John Rocker and Mark Fuhrman Get Theirs



Atlanta Braves hotshot John Rocker seethed as he walked down the streets of New York City one afternoon on his way back to his luxury hotel suite, easing one long, suntanned finger under the collar of his designer shirt and tie, as he muttered to himself about the "fuckin' humid heat." Rocker's steel-trap mind thought to itself (for once) "Just look at all these fuckin' foreigners. Shit, I don't think I've seen a red-blooded American on this entire block. All wetbacks, blacks, Puerto Ricans, queers with AIDS, Jews, the fuckin' dregs of the earth!" Rocker had barely recovered from his most recent subway ride, proudly recalling how he had vented his spleen with one of his favored diatribes, managing to insult just about everyone on the planet. Shit, his very public comments had landed him in a lot of trouble, fuckin' Commie press and all, but it had been worth it, really, mused Rocker. Damn, I'll probably even get onto Rush Limbaugh's great radio program to hold forth! Why, just today Rocker had been approached to collaborate on the latest book being written by that great All-American hero, Mark Fuhrman. What a fuckin' stroke of luck running into Fuhrman today. Who the fuck woulda thought that Mark, that's right, the dude had told him to call him "Mark," would be in town plugging his last "Murder in Brentwood" and "Murder in Greenwich" books! Must have been fate!

Fuhrman's publicist had spotted Rocker on Rocker's way back from his most recent radio interview, and, recognizing "two peas in a pod" as the fucker put it, (guy was probably some kind of fag for sure, another fuckin' sicko!) insisted that the two meet. Damn, but if he and "Mark" hadn't hit it off right away! It was like they were fuckin' brothers or something! Mark had openly admired Rocker's publicized remarks and the two had had a field day spewing out their hatred of every group under the sun and "fuckin'cultural diversity shit" liberally sprinkling their visit with every racial and ethnic epithet; no PC "n-word" shit for them, no sir, they used that term and all the others in anything but a "niggardly" fashion, as they noted to each other in a chorus of schoolboy-like guffaws.

And Rocker had to admit that Fuhrman looked great. The dude must have been working out big-time out in Idaho chopping wood or something. Rocker made a mental note that he should get himself a spread in Idaho; it seemed like "his kind of people" lived there. Rocker had to admit that Fuhrman had himself in perfect shape. Even under his $2500 suit you could see his muscles ripple. Yeah, the dude was not only a great, red-blooded American with a fine head on his shoulders, but the dude kept himself in shape. Rocker mused that that was probably why they had hit if off so well, since Rocker himself held the same views and also kept himself in peak physical condition, and not just during baseball season, either. Shit, walkin' down these fuckin' New York streets with all these sickos and "your criminal element" at every turn, a dude had to be in peak physical condition. Luckily, no one seemed to recognize Rocker on the street, at least not yet, but you never knew. Well, fuck that shit, thought Rocker, just let some of these motherfuckers try to try something on me; they'll soon wish they hadn't; those fuckers'd have their fuckin' balls in a sling, that is if they had any left by the time Rocker got through with them!

Rocker was jazzed that Fuhrman also turned out to be staying at the same hotel. Both were fuckin' rich now, nothing less than the Four Seasons for the likes of them! Rocker had invited "Mark" to his suite later that afternoon. Then the two had plans to celebrate out on the town and return with a couple of the highest-priced call girls in New York for a night of playing "hide-the-salami" big time!

Rocker ducked down an alley behind the Four Seasons intent on using the freight elevator made available for the incognito use of celebrity guests. Rocker wasn't exactly a true celebrity, but a little intimidation by the hulking Rocker standing over the "pipsqueak faggot concierge" (which of course Rocker called him to his outraged little mealy-mouthed face! Ha! smiled Rocker to himself at the thought) soon got him that well-deserved status hotel-wise. Nonetheless, Rocker carefully checked over his muscular shoulder to make sure no criminal or fuckin' faggot was trying to follow him down the alley, not that he feared a fuckin' faggot would be capable of assaulting him, but relishing the fun he'd have telling off the little limp-wristed fucker.

Rocker strode purposefully down the alley all full of himself, totally puffed up with self-importance at his coerced celebrity status. Rocker had to negotiate through a kitchen area (filled with "fuckin' Puerto Ricans and other low-lifes") Rocker noticed in disgust, where Rocker was met by a hotel-uniformed dude, obviously "some other fuckin' fag yes-man," one he hadn't met before, who beamed at him and said "Right this way, Mr. Rocker, sir, your private elevator awaits, sir. I do trust that everything has been to your satisfaction and that you are enjoying your stay, sir!"

Rocker sneered appropriately at the "little fag" (who in reality was over 6 feet and well-built) and snarled a "yeah, I'll keep you fuckers on your toes, just make sure you treat me the way I deserve to be treated!" but was a little taken aback when the "little fag" gave him a weird kind of "knowing" look as he pointed Rocker toward the elevator which was down a short dark corridor around the corner.

In fact, the hotel-uniformed guy had only "borrowed" the uniform from a nearby laundry room and was thinking to himself, "yeah, we'll see you get everything you deserve, fucker, and it'll be you who'll be kept 'on your toes' you bigoted asshole!"

Rocker strode confidently toward the elevator, rounding the corner and entering the dark corridor which preceded its open doors. The next thing Rocker knew everything suddenly went totally black as Rocker felt some dark, clingy material suddenly being pulled down over his handsome face and securely cinched around his big bull-like neck. Some fucker had pulled a fuckin' Ninja-type hood over his fuckin' face! To Rocker's disgust he realized that the material totally clung to the outline of his face but covered his nose and mouth. Rocker could still breathe through the thin satiny material, but he couldn't see a damned thing, at least not at all clearly. Before Rocker could utter his first barrage of outraged (albeit somewhat muffled) curses, some fucker kicked his designer-suited butt, knocking the Atlanta Braves superstar to the floor, and before the disoriented bigot could get his bearings, someone tied his ankles together, and then hands were lifting him back up, under his shoulders, then lifting his suit-coated arms above his head and dragging him into the freight elevator. The hobbled superstar was unable to muster the full use of his formidable strength, because he was unable to kick his attackers and surprisingly strong hands held his arms above his head and dragged him. Soon Rocker realized to his horror that the doors to the elevator had been closed, but that it had yet to go anywhere, and that his wrists had now been bound as well, and he was being lifted bodily up, up towards the ceiling of the extra-tall freight elevator cab where his bound hands were attached to (could it be?) a fuckin' meat hook which had been affixed to the freight elevator ceiling! Rocker's designer shoes soon swung slightly above the floor of the elevator as he hung like the side of meat that he was, his hunky designer-suited body swaying slightly.

Chillingly, the first words Rocker heard out of his attackers were "don't move shithead, this razor's sharp and we wouldn't want to cut off any of your prized possessions, now, would we?" as, fearing for his worthless life, Rocker tried to hold still, especially when he felt a sharp blade insinuate itself just under the French cuffs of his designer shirt expertly slicing right through both of the sleeves of his expensive wool suit and designer shirtsleeves, the razor-sharp blade slicing each of his sleeves down down from his wrists down his arms as he hung on the meat hook down to his armpit area and then down each of his sides separating the material with ease, and exposing the depths of the hotshot pitcher's darkly hairy armpits. The razor-wielding dude then made a cut from where the Ninja hood was secured to his head, then heard the slow, clean sound of cloth being expertly separated with a razor-sharp instrument, feeling his collar button pop, his silk tie knot being sliced right through, then felt the sharp blade neatly slice down, down, right through his designer shirt and white cotton tee shirt, Rocker gasping as he felt inch after inch of his bare, lightly hair-flecked suntanned chest being slowly but inexorably exposed to the cool air of the elevator, feeling as the blade went past the center of his heaving chest, feeling the cloth of his designer shirt and white cotton tee shirt part wide, exposing the superstar's nips as they rose and fell due to his heavy breathing, also exposing the few dark, wiry chest hairs that grew on his otherwise smooth-skinned chest, only to gasp yet again as the sharp blade headed lower down over Rocker's abdomen exposing inch after inch of the sculpted laddered surface of the hunk's undulating abs split by a fine line of body hair as it marched ever lower, down, down, toward the terrified hotshot's privates.

As the blade descended, gravity alone forced the sliced remnants of Rocker's expensive suit coat, designer shirt, tie, and white cotton tee shirt to fall to the floor of the elevator of their own accord, leaving him panting and stripped to the waist, gurgling almost piteously under his Ninja hood, scared shitless at what would happen next, but unable to do a thing in the world about it as he hung from the meat hook in the elevator, feeling naked and vulnerable.

Muffled groans and gasps escaped from Rocker's spit-drooling Ninja hood as Rocker suddenly felt the blade slice through his designer leather belt like butter, nearly shitting his pants when he felt the blade-wielding attacker expertly make two sudden jabbing slices down around the stud's packed crotch, separating the cloth of his wool suit trousers away from Rocker's packed white Calvins and tossing away the rag of his suit trousers' zipper panel still zipped up, only to suddenly slice quickly down both legs of the trousers until the front and back of the ruined trousers fell to the floor by the force of gravity alone, exposing the deeply suntanned surface of Rocker's tree-trunk-like legs, sexily sprinkled with dark body hair. One of the attackers swept up Rocker's suite key and wallet for future use.

The muffled, whimpering Rocker felt himself suddenly sliced out of practically all of his clothes, leaving the up-until-a-few-seconds-ago spiffily strutting egotist strung up and bound nearly bare-assed naked in a matter of seconds. Soon, Rocker's shoes and socks were removed, leaving him clad only in his packed Calvins and his black Ninja hood.

As near as Rocker could tell, there were 3 attackers in there with him, and as he made muffled curses through his hood, he heard one of the attackers say "Hey, Rocker, how does it feel to be worked over by a bunch of limp-wristed panty-waist faggots, huh? Guess what, fuckface? You're gonna be our toy, our fuckin' bitch, for a good, long time, fucker! We know you always wanted to know what it would feel like to be worked over by a few harmless fags! Today's your lucky day! We're gonna show you what happens to bigoted fuckers who can't keep their mouths shut!" "And, hey, Rocker just look at you! You're a stud! You look good enough to fuckin' eat, cute stuff. How 'bout it guys?"

As Rocker shook his head "NOOOO!!!" violently and spluttered and shrieked into his Ninja hood, Rocker felt three pairs of hands feel up his perfect, gym-toned body, as six hands suddenly massaged, rubbed, tweaked, pulled and kneaded every square inch of his magnificent body as he swayed helplessly in his meat hook bondage. Rocker could only squirm and moan, groan and shriek behind the muffling influence of the Ninja hood as he felt himself being felt up, someone openly massaging his big fuckstick and heavy bull-balls with a strong, practiced hand through the thin cotton of his Calvins, while someone else's hands kneaded both cheeks of his humpy ass through the rear of his Calvins, yanking the covering cloth right into his fur-lined asscrack to expose the pink-white cheeks of his magnificent butt, Rocker recoiling in horror as someone's nose and lips worshipped his cute little ass, sniffing and licking their way across the circumference of his semi-exposed asscheeks while the fucker in the front kept sniffing, kneading and licking the front of his Calvins.

Rocker groaned as he felt his hunky, horny expecting-a-long-night-with-whores body "involuntarily" (he told himself) responding to the "fuckin' faggots'" ministrations, his giant fuckstick filling with hot blood as Rocker groaned as he felt the fire flames of lust rising deep within the pit of his magnificent stomach, Rocker's big cock lengthening and expanding and threatening to rip itself right through the now spit-slick surface of his thin cotton Calvins, as the faggot in front deeply inhaled the musky scent of Rocker's manly crotch, sniffing the scent no man had ever before been allowed to sniff.

Meanwhile the third dude, obviously tall himself to be able to feel up the 6' 4" hotshot with such ease as he hung from a meat hook in the still-motionless elevator, was massaging and kneading Rocker's exposed chest, tweaking his nips as they rose and fell on the sprinkling of chest hair on the hotshot Atlanta Braves' pitcher's chest, and running his hands and scrabbling fingers deep into the now sweaty depths of Rocker's hairy armpits, causing Rocker to immediately squeal in distress under the muffling Ninja hood as his butch hillbilly body reacted as if someone had jolted his manly pits with electricity, the dude obviously super-sensitive there, even, er, um, ticklish! Unseen by the Ninja-hooded Rocker, his three attackers exchanged knowing looks at the revelation that their bigoted, bound superstar was apparently extremely ticklish, intending to put that knowledge to good use.

The guy digging into the squealing superstar's hairy pits suddenly teased, "Hey Rocker, what gives? You don't mean to tell us that your hot redneck bod is ticklish, do you? Hey guys, I think we can have a lot of fun with this dude's smooth, sensitive skin, drive the deserving fucker wild, take him to tickle-crazy land. You know, dude, they say even a big fucker like you can be tickled to death; but don't worry, we won't let that happen, stud. Noooo, we all want you alive and kept on the edge of insanity, and are gonna keep your little, narrow mind focused on how much we're driving you up the fuckin'wall, fuckface. So, sit back and take it, asshole!"

Near as the three could tell, this was met by Rocker with a defiant stream of futile curses and epithets interspersed with high-pitched squeals and gasps as various sensitive places on his hunky stretched out body continued to be felt up, sniffed, be blown on by his attackers' hot breath and/or be tickled at random, the hotshot unable to see where they were going next as he writhed in his Ninja-hooded bondage, every muscle group rippling under his smooth brown skin, which had developed a funky sheen of shiny redneck sweat from the outraged bigoted fucker's exertions and fear.

The three avengers kept up their massaging, kneading, groping, tickling, teasing, sniffing, licking, chewing, and tweaking of every square inch of the bound hunk's magnificent body, the three smiling in joyous disbelief at how easily their plot had worked and at their incredible luck to be actually devouring the studly, bound bod of the Atlanta Braves pitcher, as he cursed and drooled and gasped and squealed to no avail. The three continued to tease the bound redneck hunk's throbbing boner and hairy bull balls through his thin cotton Calvins, while simultaneously kneading, swatting, massaging, pinching and slapping his buttcheeks when they weren't being tickled or licked or chewed on, Rocker often screeching in horror as the dude in the rear would open his mouth and chomp down onto the surface of Rocker's exposed buttcheeks, biting the dude's ass just enough to leave slight teeth marks without breaking the skin, the biting dude thinking they should tattoo those buttcheeks with "USDA Prime" since they were the crËme de la crËme of Prime rump.

Meanwhile, the torso-nibbling dude kept tickling and teasing the bound hotshot's hairy pits, tweaking his tits and tickling his sides and ribs as Rocker squealed and shrieked and jumped in his bondage, Rocker going even more ballistic as the rump-nibbling dude suddenly worked his way down the backs of Rocker's hairy suntanned legs, licking and nibbling and tickling his way down, down, over the backs of the superstar's knees, over his bulging calves and down down to the sensitive pink, crinkly skin of Rocker's helplessly exposed tootsies, as they swung bound at the ankles about a half-inch from the floor of the elevator.

When the dude made contact with the superstar's feet while Rocker's torso, sides, ribs and pits were being mercilessly tickled and felt up by his co-hort and while the third dude continued to play with his cock, balls and ass, Rocker went apeshit crazy, squealing and struggling wildly as the foot-teasing dude held the swaying pink, crinkly soles of the bigoted Atlanta Braves pitcher's bare feet and began wildly tickling their surface before licking them all over and sucking on his long, strong, funky-smelling toes.

Just as Rocker continued to reel over this, the "torso-dude" suddenly snapped clothespins over the hotshot's erect nips which he had teased into eraser-hard points of incredible sensitivity, the torso dude having worked, chewed, sucked and tweaked those hot nips until they had felt like each was going to erupt with hot molten lava, only for Rocker to suddenly feel the unexpected pain of the clothespins as they bit into Rocker's sensitive lightly hair-encircled tits.

Rocker shrieked bloody murder through his Ninja hood, then unexpectedly giggled like a schoolgirl as his tootsies were being wildly tickled and teased, and his toes sucked and feet licked mercilessly, all while the third dude continued to jack his fuckstick and tease his hot, sweaty balls and asscrack through his hot Calvins.

Then, to Rocker's horror, Rocker's Calvins were suddenly yanked hard right into the furry crack of his ass, then pulled roughly upwards until they gave out a funky "RRRRRRRIPPPPPPPPP!!!" sound, Rocker's Calvins disintegrating and being presented to Rocker for unwanted sniffing by being placed under the Ninja hood and directly against Rocker's face! Rocker recoiled in horror as he was forced to sniff and taste his musky, funky underwear in order to breathe.

After several more minutes of being felt up, teased and tickled, Rocker realized to his horror that one of his attackers had pushed a button on the freight elevator and that it was moving up, up into the hotel tower as Rocker swayed and groaned in his embarrassing bondage.

Rocker then realized that the elevator had stopped, then that the doors had opened. There he was hanging naked from a meat hook, clothespins still attached to his manly nips, feeling the air-conditioned draft coming from a hotel hallway assaulting his bare flesh, making his already hypersensitive skin crawl. He was bareassed in public for God's sake!! Anyone might walk by and see him like that! Rocker was mortified although he took some comfort in the fact that his face was at least hooded.

Rocker felt himself being let down off of the meat hook, then being thrown over one of his attacker's brawny shoulders with his bare ass high in the air and his bound ankles hanging down as he was carried like a sack of potatoes to wherever his attackers wanted to take him next.

Rocker sensed that he was being carried down a silent hotel corridor. The four of them came to sudden halt when Rocker heard the sound of a hotel door being opened by some other guest of the hotel. Rocker heard this to his mortification, realizing that whoever it was was going to see him bound bareassed naked over someone's shoulder, with his head covered by a Ninja hood and clothespins pinching his tits.

The three attackers stood equally panicked, as a middle-aged couple exited another hotel suite. A lady with a brassy bouffant hairdo lacquered to stand up to whatever the elements could possibly threaten it with, came out into the hall enveloped in a small shroud of cigarette smoke with her husband in tow, holding forth to her husband in a gravelly deep cigarette voice like the late Selma Diamond's saying "I told ya we shoulda stayed home in Jersey, Stanley! You know I can't stand your stuck-up sister from California. Four Seasons, my ass! That dame belongs in a flop-houseÖ" The lady then apparently disinterestedly surveyed the bizarre scene before her from heavily mascaraed and shadowed eyes, clapped a hand over her balding husband's open mouth in mid-gasp, and pulled her better half down the hall toward the regular passenger elevators without saying a further word.

As the three avengers stood holding their breath in the corridor, and as Rocker continued to gurgle and make muffled cries for help through his Ninja hood, his bare ass hanging out as he lay over one of his attacker's shoulders, the three avengers all breathed a sigh of relief when they overheard the deep cigarette voice of the lady tell her husband in a carrying stage whisper as she hissed to "Pretend you saw nothing, Stanley! What do you expect here in the City? They could even be from the Mob! I told you we shoulda just stayed in Jersey! We saw nothing! Now just get the friggin' car and lets haul ass back across the Hudson! If we hurry, I still might be able to catch 'Judge Judy'!" Stanley shrugged expansively in his apparently permanent hangdog way, as the elevator bell discreetly sounded its imminent arrival in a restrained Four Seasons kind of way.

This just gave the dudes enough time to open Rocker's suite door with the key they had retrieved from his shredded trousers and close the door to the soundproofed suite, being sure to place a "do not disturb" sign on the door.

The threesome then carried the protesting superstar through the large sitting room of the suite and into the bedroom beyond unceremoniously plopping the fuming hotshot onto his back on the four-poster bed, then binding the totally denuded Rocker on his back spread-eagled to the four bedposts, using the threat of the sharp razor device as an incentive to compliance.

The three then donned ski masks they had brought along for the occasion before suddenly yanking off Rocker's Ninja hood and throwing it across the room, followed by the funky shredded Calvins which he had been forced to sniff and taste for several minutes, stray pubies from his own shorts still visibly adhering comically to his red-with-rage, furious face. Rocker's big blue eyes flew open as he realized he was tied to his bed in his suite, Rocker surveying his ski-masked attackers as he cursed and swore unencumbered by the Ninja hood, demanding to be set free, that he was going to have them all hung by their faggot balls, carted off to prison, set on fire, that no one could do this to him, he was the fuckin' pitcher for the Atlanta Fuckin' Braves!

To his horror, Rocker's no-longer-blindfolded eyes noted that this whole scene was being and had been videotaped!!! The fuckers were filming his abuse on video!! He was fuckin' buck-naked for God's sake!!!! Rocker was even further outraged and thrashed all the more in his bonds as the "faggots" had the balls to point and laugh at his predicament, telling him he was "a goddamned bigoted asshole who needed to be taught a lesson he'd never forget" and other equally right-on comments.

Rocker's typical ranting and raving continued, Rocker even trying to fathom the ethnicity of his attackers so he could make as many choice comments as possible, but not really being able to tell due the ski masks. Shit, it was disconcerting not to be able to pigeonhole people based on prejudice like usual! The fuckers were wearing ski masks that pretty much hid their eyes and his only hint to skin color was their hands which could be called suntanned, brown or even lighter-skinned black. What a pisser to not know their ethnicity. Well, they were definitely all goddamned "faggots," so he'd have to stay with just that epithet. Curses, foiled again!

Rocker's racist and homophobic reverie was suddenly interrupted as he noticed two of his attackers approach the foot of the bed, each seizing and bending back the pink, smooth and crinkly soles of each of Rocker's size 12 feet, bending back t he toes and binding them bent back like that, only to proceed to violently begin to tickle his helplessly exposed tootsies.

Rocker nearly jumped out of his skin as if jolted by megawatts of electricity, as his head shot up and he shrieked in tickle agony as his big, sweaty redneck feet were mercilessly toyed with and teased, his attackers alternately licking and sucking on his feet and toes with their educated tasters.

Meanwhile, the third ski-masked dude straddled Rocker's hunky midsection and got the ride of his life as Rocker pulled and twisted in his bonds to no avail as the third dude began tickle torturing Rocker's hairy, sweaty armpits, sides and ribs, the dude often pausing to yank, flick, or wiggle the clothespins which remained clipped to the dude's erect nips, causing Rocker to alternately giggle, yelp, curse, screech, and finally begin to beg for mercy, Rocker promising never to utter another racist or homophobic remark, as his disbelieving attackers just kept up their torture all the more, chiding Rocker for "breaking" so fast.

After several minutes of inspired tickling of the bound superstar with his hands and fingers, the third dude proceeded to approach a terrified, wide-eyed Rocker with two tapering feathers, Rocker going ballistic when they made contact with his smooth brown skin as his feet continued to be simultaneously tickled and worshipped down below.

The ski-masked dude then proceeded to mercilessly tickle the bound superstar with the tapering feathers, teasing his hairy pits, sides, ribs and teasing his clothes pinned nips, only to then concentrate on ever so slowly and sensuously teasing the dripping, purple glans of his humongous boner and hairy bull-balls with one feather while he teased Rocker's torso with the other. When the dude was not tickling Rocker's boner with the feather he would be jacking it and teasing it with his hands, slapping it against his hand or against the solid surface of Rocker's sculpted abdominals or the surface of his suntanned hairy thighs, all while the other two avengers continued to mercilessly play with Rocker's squirming size 12 feet.

The dude again and again brought the hapless superstud to the very brink of an explosive tickle-inspired orgasm, only to back off again and again at the critical moment, leaving Rocker blue-balled with pent-up superstar cum, reducing Rocker to begging to get his, er, rocks off, all to no avail.

The trio then retired to the bedroom's well-stocked mini-bar where they found an ice bucket replenished several times a day by the thoughtful management. As Rocker looked on in horror, the trio then proceeded to glide the little ice cubes at random all over his hunky, sweaty body, causing him to yelp in surprise at the icy contact on the sensitive surface of his redneck body, as they slid the ice cubes over his hot tootsies, his pits, ribs, sides, face, balls, cock and asshole, as he jumped and squirmed and shrieked and begged for mercy, shivering all over.

Before the hapless redneck bigot could recover from this latest assault, the trio used a portable hairdryer also thoughtfully provided by the management (these Four Seasons places thought of everything!) to dry out the drowned rat appearance of their bound stud, using the lowest speed to sensuously air-dry the wet surface of Rocker's crawling flesh.

One of the trio then approached Rocker's now only half-hard cock, displaying a liberal amount of a white, soothing-looking cream announcing that Rocker probably needed to get off by now, that the least they could do was lube him up for that.

A wary Rocker's big baby blues watched as the cool, soothing cream was sensuously applied to his cock, balls and down towards his virgin butthole, leaving a snail trail of white cream from the bottom of his hairy balls down through his dark assfur to encircle and then slightly penetrate that most private orifice. For some reason generous amounts were applied to his feet and pits and the clothespins were removed and dollops of cream were applied to his sore nips, as well.

Rocker had to admit that this was more like it. Maybe these crazed homo pervos had finally come to their senses and were ready to treat his god-like body the way it should be treated. The cool, soothing cream felt great and even had an interesting, refreshing tingle to it. No wait, not just a tingle; more like a kind of warmth, what the fuck was this stuff?

"In case you're wondering, fuckface, that cream's your own unscented Ben-Gay we found in your bathroom, see?" said one of the "faggot pervos" holding up the nearly empty tube of self-heating muscle rub cream to Rocker's astonished eyes. "You mean you fuckers put that stuff on myÖOh Nooo!! Get that fuckin' stuff off of me NOW!! Oh no it's gonna, it's gonna "AIEEEEEEEE!!!!!! OWWWWWWWW!!!! GET IT OFF!!!!! IT'S FUCKIN' BURNIN MY BIG BALLS OFF!!!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!! OH MYYYYGAWDDDDD!!!!!! IT FUCKIN' BURNS!!!!! MY COCK!!!!! OWWWWW!!!! IT'S ON FIRE!!!! MY FEET ON ON FIRE!!!! MY HAIRY PITS ARE BURNING LIKE A BRUSHFIRE!!!! NO!!!!!!! HELPPPPP!!!! SOMEBODY HELP MEE!!! I'M BEING RUINED BY A BUNCH OF FAGGOTS OVER HERE!!!! HELPPPPP!!! MY SORE TITS ARE HOTTER'N A PISTON RING!!!!! HELPPPPPPP!!!!!!!! OH MYYYYGAWWWWDDDDDD!!!! THAT CRAP'S EVEN BURNIN MY TIGHT SHITHOLE!!!!! OWWWWWW!!!! IT'S BURNING ME UP MY ASS!!!!! NOOO GET IT OFF ME NOW!!!! WASH IT ALL OFF QUICK BEFORE I PASS OUT!!!! HELPPPP!!!!!! I'LL DO ANYTHING!!!!!! I'M SORRRYYYY!!! I WON'T DO IT AGAIN, I PROMISE!!!!! I'LLL BE GOOOD!!! AW FUCK YOU FAGGOTS, IT FUCKIN' BURNS!!!! GIVE A GUY A FUCKIN' BREAK!!! MY BALLS ARE BURNING OFF!!! HELP MEEEE!!! AIEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

The trio laughed and hooted, then stood watching with affected ho-hum boredom as they watched Rocker strain in his bonds mightily to get free, Rocker having a spazz attack as he writhed in extreme pain, his big cock shriveling and retracting down to baby-size invisibility as the searing chemical pain festered in his most sensitive, intimate areas and the intense burning got hotter and hotter and hotter, Rocker breaking a sweat as his ass jumped up and down wildly as the burning cream heated up his already hot asshole, the sweat and cream leaking into Rocker's virgin shitchute and burning the sensitive membranes of the redneck asshole's asshole.

Finally the trio, concerned that Rocker was about to pass out from the intense pain, began washing off the cream with soap and water, so that within several more minutes the burning had diminished considerably and was now down to a kind of nice warm glow, the trio capitalizing on this warm glow to again assault their deservingly bound bigot's hunky body with feathers and toothbrushes, concentrating on his big cock and balls until he was again sporting a rock-hard pulsating boner, the trio again and again bringing Rocker to the edge of orgasm only to back off and leave him straining in frustration as his pent-up load was fittingly denied him again and again.

Then, unexpectedly, the telephone rang. One of the trio held the razor sharp blade against Rocker's balls threatening to cut them off if he yelled for help, then another of the trio held the telephone for Rocker as he also listened in. They heard someone start saying "Hey John, this is Mark Fuhrman. How you doin'?" Without waiting for a reply Fuhrman went on " I'm down in suite 2626, just back from my book-signing. Listen, I'm gonna take a shower and maybe a nap, then change. We're still on for our night on the town with the babes, aren't we stud?" to which Rocker managed to squeak out an affirmative response as he nervously watched the dude with the blade, feeling the sharp blade pressing against his most precious possessions, as his hairy crown jewels retracted in fear. "I'll come up to your suite in oh an hour, hour and a half, OK, stud? Then we can hit the town, sow a few of the old wild oats, you know what I mean, man?" said Fuhrman laughingly. Rocker agreed and the conversation ended.

Rocker was astonished when after the phone call ended, two of the trio of his attackers exchanged words furtively and then talked to the third one. "Fuck, they're up to something again" thought Rocker. Luckily for Rocker (but unknown to him), two of the three had conspired to go down to Fuhrman's suite and surprise him with their presence in his suite when he would exit the bathroom from the shower, then they'd say Rocker had sent them to give Fuhrman a free massage. Also unbeknownst to Rocker, these two were still wearing Four Seasons employee uniforms under the black zip-up jumpsuits they had been wearing. Aided by the still-smarting "pipsqueak faggot concierge" who was a friend of one of them, they had easily obtained the uniforms, not to mention a very useful passkey. Better still, the two knew where the hotel masseurs kept the portable massage tables (on wheels conveniently; these Four Seasons people anticipated your every need!), and they just had time to get set up before Fuhrman would be through with his shower. While they departed, the third of the trio would tease and torment the bound Rocker, cum-denying him and tickling and teasing him all over until the other two returned with their prey.

The two uniformed Four Seasons "employees" therefore high-tailed it down two floors to Fuhrman's suite after first obtaining one of the handy-dandy padded leather massage tables from where they were stored. The duo wheeled the massage table to the door of Fuhrman's suite which they entered with the passkey after their knock was not answered.

The duo heard the sound of the shower running coming from the bathroom which was barely audible from the sitting room of the suite. The duo entered the bedroom wheeling the massage table, then waited as they heard Fuhrman blissfully singing in the shower through the bathroom door which had been left cracked open by Fuhrman.

The two had a field day sniffing through the various garments shed by Fuhrman on his way to the shower, but in typically anal fashion these were each neatly folded as were a clean set of fresh clothes laid out for his night on the town (or so he thought!). The duo took turns sniffing Fuhrman's musky shorts and tee shirt before re-folding the stuff. They also peeked through the crack in the door to be rewarded with a great view of Fuhrman's bare white ass as he bent way over to wash his feet in the clear-glass shower stall, his spread-open lightly dirty-blond-fur-lined asscrack completely visible for their inspection of "Fuhrman's fur," not to mention their perusal of his sizeable, hanging equipment. Trust those thoughtful Four Seasons designers to choose clear glass- none of that frosted glass shit for the likes of the Four Seasons, no way!

The duo hopped back when it appeared Fuhrman might be about to turn around as he rinsed the luxurious shower gel provided by the Four Seasons staff off of his hunky body. A few minutes later Fuhrman emerged from the bathroom rubbing a generous fluffy Egyptian cotton towel over his damp, designer-cut hair, stark naked.

Fuhrman jumped back in surprise when he saw the uniformed duo standing there with the massage table, Fuhrman quickly whipping the towel over his jiggling cock and balls and cute, humpy ass to cover them, and demanding "What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my suite?"

One of the Four Seasons uniformed duo smiled deferentially in a Four Seasons kind of way, saying "Oh, we're so sorry, Mr. Fuhrman, sir, but your fellow guest, John Rocker, ordered us over to provide a massage for you at his expense so that you could relax before 'your night on the town' I believe he said, sir. We're sorry, but we did knock, then when there was no answer, we did take the liberty of entering the suite with a passkey, sir."

"Oh, yeah, well, I guess that explains it, sorry, but you guys kind of startled me. So my old buddy John sent you guys over? What a thoughtful dude that guy is! I'll have to thank him. My neck and back are a little uptight and sore; I guess I could use a good professional massage. And from two masseurs at once! This Four Seasons place sure knows how to pamper the guests. You guys know what you're doing, right? I really need to be worked over by some dudes with lots of strength in their hands to get out all my kinks, you know what I mean?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, we do, sir!" replied one of the duo. "And we're just the persons to make sure we 'get all your kinks out,' never you worry. In fact, kink, er, kinks, are our specialty!" (they could say that again!).

"Remember, though, I only need my back and maybe legs worked on, I mean it won't be a full body massage, right? I don't want a full body massage; no way I want a coupla dudes messin' with my bare butt, you know what I mean? This towel stays around my midsection at all times, understood?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir, of course we understand. Don't you worry about a thing. Just lie down on your stomach on the massage table and let our magic fingers take you places you never dreamed existed!"

Fuhrman then strode over to the massage table and gamely stretched out to the max on his stomach, the defined muscles under the broad, suntanned planes of his smooth, suntanned back rippling with easy grace, the outline of the twin hemispheres of his hunky butt visible underneath their form-fitting white Egyptian cotton toweling, and his bronzed, dirty-blond hair covered thighs and calves stretching below the towel where they ended in two size-13, perfectly formed feet, their soft, pink soles gleaming in their freshly washed, pristine condition as they lay exposed and vulnerable near the bottom of the padded surface of the gleaming black leather of the massage table.

One of the duo began by pouring warm, sandalwood-scented massage oil from a golden vessel onto the suntanned expanse of Fuhrman's broad, muscular shoulders and neck, firmly massaging and kneading those muscles in concentric circles with his talented hands, passing his oiled hands one over the other in a totally relaxing, rhythmic motion, slowly working his way down Fuhrman's spinal cord as it divided the broad bronze planes of his perfectly defined back, while his partner simultaneously did likewise to the supine stud's lower body, pouring more of the warm oil over the hairy surface of the backs of Fuhrman's massive thighs and calves, slowly massaging the muscles of Fuhrman's muscular legs, slowly working his way down to Fuhrman's exposed, pink soles.

Fuhrman emitted appropriate ooo's and ahhh's as his tight muscles relaxed under the duo's expert ministrations, only to gasp slightly, his designer-cut head popping up a bit as he did so, Fuhrman reacting when the dude massaging his legs suddenly dipped his oily hands quickly down the wrinkled pink soles of his fresh-out-of-the shower feet, sliding one wicked finger down each size-13 foot from heel to toe, then dancing his oily fingers all over them in haphazard, deliberately tickling fashion.

Fuhrman gasped again and barely was able to stifle a high-pitched giggling squeal, which he managed to cover with a manly cough followed by an order to "Hey, man, watch out with the feet, your fingers are a little slippery there!"

"Oh, I AM sorry, sir, I didn't realize you were ticklish, Mr. Fuhrman, sir, I'll endeavor to be careful down here!" replied the foot masseur, easing off a bit, temporarily, and winking significantly to his partner as if to say "So old Marky Mark is ticklish, eh?"

"No way, man, no I'm not ticklish or anything like that! You just caught me off guard a bit there, that's all!" said Fuhrman.

The duo kept up their expert massage of Fuhrman's suntanned, muscular back, legs and feet, totally relaxing the hunky stud who was secretly digging the fact that his sexy ex-cop body was being royally serviced at one of the most elegant hotels in New York City. Fuhrman mused to himself that "Damn, I'm sitting on top of the fuckin' world! And to think that just a few years ago I was a flunkie two-bit cop! This is the fuckin' life!" as the expert masseurs rubbed away his troubles and cares, such as they were.

The dude rubbing his upper body was now kneading and massaging Fuhrman's lower back in an area very near where the large fluffy white Egyptian cotton towel tightly covered the bulging hemispheres of Fuhrman's cute, humpy butt.

Fuhrman was shocked when all of sudden he heard the dude rubbing his upper back go "Oops, my ring got caught!" only to suddenly feel the towel which he had carefully wrapped around him to maintain his modesty being suddenly pulled right off of his hunky body, exposing Fuhrman's bare ass which was starkly white in contrast to the rest of his suntanned, muscular body.

"Hey, what the fuck's goin' on?" demanded an outraged Fuhrman. "I told you guys no full body massage, get that towel back where it belongs, now!"

The dude who had been massaging his back said "Oh, sorry, sir, somehow my ring got caught in the towel and snagged it, then when I tried to free it, well, the entire towel lifted with it! Don't worry, I've now taken the ring off, so it won't happen again. On the other hand, sir, I think you should reconsider the full body massage for total relaxation, anyway. Why your friend Mr. Rocker always has the full body treatment from us. We want to make sure that both of you get everything you're entitled to, sir!" (And more! thought the dude.)

"Oh yeah? You mean Rocker's had a full body treatment?"

"Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed! I should say so, sir! He has gotten quite the full body treatment, yes, I must say!" replied the dude.

"Well I'm still not comfortable lying here buck naked. Go get another towel from the bathroom, OK?" ordered Fuhrman, just not liking feeling so naked and vulnerable in front of two hotel-uniformed dudes, very aware of the draft from the discreetly whisper-silent air conditioning duct above his naked butt, which only accentuated his embarrassing total nudity.

"OK, in a minute, but first, just give a little "full body" a try, eh? Be a sport! Have a go!" said the dude.

Before Fuhrman could respond, however, he felt more warm massage oil being poured directly onto the cheeks of his upturned, bare buttcheeks, warm oil dripping, dripping down the lightly dirty-blond-haired crack of Fuhrman's humpy butt, which he had been futilely attempting to clench shut as tightly as possible, only to then feel the two dudes' four hands suddenly spreading and kneading his bare, upturned asscheeks, totally exposing Fuhrman's' lightly-furred asscrack to their view, Fuhrman's incredibly tight, pink little virgin butthole winking at the world and feeling an errant gust of air conditioning blow directly on its pristine freshly showered surface, sending chills up and down Fuhrman's spine. Worse, the entire situation had become strangely erotic, Fuhrman suddenly fearing that this unwanted attention to his private areas might actually cause his fuckstick, which now lay flaccidly against the soft, padded butter leather of the massage table, to betray his sexual tension created by several days without sex, and due to the anticipation of banging some babes with Rocker that night. This was only compounded by the fact that the recent application of warm massage oil onto his humpy buttcheeks had sensuously dripped down the crack of his ass to slowly drip down onto the backs of his big, hairy balls and was dripping right over his flaccid penis, creating a sizeable pool of slippery, warm oil underneath him, so that he found his big cock sliding around rather happily in the pleasantly warm slippery stuff, as the dudes continued to forcefully knead and massage his bare butt, back, legs and feet, causing his body to slip and slide on the heavily padded, buttery leather surface of the massage table, threatening to cause his to spring an unwanted boner right in front of the two strangers!

Fuhrman couldn't really protest anymore because it all felt really good, damned good, and God knew he deserved to have his magnificent body pampered and fussed over by low-life servants like these for the rest of his life. Fuhrman decided he was just imagining things when it began to seem like the two dudes were kind of gently pushing his body up and down on the slippery oily surface of the massage table as they massaged him, causing the weight of his own hunky body combined with the pressure and strength of the two masseurs to make the head and glans of his big cock to slide along the slick, sensuous surface of the incredibly smooth, padded black leather, the pink head of his big cock traitorously beginning to fill with blood as waves of lust passed through Fuhrman's sexually tense body due to its being sensuously slid up and down and up and down and back and forth and back and forth as it lay trapped under his own weight and the pressure being applied by the masseurs, sliding on the soft, smooth massage-oil-slickened surface of the expensive black leather massage table.

The two masseurs then slowly began to turn Fuhrman over onto his back so that that he would be lying on his back on the massage table. Only too well aware that his cock was beginning to harden and expand at that moment, Fuhrman fought valiantly to stay on his stomach, saying "No, no that's OK, I just need my back massaged, not the front, really!" but Fuhrman's oil slick body was only too easily flipped over as the two masseurs held his wrists and ankles, plopping him back down onto the massage table on his ass, his nearly half-hard cock and hairy balls glistening with massage oil.

"Oh, don't worry about that, sir! This happens all the time, we think nothin