Rocko Ends Rory

The outside temperature was nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and every one of the motel’s under-window AC units were droning away, continually and deafeningly. It was a bleak, run-down place just off the interstate—so close, in fact that the AC noise was often overcome by the sound of the traffic from the highway that was only located fifty yards from the room’s front door.

Not that Rocko minded. He was still free. And he’d managed to find another teen fag to bang.

This one said his name was Rory, but Rocko had gotten a glimpse of an old ID card in his wallet, and Rory was his middle name. His first name was Andreas, of all things, and despite his declarations of being over twenty-one, he was still four months shy of being twenty. But then again, the only thing the little slut had ever said that Rocko had ever actually believed was that he’d been on the street for nearly four years, after his mother had caught him getting fucked by his stepdad—and Rocko was highly suspicious of that last part.

At any rate, this particular fucktoy was nearing the end of its useful life. Rocko had pretty much reamed it out. Plus, he had a feeling that it was fucking around on him, and that was the real issue. First, he didn’t know where it was going, and that last thing he needed was it bringing some disease or nigger methhead back to the room.

Second, and much, much more important, Rocko didn’t know who the little fucker was talking to or what about. And it had let slip a couple of days ago that it knew that Rocko was an escaped convicted murderer. The situation couldn’t continue. It was payday and Rocko had stopped off at a liquor store and gotten a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

He’d pulled his old Ford into the motel parking lot, rolled down the driver and passenger windows, and shut the engine off. Then he sat there, sweating in the heat, drinking swigs from the bottle as he pondered the problem. He’d only gotten a third of the way through the bottle when he decided that he needed to have it out with the bitch and find out exactly what it had been doing—even if he needed to beat the information out of the little faggot.

He rolled up the windows on got out of the car, the thick soles of his Chippewa 8” black leather workboots grinding on the crumbling chunks of the decaying tarmac surface. Their laces were left loose so he’d been able to tuck in the cuffs of his old Levi jeans, now so worn and faded that they were a pale sky blue and almost threadbare. His cotton t-shirt had been relatively clean and white when he’d left that morning to work but was now so soaked with sweat that it clung to his broad chest and washboard abs, leaving nothing in the way of his muscles, body fur, and prison tats to the imagination. The mystery wasn’t why the adolescent whore had been drawn to him, it was why it had felt the urge to stray. Well, that was one thing Rocko planned to resolve. Now.

But it wasn’t there when Rocko got home.

He peeled off his sodden shirt and used it to sop up whatever extra sweat it could before tossing to the floor. He placed the whiskey on the table in front of the window—drapes closed for other reasons beyond keeping out the glaring sunlight, obviously—and sat in one of the two shabby and slightly mismatched chairs that accompanied it. He continued to dwell on the problem of Rory. And drink.

And drink.

There wasn’t any good reason for it to be gone, he felt. They didn’t need anything—the homo liked cheap vodka mixed with just about anything. There was half a large bottle of the stuff left, along with a twelve-pack of soda. Lotsa ramen that it liked and cans of the thick beef stew that Rocko preferred. The microwave sitting on top of the mini-fridge worked well. The TV got basic cable. And there was plenty of weed hidden away in one of Rocko’s boots in the closet. What else could an adolescent cocksucker want?

Well, a cock, of course. But Rocko considered himself worth waiting for. Any pansy that couldn’t do that didn’t deserve him.

Or to live.

The thought of wasting the worthless little bitch at once, today, actually came to mind idly. It hadn’t occurred to Rocko earlier; he’d only been musing over the need to dispose of it at some point. Now that it had occurred to him, it was clinging tightly. And the alcohol only helped it along. And the fact that by this late in the day, the decrepit, rattling AC unit under the window could no longer keep up with the outside temperature.

As the temperature inside the sleazy, smoke-stained unit rose, it became obvious; the motherfucker was whoring around on him. Probably had a buncha disgusting diseases. Rocko took another swig. Yeah, whoring around on him—and not cutting him in on the take. Fucking cunt.

Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and the fucking cunt walked in, grinning with that freshly-fucked look. It was wearing a pink tank top that displayed its smooth skin, slick with the sweat that covered its firm, lightly-muscled chest and arms. Below its white shorts that were just a bit too short, its perfectly formed thighs, covered with a faint, golden haze of light hair, descended down into succulent calves. On its feet, it was sporting a pair of gray-and-white Puma Rebound Layup hightop kicks.

The rage-prone convict had all the proof he needed. The motherfucker was dressed to get fucked.

Rocko waited until it had closed and locked the door behind it before he rose and spoke—or, rather, roared. “Where the fuck have you been, ya useless cumdump?!?”

Startled by the tone of Rocko’s voice, Rory turned towards him, his eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting from coming indoors. His heart began to race, making him gasp once, reflexively. Had Rocko found out about his side hustle?

Rocko had. And his sweaty, muscled body was primed for revenge.

“You been fuckin’ around on me, aintcha?” the convicted killer hissed.

Rory’s heart began to beat so quickly he had to gasp for air, depriving him of the ability to answer—not that Rocko would have been willing to listen to anything he had to say. By the time he was able to respond, it was too late.

“I-I was only giving this-this old dude BJs,” he stammered, “He-he’s a law-lawyer…oh fuck, lawyer, an-and he can help…”

“Goddammit, I knew it!” Rocko shouted in triumphant rage, “You been tellin’ others about me!”

Rory realized his mistake and went pale in terror. As if illuminated by a sudden bolt of lightning, he was instantly aware that his young faggot ass wasn’t going to be able to talk its way out of this.

Not that it would stop him from trying; of course; he was utterly oblivious as to how much worse it would make things for him. “Aw, ma-man, I, I only been try-tryin’ ta help ya!!”, he blurted out, mustering as much faux rage as he could. It was almost a primeval defense mechanism, like a smaller creature making itself look larger when faced with a predator.

But this predator was not only smarter than that, it was burning with a psychotic and homicidal bloodlust. As Rocko twisted his hard, cruel face into a mask of vicious rage, Rory shrank back against the door he’d just locked behind him. He’d forgotten that, in the fear of the moment, but he’d remember it a later, when he only had a brief fraction of a second to savor the fact that he’d locked himself in with a sadistic sex killer.

But that was still to come.

Rory had known about Rocko’s nasty temper and tendency towards physical violence since day one, of course; it was part of what had made him so attractive. Rory liked to be used like the slut he was. The idea that he hadn’t completely plumbed the depths of what Rocko thought was the appropriate use of a slut was slowly dawning on him now as the buff alpha brusquely yanked his zipper down in a single motion and extracted his enormous, throbbing cock. It came out, long, hard, looking exactly like the dangerous weapon it was—not so much a sword for stabbing, but a club for bludgeoning.

And it was more swollen than Rory had ever seen before. His heart ratcheted up several notches. He’d lived the last year or so staying with older men, pretending to work by whoring himself out, not just for his room and board, but for drugs and money too. As a result, the feral instincts he’d developed as a cheap street rat had subsided, even if they hadn’t completely died out. They should have gone off the moment he first entered the motel room, but they were certainly screaming now.

It was in almost in a heightened state of awareness that the terrified adolescent considered his options. While he didn’t truly believe—it might be more accurate to say, couldn’t truly conceive—that this was literally a matter of life and death, he knew that the situation was profoundly serious. He glanced around for avenues of escape.

This, of course, was totally expected. The stupid young whores inevitably had the instincts of animals—but then again, as far as Rocko was concerned, they were only human in their outward form. They were living sex toys, to be disposed of when used up. Unfortunately, they had been endowed with the gift of speech, and it was usually necessary to take measures to ensure that they talked as little as possible.

And in this case, those measures were going to be extreme. It had talked to a lawyer. A fucking lawyer!

Slowly, a plan was evolving in Rocko’s mind, and he wanted a little time to work it out. So, he noted the cunt’s eyes shifting about with a cold contempt. Let it look. Let it try. Let it hope…

Thus, when Rory’s fear reached the point that he could no longer bear the idea of not attempting to escape, the only resistance he met from Rocko was an instinct reaction from the alpha. The escaped murderer almost absentmindedly reached out and grabbed at the back of Rory’s shirt, grasping a handful of pink fabric.

Rory lunged powerfully forward. Instantly, there was a ripping sound and Rocko was left with the shredded remains of the teen’s shirt while the latter, now clad only in shorts, socks, and shoes, dove through the nearest door and closed it behind him.

Admittedly, Rory’s options were few, but it was a bad choice—it was the closet. Still, it did contain a possible weapon. The boywhore looked at the folded suitcase stand propped against the back wall, his mind racing…

Rocko’s mind, however, had raced much more swiftly and smoothly and had come to a bold conclusion. To do this right, he was gonna have to leave the room briefly. He’d take his key, of course, but the slut was too scared to try anything. Even though his cock was now oozing in anticipation of what he was going to do, he regretfully penned it back up in its denim confine.

Rocko was an experienced homicidal sexual predator, but he could be taken by surprise on occasion—and this was one of those occasions. No sooner had he left than Rory came out of the closet, shaky and pale. He was brandishing the collapsed stand, holding two legs in each hand. The stand was old and scratched up, but it was solid wood, and it was heavy. This time, Rorry would be ready.

He made only one fatal mistake. He lost the element of surprise by re-locking the door.

It didn’t take Rocko long to find what he was looking for in the trunk of his car. He sauntered back to the room, well aware of the dark, spreading stain of precum in his groin. But the doorknob refused to yield to his touch.

The cunt was awake. Good. It was time to saddle up. He was ready to dump a load into this stupid piece of meat and end its life in unspeakable agony. It deserved no less.

A slow, cold grin spread across Rocko’s hard face as he turned the key in the lock.

The chain lock had been set. The muscled sadist placed the sole of his boot on the door and shoved, his thick thigh muscle flexing visibly in his tight jeans—but he didn’t have to kick. The chain parted as if it had been made of pipe cleaners, the door swung wide, and Rocko entered, carrying what he’d retrieved from the car.

It was a sixteen-inch double-bladed steel Bowie knife. And it was knocked out of his hand the moment his booted foot stepped onto the carpet. Rory, armed with suitcase stand, had been hiding behind the door.

Rocko was rarely taken by surprise these days; perhaps he’d grown over-confident. But he’d been caught off guard by the little cunt and nearly knocked to the ground. He’d gone down on one knee, taking the majority of the impact on an upraised arm. The knife skittered away, coming to rest under the nightstand, where it was almost completely hidden.

In a split second, the homicidal alpha launched himself back up in a counterattack, springing upon the hapless adolescent like a ravenous tiger. With the full weight and force of Rocko’s muscled body slamming into him, Rory was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard enough to go through the sheetrock. Slumped and groaning on the floor, he’d ended up semiconscious before he even knew something had hit him.

He could still make out some of what was happening, though. Rocko walked over to him, rubbing his arm where bruises were already forming. The look on his face was a somehow gleeful hatred, but when he spoke, his voice was like frozen stone.

“You’re gonna die,” he said flatly, “and it’s gonna hurt worse than anything your little fag ass can think of.”

With that he stepped back, snatching the phone off the nightstand and yanking out its cord. Wrapping it around his hands he turned back to Rory, a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes unchanged. The boywhore, becoming more conscious, attempted to move, uttering a series of urgent grunts as he struggled to rise.

“No, I ain’t gonna strangle ya,” Rocko said in the same cold, flat voice, “You’d probably actually enjoy that. No, when I’m done with you, not only ain’t your momma gonna recognize you, she’s gonna puke if she tries.”

With that, he lunged forward and looped the cord around Rory’s left wrist. Holding it close, he slammed his workboot down onto the kid’s flailing right arm and looped that wrist as well, he began to drag Rory toward the bed.

And at that moment, something changed in the room. The unique combination of Rocko’s rampant testosterone, exuded by his own sweat and Rory’s fear-driven adrenaline, pumped out by his sweat, had an impact on the atmosphere that went beyond the visceral to be nearly mind-altering.

There was no more Rocko, no more Rory. There were now the Alpha and the Whore. And the Whore didn’t want to die.

It kicked wildly, its sneakers thrashing on the floor. “Stop!” it plead, “Please!”

The Alpha merely grunted “Shaddup.” He dragged the Whore up onto the bed by its wrists, the only sign of the effort being the bulging of his massive biceps, gleaming with sweat. As the slut continued to struggle and kick, the muscled sadist calmly tied its hand to the steel headboard.

Now the Whore looked Rocko straight in the face, the tears in its eyes belied by the throbbing bulge in its crotch that matched that in the Alpha’s. “Let me go or I’ll scream,” it said.

“No you won’t,” Rocko replied calmly. “I can guarantee it.” He stooped down and, retrieving the knife, he held it up to show the adolescent rentboy.

It was like a spark had been lit in the already charged atmosphere in the room. The powder trail was now ignited; when it reached the keg, the explosion was going to be catastrophic.

The Whore screamed loudly. It thrashed frantically, its lithe, smooth torso arcing up off the bed so that its flat belly was caught by the light. The skin glistened with sweat, an effect that gradually ebbed towards the lower part of the abdomen where a faint down appeared that darkened, thickened, and grew wirier as it trekked beneath the waistline of its shorts.

Well, it wouldn’t need those. With cold efficiency, Rocko began to cut them off, using the serrated edge of his blade. The Whore kept screaming and kicking, making the process not so much difficult as irking, especially when the fuckmeat’s screeches were caused by its own movements.

In a sudden burst of animalistic fury, the Alpha stabbed it in the balls…and then instantly regretted it. Not because of the pain he’d inflicted—never that—but because he’d created the opposite reaction than the one he’d expected.

He’d seen dudes shanked in the nuts in prison a couple of times; in each case, the guy had been left gasping in shock. That didn’t happen with the Whore. While one testicle had missed the blow—it had come in at an oblique angle—the other had been squarely punctured. In fact, it had been nearly, but not quite, slashed in half. The Whore shrieked so hard its voice almost cracked.

Rocko had wanted to quiet it; now he was sure it could be heard outside. Still clutching the knife, now smeared with the kid’s blood, he balled up his hand and spoke to the cunt, emphasizing his words with his fist.

“Shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

By the time he finished, the Whore had responded beautifully. Its head was lolling, its eyes open but rolled back in its head so that only the whites could be seen. It was drooling out a trickle of blood, and an occasional tooth, from its slack and open mouth. The mouth was unusually agape—Rocko had broken its jaw in two places. Satisfied, the alpha slashed its shorts to shreds.

Rocko unbuttoned the waist of his jeans and lowered the zipper, releasing his pulsating member. The Whore was still out, drooling and making guttural sounds, as the Alpha climbed onto the bed and parted its legs. It quickly regained some form of consciousness, however, when the muscular ex-convict speared its rectum with his engorged shaft.

It wasn’t as if Rocko hadn’t fucked it before, but this was different. The atmosphere that had turned the Alpha and Whore modes on in his head, enhanced by Rocko’s inherent rage and sadism, gave an impetus to his brutal thrusting that went beyond rape to physical torture. And he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

Rory began to surface from blank blackness into a sea of undifferentiated agony. The first sensation that he could feel was the searing agony of his punctured testicle; he had no idea that his long teen boycock was still erect and pulsating. While his brain was trying to manage that nightmarish pain, he was also become aware that he was being brutally assraped.

All of it processed in a millisecond and was then overwhelmed by crushed face. His eyes were swelling shut, his nose was smashed, and his mouth—

He tried to scream, but his broken jaw not only prevented it, it added to the sheer misery of the moment. As Rory underwent more pain than he had even imagined, all he could do was utter garbled bleats and mewls. And worse was rapidly approaching.

As the Whore tugged frantically at the plastic-covered cord that bound it to the headboard, the Alpha noticed that even though its dick was still hard, its ass was losing traction on his on vein-wreathed tool. It was starting to accept its role. They all did, sooner or later. It happened every time because they were all whores and deep inside, this was what they needed. The Whores might bleat and gurgle and struggle like this piece of shit was doing, but the fuckpig that filled whatever hole their souls should have filled, needed it.

No, they might not want it, but they goddam sure needed it. And it was time this one learned that.

“I’m gonna put you in yer place, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Rocko growled, “And your place is grasping my cock until I kill you. Get it? I’m gonna cum when you die.” With that he picked up the blade, already lying unnoticed on the bed, and held it up to the kid’s left nipple, hard and jutting above the dark areola.

“So, ya see, ya really, really wanna make me cum,” he stated with hate-filled malignancy as he calmly sliced the boy’s nipple off. Its lithe torso writhed against his wiry chest fur, but there was little change in the way it was gripping his dick. He transferred his attention to the right nipple.

“’Cause that way, you die sooner, so the pain stops sooner. Ya feel me, bitch?” It only took a brief flick of the wrist, and that nipple was gone as well.

Better. At least that got a response out of it. But it was nowhere near enough for what was needed—thus showing that the Whore had answered the Alpha’s question. It didn’t feel him.

Well, it was gonna. Rocko punctuated his statement by, suddenly and without warning, plunged his knife into the slut’s smooth, flat belly. The blade slashed through the skin and muscle effortlessly, the honed, razor-sharp edge puncturing the intestine and emerging out the back, pinning the worthless homo to the bed.

There. That was what it needed to really respond. “Betcha love that shit, dontcha, cunt?” he sneered, lust now obvious in his sadistic joy. “Ya got two hard shafts rearrangin’ yer guts at the same time, yeah? You like that? Don’t cum yet, motherfucker. Enjoy the pain—there’s more comin’, I promise!”

Rory gasped as he was punctured. He clutched at the Alpha’s upper arms in a reflexive reaction, trembling at the edge of shock as his fingers tightened around his killer’s bulging biceps. But the homicidal sadist kept his promise; more pain was coming forthwith.

The Alpha, now overcome with a hate-filled bloodlust, yanked the knife free. With an uncanny aimed honed by numerous prison yard shankings, he rammed it into the Whore’s upper abdomen. Turing his wrist ever so slightly, he managed to impale its gallbladder, liver, and right kidney with a single thrust. Each of the injuries would be fatal on its own—eventually. In the meantime, its cock agonizingly hard from electrochemical shock, the Whore writhed on the blade like a bug on a pin.

Which, as far as the Alpha cared, was what it was. Whores were closer to insects than humans and needed to be exterminated as vindictively as possible. They deserved what their tiny pig souls craved: sexual abuse, nightmarish agony, and death. Preferably all at once. He tugged the blade out and stuck it in the other side, this time getting the spleen and the left kidney.

Rory was only vaguely aware of the profoundly traumatic injuries his lithe adolescent body was enduring; he’d retreated into a catatonic state in an instinctive reaction to avoid shattering his psyche. He was awake, but he wasn’t processing sensory inputs. He couldn’t see Rocko’s muscular torso as he thrusted and heaved, his chest fur matted with sweat, his face twisted with cruel lust as he spat on the helpless teen. He couldn’t hear Rocko snarling about him being a useless slut.

What he could feel, somehow, was the brutal and relentless rape of his already well-used fuckhole—and his own agonizing erection as his teen cock was being ground like grist in a mill between his own flat, firm, sweat-slick belly and Rocko’s hairy, muscular abs.

It was time. Deep down inside, both the Alpha and the Whore could feel it. Rocko felt it in his balls, seething near the exploding point. Rory felt it unconsciously, in the little corner of his faggot pig psyche. The agonizing, degrading death he’d needed and craved was here. It was time.

Rocko jerked the knife out of the fuckmeat, reversed the angle, and slammed it in under the cunt’s jaw. Clutching the kid’s head in one hand for leverage, he muscled the blade up through the tongue and soft palate. The hard palate offered some resistance to the razor-sharp tip, but not much. Even less was offered by the bone and the base of the skull after the professional shiv traversed the nasal passages. Ripping upwards, he nicked the temporal lobe and slashed through the frontal lobe.

The slut immediately lost the ability of voluntary motion, contracting inwards so that it clutched the Alpha’s shoulder while tightening its legs around his waist. It’s Puma hightops dug into his back. But it was still alive, and while not exactly conscious, it was still sensate to a degree. But not for long.

It was an incredibly ugly, vicious, and excruciating way to die. Rocko stirred the blade, scrambling the teenaged whore’s brain like eggs for breakfast. That was the final catalyst. The meat had brain damage beyond any hope of survival.

It convulsed with all the vigor of a hormone-riddled adolescent fag, beating the Alpha despite its profound sexual release. Rocko felt the hot, intense gush of its boyseed spewing over their chafing abdomens, and it was what tripped his switch. Immediately, he started to mark the dead whore as his own, flooding its guts with his searing hot load.

It’s at least possible that the Whore felt the burn in its intestines before it died.

Rocko raised himself up on one arm, yanked the blade out of the corpse’s skull, and continued to stab it as he gushed semen in periodic spasms. Somewhere along the line, the meat convulsed so intensely that one of its Puma kicks came off and was flung halfway across the room.

After a while, it was done. Rocko pulled his dick out of the dead teen and sat up to assess the situation.

He was sweaty and soaked with fag cum, and a little bit of blood. His knife was still buried up to the hilt in the rentboy’s chest, probably piercing its quivering heart. The room was a disaster, clearly showing the violence of the assault—not that he cared about that. It was time to move on.

Rocko pulled the knife out of the dead meat, causing it to spasm and tremble, forcing spooge out of its still semi-erect penis. It didn’t matter. He was done here. He headed into the bathroom and took a leisurely shower, cleaning his knife along with himself.

When he was thoroughly cleansed of the taint of faggot, Rocko exited the bathroom and began to pack up. He didn’t have much to pack; he always travelled light. After all there was no telling when he might need to bug out suddenly—like now.

He tossed everything into the trunk of his car, including the slut’s weed in one of his boots. After all, it might help lure some new bitch in. After emptying everything he wanted (or might possibly identify him), he paused in the doorway and turned back to take stock one last time.

It was clear, profoundly clear, that an incredibly savage gay rape and murder had occurred. The adolescent whore lay sprawled on the bed, oozing blood from a score of stab wounds. It was still bound to the headboard and there was blood oozing from its wrists where it had struggled against the plastic-wrapped phone cord. Cum was pooled on its chest and was leasing out is ass. Its eyes were rolled back in its head and blood leaked from its nose and ears.

That was what the body looked like as Rocko sped off into the evening and it still looked like that the next morning when the police arrived. The only difference was that it had gotten stiff, and the fluids had congealed. The spasms had stopped too, but the cops didn’t know that and didn’t care that the teenager’s last signs of life had abated in the early evening hours when it was alone in a dark locked room.

“Well,” said the responding officer to the homicide detective, “The maid found this and gave us a call. You’ve seen what we got from the manager about the kid paying for the room with cash by the week.”

“Yeah,” the detective replied, “But he also says that there was an older man living with him who probably the one paying for it.”

“Ok, but there’s no evidence for that,” the officer answered.

The detective rolled his eyes and wondered if the crime scene unit had been called. Well, if not, he certainly wasn’t going to waste their time on what was clearly a faggot domestic dispute. And if the victim was a whore, as he suspected, this whole file would end up in the trash.

“Call the meatwagon,” he said laconically, “Just another John Doe. No one’s gonna care.”