Rocko, Riding Rough

It after two am on Saturday morning before the door to the motel room opened and the trick emerged.  Barely visible behind him stood Jeremy, clad in nothing but a jockstrap and tightly laced combat boots—the fucking whore.

Gritting his teeth in anger, Rocko’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the old Ford so tightly they went white.  Just seeing the adolescent cunt’s lithe body and strawberry-blond buzzcut made the killer’s rage boil over.  His mind went back to the last time he’d seen the little fuck.

It had been two weeks ago—could it really have been that long?—and Rocko had been drunk.  He usually was these days; it helped release some of the pent-up anger that was corroding his homicidally aggressive soul.  The sex with Jeremy that night was been rough—really rough—but it wasn’t like the faggot didn’t deserve it.  Or want it, no matter how much it protested.

Rocko had gotten high afterwards, and that was where he’d made his mistake.  The combination of alcohol and marijuana had left him groggy.  In fact, he’d actually passed out at one point; he’d regained consciousness at the muffled, stealthy sound of the whoreboy trying to silently close a dresser drawer.

“Wha—” the escaped convict muttered thickly.

“I’m leaving, Rocko,” the boy said.  “I can’t do this anymore.  You hurt me, man, you hurt me too many times.  You scare me, dude.  When we met, I thought…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he stifled a sob.

Raising his head, Rocko noticed for the first time that the homo’s smooth young face was streaked with tears and sported an impressive shiner.  The muscle-bound sadist hadn’t remembered doing that—which was disappointing.  Looked like it’d been fun as all fuck.  He also noticed that the eighteen-year-old whore was carrying the backpack in which he’d toted his meagre collection of clothing when he’d first moved in with Rocko.

“Don’t try to stop me. Rocko,” Jeremy went on, “Don’t come after me.  Remember, I know who you are.  I know you’re a wanted man.  If I so much as think I see you, I’m calling the cops.  I mean it, bro.”

And with that, the teen rentboy walked out on him.

As the memory flowed through his mind, Rocko removed his hands from the steering wheel.  One had instinctively balled itself into a fist; he used the other to cradle it, desperately resisting the urge to punch out the car window.  As furious as he was, that would be stupid.  There was another, much more appropriate target for his rage and hatred.

No one ever walked out on Rocko.  And no one ever, ever threatened him—and got away with it.

And for Rocko, “getting away with it” was defined as surviving making the threat. 

There was a liter of Wild Turkey 101 riding shotgun.  He grabbed it by the neck and deftly opened it with the thumb and forefinger of the same hand that was holding it.  Taking a couple of hefty swigs, the muscled killer closed the bottle and climbed out of his car.   The moment the thick soles of his black leather harness boots hit the pavement, he dropped the booze back onto the driver’s seat and closed the car door—very, very quietly.

For a moment Rocko stood in the shadows by the motel room door.  It was a chilly night against which the hardbodied sadist’s jeans, as faded as they were tight, and size-too-small cotton wifebeater did little to protect.  Despite that, Rocko’s body, bedewed with sweat, glistened on the rare moments a stray beam from the sodium light that stood forty feet away, illuminating the entrance to the parking lot, fell upon his bare skin.  Anger and alcohol had combined to stoke the insatiable fires within.

He moved to the door and cautiously tried the knob.  He was able to open it a tiny bit—just a little, but enough to let him see that while the knob had been left unlocked, the chain was on the door.

Stupid little cunt, Rocko thought contemptuously, It needs this.  Fuck, it WANTS this.  It’s makin’ this way too easy for it not to want it.

He raised his boot and slammed it against the door.  The cheap wood screws used to secure the chain’s hardware gave way on the door end first; a doorstop screwed into the wall behind it halted the violent movement of the door itself.  Rocko stepped into the room with perfect timing, catching the door before it could bounce back and closing it swiftly but quietly behind himself.  Just as silently, he ensured that this time, the knob itself was locked—and the deadbolt.

The scene with which he was presented was one that made his most sadistic urges begin seething.

Jeremy had been lying on his back, smoking a joint, when Rocko burst in; he’d managed to get himself propped up on one elbow before he realized what was happening and had frozen in horror.

Something was exchanged between them, something best described as a mutual recognition of the realities of the situation.  Namely, that Jeremy was now locked into a room with a man who not only bore him a grudge, not only was an escaped felon, but was also a gay serial killer.

He’d thought he’d been pretty smart about that threat to rat Rocko out.  It wasn’t that he didn’t fear Rocko—the dude scared the living shit outta him—but in his teenaged naivety, he’d assumed it’d make him reconsider long enough for Jeremy to get several blocks away.  And after that, he’d assumed, Rocko would eventually forget about it…

But he hadn’t.  He was here, oh fuck he’s here…  And he was drunk.  Even from across the room, the sour smell of fermentation was evident.

Jeremy wasn’t aware of the slackening of his bladder—largely because he didn’t piss himself.  His dick was achingly—and bewilderingly—erect.  But this commanded such a small part of his attention at the moment that it was more or less ignored. He dropped his roach on the cheap, chemically-infused carpet, where it smoldered poisonously for a minute before going out

But from the moment Rocko’s dark eyes, the visual equivalent of the black hole’s irresistible gravitational tug, locked into those of the adolescent punk—glittering, cat-eye-green, and dilated in panic—one thing was known to both of them with utter, absolute certainty. 

Only one of them was gonna leave that room alive.

And that one wasn’t gonna be Jeremy.

“You worthless little sack of shit,” Rocko said, his calm and completely clear enunciation somehow more terrifying than if he’d blurted the words out in a drunken slur.  Because he was drunk; that was obvious.  His inhibitions were lowered and the inner rage that seethed beneath his surface like magma was starting to erupt.

Except it wasn’t exploding like a volcano.  It had narrowed its focus with the intensity of a laser onto one thing, and one thing only.

And that thing was making the fuckmeat understand that Rocko owned it—and making sure the understanding lasted for the rest of its life.

It was a form of instinct that made Jeremy rise from the bed; certainly, his conscious mind was too overwhelmed by shock to react with some sort of action.  From the point of view of the teenaged whore, everything seemed to have slowed down to quarter speed, especially himself.  There was a brief sense of déjà vu, disorienting, nauseating, and vaguely frightening—he’d experienced this before in a nightmare, this sense of slowly watching his own doom without being able to alter anything in the least.

So there was no surprise as Rocko’s arm flashed towards his face.  Jeremy couldn’t even react fast enough to flinch.  The surprise was the nothingness that hit him before he could actually process the pain of the blow; the only thing he knew before the lights went out was that he wasn’t dead—yet.

Pain.  Pain, and constriction, and…and binding.  Jeremy was hurt; his face ached abominably.  So did his hands and his wrists.  As the flutter of his long eyelashes betrayed his return to consciousness, he began to untangle the sensations of profound discomfort he was getting from his arms.

He was lying on his back with his arms twisted awkwardly behind him.  He jerked them almost reflexively only to confirm the feeling of being bound—his hands were tied at the wrist.  Had he not been so dazed by being punched in the head, he might have noticed how loose his combat boots now were and realized what had happened to the black nylon laces.

The adolescent’s lucidity was in no way helped once his eyes were fully open.  Looming over him was Rocko, now shirtless, the thick, meaty muscles of his arms writhing with prison tattoos of indistinct but menacing forms.  The dingy yellow shade of the bedside lamp washed the yellow out of the hardbodied killer’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, leaving it looking almost copper.

But this was all familiar to Jeremy.   That furry chest, those powerful slabs of pure male muscle, yes; he knew it well.

That cock, that monstrous shaft of meat—oh fuck, he knew what that meant.  Rocko never got that hard with Jeremy unless he was planning to hurt him.

But Jeremy had never seen Rocko so excited that his gigantic tool throbbed visibly.  And then, to the boy’s horror, a large bead of precum, as transparent and glistening as a dewdrop appeared in the center of the massive head.

The punk jerked his head up, only to catch Rocko’s malevolent grin.  The latter was holding up an object, the domestic nature of which was so discordant with Jeremy’s terror-inducing reality, that it took him a few seconds to realize that Rocko was holding an ordinary electric steam iron.

Jeremy hadn’t given the thing a second thought when he’d gotten the room.  He was no stranger to this hotel; he’d been fucked in nearly every room here.  The place occasionally got raided by Vice or the drug squad.  In a rather pathetic attempt to make it look like he ran a respectable, family-friendly establishment, the owner had added amenities like coffee makers, irons, and hair dryers to the rooms. 

None of the items matched and it was well-known that the owner expected to suffer a certain amount of pilfering from his clientele.  Every “amenity” he supplied was gotten for pennies from the local pawn shops, largely as forfeited pledges that turned out to be non-functional.  To Jeremy, these things were simply more of the background squalor in which he wasted his short life.

But now, with the way Rocko was holding the iron in one hand while wrapping the cord around the other, grinning down at him, the helpless teen slut realized that if anyone could make anything into a weapon, that dude was Rocko.

“Hey, bro, glad to see yer awake again,” the sadistic felon said.  “I been waitin’ for ya, motherfucker.  See, you gotta learn, faggot.  Now, how ya gonna learn—really, really learn—if yer fuckin’ asleep, huh?”

Rocko’s cruel glee had become almost physically painful.  And it only got worse.

“You gotta learn what happens to fuckmeat that thinks it ain’t mine.  That’s some bad thinkin’, boy.  That means yer brains ain’t workin’ right.”

Here he knelt down and delivered a knockout blow to the kid’s psyche that was every bit as devastating and much more vicious than the physical punch had been.  Rocko kissed Jeremy, deeply, forcefully, his muscular tongue probing the teenager’s esophagus and leaving behind the smoky residue of straight bourbon.  As Jeremy shuddered, his agile young hormone-filled body instinctively reacting to the older man’s powerful cocktail of pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline, Rocko lowered his head, his five-days-worth of unshaven scruff rasping against the homo’s smooth boyish cheek, until his mouth reached the level of Jeremy’s ear.

“Don’t worry, fuckmeat,” Rocko whispered tenderly, “I’m good at resettin’ faggot brains.  I reset ‘em so good, they don’t ever forget who they belong to.  Ever.  Ya feelin’ me, my dude?  Ever.

After that, it wasn’t a fair fight.  The experienced alpha fagkiller had established his dominance right away and the young scumshit pansy wasted half its energy fighting its own terror.  More than that, though—Rocko established physical control as well.  Even as Jeremy’s lean but muscular body went rigid in instinctual anticipation of pain, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped the cord of the steam iron around the adolescent’s neck.

For the next hundred and twenty seconds, the teenaged whore struggled harder and more desperately than it ever had in its short, useless life.  The physical and psychological impacts of being strangled to death combined with Rocko’s terrifying hate/lust to spin the punk into a mindless panic.

Rocko was grasping the iron itself in one hand and the plug on the other; he’d simply looped the cord once around the meat’s neck and pulled it as tight as he could.  As his thick, manly biceps bulged with the frightening force of his psychotic anger, the cord itself gave way, tearing free of the iron.

The free end of the cord whipped around the kid’s neck, releasing the pressure on his esophagus, but flaying the skin from around his throat.  No major blood vessels were damaged, but that didn’t stop pinpricks of blood from welling up inside the quarter-inch band of raw flesh that encircled the fucker’s neck.

Now able to inhale, Jeremy came back to himself.  Now that the black vortex of abject terror had momentarily subsided, he could acutely feel all the damage done to his throat, both inside and out.  Even before the overwhelming pounding had faded from his foggy mind, he was aware—and somehow humiliated by the fact—that his thick boycock was erect and pulsing, despite everything that was happening to him.

Rocko was aware of it, too.  His laughter was raucous and cruel.  “Goddam, fuckface!  I knew—I fuckin’ knew—you were just like every other faggot I done run across.  You don’t just know ya need to die—ya want it.  Yer gonna say ya don’t an’ yer gonna try to fight me, but deep down, you know you need to die on my cock.”

With a grin that dripped pure sadistic malice, Rocko kept his icy gaze locked onto that of the fuckmeat’s as he reached down and slid his zipper down.  The traffic noise outside the sleazy motel room had died down for the moment; the unmeshing of the metal teeth could clearly be heard over the teen whore’s ragged breathing.  The meat should’ve known what was coming, but even as Rocko began probing its fuckhole with his dick, it seemed to be frozen, as if struck into silent contemplation by the escaped killer’s words.

This lack of concern didn’t last long.  As reamed-out as the teen rentboy’s ass was, Rocko’s hate-inflamed member was truly monstrous, even more menacing than it had been when they’d first met.  And this time, the muscle-bound sex murderer went in fast, hard, and dry.  Before the young homo knew what had happened to it, its sphincter had been torn and the lining of its rectum split in multiple places.  Even as Rocko’s enormous rod ground over its prostate, keeping the pansy fully erect, it was shrieking in agony.

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” Rocko grunted unsympathetically, “Yer pissin’ me off!”

The adolescent whore would have gladly shut up if it could’ve.  It had no idea pain like this could exist.  It was like being fucked by a dildo made of razor-sharp glass shards.  It continued to scream like a bitch.  And while the sound of the teenaged faggot sluit getting exactly what it had coming to it was hot as all fuck, Rocko knew he had to keep it quiet to prevent it from attracting attention.

While pumping its asshole remorselessly, the hairy, hardbodied killer reached down and grabbed the waistband of the homo’s jockstrap.  With a single upwards jerk, he tore it off the meat, snapping all the elastic bands simultaneously.  As the thrashing boywhore opened its mouth and inhaled for another scream, Rocko jammed its cum-stiffened jock as far down its throat as he could.  It was still breathing, but at least it was quieter.

And yet, bewilderingly, its own dick was not only still hard—it was leaking precum.  And no matter how nightmarish the agony it was enduring, the fuckmeat somehow maintained an awareness of what its shaft was doing.

Even after Rocko clamped his powerful hands around the faggot’s neck and started squeezing it with the inexorable relentlessness of a steel vise.

Once again, the meat struggled as an instinctual reaction to the cessation of oxygen.  This time, though, the desperate panic of its prior thrashing bore fruit; the bootlaces binding its wrists had stretched slightly—just enough for it to work its hands free.  It immediately began clawing at Rocko’s face.

The killer’s response was to sink the full weight of his bulging muscles down onto his prey, forcing it to first spread its legs, then wrap them around Rocko’s waist, the smooth firm flesh of its inner thighs pressing forcefully against the convict’s thrusting, sweat-slick flanks.

The unlucky homo could feel its tongue swell in its mouth from the constriction on its trachea.  As the pressure inside its head began to build, its eyes bulged, locking its stare onto its own boots, kicking in midair beyond Rocko’s heaving shoulders.  There was a ball of fire burning in its chest, just up under its breastbone, which seemed to be trying to eat its way out.

But most of all, there was the dick in its ass, that gigantic tool wreathed in veins and powered by an inexorable hate. 

The street whore was young.  In a pathetic sense, it could be called innocent, in that it had no concept that the pain still in store for it could even exist—but it wasn’t too innocent to know what was happening to it.

It had heard whispers in the circles in which it ran.  One day an acquaintance—not a friend, it had no friends—would stop showing up, and there would be stories.

But this young faggot had thought itself too smart to fall into a trap like that.  It still didn’t truly believe it, even though it was obvious that as far as the trap was concerned, it somewhat less intelligent than the average rat.  It was all just a nightmare, just like its own cock.  Its own treacherous, traitorous cock, erect and throbbing as it was continuously massaged by the friction and pressure generated from two male bodies locked together in an erotically violent and desperate embrace.

It was about to become unimaginably more violent.  The whore’s clawing hadn’t slackened in the least, and it was pissing Rocko off.

“Goddammit, ya stupid motherfucker,” he snarled into the adolescent boy’s tearstained face, already dark and bloated with congested blood, “You must either really fuckin’ love pain, or yer just too dumb to shut up and take whatcha got comin’, ya worthless faggot cunt!”

Straightening his left arm, Rocko pressed down on it with all his might, forcing the fuckmeat’s neck deeply into the mattress, the depression causing a deep, smooth curve to form in the yellowed, rough sheet.  In this position, he was able to keep choking his bitch to death while freeing up his right arm to use.

And use it he did.

Four blows to the mouth, dealt with the speed and force of a jackhammer. 

After the second, the meat felt both its lips split and warm blood trickle across its face, and maybe a quiver in its worthless homo cock

After the third, it felt three of its teeth being ground against the inside of its mouth by its relentlessly swelling tongue, and a definite throb in its aroused member.

After the fourth, when its jaw shattered, the bewildered piece of boymeat knew—down in some deep, sick, heretofore-unknown corner of its psyche, it knew—that it was leaking precum.

It was past trying to interpret any of it, though.  It was quickly approaching the point at which it would be past anything and everything.

Rocko’s “tough love” discipline had worked wonders, as far as he was concerned.  The scumshit had stopped trying to resist its only real reason for existing.  The sadistic killer knew that the solitary purpose for the faggot’s presence on the planet was to milk the cum out of his thick tackle as it died like the garbage it was.  

If it’d have stuck around, he’d have offed it in a day or two anyway.  That was why he was so pissed now; he’d had to wait a long time—way too long—to make the cocksuckin’ pansy suffer the way it needed.  The way it had to suffer.

By now the kid was in a mindless panic.  Its shattered jaw sagged, allowing its swelling tongue to slowly push the jockstrap out of its mouth.  As the sodden fabric tumbled down the cunt’s cheek, it was immediately followed by a foamy white trickle of spittle that had been bottled up.  The adolescent drooled like a rabid dog as it died.

“Aw yeah, take it, bitch!” Rocko barked, “Yeah, fuckin’ love this shit!!”

The hairy serial killer could feel that old familiar sensation rising from his potent, seed-filled sack.  He knew he needed to spew soon—and that meant it was time for the meat to fulfill its highest and best use.

“Almost done with ya, motherfucker,” he grunted viscerally, “It’s all over, ya stupid faggot.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya or care what happened; ya know that, dontcha?”

Deep down inside, the writhing, dying piece of teen boymeat once known as Jeremy, likely had known that in the last few terrifying seconds of its utterly worthless existence, but the part of its brain that held that information was now dead.  It could hear—barely, over the once rapid but now staccato pulse pounding in its ears, but the ability to understand was almost completely gone.  It couldn’t see; the black blossoms that exploded like fireworks before its swollen, hemorrhaging eyes had utterly obscured its field of vision.

What it still could do—unluckily for it—was feel.  And it still felt everything happening to it.  In fact, just before its nervous system collapsed, its nerve endings became hyper-sensitive.

So when Rocko punched it in the throat hard enough to crush its larynx and collapse its trachea, it could feel the way its airway had been blocked by a mangled mass of bloody cartilage in absolutely excruciating detail.

“Aw, fuck YEAH!” Rocko bellowed as an immediate involuntary reaction made the meat go rigid on his cock.  Unconsciously, the adolescent whore clutched the sadistic sex killer in a desperate embrace as its limbs tightened around him reflexively, its arms clutching his shoulders as its legs pressed firmly against Rocko’s sides.

Wrapping his mighty paws around the teenager’s throat the buff, inked convict began to literally wring its throat, agonizingly grinding the whore’s trachea to splinters of cartilage and shreds of tissue.  As he did, the mindless fuckmeat convulsed powerfully, its smooth, flat belly rubbing against Rocko’s ripped abs, his wiry belly fur abrading the punk’s dick like steel wool.

It was too much.  It was too much.  Whatever the worthless teenaged slut had been looking for, whether emotionally or sexually, its brutal, agonizing beating, rape, and strangulation satisfied its disgusting pig soul to the point that it had an orgasm.

But that’s not entirely accurate.  To describe the final sensations that the Jeremy-meat experienced in its last few seconds as Jeremy as an orgasm would be similar to comparing an A-bomb to an H-bomb—while the impact might appear the same at first, the sheer magnitude had been exponentially increased.

In other words, the smooth, lithe rentboy’s hormone-fueled genitals expelled nearly a full pint of semen as the two male bodies clamped together in an elemental, deeply masculine embrace of pain, cum, and death.  But there was more to come—or, rather, more to cum.

Next up was Rocko.  Triggered not only by the massaging of his pulsing, oozing cock by the faggot’s death throes but by his overwhelming sense of dominance and righteousness in putting the homo whore down like the diseased animal it was, he emitted a loud, enraged grunt and began pounding to fuckmeat’s face.

“Take it, motherfucker!” he screamed, momentarily forgetting his concerns about being overheard outside the room.  “Take it all, ya worthless sack a’ shit!  Work my cum out, scumshit!  Get it! Get it as ya die! Get it—ahhAGGGH!!!!”

And the very last thing that eighteen-year-old Jeremy, a high-school dropout originally from Des Moines, Iowa, experienced in his short and completely useless life, was Rocko’s seething, potent manseed flooding his rectum and duodenum.  One last burst of warmth should have been a comforting spar to cling to as he was swept into the icy darkness of death, but his oversensitive nervous system, as part of its last function moment, let him die with the sensation of having molten lead poured into his asshole.

And then that was it, really and truly.  But Rocko wasn’t done; his balls were by no means drained.  And neither was the corpse; just because it was dead didn’t mean it wasn’t fuckable—and the postmortem convulsions were sometimes even better…

And this time they were.  Rocko collapsed onto the shuddering body; crying out inarticulately, he came again and again inside its dead asshole, slamming his fist into its face with almost every thrust.

By the time he had shot his last load and lay gasping and quivering, almost helpless, the meat’s countenance was beyond unrecognizable.  Everything between the hairline and the chin, and between the ears, looked exactly like fine-ground hamburger.

After about five minutes, the meat’s last few firing synapses had slowed to the point that even Rocko’s hyper-engorged manmeat was no longer stimulated.  Reluctantly, he pulled out, his massive mushroom-shaped head ripping out with a pop and bobbing in the air for a moment as a last few pearly orbs of his spunk dripped thickly on to the dead boy’s down-covered buttcheek.

Rocko stood up.  His body was still glistening with sweat, but his breathing was under control.  He looked down at the corpse.  It still wasn’t quite still; a limb or digit twitched roughly, about every thirty seconds or so.

“You deserved that, faggot,” Rocko whispered.  “You needed it.  Hell, you fuckin’ wanted it.”

And with that he headed to the bathroom.

Later, after having showered and redressed, he left the motel room.  He paused in the doorway and turned back.

The teenaged fag had been left splayed on its back on the bed, blood and cum leaking from its shredded asshole.  Its body still gleamed with the cold sweat forced from it in its mortal agony.   Little above the shoulders could be positively recognized as human by sight.

Then Rocko noticed something he hadn’t before—as it died, the cunt had kicked off both its boots.  One had landed on the floor a few feet away, but the other had landed on the nightstand—how had he missed that?  It must have been while he was spunking…

At any rate, Rocko now grinned in malevolent pride as he looked down on a corpse that had not only died fucked so hard that its toes curled, but that rigor mortis seemed to be setting in.  Everyone involved would see how much the cocksucking pansy enjoyed its own death.

After ensuring the door locked behind him, Rocko dropped himself into the driver’s seat of his old Ford and took half a dozen swigs from his bottle of Wild Turkey.  His dick began to swell almost automatically.  Hell, the bottle wasn’t even half-empty yet.  And it was only three in the morning; he knew of some illegal after-hour fag clubs. 

And he needed new meat.

Jeremey’s death did have an impact—but not much.  A maid found the body the next day.  The manager called the police, but both were so accustomed to finding dead whores of both sexes on the property that little fuss was raised.

Jeremy was finally identified by DNA but by that time, his parents, who were Baptist missionaries, had been killed in a plane crash in South America.

The teen whore was interred as a pauper in an unmarked grave.  Rocko had been right—no one would care that he was dead.

One thought on “Rocko, Riding Rough

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.