CUT: Part 11

Gravel crunched under their boots as Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta and Deputy Desmond “Dezzy” Frost walked side by side along the dark shoulder of Coxwell Heights Road. Dezzy’s flashlight swept slow arcs across the treeline, the beam catching on leaves and throwing long shadows behind them. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine, but the space between the two men felt charged.

“You know,” Dezzy said, voice low and a little rough, trying to slice through the thick silence, “I always try to catch your reports, Gusto. Even when I’m on-duty.”

Gusto glanced sideways, that trademark smirk curling his full lips. Moonlight highlighted the deep tan of his skin. His open shirt shifted with each step, revealing glimpses of thick, smooth pectorals and the silver cross nestled in the valley between them. “Oh yeah, guapo?” he teased, voice a velvet rumble. “You like watching me on screen?”

Dezzy’s neck flushed dark under the collar of his uniform. He rubbed the back of it with one large hand—broad palm, strong fingers, veins standing out on his forearm from years of handling suspects and weights alike. Dezzy was the kind of handsome that turned heads without trying: square jaw, wavy brown hair, piercing hazel eyes framed by lashes too long for a cop, and a moustache that wasn’t quite ready for prime-time. His deputy shirt stretched tight across a powerful chest and shoulders, the fabric pulling whenever he moved.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, but the blush deepened. “Just… you’re good at what you do. Real good. Most reporters chase sensational crap, but you dig for the truth. You get people to open up. Get to the heart of the story.”

Gusto slowed his stride, genuinely caught off guard. Compliments usually came with a leer and a comment about his arms or his ass. This felt different. “That’s… actually really nice to hear,” he said, golden-brown eyes softening as he looked at Dezzy. “Most folks just see the chest and the biceps. Hell, half the time I think that’s why the station keeps me on camera.” He chuckled, low and warm. “Brains and brawn—dangerous combo, I guess.”

Dezzy’s gaze flicked down for a split second—taking in the way Gusto’s slacks hugged his thick thighs and the obvious heavy bulge at the front—before snapping back up. “I see both,” he said quietly. “Always have. I like the brains too.”

The air between them thickened. Gusto felt his cock give a slow, insistent throb against his thigh. Dezzy’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. They drifted closer without meaning to. Shoulders brushing, heat radiating through fabric.

“Hey,” Dezzy started, voice softer now, almost shy, “if you ever wanna grab a coffee sometime—”

“HOLY SHIT!” Gusto cut him off, eyes snapping to the treeline. “Flashlight—over there! Look—the mask!”

Dezzy swung the beam instantly. Twenty feet into the woods, half-hidden by brush, the unmistakable white gleam of Sunny’s painted grin stared back at them—Hollowface’s mask, discarded on the ground. Beside it, moonlight glinted off a long silver blade. And beyond that, the dark bulk of an older sedan.

“There—and the knife—Christ, there’s a car!” Gusto was already moving.

Dezzy sprinted after him, boots pounding. They reached the green Cadillac in seconds, circling it warily. Dezzy swept the flashlight inside—empty seats, nothing out of place.

“Blood,” Gusto said grimly, crouching near the front wheel. Dark smears streaked the dirt.

Deputy Dezzy rounded the bumper. “Here too—on the chrome. Thick streak… and it trails right into the trunk.”

Gusto met his eyes, dread tightening his gut. “What do you think’s in there?”

Dezzy’s jaw set. “Only one way to find out.” He gently pushed Gusto back with one thick forearm—solid, warm muscle brushing Gusto’s chest—then drew his service pistol, aiming at the trunk lock.

The gunshot cracked loudly through the woods. Gunpowder stung the air.

The trunk popped open with a metallic clang.

They approached together, flashlight beam trembling slightly in Dezzy’s grip.

Inside lay a black-cloaked figure, prone and motionless. The Sunny mask covered its face, that frozen grin aimed skyward.

Dezzy reached in cautiously. Suddenly, Gusto grabbed his forearm—strong fingers wrapping around corded muscle. “Wait, papi. I’ve seen this movie. Could be a trap—he plays dead, then boom, knife in your gut.”

Dezzy’s hazel eyes flicked to him, tense but steady. “You reach in. I’ll have my pistol aimed at his head. If he moves, I’ll shoot.” He said, more as a potential warning to the masked figure in the trunk than an actual plan.

Gusto stared at him, incredulous. “You’re insane! I’m not touching Mr. Stabby-Stabby!”

Dezzy gave him a pleading look—those long lashes, that earnest face—and Gusto felt his resolve crack.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But you better be a dead shot, handsome.”

Dezzy nodded, pistol trained as Gusto leaned in, hand shaking. In one quick yank, he ripped the mask free.

Kurt Stryberg’s lifeless face stared up at them—skin gray and mottled, eyes dull and vacant. Dead.

“Oh shit,” Gusto breathed, dropping the mask back into the trunk. “Kurt Stryberg. Mio Dios…”

Dezzy lowered his weapon slowly, voice grim. “We need to get back to the house and call this in. Now.”

Back at the compound, the lights snapped off without warning, plunging the double-height steel garage into sudden, inky darkness.

“FUCK!” Milton “Milt” Drabbs bellowed, his bloated gut jiggling violently under the sweat-stained polo as he whipped around toward the open rear door. “That lazy, cock-sucking Italian prick Leo must’ve blown the goddamn breaker when he fired up the hot tub. Typical—can’t even sit in water without fucking something up.”

He turned back to Josh, piggy eyes raking over the 6’5, 310-pound golden god still straddled over the bench. Josh’s tattooed arms braced wide, veins popping like cables down his forearms. Sweat gleamed on every inch of his obscene physique—shelf-like pecs heaving, dark nipples stiff, abs carved into an eight-pack so deep you could lose fingers in the grooves. His 16.5-inch cock jutted upward like a steel pole, the fat head swollen and leaking nonstop—another thick jet of precum spurting high before splattering wetly across his lower pecs and dripping down the deep V that arrowed toward his shaved groin.

“Coach—fuck, I’m dying here,” Josh growled, voice thick with frustration. His balls hung heavy and full, churning visibly as another rope of clear fluid pulsed out, coating his shaft and running in shiny rivulets over his enormous quads. “I need to cum so bad it hurts.”

Milt snorted derisively, jowls quivering. “Boo-fucking-hoo, princess. Hold your worthless load like a big boy. I gotta go flip the breaker and hunt down that missing little bitch Lyle—where the fuck is he? Probably jerking off somewhere instead of working.” He waved a pudgy, dismissive hand as he waddled toward the door, gut swinging. “Stay put, Slotter. Don’t touch that overrated dick. I’ll be back, and then we’ll finally get these shots done.”

The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Josh exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. His cock throbbed painfully, every heartbeat sending another bead of precum oozing from the slit. Years of dealing with Milt’s hot-tempered, manipulative bullshit had taught him one thing: you didn’t cross the fat prick if you wanted scholarships, endorsements, or any future in athletics. So he stayed put, muscles trembling with denied need, golden skin glistening under faint moonlight filtering through the windows in the garage doors.

Minutes dragged. Impatience won. Josh stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow, cock bobbing heavily with each step, leaving a trail of precum on the rubber mats. He reached the rear door and twisted the knob.

Locked. From the outside.

“Fuck!” he muttered, irritation flaring.

He turned, hands on his narrow hips, surveying the fake locker room set in the dim light—his herculean body framed perfectly, glutes like basketballs, calves like footballs, that monstrous erection still dripping steadily onto the floor.

Then—blinding white—the overhead lights flared back on with a rattle.

Josh spun toward the door. “Well, it’s about fucking ti—”

He froze.

Standing just inside the closed door was a figure in a swirling black cloak, hood drawn low. On its face: the white, painted grin of a ventriloquist dummy—Sunny’s face. Hollowface.

Josh snorted, folding his tattooed arms over his massive chest. “Real fucking funny, Lyle. After all that shit with Gunnar? Pranks? Now?”

He strode forward confidently, closing the distance until his rock-hard cock pressed insistently against the cloak’s fabric, the fat head smearing a shiny streak of precum across the dark material. “Come on, man. Open the door. I gotta round up the others.”

The figure shook its head slowly.

Josh’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell’s under there, then? Leo? Channing? Whoever you are, you’re being a real asshole. Move.”

Another deliberate shake of the masked head.

Josh stepped back, irritation shifting to unease. “What, you gonna cut me? Look at me, bro.” He threw up a lewd double-biceps pose—peaks exploding upward, veins snaking across 23” mounds of biceps, lats flaring obscenely wide, his dripping 16.5-inch cock thrusting forward like a challenge. “I got a hundred pounds of pure muscle on you easy. You serious?”

The masked head nodded—slow, deliberate.

“What the fuck does that—”

Steel flashed.

The hunting knife slashed across Josh’s right forearm in a blur, opening a deep red line from elbow to wrist. Blood welled instantly, hot and bright, running in thick rivulets down his tattooed skin and dripping onto the mat.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Josh roared, eyes snapping to the wound, then back to the masked figure. Shock turned to fury, his golden muscles tensing as the reality crashed in.

Hollowface lunged without warning, knife flashing in a vicious arc.

Josh reacted on pure instinct—his massive forearm snapping up to block. The blade sliced deep across his tattooed bicep instead, parting skin and muscle in a hot, burning line. Blood sprayed, splattering the fake lockers as Josh roared in pain and fury, the gash instantly weeping crimson down his golden arm.

“You crazy fuck!” Josh bellowed, staggering back, but adrenaline surged through his 310-pound frame. He spun and bolted, bare feet pounding the rubber mats as he tore through the locker-room set.

Hollowface gave chase, cloak billowing, knife gleaming.

Josh vaulted a bench, knocking over a stack of branded towels, cock swinging heavy and hard between his thighs—still leaking from the earlier edging, the fat shaft slapping wetly against his quads with every stride. He rounded a row of fake lockers, chest heaving, blood dripping from both wounds, painting red streaks across his perfect abs.

The killer was fast—too fast—footsteps echoing close behind.

Josh cut sharp around another corner, spotting an open locker door ahead. He grabbed the edge mid-stride and swung it with all his power just as Hollowface rounded the bend. The heavy steel door smashed square into the masked face with a sickening crunch—plastic cracking, the painted Sunny-grin buckling inward.

Hollowface howled, staggering sideways, knife clattering momentarily as the killer tripped over the low locker-room bench and crashed to the floor in a tangle of black cloak.

Josh didn’t wait. He scanned frantically—rear door still locked, no other way out. His eyes locked on windows set into the massive steel roll-up garage doors. Moonlight streamed through them. He saw that they could be opened. Bingo.

He sprinted, blood pumping, cock bobbing wildly. Reaching the garage door, he reached and shoved the window sash open. Cool night air hit his face. The gap looked tight, but doable.

Shoulders first—he twisted sideways, one thick deltoid popping through, then the other. His massive chest was the problem: those overhanging, golden pecs compressed painfully against the frame, nipples scraping metal as he forced them through inch by inch, grunting with effort.

Waist next—he sucked in, obliques carving deep shadows, and wriggled forward. His still-raging 16.5-inch cock flared out behind him, trapped between his thighs, the fat head dragging along the door and leaving a slick trail of precum.

Almost there—legs kicking for leverage—

A gloved hand clamped around his shaft like a steel trap.

Josh’s eyes widened in shock as he was yanked backward—hard. The sudden pull dragged his hips back inside, his cock stretching painfully as Hollowface hauled him by the dick like a leash.

Josh thrashed against the narrow window opening, his massive shoulders wedged tight against the steel frame. Those cannonball delts and thick traps refusing to compress any further, trapping him halfway through like a cork in a bottle. His golden torso hung outside, chest heaving in the cool night air, blood from his earlier wounds dripping down his tattooed arms. Inside the garage, his narrow waist and lower back were exposed, along with his muscled legs and cum-leaking bubble butt, but the bulk of his upper body held firm.

Hollowface’s gloved hand wrapped tight around the musclehunk’s cock. The grip possessive and rough, starting to stroke with insistent, twisting pulls—root to flared head, fingers sliding back and forth over the slick, swollen crown.

Josh’s moan tore out unbidden, deep and guttural, hips bucking involuntarily against the cold metal door. “F-fuck—stop—” he growled through gritted teeth, but his traitorous cock only swelled harder in the killer’s fist, as another thick rope of precum spurted out, splattering the concrete floor below.

Hollowface didn’t stop. The stroking grew faster, more demanding—thumb pressing hard into the sensitive underside, milking him relentlessly. Then Josh felt something warmer, wetter: a tongue dragging slow and deliberate along the full length of his shaft from behind, tracing every bulging vein, swirling around the leaking slit before lapping back down to his heavy balls.

The mask clattered softly to the floor—discarded. Hollowface’s real mouth worshipped that huge beast of a cock with feverish hunger, lips stretching wide around the girth, tongue flicking and sucking, hot breath teasing the sensitive skin.

Josh’s eyes rolled back, hips grinding helplessly against the garage door, the metal creaking under his weight. Pleasure coiled tight in his gut, overriding the pain, the fear. “No—fuck, I can’t—” he gasped, balls drawing up, cock flaring thicker in the unseen mouth. He was right there, teetering on the edge he’d been denied all night.

He couldn’t hold back anymore.

“OH– OH FUUUUUCK!”

With a roar that shook the door, Josh unleashed. An enormous, volcanic orgasm ripping through him. His massive cock erupted like a firehose, pint after pint of thick, pent-up jizz blasting from the swollen head in heavy, endless ropes—splattering the floor in messy puddles, coating the inside of the garage door. His massive, muscular golden body shuddered violently, abs contracting into steel ridges, quads flexing hard as wave after wave emptied his aching balls.

For one breathless moment, ecstasy blinded him.

Then—agony.

Without warning, Hollowface drove the hunting knife upward—straight through the middle of Josh’s still-spasming cock, impaling the thick shaft in one brutal thrust. The blade pinned it mercilessly to the metal door with a wet, crunching thunk, steel biting deep into flesh.

“AAAAAAHHH! WHAT THE FUCK! OH FUCK! AAAAHHH!!!”

Josh’s never-ending orgasm shattered into a blood-curdling howl of pure torment, body convulsing anew as blood poured from the wound The knife held firm—trapping him completely now, unable to wriggle forward or back, his ruined cock throbbing in unimaginable pain against the cold steel.

“FUCCKKK! MY HORSE COCK! NOOO! NOT MY BIG PERFECT DICK! AAAUUUGGHHH!” he screamed, thrashing.

Then, a click.

A low mechanical groan echoed through the garage. The roll-up door activating, chains rattling as it began to ascend.

“PLEASE! OH GOD NO!”

Josh’s eyes snapped wide in fresh terror. The window frame he was wedged through started rising, hoisting his trapped body upward like a macabre trophy. His massive shoulders and overhanging pecs caught firmly on the lower edge, the steel biting into his golden skin as he was lifted clear off the floor.

“NO—FUCK—STOP! PLEASE!”  he roared, legs kicking wildly behind him, tree-trunk quads flexing hard, calves diamond-cut as he thrashed for leverage. His heavenly glutes clenched and bounced with every desperate spasm—two perfect, striated orbs rippling obscenely in the harsh overhead lights, cum still dripping from his freshly fucked ruined hole.

But the knife held fast. The blade impaled straight through the thick middle of his 16.5-inch muscle cock, pinning it mercilessly to the metal door. Every movement sent fresh agony shooting through him, the shaft stretched taut, veins bulging around the steel as blood poured steadily down his inner thighs.

“PLEASE! LET ME DOWN! AAAAGGHHH! PLEASE DON’T! NO!”

He bucked harder, tattooed arms flailing outside, trying to grip the rising frame—fingers scraping metal, pecs compressing painfully as the door dragged him higher. His abs contracted into deep, bloody ridges, lats flaring wide in a final, obscene flex that showcased every inch of his godlike physique.

“OH GOD! NO! PLEASE! STOP THIS THING!!!”

Above him, the sharp lower edge of the garage door’s metal siding loomed—cold, unyielding, descending relative to his rising body like a guillotine.

Josh looked up, stormy eyes filling with horror. “NO—PLEASE—”

The siding met his neck just the base of his skull.

“NOOOOO!!!! AAAAAUUUGGGHHHH!!!”

It sliced clean—brutal, effortless—severing flesh, muscle, and bone in one merciless pass. Blood erupted in a hot fountain, spraying the inside of the door as his head tumbled free, hitting the concrete outside with a wet thud, those once-cocky features frozen in a final scream.

His body went limp instantly—310 pounds of decapitated golden muscle hanging grotesquely from the half-open door. The mechanism jammed against the sudden resistance, chains straining and whining before grinding to a halt.

Josh’s incredible form dangled on lewd display: arms slack outside, massive chest and shredded torso inside, blood cascading down his tattooed abs and pooling beneath. His impaled cock still twitched in death spasms, pinned forever to the steel, cum and blood mixing in thick rivulets down his lifeless thighs. Those heavenly glutes hung relaxed now, round and perfect even in death, the ultimate trophy of a fallen muscle god.

With a last satisfying look at his work, Hollowface turned the lights off and left the garage.