Trucker Continued (from m3m1)

Sweet! Trucker never lets me down.
 
dam I wish I was the kid that got killed
 
Oh wow. Amazing read. Loved the interludes, and wondering what the trooper would have gotten up to if he hadn't caught the trucker.
 
Ok, so this next one is gonna be kinda long and it's gonna take me a while to finish--so here's part one. Trucker vs Trooper. Also at m3mayhem.wordpress.com.
 
Trucker 5.1--Trucker v Trooper, part 1.

It was trouble, of course; the Trucker was intelligent enough to realize that right away.

If nothing else, the timing would have told him that. Not very likely that it’d be a coincidence that someone was banging at the door minutes after he’d wasted a bitch. He wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone but he was cold-blooded enough that it didn’t worry him much. But after dragging the twitching corpse into the bathroom, the Trucker had stripped—he’d wanted to clean himself off before hoisting the body into the tub, since he planned to leave it in there when he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving the shower running. He strode towards the door, totally nude, his dick still erect, jutting out in front of him, thick and purple. With the shower running behind the closed bathroom door, he could say he’d just had sex and the slut was cleaning up.

After all, with the door closed, the corpse on the bathroom floor couldn’t be seen.

And the Trucker decided he wanted to answer the door nude. He was well aware of his imposing physique and the impression it made on others. A little intimidation always came in handy in a situation like this.

And while he hadn’t been caught with a raped and murdered boy in a motel room before, he’d had some close calls. That last kid he’d done on his prior route, the one before the Marine. His older brother had walked in before he was finished. And then—

The Trucker grinned at the memory as he worked the locks on the door, only slightly aware that his reminiscences had made his cock start oozing precum again.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t a gun.

The man holding it was familiar. And a cop—a trooper…it clicked. That cunt he’d picked up on the side of the road; the one he’d tossed in a ditch like the garbage he was—this was the cop that had come up to his truck while he was snuffing the faggot.

For the first time in his life, the Trucker was genuinely caught off guard. He was careful and very, very good at what he did. He was truly stunned to find that he’d been traced like this.

The Trooper, for his part, was just as stunned. With his sidearm out and at the ready, he’d started in gleeful ecstasy, recognizing the face of the man he’d hunted for so long. But as he turned his attention downward and took in the Trucker’s body, glistening with sweat from his recent exertions, he was subsumed in a rising tide of lust. And that huge dripping shaft dangling out in front…

The Trucker saw the Trooper’s gaze slide down his body; he also notice the tentpole rising in the crotch of the tight khaki slacks the Trooper was wearing. The young cop looked back up into the Trucker’s face—he was about four inches shorter than the older man—his eyes glittering with desire.

“Get back in that room, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Quiet and slow, asshole. I can put a hole the size of my fist in your guts and claim self-defense and ain’t no one in this part of the state gonna question it, so move. NOW.” He motioned with the large nickel-plated handgun—it looked like a .45.

As the Trucker carefully stepped backward into the room, he felt every predatory sense he possessed as a hunter engage. He knew that his life was in danger, but there was more going on here.

The Trooper entered the room at the same snail’s pace with which the Trucker backed away. Once he was fully inside the room, he kicked back, his high black leather boot connecting with the door and swinging it shut, the automatic lock engaging with a loud click.

The deathly silence that enveloped the room belied the vortex of manscent and testosterone that swirled as two expert killers sized up each other.

The Trooper slowly circled to the left, inching towards the bathroom with a careful sidestep motion. He stood directly in front of the door and reached behind him to grab the doorknob, never removing his eyes—or the barrel of the gun—from the Trucker until he got the door open. Then he took a quick glance into the steam-filled room, but the gun never wavered.

His head was turned for only a split second and the Trucker was too far away to reach him in that time. He didn’t even try. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking for some weak spot to attack. He was in deep shit; that was obvious. And yet, somehow, the thought of arrest never crossed his mind. That wasn’t the point here, and he knew it.

If he hadn’t, the look on the Trooper’s face as he turned back would have been a good clue. The salacious grin, the evil leer twisting his young, handsome face, were the first hint; the swift enlargement of the bulge in his groin was the second. The cop must be hung like a horse. A well-hung horse, at that.

The Trooper chuckled. “Damn, dude, ya did a good job on him. Not as good as the last one, but better than the others.”

There was a short pause, then the Trucker replied with a brief question. “How long?”

“I found your first boytoy where ya dropped him off—in that gully. Or was he the first? Where’d ya get those dogtags, asswipe? You in the military? Doubt it. But I do remember an alert about a Marine got himself raped and strangled several days ago.”

The Trucker glanced guardedly at the Trooper’s ice-blue eyes. “Fine. So how’d ya find me here?”

The Trooper smirked at the older man, ogling him as he spoke. “I’m a good cop, and you were sloppy. You left evidence and witnesses.”

“Evidence? Witness—that little weasel fucker. That worthless little cocksucking faggot, I’m gonna—“

“What you’re gonna do, jackoff, is get over there against the radiator,” snapped the Trooper. “Move it, motherfucker!”

The Trucker moved back to the radiator in the far corner of the room, on the far side of the nightstand, as the young man approached, reaching down to open a pocket on his duty belt and slip out a pair of handcuffs.

The Trooper pressed forward, forcing the Trucker up against the wall. Standing face to face with the older man, he had to look slightly up, the four-inch height differential forced him to look slightly upwards. But he wasn't too short to jam the muzzle of the handgun painfully against the Trucker's temple...

At this close range, the Trucker could see that his buzz-cut hair had a reddish tint and the five o’clock shadow starting to darken his smooth cheeks was red-gold. His blue eyes were colder than ice; they glittered like chips of quartz.

It was unmistakable. The Trucker had seen it dozens of times before. They were glittering with lust.

Before he’d had the chance to process this information, the Trooper had whipped out the cuffs and bound him to the radiator with the swiftness of a well-practiced maneuver.

Then the cop backed towards the bed. Setting his gun down on the disheveled, semen-soaked sheets, he slowly began unbuttoning his short-sleeve khaki dress shirt. He slipped it off, revealing his simple white cotton t-shirt tucked into his trousers. It stretched so tightly over his broad pecs that his large nipples stood out far enough to cast small shadows.

The Trucker stood still, trying to decide how to deal with the situation. He knew better than to show emotion; he was a master of using a chink in emotional armor to break his victim’s spirit. And that, more than anything else, was what gave him pause. He was facing someone who might be his equal.

Not all of his prey were twinks; he’d offed some pretty strong dudes. But they were sluts and whores, taken by surprise. He might get the jump momentarily on this guy, but the cop would be quick to react.

Had he killed before? That was the question the Trucker had to figure out. In a struggle to the death, there are certain factors to take into account. There are unexpected movements from the dying pig, unexpected urges and desires in the killer…

If the hot young stud slowly stripping in front of him hadn’t killed, the Trucker still had an advantage. But if he was an experienced predator, this could be bad.

Very, very bad.

The Trooper sat gingerly on the bed, avoiding the wet spots. Crossing his legs, one at a time, he pulled off his high, glossy leather boots and set them at the foot of the bed. Standing back up, he slowly unbuckled his dress belt and unfastened his pants, leaving his duty belt still clasped. He glanced down as he did so, but after confirming that the slacks still clung to his hips, almost immediately turned his flinty eyes up to leer at the Trucker.

Despite his resolve, the Trucker was unable to prevent the obvious swelling of his tool, the increased amount of precum bubbling out of his thick purple head. The Trooper’s expression of malicious triumph was as maddening as his body was mesmerizing; it was as if his personality changed to match the look on his face.

The cop’s lascivious grin gave his handsome, almost model-worthy face an impish look. When he broke eye contact to unfasten the catch on his duty belt, though, his face fell back into an unpleasant arrogant expression.

The younger man placed his duty belt on the nightstand but the weight of the baton threw it off balance and it slid to the floor. With a muttered curse, the hard-bodied rogue lawman reached down and unsnapped the loop that held the two-foot aluminum baton in place. He kicked out with his foot, his white sock bright against the black side handle, shoving the weapon away from him (although no closer to the Trucker). Snatching up the belt, he tossed it back onto the nightstand, where it landed loudly—there were several more items still in it. The Trucker could see a small container of pepper spray and another pair of cuffs, among other things.

The Trooper dropped his pants and immediately gathered up his uniform, carefully folding both shirt and slacks before laying them on the dresser.

As he moved, his firm, muscular body flexed in his t-shirt, gray boxers and calf-high white athletic socks. His bulging thighs and biceps were smooth, but his forearms and calves shimmered with a faint reddish-gold haze from a light furry fuzz. Almost irrelevantly, the Trucker noticed the sharp, defined line where the cop’s buzz-cut hair ended on the back of his head.

Turning towards his captive, the Trooper smiled sardonically in acknowledgement of the effect he was having on the older man. He executed a sort of strip-tease, peeling the t-shirt off his sculpted torso and slowly sliding the boxers down his thick legs, revealing a thick, dripping tube of flesh that nearly equaled the Trucker’s own in size, hanging semi-limply from a bushy mass of strawberry-blond curls.

The Trooper stood with his legs spread, nude except for the socks up his calves, grinning at the Trucker. “Like what ya see, asshole? Bet ya do, you fuckin’ psycho faggot.” He twisted to the left, snatching his huge .45 off the bed before advancing on his prisoner.

He was good. The Trucker hadn’t seen him palm the key to the cuffs. The younger man had almost managed to get them unlocked before the Trucker caught on. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—the Trooper needed both hands to work the key. He never let go of the gun, using his thumb and the last two fingers to brace the cuff itself, but the barrel was no longer pointed right at the Trucker.

That was when the cuffs popped open, freeing the older man’s hand. The Trucker was just as calm and cold as the cop, still in control despite his lust. His wits were about him, enough, at least, to take advantage of this momentary break.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun out of the young cop’s hand; it clattered on top of the table in front of the window, skittering across the surface before sliding off into the corner behind the chair.

Both men stared at the corner, processing the fact that the weapon was out of the immediate reach of both. Then they looked at each other, each sizing up the other in the realization that this was going to be a fight to the death.

But death, when it came for the loser, would be a welcome relief, a blessed escape from agony and humiliation.

Two well-built, muscular men regarded each other in full awareness that only one of them was going to leave the room alive. And the one that didn’t was going to suffer a brutal rape and unimaginable torture.

Each one kept a razor-sharp eye contact with the other, seeking any sign, any signal of a weak spot. They circled slowly, unconsciously moving clockwise—the space between the bed and the wall just barely big enough for them to remain out of arm’s reach while doing so.

They lunged simultaneously.

They struggled in silence at first, a silence fraught with desperate tension and lust, a silence punctuated by deep grunts of physical exertion as they grappled. The Trucker’s hands were clenched around the Trooper’s bulging, flexing biceps as he tried to force him back. The younger man was doing the same with his hands placed on his adversary’s forearms, just below the elbow.

They circled again, tightly gripped in each other’s arms. When they made eye contact, they were only inches apart; the expressions of contemptuous lust was obvious. An impartial observer might have thought of Greco-Roman wrestling—except that both of these guys were so hard they were swordfighting, their cocks slapping together as they manhandled each other.

Then the Trooper twisted in the Trucker’s arms. Before the older man could react, the cop jerked his leg in a swift sidesweep and knocked his adversary’s feet out from under him. The Trucker hit the floor on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could get it back, the solidly-muscled younger man threw himself down hard on top of him.

Now the Trucker had no air at all. As he fought to breathe, he saw the cop’s balled fist draw back and he knew it was aimed at his face.

Damned if he was gonna let it land there.

The Trooper released his roundhouse piledriver—back in the Academy, he’d knocked a combat instructor out cold with this move—expecting to end the battle. But the older man managed to get his hand up and deflect the blow. The Trooper had put too much force into it and overbalanced himself, falling forward onto the Trucker.

The Trucker had a snapshot visual of the scene: the rogue cop was lying face-down on top of him, his head next to the Trucker’s on the right side. His neck would have been directly on the Trucker’s neck if his right arm—the one he’d used to throw the punch—wasn’t between them.

He certainly wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. Wrapping a thick, muscular arm around the younger man’s neck, the Trucker applied as much pressure as he could.

It took a moment for the Trooper to realize the change in power structure. His first thought was to regain control, so he pushed back up off the predator. Well aware of the danger he was in, he felt a twinge of fear when he heard the older man gasp. It meant he was getting his air—and his wits—back.

And right now he had control over the Trooper. He was larger, too. This wasn’t just dangerous, this was deadly. He needed to keep calm and find a way out.

By twisting his head to one side, the Trooper managed to find a space in the crook of the Trucker’s arm where he could free his windpipe enough to inhale slight amounts of air.

The gun was on the far side of the Trucker. The Trooper lunged in the other direction, trying to reach his duty belt, even if he had to physically drag the larger man with him. He was strong enough to do it.

Scrabbling desperately at the carpet, the Trooper inched his way forward. The Trucker felt the younger man’s hard body twisting and struggling in his arms. Glancing up, he realized the cop’s fingers had come within reach of the baton.

The weapon would tip the balance of power back into the Trooper’s favor. They both knew it, and both reacted accordingly. The Trooper was able to grasp the side handle and actually pick up the baton. The Trucker drew his leg up under himself and pushed up, physically lifting both of them off the floor. As he gained his feet, he managed to keep the cop off his.

Fighting for balance, the Trooper was unable to aim his blows. He swung the baton forcefully but wildly. A couple of random blows struck the Trucker—not seriously, but painfully on the shoulder and across the chest.

Enraged, the Trucker grabbed at the baton, but the Trooper was swinging it too erratically. It was clear to the older man that he needed to disable his opponent as soon as possible or he would be in serious shit.

His strong, bulging arm was still wrapped around the Trooper’s neck. The Trucker twisted violently to the side and bent down, forcing the younger man to bend at the waist as well.

Drawing back his free arm, the Trucker began slamming his fist into the Trooper’s handsome face, repeatedly driving blow after brutal blow into the dazed cop’s face.

The Trooper was in pain and afraid—quite possibly for the first time in his life. His position of authority cowed most of the guys he’d come up against, and he’d been stronger and faster than the remaining few, overpowering them quickly.

This—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He flailed with the baton, frantically trying to land a blow on his assailant while his face was being beaten to hamburger.

The Trucker had had enough. He spun the young man around so he stood, stunned and swaying, facing him. Looping his arm back, he pounded his fist with full force into the Trooper’s jaw, sending the cop flying backwards. He hit he bed and flipped over onto his back, losing his hold on the baton.

But the Trooper wasn’t out. Despite the pain in his swelling face, his training kicked in. Bringing his feet up and twisting slightly to the right, he managed to roll off the foot of the bed, putting some space between himself and the Trucker—a brief respite that wouldn’t last long, but might last long enough. He was young and strong and could recover quickly.

Shifting his balance quickly, like a feral cat, the lithe, muscular cop crouched at the foot of the bed. Noticing that the baton was on the floor not far away, he moved his arm towards it—slowly, so he wouldn’t alert the Trucker, who couldn’t see the baton from where he was standing.

Just as his fingers grasped the handle, the Trucker lunged. The younger stud leaped up from his crouching position, swinging the weapon and hoping to blindside his opponent. He did—not as completely as he’d hoped; he’d been hoping to go upside the psycho fucker’s head, but the hard-bodied older man turned slightly at the last moment and took the aluminum baton hard across the thick bicep of his dominant arm.

The Trooper had put a lot of energy in the blow—if he’d hit the dead twink in the bathroom that hard, he’d have shattered the bone. He didn’t come anywhere near close to doing that to the Trucker, but it was still a stunning, painful blow.

The Trucker was thrown off his game for a moment—and again, the younger man was able to use that brief pause to his advantage. Swiftly slipping behind the momentarily disabled man, the Trooper swung the baton out horizontally in front of the Trucker at neck level before catching the far end in the crook of his other elbow.

He immediately started to squeeze, garroting the older man with the shaft. The Trucker knew instantly what was happening. The little punk cop was trying to choke him into submission. He wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet—just weaken him to the point where he would be unable to resist whatever the Trooper wanted to do to him.

And he knew what the Trooper would do to him. It was the same thing he’d do to the younger man if he could manage to take him down.

Humiliating, nightmarish torture and rape preceding an agonizingly slow death.

The Trucker fought it. The crushing pain in his throat increased as he struggled harder, feeling the Trooper’s hard smooth chest tightly pressed against his back. Jerking his head back, his cheek brushed that of his assailant, his dark scruff scraping against the cop’s golden fuzz.

His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to dim—and again, he knew exactly what was happening. It wasn’t gonna happen to him, goddammit. This fucking cocksucker wasn’t gonna fuck him.

He twisted violently to the left, then abruptly reversed course, throwing himself back with his elbow out and jamming it into the Trooper’s abdomen. The younger man’s belly was smooth, firm, and flat, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist the brutal blow. With a loud, breathy grunt, the cop dropped the baton.

Both men fell gasping to their knees, the Trucker’s hand at his throat as he, starved for oxygen, inhaled greedily. Next to him—within arm’s reach, in fact—the Trooper was doubled up, his forehead almost touching the floor. In his crouching position, his calves bulged in the tight white tube socks.

Out of the corner of his right eye, the Trucker caught sight of the cop’s duty belt still lying on top of the nightstand. Forcing his bruised windpipe to relax and open, he gasped loudly and dove for the webbed tactical belt—there were things he could use on it. At the last second, the Trooper, alerted by the sound, noticed the Trucker’s lunge and willed himself upright to block his opponent.

They both got their hands on the belt simultaneously. Their eyes met for a moment; the pause could only have lasted a fraction of a second but the electric sexual tension between the nude muscular men crackled almost audibly. The flinty blue eyes of the younger man gleamed with rage, fear and lust—or were those reflections from the Trucker’s equally icy glare? It was impossible to tell, both muscular bodies, heaving with exertion and slick with sweat, exuded testosterone and manscent in a fog of hate-fueled lust.

The Trooper was younger, and that was to his advantage. He had slightly more energy and slightly faster reflexes.

What he didn’t have was experience. He’d killed before—the Trucker had figured that out by now—but not often. He’d probably taken out a few rentboys and drug addicts, youthful offenders who didn’t expect a sexual assault from that angle and were utterly unable to resist in any case, given the overpowering might of weapons the Trooper carried.

He wasn’t used to a battle for his life, and he was afraid. The Trucker was afraid, too; he knew exactly what was at stake. But the Trucker had enough control over himself to deal with the fear and move on. The Trooper got careless. In his panic, he telegraphed his moves with his eyes, glancing down at his arm before swinging it at the Trucker.

The older man took the hint and used it. As the blond youth, hair dark with sweat, jerked his fist at the Trucker’s face, the hard killer pulled his head back and brought his hand up against the Trooper’s head, hard, fast and strong.

Before the young cop knew what was happening, the Trucker had slammed his head down on the nightstand, completely stunning the hard-bodied youth. The Trooper grunted in pain, disoriented by the blow. The Trucker grabbed the duty belt and quickly began fumbling at the catch of the strap holding the pepper spray.

Suddenly, the belt was jerked out of his hands. Groaning audibly, the Trooper had managed to snatch the dangling end of the belt. Clinging to it, he fell to his knees, using his weight to yank it away from his assailant.

The Trucker looked down at the cop who swayed woozily on his knees. The cop looked wearily up at him and broke into a weary smile—and the Trucker noticed the punk had managed to get the pepper spray out.

There was no time to think. Again, the Trucker’s experience—aided by his reflexes and strength—held the advantage. He literally fell on the boy, his left knee striking the Trooper’s right arm hard enough to knock the pepper spray loose. The small canister rolled out of reach under the bed. At the same time, the older man grasped the killer cop’s head with both hands, slamming the psycho stud into the nightstand laterally. The blond muscled youth slumped unconscious to the floor.

The battle was over. Time for the games to begin.

The Trucker took a few moments to recover. He was a hard, strong man but this kid had been nearly his physical equal. He’d almost been beat. He’d almost been the meat. This fucker—this goddam cocksucking motherfucker!

The rage boiled over in him; he vented it by spitting on the cop’s head as the younger man lolled limply on the floor. The Trucker kicked the punk’s head, knocking it to one side. As he ground the sole of his foot into the slack face of the senseless youth, his cock began to swell and throb.

“Stupid piece of shit, thought you were gonna fuck me?” he hissed in a vindictive whisper. ”Oh fuck, dude, I got a first-class reservation in hell for you. Let’s get ya ready for the trip.”


Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the Trooper’s limp form under the arms and manhandled the firm, sweat-slicked body onto the bed. The older man’s rigid shaft pressed against the firm insensate torso, leaving a snail-like trail of clear precum across the inert cop’s smooth skin. He dropped the punk on his back on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

The duty belt was still on the floor. Retrieving it, the Trucker unsnapped the pocket holding the backup cuffs. He didn’t know where the key was, and he didn’t care. And by the time he was done, the Trooper would be long past caring whether his hands were cuffed or not.

Before then, however—remembering the fight the Trooper put up, the Trucker made sure his hands were firmly cuffed to each other around the tarnished faux-brass headboard. The cop lay splayed out, a muscular blond god bound for sacrifice.

The older man sneered down at his captive. “You fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” he jeered, “yer gonna wake up to your worst nightmare.” Placing his large strong hands on the youth’s firm but supine form, the Trucker slowly caressed the hard, smooth chest. Sliding his hands down the sweaty flat stomach, he curled his fingers in the golden nest of pubes at the base of the Trooper long, flaccid shaft.

Digging his hands into the short wiry mass of hair, the Trucker sneered and yanked, hard. The punk cop was still out cold, but even in his unconsciousness, his thick cock jerked and throbbed. The older man, with his greater experience, knew what that meant. His malicious grin widened in anticipation. This psycho fucking cunt was into pain, all right—both giving and getting.

Well, good. Maybe tonight wasn’t gonna to be a total loss for him, the Trucker thought. Although, he had to admit, the well-built youth himself was gonna be a total loss. More precum dripped out of his pulsing dick.

Regaining some control, he continued fondling the cop’s body, running his hands down the thickly-muscled legs to the calves, where smooth skin gave way to the white tube socks just below the knee. Suddenly, the handsome blond shuddered and moaned, his eyelids fluttering as awareness began painfully to return.

“Welcome back, you sick fucking bastard,” the Trucker jeered, “ya ready for some fun? C’mon, fuckmeat, wakey, wakey. I wanna hear ya scream.” Rearing back his large hand, he bitchslapped the helpless youth, his palm leaving a large red imprint on the cop’s cheek.

The younger man blinked blearily and stared at the Trucker, his face a smooth dazed mask. As his memory returned, the color drained out of his face and was replaced with horror. Even as he began to jerk his arms frantically—and futilely—against his restraints, it was clear that he was fully aware of the situation.

Still, the sadistic older dude thought, nothing wrong with filling in the details. After all, he was sure, the budding serial killer would have some interest in his own demise. Might as well let him in on the fun—eventually.

First things first. The Trucker wanted to be fully inserted in the punk before he could tense up and fight the D. He wanted the strapping young man to struggle on his cock, but he wanted it all the way down his shaft.

Forcing the blond stud’s legs abruptly apart, he lunged forward, spearing the blond’s pulsing pink sphincter with virtually no warning. Before the writhing cop could react, the Trucker’s massive tool had plunged deep into his guts like a harpoon, the only lube being the slimy layer of precum oozing from the alpha’s cock—and blood, as the Trooper’s ass muscle was torn during the assault.

The Trooper opened his mouth wide and shrieked. The Trucker didn’t care. His usual caution had deserted him in his blinding anger against this arrogant piece of shit who dared to try to rape him. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the adjacent rooms were empty from when he’d brought that twink back—the one who was stiffening on the bathroom floor…

“Oh yeah! That’s it, cunt, lemme know how much ya like my cock, you fuckin’ psycho faggot! Go ahead and try to push it out, just like that, yeah, bitch—damn, I can feel your fuckhole strokin’ my shaft. Goddam, you’re a worthless excuse for a cop but you’re a great fuck—and we ain’t even started the fun stuff yet!”

Despite his agony, this remark caught the Trooper’s attention. His large blue eyes had been squeezed shut in pain, but now they opened wide. He wasn’t gonna think about the “fun”. He knew what he’d been planning to do to the killer stud when he got control—and he was sure this dude was gonna be even more extreme.

The Trucker noted the blond cop’s fear and grinned. The dead Marine’s dogtags danced and jingled before the captive youth’s eyes as the alpha continued to the thrust and pump, his hard, sweaty body in constant fluid motion.

“Ya get it, boy?” the Trucker hissed. “You’re my bitch now. I’m gonna use you like a cheap cumrag, you fuckin’ pervert homo cop. Ya like my shaft up your hole, ya piece of shit? Yeah? Then work it, cunt, work it like ya love it—or I’ll make ya work it.”

He leaned down over the Trooper, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on the punk’s forehead, and whispered, “and if I make ya, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt. I promise. Got it?”

The blond cop nodded, quickly and jerkily. He damn well knew it was gonna hurt. But he’d take the pain, he’d take all the pain if it meant a chance of getting out alive…

The Trucker chuckled. He had enough experience to know what was running through the fuckmeat’s mind. The hot hard youth would submit until he realized that there was no hope of survival. The Trucker, of course, would make sure that by the time his victim realized the truth, he’d have been tortured beyond the point of effective resistance.

Stupid fucker shoulda known better. He’d done this before. The Trucker was certain of it. Good—he was gonna enjoy this one so fucking much. Most of his victims hadn’t thought about death to any great extent; this one was just as turned on by it as he was.

This guy knew exactly what was happening to him as it happened. He didn’t just know what was being done to him, he knew why. He knew which physical response was associated with which form of trauma.

The Trooper had nowhere to hide. Unless his psyche shattered under the stress, he would be excruciatingly aware of the purpose behind every act of pain.

Placing his hands on the young cop’s broad, smooth, sweaty pecs, the Trucker braced himself as he ramped up the speed of his thrusting. His thick, engorged shaft plunged deep into the blond youth’s torn fuckhole in a split second; the swollen purple head caught against the rectal wall, scraping it agonizingly as it was viciously withdrawn with the force of a plunger.

The punk cop moaned and squealed in pain that bordered on agony—and pleasure. He was terrified, not just afraid of getting raped and murdered, but of liking the sensation of tortuous agony so much that he assisted with his own death. He couldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t be found like this…

He began to resist. He jerked his hard muscled arms forcefully but futilely against the case-hardened steel cuffs that bound him to the bed. The jingling of the Trucker’s dogtags was drowned out by the clanging sounds of the cuffs against the cheap brass-colored aluminum headboard.

“Get off me, you sick fucking lunatic!” he barked, finding his voice. “You ain’t gonna be the man who takes me down!”

The Trucker smiled gently down into the writhing cop’s face, watching it twist and darken in a rage fueled by fear. The punk could yell all he wanted; nobody could hear him and he had no way out.

Of course, it might not be a bad idea to remind him of the latter fact.

“You’re already down, cunt,” the buff older man whispered. The effect was more chilling than if he’d snarled in anger. “Only question, is how long it’s gonna take you to die on my cock. Your fuckhole ain’t tight enough, you faggot—you been getting’ banged a lot? Bendin’ over and takin’ the dick during them all-night orgies at the trooper barracks? Bet ya let every one of them cops ride yer ass, huh, you worthless homo slut?”

The Trooper rose to the bait, kicking and jerking—and clenching his sphincter. His muscles grew tense in an involuntary rage response, causing him to clamp his colon down on the Trucker’s thick, pulsating shaft. “GET OFF ME YOU SICK FUCK!!!” he screeched, unaware that the horrible intensification of pain in his ass was his own fault.

The Trucker jeered. “Damn, faggot, you’re supposed to be a tough cop? You’re squealin’ like a bitch on my tool. C’mon, dude, fight it. Show me what ya got, punk, fuckin’ work my dick!”

The Trooper thrashed wildly, his hard body sliding on a sheen of sweat under the Trucker’s hands. The alpha rapist could feel the younger man’s tight pectoral muscles working under his smooth flesh as he struggled uselessly to free himself. His long, thick legs wrapped around the Trucker’s before the cop bent his knees and tried to get his feet up under his assailant’s body to lift him off.

“Stupid piece a’ shit, you should know better than that," the Trucker snapped harshly before backhanding the Trooper across the face. It was an effective ploy; the pain in his handsome but already bruised face made the youth pause and gave the Trucker time to lay his full weight on top of the cop, using gravity to add momentum to his thrust and jamming his engorged shaft deep inside the Trooper’s guts.

The young blond howled in agony, his mind floundering in such agony that he—almost—didn’t register the sensation of the Trucker’s slick flat belly pressed against his own, both sliding together in warm, erotic contact. There was a scraping pain at each end, though, as the wiry hair on the alpha’s abdomen scoured his skin and the darker pubic hair of the older man tore at his own blond curls.

The cop’s heart constricted in terror when he felt something cold circling his neck. Even though, deep in his dark, twisted soul, he knew how this would end, his conscious mind still expected to break free. He couldn’t die. But if it was starting—

Then he realized that the Trucker’s dogtags had settled on his chest and slid up to his neck. He felt a relief that had no basis in reality and was untinged with the memory of what had happened to the original owner of the tags…

The Trucker, meanwhile, was balls-deep in the Trooper, his huge rod reaming out the punk’s colon. The cop’s sphincter had finally given in and relaxed; the young man was accepting the dick.

And that was so disappointing.

“Yer lettin’ me down, cunt,” he snarled. Gripping the cop’s jaw with excruciating force, he held the Trooper’s face still and spitting into it. “Ya can’t even get fucked right, can ya, you worthless psycho faggot? Your pansy ass won’t even grab my tool anymore—guess you took so many cocks up yer ass you wore it out, huh? What’d ya do, homo, man the gloryhole at the barracks? Gotta get ya tight again, dude.”

Despite his arrogance, his certainty of his own importance, the Trooper whimpered slightly at these words. He knew how the Trucker was gonna get him tight.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that his life flashed before his eyes—what flashed before them were visions of his own snuffs. There had only been a couple—well, three, if you count that teen who fled into the woods; he shot the punk in the line of duty and only fucked his corpse afterward.

The other two, also young teens, had been more deliberate. He’d found them just out walking around, picking them up on a pretense so he could cuff them and throw them into the back of his car. A quick trip out into the desert, a quick tussle with a helpless kid, “two pumps, a tickle and a squirt”, as they say.

Then he would strangle them slowly. Even though he’d just cum, his dick would get hard again during the snuff. As the kid died, the Trooper would shoot all over him. The body would get shoved into a dry run in the desert; within days there’d be nothing left.

And now it was gonna happen to him. And the deathpig stirred within and started to respond. Even in his fear, the grim promise rumbling deep in the Trucker’s bass voice sent an electric thrill to the base of his cock. As his large shaft stiffened and began to stand erect, the Trooper felt betrayed by his own body.

But he still couldn’t be found like this. Whatever his dick wanted, he couldn’t be humiliated like this—even if he had to humiliate himself now. He faced the Trucker directly, tears filling his bright blue eyes. “Please, man, don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do anything ya want, man just don’t kill me. Ya wanna shit on me? Ya wanna piss in my mouth? I’ll do it all, dude, I’ll do anything you want, please don’t kill me, man, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, dude, fuck, please—“

The youth broke off, sobbing as the older man glared coldly down at him. Sneering slightly, he spit into the cop’s face again, then rose up on his knees, his rod still plugging the Trooper’s rectum. He looked around languidly, taking his time, knowing that escape was impossible. A disturbingly malicious grin formed on his face as he spotted the black webbed duty belt on the nightstand.

The Trooper’s cock was only half-erect when he opened his tear-rimmed eyes. He saw the grin and knew what the Trucker was looking at. He was still soft enough to lose control and have it show.

He pissed on himself. Not a lot, but a couple of golden splashes across his belly that ran off in rivulets to soak into the sheets, already moist with sweat and semen.

The Trucker threw his head back and laughed. Still chuckling, he leaned forward and grabbed the belt. It was thick, about an inch and a half. He knew from experience that the thinner the garrote, the easier it is to strangle someone.

This was gonna be slow. The cop was gonna take a long, long time to die. And best of all—the motherfucker knew it. He understood. To the Trucker, that mattered. He wasn’t just raping the Trooper’s ass, he was raping his mind at the same time.

He held the duty belt in front of the punk’s dazed face. “Ya see this? Wanna see what it feels like around your neck? I sure the fuck do, meat. I bet it’s gonna feel fuckin’ great—for me. For you, it’s gonna hurt like holy fucking hell. And your pain it gonna feel so motherfuckin’ good on my cock. And guess what? If ya make me cum before ya die, I might let ya live. So work my cock, you goddam homo cuntmeat, work it like your life depends on it—cause, trust me, it does.”

The muscled blond cop, confronted with the belt held in front of his face by the Trucker’s muscled arms, regressed into his mind, trying to escape the obvious implications. It required an almost deliberate shutdown of consciousness—a very bad idea. After all, his nervous system was still working perfectly—and with nothing else to focus on, physical sensation became everything.

And everything quickly became nightmarish.
 
Thought you might posted it here. I read it on wordpress and just cant stop. It is amazingly written and amazingly erotic. Cant wait to see how you continue with it. Bravo!!
 
Ok, here's the rest. Not the end of the series, BTW.
 
Trucker 5.2--Trucker v Trooper, part 2.

Slowly, almost tenderly, the Trucker leaned forward and draped the belt lightly on the Trooper’s throat. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the hot young cop turned his head to the left and gulped. He tensed momentarily in fear—not long, but long enough for the older man to feel a certain velvety constriction around his pumping shaft. He grinned again. This one was gonna be good. The meat was both aware and responsive.

“Yeah, pig, you’re gonna love this, ain’t ya?” he whispered. “Fuckin’ homo cop, you liked banging and wastin’ helpless kids and now you’re gonna get to find out what they went through. How ya like that shit, ya sick fuck? Huh? Goddam, lookit yer dick—gettin’ hard already. Can’t wait to see how horny ya get when we really start rockin’ and rollin’, bitch—let’s find out!”

Moving slowly and sensually, the Trucker wrapped the belt around the Trooper’s throat, at one point gripping the buzz-cut cop’s head tightly in his big paw so he could slide the belt under his neck. Suddenly, the blond youth could no longer ignore what was happening to him.

The sensation of webbed nylon looping around his throat was terrifying and he tensed up. But tensing suddenly made the terrible reaming pain in his ass intensify as his torn sphincter tightened around the Trucker’s dick. His huge blue eyes, circled with dark rings of shock, opened wide as he gasped and inhaled jerkily.

The Trucker’s grinning face was inches from his; the Trooper could feel the panting breath of the older man plowing his ass. Sweat tricked down the alpha’s cheeks, slipping under the black goatee and snagging on the scruff of five o’clock shadow darkening the killer’s hard face. He was close enough that the dogtags weren’t dangling; they’d settled on the cop’s broad chest and bounced a jingling accompaniment to each excruciating thrust.

He’d gotten the belt completely around the Trooper’s neck, letting it lie loosely as he rose back up on his knees. His cock started sliding out of the youth’s traumatized fuckhole. He stopped his withdrawal at the last moment, leaving just his swollen purple head inside the blond’s quivering sphincter. The Trooper was shuddering and gasping, emitting a low whining sound with each breath.

In some recess of his mind, the perverted young cop knew that he needed to keep control, that this psycho was feeding off his reactions. He fought violently against himself, realizing that the more obvious it was that this dude was causing him pain, the more pain the dude would cause.

But he couldn’t. That was the real nightmare. He knew what it would take to mitigate the pain but he couldn’t control himself to get there. It hurt too fucking much.

The Trucker only got harder as he watched the struggle play out in front of his face. “Boy,” he chuckled, “this ain’t nothin’. In five minutes you’re gonna think this pain is a kiss from momma. In fifteen minutes you ain’t gonna remember this pain. And in half an hour, you ain’t gonna remember your momma.”

The older man loomed over the bound youth, a wild grin twisting his chiseled face. A gleeful light of lust danced in his eyes, heating the cold blue irises until they glittered in a way that terrified the helpless young psychopath. The Trooper hadn’t known that the same gleam of insanity had helped demoralize his own victims—but now that he was on the receiving end, the impact was like a direct punch to the face.

Reason—at least such reason as the perverted lawman possessed—wouldn’t help here. He’d already known he couldn’t break free of the case-hardened steel clamped painfully around his wrists. Now it was horribly obvious that he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation as well. Nothing, not even begging, was going to help. He was utterly within the Trucker’s mercy.

And he was sure the sadistic bastard had no mercy.

He was right.

The dogtags struck his chin as the older man drew closer. The Trooper didn’t look away; his eyes were drawn to those of his rapist’s as if he was being hypnotized by a snake. He was aware of movement, feeling the Trucker’s hard, rough hands sliding down his body, smearing his sweat over his smooth flesh like an oil rubdown.

The muscular blond punk shuddered in erotic terror as the alpha fondled his thick pecs, callused palms scraping over the Trooper’s painfully stiff and sensitive nipples. Despite himself, the helpless rogue cop moaned, softly and breathily. The pressure of the killer’s hands slipped down to his flat belly; the bound youth could trace the downward movement growing closer and closer to his throbbing dick.

The Trucker noticed the Trooper’s cock, straining and painfully erect. He slowly ran his hands down to the meat’s groin, curling his fingers in the golden nest of curly hair. As he had earlier, the older man yanked the pubes—but this time the bitch was awake. The boy groaned and writhed on the sheets, sliding on a film of body fluids. His shaft twitched and began oozing.

“Yeah, I thought so, cocksucker,” sneered the Trucker. “Ya wanna get hurt, dontcha, cunt? You’re into the pain, huh, you worthless fuckin’ pig? Yeah? Ya like it?” He leaned forward and slapped the Trooper, hard. The younger man gasped at the fresh pain in his already battered and bruised face; with his eyes closed, he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The Trooper’s expression of hurt and disappointment triggered something deep within the Trucker. All he’d done was keep his cock plugged in the meat’s ass while groping the fucker’s body—and the piece of shit thought he was gettin’ romanced!

“What, motherfucker, ya thought I was fallin’ in love with you, you perverted fuckin’ faggot? Thought you could worm your way out like that? Holy shit, dude, you ain’t even got me drippin’ again yet. You’re boring me. Time to make you into meat.”

He hunched over the blond boy yet again, abruptly this time, his dogtags striking the fuckmeat right in the face, make the Trooper grunt and flinch. Slowly and deliberately, the Trucker’s hands crept toward the loose ends of the duty belt which was still wound around the cop’s throat.

The Trooper had indeed surrendered to a fantasy similar to the one the Trucker had imagined; it was based on a combination of physical lust and mortal terror, as if he knew his last chance for survival depended on establishing an emotional contact with his killer—a contact possible only in his fear-borne delusion.

Now cold hard realty was approaching with a horrifying inevitability. Those hands, that sensation of rough nylon around his throat… A slow, agonizing death was coming and the suffering was gonna be unimaginable and the humiliation and the– And the—

And why the fuck was dick still hard and pulsating?

The Trucker knew why. He’d lowered himself gradually onto the meat’s hard body, feeling the young man squirm under him. The cop’s cock felt like a hot rod of iron laid flat against his belly; even through his fur, he could feel the throbbing heat of the swollen shaft of flesh lying along his abdomen.

The meat liked it. He could scream and struggle and curse as much as he liked, but deep in his sick little pig soul, the thought of his own rape and strangulation got him horny as fuck.

Nothing left to wait for, then, really. The Trucker wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and began to pull. He didn’t put a lot of effort into it at first, just enough to get the homo deathpig started.

The Trooper reacted instantly. The Trucker wasn’t actually choking him yet; with some effort, he could still breathe. But the collision of his greatest fear and his greatest desire tripped a panic response. Squealing shrilly, the muscled stud began to twist, flailing his legs against the alpha’s heaving, pumping flanks. His struggle provided a staccato background rhythm of slapping, firm smooth flesh against flesh.

The Trucker snarled, the high-pitched keening of his victim irritating him. “Jesus,” he hissed, “if you’re gonna squeal like a dying pig, you’re gonna be a dying pig.” His biceps bulged as he applied torque to the belt, watching the webbing compress as it tightened around the Trooper’s throat.

The hard-bodied cop opened his mouth widely, his face frozen in horror as he tried vainly to gulp for air. His body went rigid instinctively, clenching his rectum around the sadistic older man’s pulsating shaft.

“Fuck yeah, meat,” moaned the Trucker, “that’s what ya needed, huh? Just needed a top who knows how to choke a bitch? Then it’s your lucky motherfuckin’ day, cunt, cause I’m gonna choke ya nice and slow.”

Grinning, he spit into the Trooper’s swelling, darkening face. The younger man’s stiffening reaction was starting to pass; his firm, limber legs began to beat at the Trucker’s thighs while his twisting arms made the cuffs clank against the headboard loud enough to drown out the killer’s grunting and the thick gagging sounds scraping out of the fucktoy’s blocked windpipe.

The rogue cop felt an intolerable pressure building in his head, a hot dark pounding pressure that filled his consciousness—no, not quite. There was other pain, more pain. His chest, that wasn’t pressure. It was more like a vacuum generated in his lungs; it felt like his chest was gonna explode. And the horrible plunging and reaming in his ass—the pain was merging, flowing into a tsunami of agony threatening to drag him under.

As great black blooms burst in his field of vision, the young man’s fading vision focused on his killer’s chest, fur matted with sweat, tensing and straining with the effort of choking his life out. The Trooper’s ears filled with a loud buzzing and suddenly he fell back into dark pit, a pit lined with pain…

Seeing that his prey had lost consciousness, the Trucker loosened the belt slightly. Not a lot, of course; just enough to let the limp hard-bodied punk gasp involuntarily for air, his body shuddering in effort on the alpha’s tool.

Grinning and pumping, the alpha observed the meat’s face starting to resume normal proportions and coloration. The breathing became less ragged and the tight firm body under his slowed in its struggles. As the punk’s eyelids began fluttering with returning awareness, the Trucker spit in his victim’s face almost casually before he started slapping it.

“C’mon, you worthless fuck, you can take more than that. I ain’t even gotten started pounding yer fuckhole cunt—ya gotta keep up with me, dude.”

The Trooper gave a faint gurgling sound; he was awake now. His tender, abused colon was still getting mercilessly plowed but he could breathe—and understand. He heard the Trucker.

“Man, I told ya I’d let ya live if you got me off before I whacked ya. Had no idea you were such a fucking weak-ass pansy homo. You keep tryin’ to check out while I’m ballin’ ya, I’m gonna get pissed and make sure it hurts, bitch,” the Trucker barked in anger. “So how about a little incentive, huh? Tell ya what, ya fuckin’ sick sack a’ shit, if you die before I’m done with ya, I’m gonna leave your body spread on the bed with your nightstick rammed up your ass like a fuckin’ popsicle stick, ya feelin’ me, fag? Get what I’m sayin? All yer motherfuckin’ cop buddies are gonna that you got used real good before you were put down.”

The blond youth moaned and spoke thickly through his damaged esophagus. “Yes-yessir, p-please don’t…anything, sir…d-do what ya want b-but please don-don’t k-kill me,” he sobbed.

The Trucker tensed up on the ends of the belt, pulling it taut but not flush. “Good, meat,” he hissed, his eyes glittering with rage and lust, “beg me for your life. You’ve killed, aintcha? I know. You’ve snuffed a bitch. Beg for your life, cunt, beg like your boys begged you. Lemme hear their words outta your mouth, motherfucker.”

The Trooper’s eyes welled with tears as he heard the words, but at the same time, the older man increased the speed and depths of his thrusts. As his cock sank deeper into the blond cop’s ass, the helpless stud cried aloud before dropping into a subdued blubbering. “Goddam worthless faggot, you really are fuckin’ useless, aintcha, cocksucker?” snarled the furious alpha. “If your life ain’t worth beggin’ for, I guess it ain’t worth shit, huh?” He yanked the belt as hard as he could, clamping his victim’s windpipe shut.

Again, the reaction was immediate. The cop’s low wailing ceased instantly, replaced with a thick moist gagging noise. The muscled punk bent and twisted like a bull, tying to buck the Trucker off. The Trooper still had enough strength to bend his back up off the bed, even with the older man lying on top of him.

It was a bad idea. He couldn’t remain in that contorted position for long; he collapsed back onto the bed in a few seconds. The drop was enough to cause the killer to lose his balance, just for a moment, but it was enough to loosen the belt. Again, not a good thing. At the same time as the constriction around his throat eased, the weight of the Trucker on his chest made him exhale, not inhale. What little reserve of oxygen had remained in his lungs was now expelled.

Before he had a chance to gasp in another breath, the alpha regained control and cinched down the belt again. “Smooth move, you stupid motherfucker,” sneered the Trucker, “really fucked up, dintcha? And ya didn’t even knock my cock outta yer ass!” The older man threw his dark head back and laughed aloud.

He’d cut off the meat’s air, but hadn’t pulled it tight—really tight. Looking down at the writhing youth under him, the Trucker watched the meat’s handsome face slowly swell and darken. He knew the pressure was going to continue to build inside his victim, inescapable pain and pressure—and he knew the faggot cunt knew it too.

The boy’s panic was obvious in his protruding eyes; he seemed oblivious to the way his fuckhole was stroking his killer’s cock, but his firm smooth thighs frantically slapping against those of the older man were a sign of his desperation. Despite the flailing of his legs, though, the white tube socks continued to cling tightly to his muscled calves.

The Trooper actually could feel his assailant’s engorged shaft plugging his colon—in fact, every movement he made caused unspeakable agony in his colon as the huge rod, rigid as iron, tore at his rectal lining. But his chest was exploding and his skull was imploding as screaming darkness closed in. The blond lawman realized that parts of his brain were starting to die; the pain of the rape was, had to be, utterly insignificant, crowded out by the terror and agony of death.

Sliding into crisis mode, the cop’s lithe, developed body shuddered, his legs wrapping tightly around his killer’s broad, heaving back. At the same time, the alpha rested his entire weight on top of the meat so he could wrap the belt around his hand one more time, tightening it even further. Both hard-bodied men were now quivering in a warm, moist embrace, fur grinding over smooth flesh on a film of sweat being wrung out of the dying punk.

The room echoed with the sounds of rape and snuff. Loudest of all was the clanging of the meat’s handcuffs on the headboard as his arms jerked frantically. The violent arching of his back was responsible for the next sound—the Trucker’s dogtags jangling as he held onto his convulsing fucktoy. The slapping of slick flesh was almost inaudible under the loud grunting coming from both—the alpha’s in effort and the meat’s involuntarily as froth oozed from his mouth.

The Trucker’s face was just inches away from that of his fucktoy. He was able to observe the physical effects of slow, traumatic strangulation at close range. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the heady scent of sex and death, pheromones and testosterone and mansweat. Beneath him, the young blond was almost unrecognizable.

Swelling and darkening again, his face became grotesque as his eyes bulged horribly, reddening with petechial hemorrhages. The fuckmeat’s tongue, thick and purple like the head of a dick, emerged from his blue lips, lube by the foam bubbling out of his blocked windpipe.

Suddenly, the cop went rigid, his head bobbing and nodding violently. “Fuck yeah, you’re close,” the sadistic dom top whispered to the convulsing youth. “Lookit your cock, asswipe, you’re already droolin’ a steady stream a’ precum. You ain’t got me off yet, cunt; I should just let yer worthless ass die, huh? Maybe I will—bye-bye, bitch, lights out.”

When the Trooper went under, his eyes rolled back until nothing but blood-shot whites showed under his long fluttering lashes. The Trucker immediately slackened the belt; the meat gasped thickly in an involuntary scramble for air. The older dude grinned and remained still; for the moment, he didn’t need to do more.

The psycho lawman jerked and inhaled arrhythmically. As he struggled involuntarily to pump enough oxygen through his system to prevent irreversible brain trauma, his colon still maintained a tight, velvety grip on the alpha’s sensitive shaft. Each gag, every cough vibrated through the Trooper’s firm, muscled body. At some point, each traumatic retching gasp rippled through the meat’s rectum and stroked his rapist’s tool.

“Ya back yet, cunt?” he hissed. “Fuckin’-A, you useless pervert, you still ain’t got me off yet!”

The Trooper clawed his way back up a razor-lined shaft into reality, the returning of awareness a long painful process. His vision was cloudy, his hearing intermittent. His sense of touch—his sense of sense, so to speak—that worked. Oh fuck, it still worked…

He hadn’t know how oxygen deprivation increased sensitivity as nerve ends began to die. His own victims—the agony they must have experienced as they died…

Despite the crushing pain of getting throttled until he lost consciousness, despite the deep slashing pain in his ass, the understanding of the horror he’d inflicted on those kids he’d wasted had a physical impact.

He got hard.

The Trucker noticed—and the Trooper noticed he noticed. It was a brutal slap of reality; he remembered what was happening. He went limp.

The Trucker was furious.

“What the fuck ya need, cumsucker—pain? That it? You a pain pig? Fuck yeah, dude, didn’t know ya had it in ya! You like to get hurt, huh? Saddle up, you motherfuckin’ faggot, I’ll hurt ya so fuckin’ bad you’ll cum!” he snarled in rage, spit flying from his lips. The sadistic alpha gave the belt one last twist around the frantic punk’s neck, cinching it agonizingly before transferring both ends to his left hand. He wrapped them around his palm so he could grip them in one hand without slackening the wide ligature sunk painfully into the fucker’s taut throat.

The muscled killer’s right arm was free. He made use of it immediately, piledriving his rock-hard fist into the meat’s firm belly. The pain-wracked youth tried instinctively to curl into a fetal position, but the weight of his well-built rapist kept him pinned to the bed. He could only writhe and shudder on the damp sheets as tears oozed from his bulging eyes.

“Goddam, fuckmeat, that did ya some good—I felt that all the way down my dick. That’s what ya like, ya fuckin’ psycho homo pervert, huh? You just need a good beatdown. Here ya go, cunt!” the Trucker growled, repeating the blow. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, lookit your hard dick slappin’ against me—worthless faggot pain pig!” Another gutpunch, and another. Each time the killer grunted as the blunt force reverberated through his victim’s traumatized body and flowed down his rectum, tightening his asshole.

The Trooper was almost beyond rational thought. A vast fog enveloped his mind, a screaming, pounding silence deafened him—but it was the pain that overshadowed all. His stomach was strong and firm, the smooth skin rippled with muscles, but he’d already suffered so much that even his hard, developed torso was unable to withstand the attack.

The fog was turning into a hot black wave. Something else he hadn’t known—he’d always thought being strangled would be a cold death but it wasn’t. His victims—that first one in the back of the cop car—he’d sweated like a hog as the Trooper choked him. At the time, he thought the kid was on crack.

The hot darkness was penetrated by lightning—each time he was punched, the older man’s fist sank deep into his guts, just above the point where the man’s cock was impaling his innards. Everything—oh fuck, everything—his chest, his ass, his head, it all hurt. Fiery numbness froze his bound hands; his arms twitched convulsively, making the cuffs clang rhythmically against the headboard. He couldn’t hear it.

As his swollen, congested face darkened, white froth bubbled past his protruding tongue. It slid across his snot-smeared face, now grotesquely twisted. He wasn’t aware of the details, though; his head was one source of pain among many. His ass, oh fuck, his ass, his dick…

His dick. As black cacophony took him under, he could still sense his rod, erect and straining to an unbearable extent. He was dying and he was so hard it hurt; it wasn’t fair…but those boys he’d wasted, they’d gone hard as they died…now it was happening to him…hot dark screaming pain…no, wait…

The Trucker almost missed the signal. The meat’s cock was slapping against his furry belly as the motherfucker’s lights went out; it was only when precum began to splatter across his chest that he realized he’d taken the cop closer to death than he wanted. He unwound the belt from his left hand right away. The blond stud writhed and convulsed beneath him, his fuckhole stroking the alpha’s huge engorged shaft.

“C’mon back, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” the Trucker whispered to the youth as he coughed and gagged. Somewhere along the line—the Trucker didn’t notice exactly when and didn’t care—the fuckmeat regained consciousness. The rogue cop’s slow and painful climb back to reality was accompanied by a background of abuse.

“Wake the fuck up, you punk-ass cocksucker. C’mon, bitch, milk my fuckin’ shaft. I’m done fuckin’ around with ya. Remember when I told ya I’d let ya live if you managed to get me off? I lied, faggot. Only reason you’re still alive is cause I haven’t cum yet.”

By now the Trooper was fully awake; at least, as awake as he’d ever be again. After all, he’d been without oxygen for extended periods twice now. Things were fuzzy around the edges…

No. The pain, that was as sharp as ever.

“Ok, you disgusting pervert, I’m gonna wipe your stain off this planet. Ya feel me, motherfucker? This time it’s gonna be for real. See, I’m gonna make you hurt so bad you’ll make me blow my load just so I’ll end your pain. You thought you were man enough to take me down, you fuckin’ queerboy? I bet every real man in the barracks knew you were a homo cocksucker!”

He bent down over the dazed youth, dropping his dogtags into his smeared red face. The Trucker’s eyes glinted with an icy, malevolent glee as he whispered into the blond punk’s ear, “and if they don’t know it now, I’ll make sure they find out. I’m gonna leave your reamed-out corpse right here, bound to this cum-soaked bed with your own cuffs. They’re gonna know you got fucked in the ass, cause I’m gonna leave yer nightstick in it, shoved up to the hilt. Bet that turns ya on, you disgusting pig, huh”

The Trooper cringed and blubbered, coughing up blood-streaked phlegm from his damaged windpipe. He was alive and aware—and wishing he wasn’t. The pain was still there.

What little of him was left was focused on breathing; an excruciating experience on its own. Each desperate gasp for air was like inhaling razor blades. The hammering in his skull was unbearable; the knowledge that he was hearing the desperate beat of his pulse as his heart struggled in vain to pump oxygen to his brain only terrified him even more—and made his heart speed up.

His chest felt like it was imploding; a vacuum of agonizing force was centered there. As the Trooper’s eyes became less dim (and as they sank back into their orbits, his vision became less distorted), he could see the older man’s face leering down at him in contemptuous lust. Sweat trickled down the Trucker’s cheek, the beads disappearing into the scruff darkening the killer’s firm jawline.

The blond youth gagged and coughed repeatedly. If his need for air hadn’t been so desperate—and his airway so traumatized—he would have been screaming. The grotesque impaling sensation in his colon had never dimmed; it was just that now the agony of actual death was fading. There was nothing else to compete with the feeling of the alpha’s swollen tool rammed deep into his guts, tearing him open inside.

“Dude, you’re goin’ loose again,” the Trucker hissed warningly. “You’re bleedin’ inside and it’s makin’ ya slippery. I wanna feel yer fuckhole grab hold of my shaft good, ya hear? I’m givin’ ya five seconds to grip my dick with yer ass or I’m just gonna snuff ya and let yer death throes jack me off. Get started, you faggot cunt, or this is gonna be the last couple of minutes of your worthless life. NOW!!”

The Trooper shook his head frantically but was still incapable of articulate speech. Grunts and gurgles bubbled out of his throat in a blood-streaked foam. His barely-functioning mind was in chaos; his thoughts were incompatible with each other.

He wanted to end the pain. He wanted to die; that was the only way to end it.

He wanted to obey. He wanted to work his ass muscles to make his top cum; he just didn’t know how.

He wanted to kill this motherfucker. He wanted to make him suffer this pain; the serial killer in him was still alive.

He wanted to shoot his load. He wanted to give up his life seed as he slipped into death; it was what he’d wanted all along.

Glaring down into his victim’s face, the Trucker already knew what was running through what was left of his mind. He was experienced; they always went through something like this as they trembled on the edge of their blackest desire. Fuckin’ deathpigs—not even grateful when you give ‘em what they want.

And although the Trooper didn’t know it yet, three outta four ain’t bad.

“One.”

The muscled top started the countdown. The bound lawman knew what it meant.

“Two.”

The cop tried to ignore the words. He clenched his eyes closed again, retreating into himself the same way he’d done at the start. Problem was, this time he already knew what his assailant was capable of.

“Three.”

In a panic, he began flexing his rectum, trying to constrict his sphincter. There had to be a way out—if he could just get more time…

“Four.”

It wasn’t enough for the fucker. There had to be more he could do—but it hurt, oh god, his ass hurt so fuckin’ bad, this guy was tearing him open, each movement was ripping his tender flesh deep inside…

“Five. Time to die, faggot.”

Some deep, hidden part of the Trooper’s psyche heard the words and responded by overriding every reflex of pain or fear that would prevent an erection. As the webbed nylon belt constricted around his throat again, the bound muscular cop felt his cock rise up, painfully rigid and oozing an almost steady stream of precum.

All his cocky arrogance had been wrung out of him, oozing out with his sweat and pain. He his brain was full of an icy fog that paralyzed his will; he was terrified of his hard-on—he knew it was only gonna become more agonizing as the spark of life was throttled out of him—but he was past the point of active resistance.

The Trucker leaned back, stretching his arm out. Feeling around behind himself, the alpha retrieved the nightstick. He held it front of the Trooper, his other hand holding the belt taut but not tight around the meat’s neck. He laid the baton down next to the blond’s head; if the cunt turned to the right, he’d see it. And the killer could tell by his victim’s expression that the punk hadn’t forgotten where the Trucker was gonna leave it.

The muscular stud jerked on the belt pulling the Trooper roughly up off the bed. Inhaling deeply, he hocked a huge wad of phlegm onto the stunned cop’s face, wiping it over the youth’s swollen, tear-slicked cheeks with his strong, rough paw.

The young man grimaced blearily. The Trucker dropped him back onto the bed and took the ends of the belt in both hands. His huge rod, still plugging the fucktoy’s ass, pulsed warmly and wetly in anticipation. He paused—cruelly, just to let the tension build.

The Trooper was undergoing an agonizing epiphany, an approach to understanding the nightmarish erotic pain to which he’d subjected two innocent teenage boys. He was sinking into a dull haze, hypnotized by the dancing flashes of light reflecting off the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s thick neck…

For a moment, there was no sound in the room but that of two well-built men panting with lustful exertion. As the funk of sweat, testosterone and old cum intensified, the Trucker broke the silence with a whisper. “Third time’s the charm, fuckin’ homo cunt.”

He abruptly yanked his arms, jerking the belt tight around his meat’s throat. The fucker leaped like a fish on a line, snapped out of his daze by the crushing pain in his esophagus and the now-familiar crushing agony in his chest and his head. “Fuck yeah, bitch,” the Trucker hissed through gritted teeth, “now you’re working my cock. That’s it, fight it, faggot. C’mon, kick and twitch on my dick, motherfucker!”

The alpha lowered his head until his face was inches from the Trooper. His expression twisted into sneering sexual contempt as he watched the blond youth’s face darken through shades of red and violet. The serial killer wanna-be, helpless and struggling, began oozing drool from the side of his mouth as his tongue protruded, as purple and swollen as the head of his cock, bobbing in the air—and also oozing.

Grinning hatefully, the scruffy top pulled hard on the belt, causing his rock-hard biceps to bulge. The thick black nylon webbing circling the rogue cop’s neck sank in deeply. The punk’s eyes opened wide and he began flailing and coughing in a frantic and futile attempt to inhale; he didn’t manage to do more than spit up wads of white foam.

“Does it hurt yet, cunt?” leered the older man, slightly panting his words out as he kept the pressure on his meat’s windpipe. “Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it? You know, you worthless piece of shit, you know how good it feels. You know how fuckin’ hot it is to waste someone while you’re banging ‘em, yeah? Now you get ta feel what it’s like to be the fuckpig—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, huh?”

The Trooper knew. Even in the involuntary convulsions of imminent death he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of raping and snuffing those soft smooth boys—and this was what they’d endured, the little cumsacks…

But he’d been right about his dick. It hurt—oh fuck, how it hurt, so hard and engorged it felt like it was gonna split… But he couldn’t help it. Throughout the entire ordeal, the Trucker had never pulled out of the young man’s ass—and now he was back to reaming it like a plumber’s snake. Every thrust was like a direct punch to his prostate. Every thrust caused another agonizing, uncontrollable throb in his swollen shaft.

As the Trucker maintained the tightness of the belt by brute strength, the hard-bodied youth writhed beneath him, his smooth flesh sliding around on yet another film of death-sweat slowly being squeezed out of him. His firm, muscular legs wrapped around his killer’s waist with an involuntary vice-like grip, his white tube socks somehow still clinging to his thick calves as his feet kicked desperately at the dominant alpha’s pumping ass.

The Trooper’s arms jerked arrhythmically, clanging the handcuffs against the headboard, the jagged tempo increasing as his convulsion became more acute. His entire intestinal tract spasmed violently in organ failure; the older man grunted in pleasure as the homo punk’s colon massaged his thick rod. The meat’s sphincter tightened around the root of his dick like a cockring.

“Fuckin’ die, you faggot pervert, die on my dick!” the Trucker growled as he sped up his thrusts, driving his enormous shaft deep into the youth’s twitching guts. The young handsome blond was almost unrecognizable now, his face horrifyingly black and distorted—but he wasn’t dead yet.

Some parts of his brain were shutting down but as dark fireworks burst silently in front of his swollen, blood-shot eyes, he was still aware enough to realize that oxygen deprivation was inducing hypersensitivity in his traumatized anus. That was why it felt like this psycho stud’s massive tool had a barbed head that was slashing at his rectum…

But knowing the cause didn’t lessen the agony.

As death closed in, the Trooper felt waves of nightmarish knifelike pain roll across his muscular form. He knew he was convulsing, his thick, strong limbs shuddering. His legs, clamped like scissors around the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks, kicked futilely in the air while his quivering arms beat an accompaniment of clanking metal to his final moments.

He’d been right—the pain of death was swirling around was dark and cold, promising and icy release from the torture he was enduring, but the white-hot burning sensation in his cock was getting more intense with each passing second.

And the seconds themselves seemed to slow down. Over the pounding of his pulse, the frenetic tempo of his heart trying to push oxygen that wasn’t there, the young cop heard his killer speak. The words were low and long, like a slowed-down film.

“Ya fuckin’ useless pig—thought you were gonna fuck me? Looks like you were wrong—dead wrong, cunt. And now yer buddies are gonna find ya with cum up your ass, rammed home with your own nightstick. I’ll make sure to leave you with your legs spread wide so they can see what a slut you were, faggot.”

The Trooper was almost gone; the words worked their way through his dying brain like bubble through molasses. He could still grasp their import but was incapable of acknowledging it with anything more than dull despair. The slashing agony in his fuckhole seared its way up the root of his dick, a solid spike of horribly erotic pain beyond his experience.

Deep within the pig part of his mind, the part that was wallowing in the black mud of helpless rape and murder, he could feel that part of his oozing, straining hardon was inspired by his realization of what his victims had suffered. The sick bastard, getting snuffed himself, was hard at the full understanding of the torture he’d inflicted on his own victims.

Of course, he still hadn’t gone all the way. He hadn’t made the full journey into the dark.

“Goddam, fuckin’ close, cunt,” rumbled the Trucker in his deep bass voice, “gonna blow my load here in a sec, dude. Ya ready, motherfucker? Ready for me to bring the pain? C’mon, you homo bitch, shoot your wad! Yeah, cocksucker, lemme feel ya work my rod as you die on it!”

With a loud grunt, the Trucker put all his muscle into tightening the belt, pulling so hard the tendons stood out on his neck. The wide black webbing embedded itself into the Trooper’s neck. A loud cracking, crunching sound penetrated the room as the blond cop went rigid.

The pain from his crushed esophagus momentarily overrode the pleasure/pain of the rape. The fireworks were inside his head now, each explosion wiping out functional parts of his nervous system. Just before his vision faded, it circled in on the sneering face of the Trucker, his hard, handsome features, covered with black stubble and facial hair, twisted in contempt as he spit on his victim one last time.

Then the perverted killer cop fell into a deep cold howling pit, his last connection to life the raging agony in his ass and cock. He never felt the blows the Trucker rained brutally on his face, making his body convulse more violently and work the shaft on which it was impaled even more intensely. He never heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh, the guttural grunting of the alpha as he edged closer to orgasm, the crunch of his nose as his assailant flattened it…

Then it snapped. The Trucker’s huge, throbbing cock erupted, ejecting a massive wad of hot cum into the fuckmeat’s shredded colon. Trembling on the edge of hell, the cop felt his ass flooded with molten steel, the sensation of boiling liquid seeming to eat its way through his bowels.

His last living act, involuntary and almost unconscious, was the ejaculation of a thick, ropy jet of semen. He died in nightmarish agony, his dick shooting so hard it felt like it was being flayed inside out, his awareness flickering out in his irreparably damaged brain as the best part of him pumped out of his cock in white, creamy geysers.

The Trooper’s streams of spunk splashed across the Trucker’s furry torso, smearing with the older man’s sweat to mat the hair on his chest. As the dying punk jerked wildly in his death throes, more sperm spattered warmly and wetly on the underside of the alpha’s strong jaw, almost like a deliberate blast from a water gun. The Trooper continued to writhe and expel a phenomenal amount of cum for another forty-five seconds, hosing himself, his killer, and the bed in general with vast spurts of DNA.

The Trucker grunted and panted, his eyes closed tight, biting his lower lip in the intensity of his own rage-filled orgasm. To hate-filled to speak, he forced his spewing shaft as far up the corpse’s fuckhole as he could, pumping his hot seed deep into the dead cop’s guts. Groaning loudly, he instinctively contracted his arms, pulling the twitching body up off the soiled sheets.

As he felt his balls empty violently, the Trucker stared into the Trooper’s grotesquely blackened face. The lolling head drooped, the bulging, hemorrhaged eyes rolling back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites were visible. The rogue cop was now nothing but a quivering meat puppet milking the cum out of the stronger man.

Still shuddering in intense ejaculation, the older top let the young blond’s corpse drop back onto the wet sheets, his groin grinding into the dead youth’s asscheeks before he finally relented. Sighing deeply, he slowly and reluctantly let his still-pulsing cock slide out of the punk’s fuckhole. It slipped out on with a slimy, pearly lube of spunk, tinted pink with blood.

“If ya’d been any good, I’da taught ya some tricks,” he muttered, “but you’re just meat.” Reaching to the side, he grabbed the baton. True to his word, he inserted it into the Trooper’s slack asshole, steadily shoving it in more deeply. Any resistance he encountered he overcame with increased force, feeling flesh tear each time he applied more pressure.

By the time he was done, the inch-and-a-half diameter aluminum rod was sunk to the hilt in the blond cop’s ass. The Trucker propped his legs apart, placing a pillow under the corpse’s ass so that the baton was clearly visible from the door.

Still panting and sweating, the Trucker stepped into the bathroom, now utterly sauna-like from the hot shower that he’d left running. It didn’t take long to scrub the thick white crust of dried cum from his wiry chest fur and the finer dark hairs on his flat but rippled belly. Before he did, though, he wiped some of the lawman’s still-moist seed off his hard torso with a hand towel and set it aside.

After cleansing himself to his satisfaction, the Trucker dragged the teen’s corpse to the shower. He’d spent just over an hour dealing with the unwelcome but entertaining intruder; the cunt he’d left on the floor was starting to stiffen. There was just enough flexibility for him to drag the dead meat into the shower, aim the ass into the shower head and pull open the sphincter. After flushing the colon with hot water, he yanked the rigid body out of the tub and placed it back on the floor.

Retrieving the plunger from behind the toilet, the Trucker wrapped the cum-soaked towel around the handle—then rammed the handle up the stiff’s ass. He made sure to grind it around inside the corpse, smearing the Trooper’s DNA inside the washed-out cavity.

He chuckled silently—at the very least, it would confuse the issue. And the cop’s own ass was pooling with blood leaking from the slashed and shredded rectal tissue. Yeah, there’d be a lot of questions about this one…

His jeans had been left in the bathroom; dark, warm and moist, they clung tightly to his thighs as he forced them on. His socks and boots were just outside the door. First, though, he slipped his t-shirt and leather vest back on, lighting a smoke from the pocket of his shirt.

Clenching the cigarette between his teeth, he sat on the bed next to the Trooper’s still-quivering body. Crossing his legs, he slid his socks and boots on, pausing between each to tap his ash into the dead cop’s drool-soaked face. When he was done, he extinguished his smoke on the dark, dry tongue with a loud sizzle.

The Trucker stepped back to take one last look. He needed to remember this scene; he’d almost died here. The face of the blond lawman was still black and swollen; the belt was too embedded in the neck to remove. The rest of the uniform, however…

The Trucker had an idea. He gathered up the rest of the Trooper’s uniform. The slacks, the shirt, the boots—he also made sure to get cuffs he’d been bound with. They were still clamped on the radiator, the key in the open cuff that had been around his wrist. After pocketing it, he even got down on hands and knees to retrieve the gun. Not that he’d kill anyone with the gun, of course. He wanted it for intimidation.

It was way too fast a way of death for him to actually employ.

Rolling the cop’s gear into a ball, the older man turned out the lights in the room and quickly slipped out the door in the dark. He strode quickly across the parking lot, his boots thumping on the pavement. Skirting the circle of light shed by the motel office, he slipped unnoticed across the street. The bar was long since closed; the only two vehicle left in the lot were his rig—and a state trooper’s car. Damn. The Trucker scrambled into his cab, shifted into gear, and eased out of the lot and up onto the highway.

He wasn’t done in this area, oh no. There was a least one cunt not too far away who deserved to be taught his value in the world—which was about the same as a used cumrag.

But right now, he needed to go. He needed to be out of the jurisdiction of the state cops, at least for a while.

On the highway, he headed north. He was over the state line in less than an hour; in less than twenty-four, he was on the hunt again.
 
For anyone interested, I re-edited this and have posted both parts together as a single story at wordpress.m3mayhem.com.
 
Ok, I have a new standalone posted; had to get a little knife snuff outta my system before going back to Trucker. Check out m3mayhem.wordpress.com--posted the new one there six days ago. Since it's a blog, there are no blackouts.
 
mayhem said:
Ok, I have a new standalone posted; had to get a little knife snuff outta my system before going back to Trucker. Check out m3mayhem.wordpress.com--posted the new one there six days ago. Since it's a blog, there are no blackouts.
Click to expand...
:stroke::load::load::load:
 
Quick update: working on next installment on Trucker. I have updated my blog (where I post first); it's now simply m3mayhem.com
 
small_dot said:
Hard to build up a collection of your work if you scatter them...
Click to expand...

Whenever I want to reread one of your stories, I just search under "Trucker". Then I jerk off madly.
 
Ok, next installment of Trucker coming up. Gotta do some final proofing but it'll be up within an hour or two at latest.
 
Trucker 6--Trucker v Stripper

The Trucker awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the cab’s sleeper compartment. Glancing up front, he noticed the windshield was fogged—a cold front was moving through. He wiped it down and took a look around the rest area. It was just as empty has it had been when he’d pulled in six hours ago.

Six hours hadn’t been much rest, after what he’d been through, but it had helped. He’d gone north across the state line after working over the cop, then headed east on a state highway. He’d gone a good 150 miles before exertion and lack of sleep started catching up; he’d pulled over and crawled into the back.

Time to move on. He had no way of knowing if the state trooper’s splayed corpse had been found yet. But he was trying to move unexpectedly; even without knowing whether he was being followed, his hunter’s instincts kept him wary. He was actually planning to turn south again to take care of unfinished business, but he was trying to circle away from the scene of his last snuff; there was gonna be a lot of attention on that one.

So he headed east again, knowing that in a couple of hours he’d reach a junction with an interstate that would get him where he needed to go. There was a decent-sized town there, San Amadeo. Not huge, about twenty thousand or so, but large enough to lay low and rest up a while—and maybe have a little fun, too. Town was big enough to lose a slut or two without anyone noticing.

He was there in less than three hours, having driven out of the rain but not the ceiling of dark low clouds. The wind had picked up after dark, too, forcing him to watch his turns, even at slow speed inside city limits. Since most of the town’s economy was focused on the highway intersection, there were three large truck stops within the immediate vicinity.

The Trucker made his choice quickly and pulled into the largest, busiest one, a large franchise with full amenities on the southwest corner. Pulling into the middle of the large lot that ran west behind the interstate frontage, he eased his rig into a space between two others.

He had no plans to waste anyone inside during his stay; he was laying low. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t gonna off anyone at all. But he wasn’t gonna be caught with any evidence in his truck. If that punk-ass cop had tracked him, others could too. He decided on a double-blind.

He knew San Amadeo, he’d driven through it several times and spent a night in one of the other lots once. He’d scoped the place out but hadn’t played there yet. He remembered the layout, though.

Three blocks north up the frontage road was a cheap motel; he’d get a room there. There were several closer, of course—but this one shared a parking lot with one of the local gay bars. He had no definite plans after that; like any good predator, he was primarily an opportunist. The trick was putting yourself in the way of an opportunity…

Gathering clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag and shoving it under his arm, he climbed down from his cab and strode quickly towards the showers.

He felt better afterwards, almost energized, as he’d known he would. He dressed warmly, slipping a simple unlined leather jacket on over a pullover olive-green ribbed woolen shirt that clung tightly to his broad shirt. The shirt was tucked into tight faded jeans, bound tightly to his waist with a thick belt of rough black leather.

His thick-soled engineer boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he headed to the motel. Once there, he was able to get a room with cash and an illegible scrawl on a blank form. Place even had a washer and dryer available for guests. He made specific note of that; it’d come in handy.

It was approaching midnight when the Trucker stepped back out of his room and headed to the bar. He’d seen the place several times but had never been inside. He was anxious to see what pigs were on display at the local trough.

The bar was dark and secretive on the outside. At one time, the building had been a tiny strip center just off the frontage road. Judging from the partitions in the crumbling exterior brick, it had once held three businesses; now, the bar took the entire dilapidated building. All windows had been boarded over and painted black, as had the doors. The only one that still worked was dead-center, also boarded over and painted.

Inside, the place was livelier. Loud thumping dance music and flashing lights induced slight vertigo that intensified when the fog machine kicked in. The Trucker realized the place was more nightclub than bar.

The bar was to the right; the left side was a dance floor. Both were packed with guys of all kinds, twinks and studs and bears, oh my… The Trucker wandered to the bar, noticing some appreciative glances on the way. Even under the leather jacket, his tight shirt and jeans did nothing to obscure his stunningly well-developed body. Ordering a beer and paying cash, he leaned up against the bar, slowly sipping the beer, scanning the crowd.

At first, it was hard to discern any details; a strobe light, timed to the beat of the music, flashed frenetically, giving that illusion of a series of still photos. The muscled stud found himself clenching his jaw in frustration—it was too difficult to pick out prey in these circumstances. In the darkness of the bar, he drew out his pack of smokes and lit one, inhaling deeply. He hoped the lighting would change at the end of the tune.

It did. In fact, it went out completely. After a split-second of darkness, a pair of spotlights came on, illuminating small triangular stages set in the two far corners. Each one had a stripper pole; each was suddenly occupied. The spots had rotating gels; the changing colors of the two dudes on the stage moved through blue, green and red, but a few clear footlights at the edge of the stages ensured that every watcher had a clear view of the performance.

The boy on the right appeared first. Tall, with strawberry-blond hair and a matching goatee, he popped onstage from nowhere, gabbing the pole and slowly spinning around it, showing off his body. He wore a black baseball cap backwards, a shock of his blond hair springing out above the adjustable strap.

His well-built body was emphasized by his outfit; a tight white tank top showed off his bulging chest and smooth muscled arms. There was a tribal band tattoo around the large bicep. The baggy jeans were a little bit of a disappointment but they were clearly breakaway for the striptease. He had black sneakers on under the jeans but the style couldn’t be discerned under the long denim cuffs.

The Trucker focused intently on him, liking what he saw. He’d do—he’d do very well. Then, as he took a long drag off his cigarette, his attention was drawn to the stage on the left.

The kid there was darker with a tan, almost olive-hued skin. His long curly black hair was pulled back into a bushy ponytail. He had a wide snub nose and large dark eyes, his face breaking into an easy grin. He was considerably shorter than his counterpart but with almost as much muscle mass compacted into a smaller frame; as a result, he appeared to be much more developed than the blond.

He’d gone for a military look. His ponytail hung below a flat-brimmed camouflage cap. An olive-green t-shirt looked like it had been painted on. His camp-patterned pants were just as baggy as the other stripper’s, but the combat boots he wore were more obvious.

The music came up and the boys went into their routine. The pants came off first, and swiftly, as they were designed to do. Underneath, they wore tight Spandex briefs—serious cock socks with a tight fabric sheath covering the goods, held up by an elastic thong. The punk boy on the right was in bright red; the army slut on the left shoulda had camo, by the Trucker’s estimation. Instead, it was a leopard print.

As the music picked up, a mirror ball descended, filling the darkened dance floor with a vast multitude of moving points of light. The boys on stage undulated their lithe, muscular bodies to the driving tempo of the backbeat. The blond on the right reached up and, grinning, removed his ball cap. Bucking his hips suggestively, he tossed it out into the cheering crowd that had filled the dance floor as his flaxen hair fell halfway to his shoulders.

After a few more seconds, the short, darker slut on the left followed suit, tossing his cap out. His black hair was still in a ponytail. He reached behind and removed whatever had been holding it—at this distance, the Trucker couldn’t see what it was. The boy’s curly mane spread out, dark locks down almost to his shoulder—but almost a mullet; the hair on the sides of his head was short.

The Trucker wavered, trying to make up his mind between the two. The blond was hot. His long muscular legs pumped with the music. He had on black Air Jordans, only half laced, with white tube socks climbing his shins.

The kid on the left was shorter but better built. His thick legs were smooth and firm; he wore glossy black combat boots tightly laced halfway up his shins. He also had white athletic socks—the upper edge could just be seen over the boots.

In a flash, the blond pulled his shirt up over his head; the raven-haired boy on the left immediately did the same, both exposing their smooth, muscled chests and ripped six-pack abs. The black-haired kid’s pecs were larger and the areolae very dark, highlighting his large nipples. The blond’s smooth, broad chest had a near-invisible haze of golden fur. The Trucker only noticed it because some of the shifting light patterns made it glow.

But by the time he noticed it, he’d already made up his mind. Tossing the butt of his cigarette on the floor, he moved to the left.

He worked his way through the horny, cheering mob to a point near—but not at—the foot of the stage. He stood still, looking up at the grinning slut, wearing nothing more than his boots and a thong so thin, the Trucker could see the boy’s hairy ballsack every time he turned to the side. The kid’s dick was semi-hard. It stretched the thin printed Spandex taut, pulling it away from his crotch, exposing the slut’s black mass of pubic hair to everyone close enough to have a view.

Then the boy noticed him. Even in this chaotic atmosphere, the Trucker’s physique was awesome, in the literal sense of the word. The reason he didn’t attract more notice was due primarily to the level of intoxication of those around him. Between alcohol and drugs, most of the punks around him were too stupefied by the lights and loud music to be aware of much beyond the point of their attention. And their attention was on the stripper.

The go-go slut grabbed the pole behind him and went into an elaborate routine, spinning his body with his legs wrapped tightly around the shining metal rod. Coming to a stop, he placed his thick meaty cock up against the pole and began to hump it, letting his huge member, still covered in leopard-skin Spandex, slide up and down the shaft.

The crowd went wild—at least half did. A split second later, the blond must have done something, because a separate cheer went up. But the Trucker was still focused on the short dark muscular stud. And evidently the feeling was mutual.

As often as possible during his time on stage, the black-haired stripper maintained eye contact with the Trucker. Since the older man was bigger and taller than anyone else around him, it was relatively easy. And while the Trucker’s outfit wasn’t flashy, it emphasized his impressive body so well that the slut couldn’t look away. Every glance of his large, dark, languid eyes was accompanied by a suggestive grin. The heaving mass of faggots on the floor were almost hysterical with love for the beautiful muscular youth, thinking the grin was for them—but the Trucker knew the truth.

After a few minutes, the boys came down off the stage. Time to make a little money—they undulated out across the dance floor, taking a moment to bump and grind against anyone who slipped a bill into their thongs. The Trucker watched the darker boy circle around towards him. The stripper was more than a foot shorter than he was; he might have had trouble spotting him if there hadn’t been a followspot illuminating each of the nearly-nude whores as they worked the crowd.

Slowly but surely, the boy came to him, as the Trucker had known he would. He stood motionless as the kid writhed against his body, feeling the slut’s smooth flesh slipping over his leather jacket. He hadn’t bothered holding out money. He wasn’t payin’ for this shit.

The stripper was breathing raggedly; it was possible he was high on something. “Go into the bathroom, dude, and wait for me,” he whispered, “I’ll be done in five.” Then he moved on, heading back towards the stage.

The Trucker headed towards the men’s room on the far side of the bar. Since virtually all the clientele was on the dance floor watching the show, there was only one other guy in the restroom. An older man, with gray hair and a white beard. He took one look at the Trucker and split; he had enough experience to know trouble when he saw it.

The Trucker went to the trough-like urinal and waited, pretending to piss. A couple of twinks came in, fondling and kissing each other. They broke off abruptly when they realized they weren’t alone and went to find somewhere else to fuck.

Then the stripper came in. The Trucker had to look twice; after finishing his routine, the punk had covered himself up almost to the point of being unrecognizable. He’d gathered his long hair back into a ponytail and tucked it up inside a black ball cap embroidered with a pot leaf. His thickly-muscled chest was still visible, barely constrained by the tight powder blue V-necked t-shirt stretched tautly around his torso.

He may have still been wearing the animal print cock sock. Tight as his skinny jeans were—they really weren’t designed for someone as well-developed as the stripper—it was not possible to tell through the denim. On his feet were a pair of low, slip-on sneakers in a black-and-white check.

The kid sidled up next to the Trucker at the urinal and slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand. “My address,” he muttered, “meet me there in thirty minutes. I get off at one but I ain’t supposed to hook up with anyone at work. If you’ll let me record you bangin’ me, I’ll do a private show just for you first.” At that moment, another pair of twinks came into the bathroom. There was just enough time for the Trucker to nod agreement before the stripper hurried to the sink, washed up and left.

The Trucker himself left almost immediately after, heading for the exit. Once outside the bar, he read the address under a streetlight. The name of the street rang a bell; he’d seen it somewhere recently—just before he pulled into the truck stop. A small side street two blocks up; it likely cut through to this street.

The muscled older man strode briskly away from the interstate, the thick soles of his boots making his footsteps echo loudly across the cracked pavement. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he came to the street and turned left. The street was residential; at one time, it had been a nice neighborhood with large houses. But the proliferation of doors and jury-rigged porches showed that the houses had long since been cut up into apartments.

As the rest of the written address indicated. It read “348F Grance St—garage apt in rear”. 348 turned out to be a huge misshapen wad of adobe with a driveway running up the right side of the house. Two doors had been amateurishly cut into the side of the house with steps of raw wood leading down into the driveway. The yard at the rear was paved for parking; there were three cars and a motorcycle in it now.

At the very back was the garage—two open bays without doors, both with cars. But it was a two-story structure with windows above the bays and a door to the left of them. The Trucker headed for it after taking a cautious look around. But at this late hour—it was just past one now—the only lights on in the house had been in one of the front apartments. The windows in the rear were unlit; in fact, most were heavily curtained or otherwise covered to block out the bright security light in the parking lot.

He reached the door unobserved. Much to his surprise it opened and he stepped onto one square yard of linoleum. In front, a flight of steps led up into darkness; to the right was another door out into the carport area. Closing the outside door behind him, the Trucker noticed a faint glow at the top of the stairs that had been unnoticeable in the refracted glare from the light outside.

Mounting the steps, he found a small nightlight plugged into an outlet on the upper landing. There was a door here, too—but this one was locked. So the kid wasn’t that stupid. At least he wouldn’t be seen while waiting for the little slut. He lit a smoke while he stood, maliciously tapping his ashes on the floor.

Of course, the longer he had to wait, the more the motherfucker was gonna suffer. It wasn’t long—only about five minutes, in fact—before the Trucker heard the downstairs door open. He grinned in the dim light. Piece of shit was gonna suffer anyway.

The stair creaked faintly as the muscle-bound youth ascended the stairs. A broad grin broke out on his boyish face as he saw the Trucker waiting for him. “Cool, dude, you showed up!” he beamed. “You gonna let me film ya fucking me?”

The Trucker paused hesitantly, as if he hadn’t thought all this out beforehand. “Sure, I guess,” he growled deeply. The stripper’s grin and the bulge in his crotch both grew larger at the deep guttural rumble of the older man’s voice. “What kinda camera ya got?” he continued.

The punk had fished his keys out the pocket of his ludicrously tight jeans. “Here, lemme show ya,” he chirped, unlocking the door to the apartment over the garage. Followed but the Trucker, he stepped into total darkness. “Hang on, stud, I’ll get the light,” the boy said—and within a matter of seconds had located a switch. The room was illuminated by the glow of a single novelty lamp; it was blue neon bent into the shape of an erect penis.

The room itself was fairly large, with several doors leading off to other rooms. One end was set up as a conventional living room with seating, tables, and an entertainment center. The other end, though, was very unconventional.

One corner had been sheathed in mirrors, with a triangular stage spanning the corner. In the center of the stage was a stripper pole, bolted firmly to both the stage and the ceiling. It wasn’t a duplicate of the stage in the bar—it was actually much better.

The slut knew it, too. “Whaddaya think of my practice pole?” he smirked, his grin taking a self-satisfied slant. “I’m hopin’ a good fuck vid posted online will be the ticket outta this shithole—see?” He indicated a digital camera set on a tripod; the camera was so small it almost looked like a joke. The stripper caught the Trucker’s expression. “Yeah, yeah, dude, I know. But it’s twenty megapixels and I got a sixty-four gig SD card in there. And I can blur your face if ya want, or aim it so close your face is outta the shot.”

The Trucker glanced silently around the dim room as he slipped off his leather jacket. He tossed it onto the sofa in the far corner before answering. “Naw, man, that’s ok,” he drawled languidly, effectively concealing his murderous lust. “Lessee what ya got.”

The stripper grinned again and the Trucker couldn’t help but notice how the short muscled slut had an almost adorably cheerful expression. And as he noticed, his groin swelled appreciably at the thought of wiping that grin off the punk’s face forever.

The boy had seen the swelling in the Trucker’s crotch and had drawn somewhat different conclusions about the cause. He swept the pot-leaf cap off his head, leaving his long black ponytail dangling. He powered on the camera, then dragged a folding chair out of a closet and set it up at the foot of stage. “Sit here, man, at least to start,” he said, almost gasping in excitement as his large dark eyes ran greedily over the Trucker’s massive chest outlined so perfectly in the tight knit shirt he was wearing.

As the alpha stud took the seat offered, the stripper darted to one side and punched up a playlist on his IPod, set into a speaker system. Suddenly the apartment was vibrating with industrial dance tunes at an almost deafening level.

The slut grabbed something else off the table with the sound system but he slipped it into his rear pocket too fast for the Trucker to see what it was. His hunter’s mind tagged it for future reference, though—just in case it might be some kind of weapon.

Then the kid bounded up onto the stage. Looking directly into the camera, he gave his winningest smile. “Hey, you sexy studs!” he twittered seductively directly into the lens. “My name’s Randy and I love to get fucked hard! If ya like this vid, vote for me! And to any porn producers out there, send me a message if you’re interested!”

Turning his disarming smile back to the Trucker, the stripper began to gyrate in time to the music. “Ya wanna show, stud? You wanna fuck me up against my stripper pole?” he murmured breathily. The muscled youth grabbed the hem of his powder-blue shirt and slowly pulled it up, revealing his smooth hubcap pecs and rippled washboard abs.

He ran his hands over his own firm, muscled chest as he licked his lips and grinned—first at the Trucker, then at the camera. It was obvious that the thought of getting fucked on film turned him on. He slipped off his sneakers without using his hands, then began slowly worming his way out of his skin-tight jeans, swiveling his pelvis and pumping his hips in time to the driving music.

As the jeans slid to the floor, the Trucker saw that the kid had given up on the ludicrous thong and was now wearing nothing more than white ped socks and a black mesh jockstrap that wasn’t anywhere near up to the task of restraining the punk’s massive erection. Standing at the very edge of the stage, the stripper clasped his hands behind his head and bucked his pelvis forward, his thick tube of meat almost striking the older man in the face. It made swift smacking sounds as it bounced against the slut’s firm inner thigh.

The boy faced the camera and broke out into a huge, goofy grin with his tongue extended. While he did, the Trucker watched the bitch’s tight ass jiggle in the mirror—in fact, he realized that due to the mirrored corner, both he and the camera had views from all major angles.

The thought made him smile. Yes, he’d record this one. He looked up at the well-built horny young slut standing over him and shaking his dick in his face and grinned seductively. The stupid faggot stripper wanted to be an internet star? He would be. He’d be starring is his very own snuff movie.

The kid hopped off stage and approached the Trucker, who stood up to see what the whore would do. Standing face to face, he moved close enough for the Trucker to feel the hot hard ridge of the homo’s dick through his jeans. The stripper grabbed the alpha’s huge package with one hand, squeezing the massive denim-covered bulge of flesh in the older man’s crotch. The other hand felt for the hem of the Trucker’s shirt, and slipping under it, began to caress his hard, furry belly, rippled with muscles.

The boy took a step back. He was considerably shorter than the dangerous older man, so he had to look up to look the Trucker in the eye. When he did, the alpha stud saw lust glittering almost frantically in the cunt’s large dark eyes. “Fuck, dude, as long as ya do it on camera, you can do whatever ya want to me,” the slut whispered in an erotic gasp. “Gonna let ya do things to me ain’t no one done before.”

The Trucker smiled coldly into the little homo fucker’s face. “I know,” he said evenly, almost emotionlessly.

The kid suddenly grabbed at the Trucker’s shirt; the aroused killer obliged by bending down to allow the shorter slut to pull the shirt up and off over his head. Bounding back up onto the stage, the cunt pressed the wadded shirt into his face and inhaled deeply. “Fuck, man,” he muttered, almost inaudibly over the dance music, “I can smell your sex in your sweat.”

He looked back down at the Trucker—on stage, his head was higher than the older man’s—and paused, awash in lust at the huge muscled stud’s chiseled chest. Between the mounds of hard top’s furry, broad pecs sat a pair of dogtags, sending sapphire glints in the blue light.

The boy began to dance, twisting his hard smooth body to the driving tempo of the backbeat. Slowly and erotically, he began to rub himself down, using the Trucker’s knit shirt to wipe up his own sweat. He paused to allow the camera to admire his profile as he slid the ribbed fabric down over his smooth six-pack abs, the faint dark fur trail that led from his lower belly to the dark tangle of his pubic hair was barely visible.

The elastic waistband of the black jockstrap was lost in the black wiry mass in the slut’s groin; it only showed dead center where the cunt’s huge erect tool had tented it up and away from his slim waist. But the kid seemed to realize he’d danced himself into a corner; he removed the jock in a rather awkward maneuver that forced him to shift the shirt from one hand to the other a couple of times. He actually blushed with embarrassment; he was a professional dancer and his moves should be smoother than that. But he didn’t let it stop him; he had software that would let him edit the video file. And it didn’t seem to bother the phenomenally hot stud who was gonna fuck him…

Feeling something moist on his chin, the stripper wiped it with the back of his hand, hoping the Trucker hadn’t seen him drool. “N-name’s Ran-Randy, man,” he stuttered, desire making him nervous.

“Randy, huh—bet ya are, cunt,” the Trucker sneered. He’d sat back down on the folding chair since he’d given the kid his shirt. Now, as he watched, the punk had stopped using it as a towel and had slung it between his legs, rubbing his smooth boytaint along the ribbed fabric. The expression on the faggot’s face as he looked at the camera stirred something in the Trucker’s crotch—if the kid was that responsive to tactile sensation, then the worthless cunt’s rape and snuff was gonna be a long screaming nightmare of torture.

His anticipation was very obvious in his tight jeans. Spying the enormous bulge, Randy was both pleased and intimidated. Noticing the stripper’s expression, the alpha stud chuckled malignly and unzipped his fly. It took a few tugs for him to free his enormous throbbing hog from the confines of his jeans; when he succeeded, it stood erect and pulsing, the tip glistening in the dim blue light.

Randy gasped audibly at the sight of the full length of the Trucker’s tool. Deep inside, he quivered in lust and fear, knowing how much it was gonna hurt having that huge shaft shoved up his fuckhole. And since he did a lot of exercising, he knew how important it was to stretch before working out.

He bent down and retrieved something from his jeans, still lying on the stage. It was the object he’d taken off the table—it was a round rod, about fourteen inches long. It seemed to be made of light-colored wood, sanded smooth and varnished.

The boy held it up to the camera, grinning impishly, then whipped around and bent over. He angled himself carefully, giving both the camera and the Trucker a good view of his pink, rosebud-like ass. Slowly moving his hand between his legs, he brought the wooden dowel up and began to insert it in his boycunt.

The Trucker watched silently, with a sneer on his face. But his hand moved slowly in his lap as he stroked his thick, swollen cock. The stripper’s attention was much more on the older stud’s dick than his face.

Randy hadn’t forgotten that he was performing for an audience. Turning his smooth bubble butt towards the tripod, he moaned loudly as he sank the rod deeper into his ass. The Trucker was amused; he could see that the dowel was only about an inch in diameter.

He was three times that size. The little fuck’s moans would be louder than that soon—and real.

The stripper moved slightly around the pole so that he could face the camera a little more directly. Thanks to the mirrors, the Trucker could see the boy’s face from several angles at once; he was able to catch the punk’s expressions as he leered and pouted alluringly at his unseen audience.

The kid began to talk to his imaginary viewers. “Ya wanna see me get fucked? Wanna see me get fucked right here on my pole?” he grinned before looking back at the Trucker, who was still sitting silently, beating his meat. Randy’s large dark eyes gleamed in the blue twilight. “C’mon, man, c’mon up here and get your freak on. Stick that thing in me, dude; I wanna bump and grind on your cock.”

He added in a low tone, “Ya gotta do somethin’ wild here, man, I gotta get outta this shithole of a town. C’mon, make me an internet star.” The Tucker heard him, but just barely. He understood; the motherfucker deliberately spoke too softly for the camera’s small microphone to pick up.

He stood up abruptly, kicking one of his big black boots back and knocking the folding chair off into the darkness beyond the blue circle. Standing to his full height, he paused for a moment so the camera could get a good view of his powerfully-built body. The sweat on his broad hairy pecs glistened with tiny sapphires, the dogtags illuminated the dark furry valley between them with faint reflected light.

From the waist down he was still dressed, his jeans clinging tightly to his thick, strong legs. Beneath the wide black leather belt circling his waist, his gigantic cock jutted like a lance, dripping from the dark swollen tip. As he turned and strode towards the stage, the thick soles of his engineer boots thumped audibly on the floor and his muscled arms swung freely.

Hearing the approach of the alpha, Randy started squirming and wriggling his smooth, firm asscheeks in erotic anticipation. The projecting end of the rod danced about; in the dim light, it was difficult to see but the Trucker spotted it quickly enough. “Fuckin’ do me, man!” the stripper moaned. “You can tie me up if ya want. You can even get rough—as long as ya don’t leave any marks; I got another show tomorrow night. But make it look good!”

The Trucker chuckled grimly. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, “I’m gonna make it look real fuckin’ good, bitch. Ya like to get tied up, huh, son? I can do that.”

The Trucker swept the floor with the piercing gaze of his icy blue eyes. They lighted on a small ball of black fabric—Randy’s discarded jockstrap. Perfect. He dived down and snatched them up, pulling it out to make sure it was long enough. With the elastic stretched, it was.

The hard-bodied older man stepped to the far side of the pole, to which the stripper was still clinging. Randy let go, offering his wrists on the far side of the pole. “Not like that, slut!” he barked, “Put yer hand around the pole again, motherfucker; gonna let ya hang onto the pole while ya ride my pole, ha!”

The young muscled stripper exhaled, shuddering with delight. “Fuck yeah, sir,” he gasped, positioning his hands as ordered, “Please, sir, use me!”

The Trucker didn’t say another word. He tied the waistband of the jockstrap around the boy’s wrists, cruelly tight. He was now trapped, his hands bound tightly to his own private stripper pole. Randy could feel the elastic dig in painfully, but he didn’t care. He wanted this dude to hurt him. He just didn’t want it to show; his smooth, developed body was not only his current livelihood, but also his hope for a better future, as measured in terms of money, sex, and drugs, in that order.

Having secured his prey for the evening, the dominant older stud slapped the punk on the ass. At the same time, he grabbed the end of the wooden dowel and yanked it roughly out of the slut’s fuckhole, making sure to twist it a bit—just to make sure the cunt felt it.

Randy made it obvious that he not only felt it, he liked it. His loud, drawn-out groan reverberated over the intense bass of the dance tunes blasting out of the speakers. The Trucker looked directly at the small camera and grinned evilly as he slipped the rod into his back pocket, making it clear he had plans for it.

But that was for later. Now, he had to go slow. Planting his black boots on the stage, the older man bent his legs slightly, just enough to allow him to line up his massive battering ram of a cock with the cunt’s experienced but still-too-small rectum. He gripped the youth’s waist tightly, his hands pressing deeply into the boy’s flesh. The Trucker smirked as he felt the stripper’s strong thick thighs beneath his fingertips; they were trembling with strain and anticipation.

Randy was ready. Bent over with his hands bound, his long dick was so erect, it was pressing against him. He could feel his own hard rod against his smooth flat belly. It made him even hornier. He moaned loudly when he felt the huge head of the Trucker’s cock pressing firmly against his sphincter; he knew this was gonna hurt bad—and it was gonna hurt good.

He was right. The powerful top penetrated him slowly but inexorably, stretching the stripper’s well-used ass muscle beyond any point he’d ever experienced. The punk’s groans increased in volume, pitch and intensity as the thick tube of flesh inched its way up his colon. Suddenly, Randy reached his limit. He howled in pain, “Stop! Fuck, dude, stop, please, it’s too much…” He was breathing quickly, in sharp whining gasps.

The Trucker looked directly at the camera and grinned. He stopped—but he didn’t pull out. He just held still, his hard body gripping the slut like an iron cage. The boy was still impaled on his shaft. “Fuck…dude…” the kid gasped, “take-take it…out…please…please man…”

Randy was still aware that the camera was on, but he was in too much pain to pay attention to the fact. The alpha wasn’t moving. He had to get off. He had to get off the dude’s dick. He tried to pull himself forward, off the huge spear of manmeat buried deep in his ass, but the top was gripping him too tightly around the waist. He couldn’t move; he could only endure.

So endure he did, gasping and trembling. The strain in his pale face, reflected back to him from the mirror, somehow made the pain worse. Just as Randy thought he was going to have to beg to be freed, he felt his ass muscle collapse, the sphincter finally relaxing around the Trucker’s swollen, vein-wrapped cock.

“That’s it, boy, take it,” the older man muttered. The Trucker could feel the resistance lessen and knew that the stripper was acclimatizing to his tool. That was ok for now—later on, he’d tighten the slut back up again. He knew how, after all.

“Yeah, man!” Randy cried, “Stick it in me, dude!” Now that the pain had let up, he was getting into it again, wanting to give a good performance for the camera. “C’mon, man, pound my ass!”

The Trucker took his time. Pulling his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one. Grinning at the camera, he took a drag while pumping his hips forward in long, slow thrusts. “Ya like that, bitch? Ya like my dick?” he sneered down at the slut. “Show me how much you like gettin’ fucked, you cock-hungry homo!”

Randy responded right away. “Fuckin-A, man, I love your huge cock, dude. C’mon, man, give it to me, make it hurt! I wanna feel it, fucker!” He gripped the pole tightly, feeling the massive shaft sliding in and out of his colon, the thick purple head reaming deep into his guts. “Fuck! Yeah! Fuckin’ plow my hole!” he yelled joyfully as his own long, dripping tube of meat slapped his flat belly in time with the Trucker’s thrusts.

With an evil leer, the Trucker scattered his ashes on the stripper’s heaving, sweaty back and increased his tempo. He was getting bored with slow strokes. “Gotta work my shaft better than that, cunt. You wanna be famous? Ya gotta work for it, faggot. Let everyone see how much ya love cock, motherfucker!”

Randy flexed his legs, feeling the rough denim of the Trucker’s jeans scraping the backs of his thighs. The kid’s toes, still in their white ped socks, curled with each thrust of the alpha’s enormous hog. He gasped, a mix of pain and pleasure obvious in his loud groans that became staccato as the Trucker amped up his speed, violently pounding the stripper’s ass.

“Fuck! Yeah! Fuck!” cried Randy, a huge grin of pleasure covering his face as the older man pumped his rectum full of cock. “Choke me! Hurt me! Make me your bitch!”

“You already are,” the killer whispered quietly. With his eyes closed, the stupid little shit couldn’t see the ice-cold smile on the Trucker’s face. And when he did open them, his attention was on the Trucker’s belt, watching it slide from around the muscular top’s waist as it was slowly being removed. “Ok, slut, you asked for it,” the older man said evenly, looping the belt under the stripper’s throat.

Then he rode the boy like a bronco, using the belt like reins, pulling the kid’s head up and pounding his ass. Randy could only grab the pole and hang on while he got used, gagging as his head was yanked back by the thick black leather strap. Opening his eyes wide, he could see the Trucker’s cold, hard face in the mirror, almost obscured by the dim smoky haze. It made his dick even harder; he’d finally found a dude who knew how to used him the way he needed to be used. Best of all, everyone online was gonna see him get the plowing he deserved. He was sure this vid would get him some kinda offer—something to get him away from here.

The Trucker finished his smoke and tossed the smoldering butt to one side. “Hey!” Randy coughed out, barely able to make himself heard over the music, “What ya tryin’ to do, set my place on fire?” “Not a bad idea,” the Trucker chuckled quietly. “Maybe later.” Randy lost interest almost immediately, however; his ass was still getting plugged full of dick. Even after the relaxation of his sphincter, the slut’s colon was still unprepared for such a continuous assault. It still hurt.

But fuck, it hurt so goddam good.

The Trucker pulled the belt up even further. The stripper started coughing and gagging as his throat was constricted—he could still breathe, but he could no longer speak. Not that it mattered, he was far too focused on the dick being pumped deep into his rectum. Grinning at the camera in the mirror, he succumbed to fuckpig ecstasy as the driving beat of the dance music synced with the agonizing tempo of the assfuck. Forcing air past the tight belt, he moaned loudly.

“Yeah, cunt, ya likin’ that, huh?” snarled the powerful alpha as he bent over Randy’s smooth, firm back and started thrusting even harder. The punk’s moan became a stammering groan, vibrating as his thickly-muscled form shuddered under the brutal onslaught of the Trucker’s cock. His clenched hands gripped the metal stripper pole so tightly his knuckles went white. “Yeah—oh—oh—oh—“ he stuttered, his mind lost in a haze of intense sexual pleasure.

The Trucker turned again to the camera, his face illuminated by his evil leer and the light of lust in his cold blue eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection and posed himself to give the camera his best side—his best side being, of course, top.

He showed the camera how well he fit that description. His boots planted widely apart, his thick denim-clad legs were pumping steadily against the slut’s smooth thighs. His huge, broad pecs and rippled hard abs, covered with dark wiry fur, loomed above the back of the hunched and bound cunt. He held the ends of his belt in his hands, his strongly-muscled arms flexed just enough to pull the boy’s head back. The dark scruff on his face had a blue sheen in the dim light, the same tint reflecting from his short black hair.

As the alpha killer looked down at his prey, he noticed—he couldn’t help but notice—how much the buff little slut was enjoying the brutal buttfuck. The worthless asspig kept his eyes closed but the huge grin spread across his young face showed the intensity of his pleasure.

Time to change that.

“Hey, dude,” the Trucker whispered, “gettin’ a little loose on my cock. What say I tighten ya up some?” He chuckled grimly as the bar whore nodded and grunted his agreement. The well-built stripper was still wallowing in lust and cock; he never heard the menace in the aggressive top’s voice.

They really made it too easy, the Trucker thought, as he slipped the end of the belt through the buckle, making a simple but viciously effective garrote. The thick black leather loop would easily choke the life out of the little fuck.

Randy moaned loudly as the Trucker’s cock swelled and throbbed in his colon. He had no idea that the physical sensation that felt so good was a reaction to the alpha’s desire to slowly and agonizingly strangle him to death.

It didn’t take long for the idea to enter his head. It happened at the same time that oxygen stopped entering his head.

The Trucker cinched the buckle down, swiftly and silently. The well-built fuckpig never saw it coming. Suddenly the thick leather strap around his neck constricted, cutting his staccato groans to thick, choking grunts.

It took a moment for reality to sink into Randy’s sex-sodden mind. He was already riding the thin knife edge between pleasure and pain with the deep, brutal fucking; the inch-wide belt had sunk deeply into the tender flesh of his throat before the crushing pain overrode the sensation of cock pounding his ass.

The realization the he couldn’t breathe trigged instant panic in the stripper. In the mirror, he turned his eyes, huge and wounded with betrayal, up to those of his killer, but the dim blue light hid the alpha’s face in sharply-edged shadows. The alpha’s dogtags glittered coldly as they danced in the air. Randy could see them but he couldn’t see his killer’s face.

The Trucker, on the other hand, had a perfect view of Randy’s. He made sure the camera did too. The little fucker was short but strong; in his fear, he was trying to pull himself forward off his assailant’s massive shaft. The Trucker was much stronger and could easily have simply held the boy down while he raped and strangled him—but he was pissed. The useless cunt needed to learn to submit.

He wrapped the free end of the belt around one hand, keeping the loop tight around the fuckmeat’s neck, while he reached into his back pocket with the other and withdrew the wooden rod. At fourteen inches long it made an adequate dildo—but an inch in thickness was poor preparation for the Trucker. On the other hand, it made a great weapon.

He beat the young slut mercilessly.

Randy would have screamed if he’d been able. The hard wooden dowel was hammered brutally against his back, each blow leaving a large dark bruise. While he couldn’t see the Trucker’s face in the mirror, he could see the dude’s powerful arm raise and fall. He could see each agonizing blow before it landed.

Worse, he could see his own face.

It was terrifying. Dark and swollen, he could barely recognize himself. His lips were blue and puffy, his frantic eyes starting to bulge. Worst of all was the horror written broadly across his face.

The Trucker noticed it and stopped the beating for a moment. Deciding to intensify the fear, he smirked at the camera before bending low over the trapped punk. He kept the tempo of his thrusts steady, never once slackening the pace at which he reamed the whore’s guts with his enormous hog. He pitched his deep bass voice so that it could be heard over the background music. “Scared, ya worthless piece a’ shit? You should be. Yer gonna die, man. Even better, motherfucker, you’re gonna get to watch yourself die. Sooner or later, yer eyes are gonna bulge out so far you won’t be able to close ‘em. Last thing you’re gonna see is your own black bloated face as you choke to death with my cock up yer ass. Enjoy the ride, cunt.”

Standing back up straight, he made sure the meat had a good view in the mirror as he brandished the long rod and, drawing his muscled arm back slowly, brought it down with renewed force. There was a splintering sound as one of the boy’s ribs shattered, sending splinters of bone into the punk’s liver and right lung. The Trucker grunted with pleasure as the stripper writhed in agony on his dick.

Tears welled from Randy’s wide, protruding eyes as great glassy waves of excruciating pain washed over his strong but helpless body. Everywhere he looked, his own death was literally staring him back in the face—if that grotesque, twisted mask confronting him in the mirror was really his own face.

That couldn’t be him, he thought, his mind aflame with panic. He was getting fucked by this stud, the guy was still up his ass—no, it didn’t make sense—

The wooden rod came down again, from higher up this time. The young slut shuddered, unable to cry out in distress as razor-sharp fragments of his smashed shoulder blade sliced through his trapezius and deltoid muscles. The clenching and spasming of his body caused his sphincter to tighten as well; as he jerked and twitched involuntarily, he was pumping his killer’s cock without the alpha having to move—and it hurt now, oh fuck, it had never hurt this bad before, how was that possible—

The Trucker knew how, of course. “Tightened your reamed-out fuckhole real good, didn’t I?” he hissed into the captive youth’s ear. As he bent over the terrorized boy, his dogtags lay flat on the punk’s heaving, muscled back, forming undulating pools of blue light. “Like that, dontcha, you worthless pain pig? Sure ya do, ya fuckin’ homo pervert—lookit yer cock. You’re enjoyin’ this so much, your faggot cock is already drippin’!”

He paused for a moment to admire his prey in the mirror. The stripper’s short but hard body was backing itself up on his dick. He’d seen the slut twerk on stage, now he was doing again—with an enormous shaft buried in his guts. The whore’s face was darkening from red to purple and the tip of his tongue was peeking tantalizingly from between his swollen blue lips. Fluid leaked from the boy’s eyes and nose, running in streaks down his smooth, bloated cheeks.

Around the meat’s throat, the thick black belt had constricted brutally, puckering the skin painfully as it sank in. The buckle, centered on the back of the unfortunate slut’s neck, tore into the skin, causing trickles of blood to flow down both sides of the meat’s neck. Tight as it was, though, the little fuck was dying very slowly. The Trucker was giving his victim time to enjoy it.

And Randy could feel it all. The dark icy silence creeping through his oxygen-starved brain hadn’t numbed him; on the contrary, he could feel the belt buckle rip his flesh with razor sharp clearness. Even as his hard, smooth body shuddered uncontrollably, the terrified cunt not only knew he was still helplessly impaled on his killer’s massive throbbing shaft, he knew his involuntary spasms were milking the dude.

He still fought against the realization of what was happening. Despite the Trucker’s words, despite the vicious, brutal assault and all the pain, Randy could not accept the fact of his own death.

The Trucker knew what was running through the meat’s mind—or at least what part of the mind hadn’t turned into meat already. It was always the same, the denial and disbelief, the conviction that if they can just hold on long enough, they can survive. Pathetic motherfucker. Turning his face to the camera, he sneered and spit on the stripper’s heaving, sweat-streaked back before landing another rib-snapping blow with the wooden rod.

“Good,” he whispered coldly as Randy’s jerking and twitching became more intense, “felt that, huh? More where that came from, bitch. I’m gonna keep playin’ with ya till you’re used up. When we’re done, you’re ain’t gonna be nothin’ but a rotting corpse pumped fulla cum. How’s that grab ya, cocksucker?”

One last strike of the rod, this time on the boy’s upper arm. The Trucker leered at the unseen audience as the agonized youth writhed in silent pain; his right humerus had splintered like a toothpick. Tossing the weapon to the side, the Trucker bent over the kid. Keeping the belt pulled tight with one hand, he yanked back on the slut’s ponytail with the other.

Now that he was close enough, Randy could see the alpha’s face again. And there was enough pig left alive in him for his still-erect cock to swell and ooze as he caught sight of that cold, hard, handsome face again. The dude was just as hot as he’d remembered.

Someone this hot couldn’t be killing him. But the pain was so bad—it didn’t make sense. All Randy had wanted was to get fucked on camera; on some level he was just barely able to acknowledge that he still was getting fucked on camera. He was also dying on camera.

Even worse, he was dying in front of his own eyes.

The Trucker made sure the slutty faggot go-go dancer had a good view of his own performance. Using the kid’s ponytail as a rudder, he manhandled the boy’s twitching head so that he couldn’t help but see his own face in the mirror. No matter where he looked, it was reflected back to him.

“Watch it, you fucking faggot slut,” he growled in the punk’s ear, “watch yourself die. Watch yourself milk the cum outta my tool as you kick and shoot and die—oh yeah, motherfucker, you’re gonna blow yer load too, like it or not. ‘Course, you’re gonna be mostly dead by then, but there might still be enough of you left to watch your life end just so you can be my cumrag.”

Randy watched. He had to. His large eyes, which had earned him many tips onstage by their dark languid charm, were now bulging gruesomely from his face; he was unable to close his lids.

He spent his last few nightmarish moments on earth seeing himself getting raped and strangled to death.

He could no longer take refuge in a delusional hope that the guy was just into really rough sex. His logical skill had slowed with asphyxiation. It was obvious long ago that no one capable of perpetuating such a violent rape would leave the victim alive and able to testify afterwards, but Randy had simply been unable to conceive of his own death.

Now, as a stranger’s enormous cock reamed out his spasming guts, he was getting to watch it. And he was dying as he’d lived, gripping a stripper’s pole.

Even now, some part of him struggled to deny the obvious; that black puffy mask of flesh could not possibly be his smooth, sweet olive-hued face. His bulging eyes distorted his vision but he could still see thick strands of ropy foam bubbling from the corners of his swollen lips. Running down his bloated cheeks, they drooled off his chin in long white streams, making him look like he’d just given a sloppy blowjob.

Even his strong, well-developed body seemed to be working against him, his thick, bulging muscles cramping and spasming uncontrollably with approaching death. He felt his heaving back pressing against the Trucker’s hard rippled belly, the older man’s fur scraping at the kid’s smooth skin as their flesh met in a moist film of sweat and pheromones.

“Yeah,” grunted the Trucker, looking the stripper in the eye as he shook his head, flinging drops of sweat from his black hair, “fuckin’ room smells like sex and death, huh? Testosterone and panic, cunt, it’s so fuckin’ hot. What, you can’t smell it? Oh, that’s right—you’re the one smelling like death!”

Randy had a sensation flash across his ebbing consciousness. He was aware of how tightly his left hand was gripping the stripper pole. He didn’t know why he was aware; he just was.

He was past the point of realizing that his compact but buff body had been pushed past its limits and was starting to shut down. His hand was gripping the pole in his death throes; he would have been grabbing it with his right hand too, if his right arm hadn’t been broken.

The light was too dim for the helpless stripper to see the hemorrhaging in his eyes in the mirror but the explosive spatters of utter blackness in his field of vision indicated the intensity of brain damage. Randy was almost utterly unaware of his convulsions by this point. The broken arm, the shattered ribs, even the thick throttling strap around his throat, all seemed to be subsumed and overwhelmed by the gigantic spear of hot pulsing flesh that had been shoved ruthlessly into his rectum until its swollen, oozing head was lodged deeply in his intestines. Shattering pain crashed over the youth’s sweaty, squirming body as if panes of glass were being broken over him. Dimly, so very dimly, he could still see the dark scruff shadowing his killer’s cheeks. There was little enough left of the slut to say for certain if he jerked his head deliberately; if he did, it was to feel the wiry strands of the Trucker’s facial hair brush against his own smooth cheek—a last physical connection before death.

If so, it earned the Trucker’s contempt. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, ya useless homo whore,” he barked. “What the fuck you think you’re doin’, you goddam faggot? Huh? Worthless fuckin’ cunt, I been takin’ it easy on ya, tryin’ to let you work my load outta me like a good little fuckpig, but you’re one stupid motherfucker. You ain’t gettin’ it, you disgusting queer-ass whore. I’m done playin’. If you can’t drain me, I gotta make ya drain me. Know what that means? Means you’re dyin’ hard. You’re meat, dude—now!”

The Trucker’s heavily-muscled arms moved in opposite directions swiftly. In one hand, he held the belt, having wrapped it around his fist until he’d brought his hand down to within four inches of the stripper’s neck. He’d wrapped the kid’s ponytail around the other hand.

As he pulled them in different directions, the belt contracted further and further onto the boy’s throat. Randy was lost in a screaming blood-red haze of pain that seemed to flow in a straight line from the dick in his ass up though his twisting, writhing body, into the crushing, grinding pain in his throat. Yet along with the pain was another pain, or maybe it was pleasure—something flowing through his own long, throbbing, oozing cock.

The Trucker turned back and spoke to the camera. By some sadistic quirk of fate, Randy’s nervous system was still intact enough to not only hear but process the words. “Watch the piece a’ shit homo die, dudes. Are y’all ready for this shit? Ready for it to get real? Wanna watch me off this useless faggot? Yeah? Ain’t like anyone gonna miss ‘im, so ya might as well blow a load as he dies, huh? Fuck yeah, man, watch this, this is gonna hurt wicked bad. He’s gonna be in so much pain, he’s gonna shoot his wad, yeah? Ready? Fuckin-A, dude!”

As his sweaty pecs glistened and bulged in the bluish gleam, the Trucker’s arms gave a last brutal jerk. Over the pumping beat of the dance music, the distinct crunching sound of shattered, collapsed cartilage was carried very clearly to the camera.

Randy’s convulsions became even more frenetic. Now he really did seem to move as if he was acting in a porn video, his strong, smooth flanks rippling with repeated spasms in near-perfect rhythm with the tunes—ripples that were replicated on the inside in the meat’s shuddering colon. “Yeah, you fuckin’ whore, that’s it,” the Trucker whispered, knowing that his deep voice would penetrate the techno dance tunes and be picked up by the camera’s mic, “jack me off, cunt, fuckin’ die and make me shoot, ya worthless cumsuckin’ fag!”

Randy had more or less ceased to exist; the short, muscular dancer who worked out every day, got fucked indiscriminately, and hoped to make his break in internet porn, was dead. There was still a spark of sensate life left in the writhing, sweating, pulsating flesh, but even if oxygen had been pumped back into the failing brain, there would have been nothing left but—well, sweating, pulsating flesh.

At least the flesh was being put to good use.

Randy was fated to become an internet star, all right, but he’d only have one role.

His smooth firm legs kicked wildly, the ped socks making his feet slip and scrabble over the stage’s wooden surface. As his knees started to buckle, the Trucker let go of the belt, wrapping that arm around the quivering youth’s slim waist. The belt had sunk so deeply into the meat’s neck that the buckle had cut brutally into the skin, peeling up a string of flesh like a rind; it must have been excruciating. At any rate, the belt wasn’t going anywhere.

His other hand was still wrapped in the cunt’s black silky ponytail, jerking the unfortunate boy’s head back so that the last thing he saw was, indeed literally, his own death. By this time, though, his vision had dimmed to the point that he was unable to appreciate the black, distended caricature of himself, covered with tears and drool, which was reflected in the mirror.

The Trucker did, though.

Clenching the dying stripper’s pelvis in a grip of iron, he pumped his hips rapidly, feeling his massive balls drawing up as the seed inside began to boil. His cock, already enormous, began to swell in anticipation, forming a solid throbbing pole impaling the whore’s ass as the youth’s firm, smooth asscheeks bounced convulsively against his thighs with a loud slapping sound.

Deep in the screaming, pulsing silence of progressive brain death, Randy was somehow hellishly aware of his killer’s sadistically painful enjoyment of his dying agony. He could feel the way the dude’s huge tool ripped and tore at his rectal lining; it was like getting fucked by a blender. And somehow, each searing blast of pain made the boy’s thick cock pulse and ooze.

There was little conscious thought left in the convulsing meat, but the Trucker took advantage of what was available. He leaned down close and spoke to his shuddering victim, making sure his voice was audible over the music. “You’re dead, ya worthless faggot, huh? And I’m recording the whole thing. I’m gonna be able to watch you kick and die whenever I want, you stupid little piece of shit—you've done your last dance, slut!“

And the tiny spark of pig left inside of the muscular but helpless stripper heard and responded. Clutching the pole tightly in the onset of cadaveric spasm, the punk went rigid, his rectum and sphincter clutching the Trucker’s swollen sensitive cock in a convulsing tube of shredded flesh.

The Tucker grabbed the belt again—Randy was stiff in his death agony; his spasming legs, despite cramps rippling excruciatingly over his thighs, needed no support. With the meat’s ponytail still wrapped around one hand, the wound the belt around the other and, giving a quick, brutal jerk, snapped the shuddering stud’s neck. “Fuckin’ cunt!” he cried, “die on my fuckin’ cock, faggot!”

As he did, he could see the kid’s horribly swollen face, black with congestion except where a stream of white foamy drool bubbled down his chin. It was too much. The killer's cock erupted, pumping the dying stripper’s guts full of cum.

It all happened in a millisecond. Just as he started to shoot, Randy’s body reacted reflexively and violently to the slashing of his spinal column by razor-sharp fragments of bone. His entire torso, already rigid, gave a last rippling convulsion that seemed to deliberately milk the spunk out of the Trucker’s massive hog, starting at the thick root and sliding smoothly up to the engorged tip. At the same time, the cunt’s long, throbbing cock began spurting on its own, sending long ropy strands of pearly semen cascading across the stage, several shots intense enough to spatter against the mirrored walls.

The stripper never felt his last load. The Trucker held on, grunting and cursing as his huge rod continued to spew hot sperm into the quivering rectum of a still-twitching corpse. For a minute or two, though it was hard to tell—the meat was still splashing its jizz everywhere, most of it on its own sculpted chest. It had also managed to soak its hands and the tight black jockstrap that bound them.

The Trucker finally felt himself coming back under control; he always thought of it as coming out of hyperspace. The jangling background accompaniment of his dogtags dancing in the air slowly grew still. His pulsing cock was still sunk warmly and moistly in corpse’s ass. The dead slut was still convulsing, but much more slowly now. Even so, as the sweating muscular alpha could see in the mirror, each mindless twitch forced another drop of semen out of the fag’s still-erect cock. In the dim blue light, the ripped, firm body seemed to be oozing sapphires from its dick.

With a great shuddering sigh, the Trucker placed his hands on the quivering carcass’ smooth asscheeks. He had to apply a little pressure to withdraw his still-distended cock from the swiftly-cooling body.

As he did, the corpse slumped to the floor, the hands still gripping the pole. In life, Randy had depended on the pole for support; he was depending from the supporting pole now in death.

Later, the medical examiner would have to break Randy’s fingers in order to remove his rotting body from the apartment.

For now, though, the Trucker had not forgotten the camera. He turned towards it, then began walking to it, his erect, dripping cock jutting proudly out in front. He made sure to keep in frame for a bit. Once he reached it, though, he turned it off, tore it off its tripod, and took it over to the only source of light in the room—the blue neon light.

Examining the camera closely, he soon found and opened the cover over the SD card. He popped the card out and slipped it into his pocket before throwing the camera to the floor and grinding it pieces under his bootheel.

Satisfied with his progress, he fished his smokes back out of his pocket and light another. Taking a deep drag, he glanced around, looking for his clothes. He spotted his shirt and retrieved it, laying the smoldering cigarette directly on a table. Slipping the tight green thermal shirt back over his sinewy chest, he picked his butt back up. It had left a burn on the table, he noticed with amused contempt.

Stupid faggot cunt. He admired the corpse for a moment; it was so fucking hot—an obscene visual to the frenetic club tunes. The short, strapping youth was lying against the pole, his hands above his head still clutching the pole in a death grip. His forehead was pressed against the pole, but his legs were stretched out behind him, his body bent backwards with the crusted head of his cock just touching the stage, slowly adhering in a glaze of drying cum. His smooth bubble butt, glazed with spunk and oozing blood, appeared to be almost deliberately aimed so as to be the first thing one saw entering the apartment, the cheap rough leather belt still wrapped around his neck.

The Trucker scattered his ash about the apartment as he walked about, viewing his kill from every angle. He stubbed out his smoke on the dead cunt’s left asscheek, smelling the faint scent of bacon as the flesh sizzled. Nothing like cooking a pig; for a brief moment, the sadist alpha regretted destroying the camera. He’d have liked a few pics as well…

His leather jacket was the last thing he needed. After slipping it on, he noticed that the door could be locked on the inside while open, then be closed. Anyone wanting in would need the key. He slipped down the stairs and was soon back out in the dark, walking back to the motel.

As his thick boots clumped loudly down the dark and deserted streets, he replayed the events of the evening in his mind. Even after such a vigorous workout, he found himself growing hard again. He knew he’d be jacking over and over again to the video. He also knew a couple of guys. With a little editing, he could get the snuff posted online.

Damn. Now he was harder than fuck. Shit, he’d just unloaded, and here he was ready to dance again. No way he was gonna be able to sleep again like this. Well, his laptop was in the motel room. He could slip the SD card into it. But he didn’t want to get too bored with it; this was too soon after the actual snuff.

Maybe he could find someone else to play with. This late, this small of a town, it’d only be rough trade—a real street whore, probably an addict of some kind, but still…

He had an idea. And after all, if he was gonna post the snuff, he’d need an audience reaction.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark sighed as he surveyed the room. This was gonna be a nightmare. The press was already nosing around; once the details got out, this was gonna be spread across the entire country. A state trooper, found in a cheap motel room bound, strangled, his own nightstick jammed up his ass. That alone was worth multiple news cycles.

He shuddered to think of the feeding frenzy once they learned about the second corpse, the kid in the bathroom. God knows what they’d make of that; he wasn’t sure what to make of it himself.

He’d been called in on his way west to a conference; the state police had limited personnel in this area and had requested help. And Mark had a reputation in the FBI; he’d already solved one major case involving a serial killer with a thing for dudes in uniform.

Still, this made no sense, so far. He needed to bounce it off someone. He needed to talk to Dan.

Talk—right. He needed to do much more with Dan than talk. But this was business, and Dan was one of the best profilers around. His other needs would have to wait to be satisfied.

A trooper stuck his head in the open door. “Hey, you the FBI guy? We found his car; it’s on the other side of the bar across the street.”

“Yeah?” Mark asked. “Is it open? Make sure it’s secured; I’ll be right there.” He noted the look on the cop’s face as he stared at his comrade’s corpse—almost a sneer. Taking a last look around the room, the agent turned to follow the local guy out the door. The image of the trooper’s muscular body, ruthlessly used and callously left splayed and abused, had been graven into his mind.

As he crossed the street, he hoped he’d be able to find this psycho soon, because this body count would continue to grow. This was far beyond anything he’d seen before; he was gonna get hold of Dan as soon as he searched the dead cop’s patrol car. Dude was clearly into something kinky himself; Dan’s insight as a profile would be invaluable.

At any rate, one thing was absolutely clear—whoever this sadistic fuck was, he was very experienced. He’d been doing this successfully for a long time and damn sure wasn’t gonna stop voluntarily.

Mark was after dangerous prey; one wrong step and he’d be the prey himself. And this dude didn’t just kill his victims, he raped and tortured them to death.
 
Oh wow. Has to be one of the best yet. So creative! I really appreciated the continuity and world building too, the "previews of coming attractions" are what makes it for me. Expertly teasing your audience... I especially appreciated how every phase of the story got a full description - my two favorites were the period where trucker allows the kid to get into it, and the denouement after the kid dies and the trucker's reacting to his body. I'm with the trucker, I wish he'd had the foresight to take some pics, hah!

Also, while I definitely appreciated the last story for all the same reasons, (it was great too!) it seemed to be a bit drawn out... The same actions were playing out many times in kind of a featureless sequence. (The diversions and anecdotes were also my favorite parts of that story.) This story's great, it doesn't have nearly as much of that problem. There's enough complexity and novelty that each step seems fresh and it's consistently engaging. Repetition is fine as long as it's broken up.

Little bit of criticism for this story though: it's a bit awkward how the stripper very definitely dies, then comes back to life to react for a few more paragraphs... That sequence could probably stand a re-edit one way or another. I thought the story was doing just fine to have the kid die when he did... It'd also be fine to keep him around a bit longer, as long as the story doesn't seem to move on without him.

But that's really just a tiny, tiny point. Overall excellent story!
 
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