewy definition as they bloated around the middle.
“Pull it out,” he commanded. Logan complied, yanking the hose out roughly in two strokes and standing aside for the inevitable blasts of water. Greg squirmed under Cole's touch and began to press the water out of himself. Tears and sweat flowed freely as he strained to pump out the water in great blasts, filling the room with the stink of his innards.
Cole got in front of him and clasped him in a crushing hold. He squeezed the breath out of Greg, along with more of the water. The victim gasped airlessly and looked upward at the ceiling. Cole withdrew and Greg wheezed and heaved, forcing more water out in little bursts as he struggled to breathe deeply. Logan was blasting the fetid water away with the hose, and when Greg seemed to have lost the drive to squeeze out more, he knelt down and looked at the hole, already puffy and red. Before Greg could react, the hose was plunged back inside. The bound body trembled as it was forced even deeper than before.
Greg was red-eyed and sobbing, looking down at his distending gut. His wrists were bruised and bleeding. He had lost feeling in his right leg, and his left leg was ready to collapse under the weight of the rest. A few times, he had tried to straighten it and then whip the handcuffs over the tip of the meat hook holding them overhead, but he couldn't maintain balance. Each time, his body crashed downward, only to be stopped by the metal slicing into his wrists. His audience would then laugh and remark how futile it all was. Even if he got free of the hook, where was he going next?
“Into the pit, pretty soon,” Cole remarked. Greg didn't hear or comprehend.
When the hose was yanked out and he tried to empty himself, bloated more precariously than before. The water was coming out mostly clear, and Gordon decided he could wait no longer.
“Mind if I start?” he asked the other two. They just smiled and shrugged. He stripped naked and padded up behind the victim as Logan continued to spray away the backwash from the floor. 7 inches long and 7.5 inches around, nestled in the sopping crack of Greg's spread ass. The heat of it smoldered against Greg's cold skin, and he panicked, screamed and arched his body forward. Gordon grabbed him by hips with both hands and slammed him back. The dick popped up into the small of Greg's back. Quickly, he grabbed his dick with one hand and Greg's stretched right leg with the other, aligned with the dripping hole and slammed home the whole dick to the root.
Greg had been loosened, but not that much—not nearly. He felt his asshole rip, felt a trickle of warm blood join the trickle of cool water down his thighs. He squealed in a way he hadn't since he had been a child, but his mind was clear of such memories. Only a searing pain filled his mind, burning up from his torn ass, through his distressed guts, shoulders and neck into his panicked brain.
Gordon immediately went into a brutal, moderately paced fuck intended to evoke a conscious submission. Greg wouldn't lose all his fight—no one wanted that—but he would know who was really in charge. The other two men undressed and dragged out the other implements of Greg's torturous death while Gordon reamed him for a good 10 minutes straight. By the end of it, Greg was screamed himself hoarse and had lost feeling in his hands. They would have to make sure the feeling returned, along with his screams.
Cole and Logan pushed a large heavy plank along the floor between Gordon's legs. Greg looked down and saw the end of it jutting out beneath him. He didn't like the look of it, though he had no idea what its use would be. He had a vague sense when he saw Logan slide two lengths of rope underneath it. Gordon knew what was coming, and the thought of it pushed him over the edge. He grabbed Greg in a bear hug, squeezing the air from his victim and screaming in his right ear as he dumped a thick load into Greg's torn ass.
“Fuck yea,” he said breathlessly. “Gonna have to dump another load in that cunt before this is over.” He ran his hands over the corrugated flesh of the bound man, feeling the heat of the body, and he shivered to think how it was soon to be cooling in the pit behind them.
All three men surrounded Greg when lifting his handcuffs off the meat hook. They were expecting a struggle, and they got one for a moment, before Gordon kicked his free leg out from under him and Greg crashed backwards onto the plank beneath him. Before he could even clear his vision of stars from landing on his head, Cole was roping his arms at the elbow just over his head and Logan was strapping the free leg down at the knee and ankle.
“Don't forget the other leg, dumbshit,” said Gordon in a cocky, post-coital glow.
“Why don't you help with it so I can, motherfucker?” snarled Logan. Cole paid no mind. He and Greg had locked eyes. Greg was seething, thinking of all the ways he would like to kill the lot of them. Cole was of a similar mind, regretting that you can only kill a man once, even a god-like one like Greg. He would just go down harder.
They couldn't really bind Greg securely in this state, as evidence by the way he arched and twisted his torso, slipping a bit beneath the binds when he wasn't held down—not nearly enough to escape, but enough to get him out of the position they wanted. It took Logan and Gordon both holding him down and gut punching him to keep him from wriggling too much. Cole made a brief round trip to a table where the next implement was lying ready. His bicep bulged as he lifted it and swaggered back to the others. Greg didn't notice him standing there are first, and it took him a moment to see in the poor light what Cole was holding, but when he figured it out, his eyes bulged and he screamed anew. The others laughed, including Cole, who then knelt at the top end of the plank, out of Greg's line of vision.
“This party is really about to get started,” he said, and pressed the nail gun down on Greg's right palm, who thrashed and, for the first time, began to plead incoherently around the gag in his mouth. Cole let the moment linger, waiting to see if Greg would stop fighting quickly. A minute passed and he was still thrashing. This was going to be good.
The first nail punched through flesh and wood, shattering little bones as it went. Greg went stiff then shrieked. Cole lifted the gun and smashed it down into Greg's other palm, waiting another moment before firing off the second nail. There wasn't much blood yet coming from the wounds, which pleased Cole as he wanted to inflict as much injury as possible before Greg bled out or went into shock.
Logan and Gordon came close to inspect and help steady the powerful arms now pinned to the plank in three places. Cole nudged the cuffs further down Greg's forearm and aimed the gun at the center of Greg's wrists, taking care to not put the next nail through a major vein. He pressed down and Greg was already wailing with renewed vigor before the nail went in. As it missed the bones, it was actually less painful than the first two, but this was cold comfort. The other wrist got the same treatment. Four fat metal nails protruded from his flesh, not flush with it as they were hitting concrete on the other side of the wood.
Cole stood and took a few steps and peered down at the legs bound beneath him. They were sculpted so beautifully, right down the the high arches of the quivering feet. He knelt down and pushed the left foot out, exposing the inner ankle. Gordon and Logan were rubbing and slapping Greg's body and face, crushing his nipples between their fingers and punching his gut. Greg hardly registered what Cole was doing until he felt the nail gun rest against his flesh. He tensed, ready to try to kick it away, but then it went off, planting a nail just behind his Achilles tendon, and then another just through the base of his calf. Still not too much blood. This could go on for a long time if done right, and that's why he was the one with the gun. He didn't trust the other two to not fuck it up.
“How ya feeling, Greg?” he asked. Just two more and we're gonna move on to the next phase. I'll bet you are so excited.” Cole ran his hand up Greg's right leg, over the ropes binding it just above the knee. “So glad you didn't skip leg day, man. These are beauties. Gonna be real nice taking them apart.” Cole leaned forward and took Greg's shriveled, mid-sized cock and balls in his hand and squeezed. “These, too.”
Greg started thrashing anew, but everyone could tell he was reaching a point of exhaustion. Without further delay, Cole gave the other leg the same treatment, sinking two nails into the base of his leg, then setting the nail gun aside.
“Time to fuck that throat of yours. Logan, get on it.”
Logan almost knocked Gordon on his ass as he immediately straddled Greg's head and let his dickhead nestle into the metal ring wedged into Greg's mouth. The tongue was flickering inside, enticing him further, as if Greg was hungry for it when in fact it was just a final, futile defense against intrusion. The ways that a man unwittingly invites his own ruin are sometimes subtle, sometimes laughably obvious, and indeed Logan did laugh as he plunged his club-like dick into the throat, then giggled as the flailing tongue bathed it in spit. The ring was only just wide enough to accommodate the rod, but the throat—the real prize—required force to push into. Unlike the ring, it naturally sought to shrink around him, to expel him, but in doing so only brought greater pain to Greg and greater pleasure to Logan. In essence, Greg's entire being, body and mind, had brought him to this demolition, and continued to justify it to the one's demolishing him.
Your usual throat-rape will hurt, of course, but because he was already dehydrated and raw from screaming, the heated pillar of flesh was literally tearing open his gullet. Greg felt like a blowtorch had been turned on in his throat each time Logan thrust the full length in, and as he could not breathe fully, the fire extended into his lungs. Beneath the silhouette of Logan's meaty ass pumping over his eyes (and the heft of Logan's balls crushing his nose) Greg's eyes bulged and reddened and pumped their own payload of tears. He had already cried more this night than he had in total over his entire adult life. His green eyes were changing color, darkening like his face as his mouth was reduced to a hot, dry, bleeding hole that served no purpose but to cause him pain, as much as it provided pleasure for the man fucking it. Even at the point of madness he had now reached, this much was evident to him.
Logan slowed his pumps to further suffocate Greg and prolong his pleasure, then drew out slowly, savoring every last convulsion until his dickhead was again bobbing against the swollen tongue. A quick, desperate intake of air coursed over the wet head, and Logan shivered and had to fight the urge to thrust back in as Greg fought for oxygen, but Logan knew that there was more to come and he let the cock fully emerge and slide over Greg's nose and cheeks as he stood to watch the agonized face and chest heave and sweat and regain its natural color as air was able to flow freely again into the still magnificent body.
Gordon and Cole had watched it all in a state of bliss. The former was pumping his dick while Cole sucked on a cigar.
“You want to fuck that throat next?” Cole asked nonchalantly.
Gordon shook his head. “No. I can wait. I wanna rip that ass again. Fucker bruised me when he was going down and I am going to enjoy paying him back where it counts the most.” He moved closer and leaned a little over Greg, who was still in a state of panic. “You hear me, you fuck?! I'm going to make you wish you were never born.” He hocked up a wad of spit and aimed for Greg's mouth. He missed and the wet glob spattered across the victim's nose and eyes. Greg was still wincing and gurgling his protest when the second wad was launched—bulls-eye—right into his throat, which sent him into a new set of convulsions as it ricocheted into his trachea. The other men hooted at Gordon's success.
When Greg regained control of his breath, he just stared straight at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Cole grimaced. Greg was starting to check out. He expected more fight than this. If he couldn't get more fight, he was sure he could get more despair.
“Well, seems to me we gotta get those legs up and that cunt open again, which means we gotta get those nails out.” He turned back to the tool bench snapped on some safety glasses and lifted a jigsaw. “That ought to be easy enough.”
He started it and it gave a nasty whirr that made Greg turn. Through his tears, he couldn't make out what was being held, but he guessed by the sound, and as he stared at Cole as the towering killer approached, he got a better glimpse, then shut his eyes tight and began weeping again.
Cole smiled and turned it on and off a few more times. Greg's whole body was shivering and his mouth was pulled into a rictus that slowly cracked open, then shut while streaming a little drool. His head shot up and looked down the length of his battered body when Logan and Gordon knelt and lifted the plank by the ropes and set a block under the edge, giving Cole clearance to saw through the board. He rested the blade against the side and turned it on again briefly, send a flurry of sawdust into the air. Greg let out a sob, and then a scream as the saw came on again and he felt the vibrations, heat and dust around it as it sawed closer toward his left heel. The shriek that issued from him as the saw blended blood and flesh with splinters of wood could have stopped a lesser man's heart. The tendon was tough to cut through, but eventually it parted and the saw gave its own nasty shriek as it bit into the edge of the nail planted behind. Cole yanked the saw up and immediately went to the edge of the plank again. Greg's shrieks had momentarily become bellows again as the saw worked toward his lower calf. And then an intelligible “NoooooOOoooo!” as flesh ripped and parted (more easily than the tendon) and the blood spewed and ran down the sloping wood. Chunk! The saw hit metal and shut off. Cole yanked it out and stood while Logan and Gordon undid the rope around his legs, grabbed the leg and yanked at it in unison to pry it free of the plank.
The foot swung grotesquely around when the leg came up, dangling by ligaments and turning at odd angles now that it was dislocated from the calf. The bind they wrapped around it was against bone on one side. They squeezed it tight and attached it to a tether, keeping it pulled taut toward the ceiling and giving access to his ass once again. Cole kicked the block out the edge of the plank, letting it crash down onto the cement. Greg went blind with the pain as his leg was ripped further upward. It was as if flames were searing off his foot at the ankle, radiating a terrible heat through the upper leg, sending streams of hot blood along his thighs.
He had to look up again when he felt a man's weight on his right leg. It was Gordon. He was the one holding the nail gun now.
“Just gotta get those boy balls of yours out of the way.” He grabbed the drooping scrotum and pulled it by the skin so that it was taut over Greg's cock and groin. The two lumps of his testicles prominently bulged beneath a layer of hair. Greg's eyes bulged and his head shook like a paint mixer as the nail gun descended and was aimed into the balls.
“NooooAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUURK,” he projectile vomited a spray of bile across his own chest as the right nut was crushed and skewered, pinned into the base of his abdominals. He was heaving and convulsing still when the second nut got the same treatment. His ass was good and tight again thanks to this treatment, and Gordon wasted no time in handing off the gun to Logan and jamming his dick in again, forcing past the already torn ring of muscle, feeling it break open further and bathe him with a mix of hot fluids.
Gordon groaned and his eyes rolled back at the sensation. Part of him was worried that the nails had pushed all the way into Greg's rectum and he was going to tear up his own cock but, in fact, they had entered at angle keeping Gordon's cock safe from harm. It was lucky for Gordon, as even though he had his initial concerns, his fuck had turned frenzied almost immediately and he could have done harm to himself. This was, of course, all the more unlucky for Greg, who had to endure twenty minutes of being torn at the leg and ass before Gordon unloaded a second time that night. By the end, Gordon's crotch was matted with sticky blood from the various wounds channeling Greg's life fluid into that agonized meat of mangled cock and ass.
Greg was catatonic when Logan replaced Gordon and sank his own prong into the prolapsed and wounded hole. Logan was consciously stuffing Greg's meat back into his body for the first minute, just as an entertaining task, then went on fucking. The flesh stretched and churned like putty around Logan's cock. He tortured Greg's left leg to send waves of pain down to inspire feeble tremors of contraction that were still stimulating, albeit subtle.
It was all too subtle to Cole, though. Twenty minutes had passed and Greg had hardly reacted, let alone screamed in that time. He grabbed the nail gun again and knelt behind Greg's head.
Leaning over, he smiled and said, “You're boring me, Greeeeg.” He let a stream of drool flow down into the gaping mouth. It flexed to swallow, but otherwise Greg hardly flinched. Cole scowled and placed the nail gun in the center of Greg's sternum. He and Logan locked eyes, smirked. Chunk! Greg's body convulsed once and wheezed horribly as the chest muscles were traumatized back into action. That's not all, though.
“Oh, man, Cole. Do him again. That did wonders for his hole.”
Cole moved the gun a little further up. Chunk! Greg convulsed and inhaled with a horrible, wet wheeze, then began coughing. Specks of blood were starting to redden his teeth. He would potentially drown in his blood given time. But he was running out of time faster than that as these last convulsions milked Logan over the edge.
“FUCK YEA. AGAIN, FUCKER,” Logan roared as he came.
Cole had already moved the gun to Greg's forehead. Chunk! Greg's pupils dilated as he got a shiny, metal third eye. Logan was babbling in the throes of his orgasm. Even without further provocation, Cole stimulated the pair one last time, popping a nail into the front of Greg's cranium. It gave such a satisfying crunch to Cole's ears. To Greg, the crunch was like lightning splitting rocks off the face of a cliff, echoing through his spinning head.
“Let's put a bow on this one,” Cole growled. Greg's limbs were cold and shock was setting in. He would go comatose in a few minutes even without the aid of what Cole had in his other hand.
A wood mallet. Logan slid his blood gunked cock out of Greg's thoroughly demolished hole and slid away. Cole turned the mallet in his hands, brought it overhead and slammed it with all his might into Greg's gut. Even those magnificent abs couldn't fully damper a blow like that had they been flexed, but they were already weakened and unprepared, and organs were mushed on the first blow. The fourth split a kidney. The fifth and sixth each shattered a rib. Greg was spewing blood with every breath now. Blows seven and eight further mashed organs. Nine obliterated his skewered right testicle. Ten caved the stomach in fully.
All men were soaked in sweat, but Greg's was a cold sweat as he began the final slide into non-being. Cole straddled the ruined god and flicked his fingers to Gordon, who presented a ka-bar. Cole leaned back and put the point of the blade into the top center of Greg's perfect, concave abs, still pulsing shallowly. Greg's body had ceased to exist as he had always known it. It was know an indistinct ooze of pain gurgling around his mind, slowly oozing into a cold void, ebbing with each agonizing breath. But suddenly, there was a hot, pillar of flame in the midst of it, a blowtorch on his solar plexus, then retracting, leaving new ripples of pain, joining the radiant ache of nails embedded in his sternum. Cole slid over him and jabbed his cock into the wound, renewing that rippling pain, thrusting slowly but fully in and out. He could actually feel the lungs shudder and heave irregularly as they took evermore shallow breaths, expelling streams of blood from Greg's mouth as it gaped slack. The eyes were staring unseeing now. The green had turned brownish and hazy as capillaries had burst throughout the whites. Cole looked into them, lost track of the slacking lungs, but still felt the faintness of Greg's heart beating its last. Though it was just inches away from his cock, Cole's own heartbeat was what he felt throbbing into Greg's perfect, pierced chest, still beautifully sculpted though the life was draining from it as the killer cock plowed the air and blood out of it. In the dark pit of Greg's final awareness, he was conscious of a strong, rapid heartbeat within him—a sign that he was still there, still fighting even as the blood ceased to flow to his brain. It was Cole's heartbeat—a final deception—pulsing through the prong stabbing into him, and it was still resonating in his chest when his last awareness was plunged from freezing pain into nothingness.
It was as if Cole registered this subconsciously, this giving up of Greg's essence, for in a few breaths Cole was pumping his own essence into the gorgeous torso, still hot as an oven and ready to receive so much more seed.
Cole dismounted and ordered Logan to slice off the hands and feet so the body could be pulled from the plank. He watched the grey circle steam and spatter streaks of blood and flesh across the floor. He thought about leaving those streaks there and forcing the next victim to lick them up before they demolished him, but he also knew they would have to lay low and not pull another job too soon. The next one would have to be someone less obviously connected with them, too, though he was not worried about being a suspect in this case. He liked playing it safe. Still, the vision of Logan's sweaty, thick arms working the saw through Greg's bones was too much of a thrill to not re-enact sometime soon. He was ready to fuck again by the time Logan was passing the blade through Greg's suspended leg, letting it fall with a wet smack, followed shortly by the foot itself, which landed smack on the shattered remains of Greg's cock and balls. They all saw it happen and all let out a laugh at the same time.
Logan moved away to clean the blade and Cole and Gordon hefted the body up toward a table on Cole's command. Greg's face (now gaunt and still dark with the strain of screaming in death) lolled over the edge of it. Trickles of blood were congealing in his hair where they had streamed from embedded nails, and a fresh trickle spilled thin and watery from his mouth. Cole pulled the chin back to open the mouth a little wider before prodding the tongue with the tip of his cock, then sliding past it and planting all the way into the throat. As always, he felt a surge of pride and lust as he saw the neck bloat around the end of his dick. Logan and Gordon watched admiringly, too, as their lead man cleaned Greg's blood off of his dick by repeatedly swabbing it through the dead man's mouth.
The torso was turning purple in places from mallet-induced hemorrhaging, but it was still gorgeous. Cole thought of cutting it open, bathing his arms in the smashed intestines and liver, punching through to the spine and yanking it out with one snap. The vision was enough. He didn't need to execute it at this point, dealing with the stink of it all, not when Greg wasn't going to feel it. He wasn't even going to feel it when Cole seeded his lungs (this time from the inside) and that filled Cole with rage. The fucker had gotten off too easy. He started brutalizing the face with his thrusts and pounding with his fists on the chest. The other men watched in slight fear and awe as Cole rained blows with all his might and they heard ribs snap, saw the chest look like it caved in at points (only to bounce back). Cole was strong, but not that strong. And just as his arms started to cramp with exhaustion, his legs locked and he roared, unleashing a second torrent of cum into Greg's chest. Cole's mind was as white as the jizz, with blood red spots popping here and there. It was one of his most intense orgasms ever, and it was involuntary when he fell forward, planting his face against Greg's damp, warm belly. He licked the sweat and blood from it. Some of it was his own sweat—sweat from his ass, back and balls from when he had fucked Greg's chest earlier. The two were bonded in the most mortal, final way men could be bonded. He didn't romanticize it, but he felt it all the same.
He slowly lifted himself up and looked down at the body, then at Logan and Gordon, both grinning with a mad gleam in their eyes.
“Holy fucking shit,” Cole said breathlessly. “That was a good fuck.” He slowly extracted his dong, shivering still at the intense sensations coursing through him. A strand of jizz and mucus joined his cockhead to Greg's lungs. It quivered as Cole quivered. He took a step back and it snapped, leaving a pearly droplet on the tip of nose—still the centerpiece of a stunning face.
“Get him in the pit,” Cole said, and turned to get a cigar and light up. The others followed the orders. They would also do the clean up while Cole sat and smoked and pondered who his next target might be. Someone he knew? Not yet. Not this time. Fate would deliver something his way, that much he knew. He would need to take some time. After a fuck like that, one might have thought he would be satisfied. But no, he was now hungrier than ever to demolish another man.
Logan called out to him, “Definitely the prettiest fucker we've wasted. Even now.” He and Gordon were looking down at Greg's remains (some of which were still nailed to pieces of wood) mangled in a heap atop the other decaying bodies in the pit. They were almost reluctant to shovel the lime and dirt over him, but when they did, it had a ghostly beauty of its own.
Gordon muttered jokingly, “I wonder if he had a brother.”
Cole heard it. His gut churned. He began to sweat a little. 'If there is a brother,' Cole thought, 'I have my target.' He smiled, his dick hardened at the thought.
In a few days he would learn that Greg didn't just have a brother; he had a twin.
