The blonde, bearded man with the ruddy-white skin and the long ponytail shielded his eyes and looked up into the pure-blue sky. He let out a long whistle. “Damn. Almost puts a Texas sky to shame.” He winked at his equally large companion. “Almost.”
John Henry adjusted his baseball hat to shield the sun from his eyes. He surveyed the gorgeous scenario, but, like always, he looked below the surface of it as well. “I reckon we’re lookin’ at a composition of about 85% quartz, 10% feldspar, and 5% mica granules.” The enormous black man, who cast a long shadow of his own across the sand, squinted his eyes, licked his finger, and held it up to the wind. “No, make that–10% mica and 5% feldspar.”
Colt sighed and stared down into their beach bag–stitched with Colt’s thunderbolt branding and logo, naturally. “You really never stop, do you, big guy? Well, figures. We are here to do work after all.”
Colt did not want to do work, i.e. talent scouting, but the investors wanted otherwise. Ever distracted, the cowboy king of the ring looked over his shoulder at the giant statue of Prophet Leithe atop Corcovado, her sacred arms wide open, as if to embrace the wide world. “After this is over, you wanna hike up to Big Leithe and throw back some brews?”
John Henry laughed at the suggestion. “You mean, Leithe the Redeemer? Let’s see how long this takes. I know you, Colton. You’re all about sightseeing until you get your business pants on.”
“I think it's time to take my business pants off,” the handsome Texan declared, removing his blue T-shirt, then his jeans. His tiny yellow speedo was very flattering on him, but didn’t leave much to the imagination. Off to the right of them, two beautiful, bronze beauties turned their heads and giggled coquettishly.
“Howdy, ladies,” Colt winked, stretching to make sure all of his muscles–chest, lats, biceps, traps–protruded outward. “Goddess, I love Brazil! So much beauty on this beach!”
Mr. Iron looked at him, askew. “I see you came prepared.” He removed his shirt and pants as well, but was content with his silver boardshorts.
“When in Rome,” Colt shrugged, taking the initiative and stepping his tones into the sand. “Yow! Hot! Well, probably for the best you stick to your swimmer trunks. Wouldn’t want to intimidate these boys too much now.” He elbowed him. “If you know what I mean.”
“Colt…”
“I’m just sayin!” Smelling of coconut-scented sunscreen (Colt’s weather-controlling abilities did not extend to UV rays) the hunky spellbreaker walked along the beach, taking in sights of bikini clad sunbathers and fit bodies frolicking along the sands. “Wow, this place looks like Heaven on Earth! Couldn’t send Bucky here though. Damn Tom Cat would get into trouble the moment I took my eye off him.”
“There are some heavenly bodies on display, I do agree. But remember…” John Henry held up his wedding band, which he’d made for himself. “You go for it though, single man. After business.”
Colt tugged on his speedo, finding it more snug than he remembered when he'd bought it. “Ugh, I can’t believe we gotta' try and convince a heel to sign with us. I trust Calavera Escarlata with my life and my money, so I ain’t questioning the King of Spellbreaking, but…you know how I feel about breaking bread with villains." Or toasting caipirinhas with them.
“Well, this one sounds more like they think they’re hot shit than evil. Should be easy. You just gotta' flatter them til they’re nice and malleable.” John Henry nodded to his long-time friend. “Trust me, Tex–I know how to mold and meld people right away. So, what do you know about this guy anyway?”
Colt did his best not to trip over a beach umbrella jutting out of the sand. For a man who could two-step his way around a spellbreaking ring, he really was like a newborn pony anywhere else, always tripping over things…mostly his own feet.
“This one plays fast and loose with the term ‘guy’,” Colt said. “They/Him. Very Shakespearean. I like it.”
“Hm? So…not a man or a woman? What do they call themselves then?”
Colt winked. “An icon. Now that, my friend, is my favorite gender."
“Well, they certainly aren't starting things off on the right foot. They ask us to meet us on the beach–and there’s a lot of beach–without any clear schedule or landmarks to guide us. Definitely heel behavior. Or diva. Or heel diva! How the hell are we supposed to know what they even look like, anyway?”
A soft blaring of energetic rock music cut into the tranquil Ipanema scene, turning John Henry and Colt’s heads towards an enormous, pink beach umbrella marked with a giant star logo. Almost comical in presentation (yet strangely fitting given the assembly of characters) a giant, inflatable banana pool-floaty demarcated the hedonistic encampment.
Presiding over this court, a statuesque body reclined back in a velvet beach chair. They were like Dionysus splayed out on their dias. Abs, chiselled out of bronze, peeked out from their silky pink caften. They wore pair of pink, star-shaped sunglasses on their face, shielding their eyes from the sun. Their hot pink thong didn’t peek out so much as protrude, a flaming hot beacon that made even Colt blush.
To either side of the attractive character, the near-nude forms of a male and female lounged on their stomachs, their blue and pink g-strings doing the bare minimum to keep their mouth-watering bodies from appearing fully indecent. The pink-haired rock star reached out and softly caressed both of them on their backs, making them shiver. Colt noted their black nail polish. There was an air of deviousness around him…and indulgence.
Colt and John Henry both eyed each other. But it was the cowboy who took the initiative and cleared his throat.
The pink-haired spellbreaker didn’t move. Instead, they snarled. “Quem diabos você pensa que é?” They bolted up and stared in the direction of the idiots who dared interrupt their leisure. Their body glowed, subtly, with a shifting aura of green, pink, and yellow.
Taking in the sight of the two, buff strangers, the beefcake in the caftan suddenly shifted their posture, taking on a more…receptive position. “Oh...my,” they purred, their intense aura subsiding. “Well, who might you delicious hunks be?”
Colt’s jaw dropped, and it took him a second or two before he found the words. “Colton Tamberly,” he said, extending his hand.
The pink-haired warrior looked at it for a moment, then laughed. “How formal,” they said, mockingly. Still, they took it. “Oooh, the cowboy has a grip.” They turned their head towards Mr. Iron. “And you. Minha deusa! A músculos–estou a morrer de fome! Did it hurt terribly when you fell from Mt. Olympus?
“I’m...actually from Richmond,” John Henry said coolly. “The name’s John Henry.”
“Yes! Colt the ‘Bolt!” The magi in pink sat up, taking on a more polite, engaging posture. His caftan fell open, exposing their large pectoral muscles and broad frame. Colt had never seen someone who hit the midpoint between swimmer and bodybuilder. Iggy, somehow, landed right in the middle. An impressive feat.
“Mr. Iron,” he sang sweetly, tasting every syllable. “I am Iggy Astro. But, you know this. Your reputations, however, proceed you.” They gestured towards Mr. Iron’s direction, namely, at their trunks. “A shame, this. A divinity such as yourself should not be hiding their glory behind such…dowdy swimwear. Let me take you to the speedo shop and we can fix that.”
It was a rare thing, seeing Mr. Iron blush. He coughed and stroked the back of his head, shyly. “I am…quite comfortable, thank you kindly.”
“Hhm,” Iggy shrugged. “Suit yourself. Still, a pity…”
With that, the rock god/goddess stood and stepped out from beneath the umbrella to properly greet their guests. With one smooth motion, they let their caftan fall from their broad shoulders. It was like the curtain being lifted off a masterpiece. Standing at just above six feet, Iggy looked like the child of a Norse deity and a jungle god, their perfectly voluminous hair draped over their shoulders, contrasting against their copper-colored skin. If someone combined the statue of David and the Venus Di Milo, and dipped the end result in liquid gold, Iggy Astro might emerge from the result. The rockstar stretched, deliberately flexed their muscles. Their movements had both a femine grace and a masculine authority about them.
Colt suddenly wished he was wearing a less skimpy speedo. “Hot damn,” he said, jaw dropping at the sight of this…heavenly creature. “You are a god.”
Iggy turned their head, smiling haughtily, and shrugged. “God? Goddess? It doesn’t matter.” They removed their star-shaped shades, tossing them to their velvet, beachside throne. Their dark, shining eyes met Colt’s with a mix of desire and defiance.
But, ever the judge of character, Colt relaxed his shoulders, the tension subsiding. He smiled knowingly, hoping Iggy would interpret it as casual niceness. Ah, they’re definitely a good one. Even if they pretend they aren’t…
“Colt,” Iggy began, in a sweet, but authoritative voice. “I rarely take off my sunglasses during an interview. For you, though, I shall make the exception. Of all the spellbreakers who talk a big game, I think you–gatinho–are one for whom the Goddess blessed with genuine charisma.” They spoke like one’s favorite art teacher, soft, engaging, as if they wanted you to be excited to learn something.
Still, that brashness. Iggy held their palms out. A flicker, like the phosphorescent burst of a sparkler, gave birth to a three-dimensional star shape. It looked like it was made of liquid light, fluid and solid and luminous. It danced on the axis of Iggy Astro's fingertips.
Iggy blew the little star, like a soap bubble, towards Colt. “Star. Power.” They winked flirtatiously at the man who could very well turn out to be their future employer.
Colt watched the star travel to his face, then graze his cheek with an electric prick. A kiss. “Well, er, that’s mighty kind of you?”
Iggy shrugged nonchalantly. “A performer always recognizes another showman.” They spoke as if Colt and John Henry were the latest musical tabloid begging for an interview, not their future co-workers/bosses. “Besides, I sense you have come to recognize me. My talent. My beauty. My muscles. And rightfully so.”
Kicking the banana floaty to the side, Iggy gestured to their two sunbathing beauties. “Ah, my manners. Much like my sanity, I have lost them.” Iggy clapped. Their companions sat up straight, almost on command. “Jacobo. Ella. These are the two I told you about.”
The curly haired woman–who could have been a model, a dancer, or both–eyed Colt up and down, her eyes settling on his generous package. “Que bonito.”
Her companion, a man who had just as many abs as Iggy, leaned back and pursed his lips for the two newcomers. “Are you two in Rio for long?” he growled softly. “We can all...show you a good time.”
Colt, who never backed down from a flirt, gave the man the eyes right back. “Heh. How long do you want?” John Henry looked on, mostly shocked, but a little amused.
Apparently, this was the right thing to say. Iggy tossed their gorgeous mane back and cackled. “Oh, Colt, you naughty little kitten. I think, perhaps, you and I are a lot alike.”
An open coconut with a purple, corkscrew straw and a drinking umbrella, sat on a little stool next to the velvet beach chair. Iggy picked up the drink and took a long sip. “Well, boys, what is your pleasure? I can make it happen. If I am feeling generous.” They spoke with their free hand; dramatic, broad gestures. “But no, let us discuss business. Ah. No, wait, this scene…no. No. No. No.” They flicked their hands away, like shewing a bothersome insect, leaving Colt and John Henry bewildered. “This is not the right atmosphere. I change it.”
The rock star once again clapped their hands together, twice. “Boy’!?” they demanded. They threw Ella and Jacobo a frustrated glance. “Where has the boy gone off to now?”
A lean, built, and fair-skinned young man in a red speedo hurried towards the beach spot, kicking up sand as they did. Huffing and puffing, the handsome companion placed a bottle of tanning oil down next to their master’s drink. Iggy rolled his eyes, annoyed.
“Here, sir,” they said, eyes downcast. Obedient.
Iggy tapped a polished nail against their chin. “Sir? Mmm. No, not today.” Their hand shot out and grabbed the young man by the chin, lifting their eyes to meet theirs. “Try again.”
“Y-y-yes, mistress.”
“Hmph." Iggy smirked and patted their cheek, perhaps a bit too hard. "Better, kitten.”
Colt narrowed his eyes at the ‘Boy’. For one, he looked a hell of a lot like a fighter. That would explain the bruises on his abdomen, after all. But what drew his eyes were the green, glowing letters painted across his chest. They read: I’m a tasteless little boor. Please bully me. Then, a kiss mark, in pink.
Iggy laughed. “Oh, you two are probably wondering about my boy here. I forget his name. He was a little jobber punk who called bossa nova ‘boring elevator music’. As a lover of all genres, I couldn’t let that slide.” He yawned. “So, I bent his joints back in a nasty, nasty bow-and-arrow hold. Until they snapped. Isn’t that right, little one?”
The ‘boy’ shivered. “Yes…yes, mistress.”
“And did it hurt?”
“Yes. It hurt a lot. More than anything.” He looked as if he might cry, recalling the pain he'd been put through.
“Mmm…that’s right.” Iggy yawned. "Of course, that's the thing about soma. You can beat up your jobbers all they want and there's no harm done in the end. I'd say it almost takes the fun out of it, but..." They giggled, cupped their hand to their cheek, and whispered, "I'm actually more of a humanist than I look. Morally complicated is nicer, yeah?"
John Henry threw concern Colt’s way. But Colt’s eyes had turned into dollar signs. Now this was a heel!
Iggy pattered their servant on the face, gently. “Worry not, pretty one. I do not mix business and pleasure. Count your lucky…” He winked, conjuring up a smaller, pink ray of glitter that hit his servant on the face. “Stars.” With that threat made, he slid a finger down their servant’s abdominals, tracing over the lettering. “Hmm. Perhaps another touch there would do?”
Colt looked over the illuminated lettering on the poor, conquered loser. “Er…is that your work?”
“Ah, yes!” Iggy piped up. “I am a Light magi, believe it or not. Proving that you don’t need to be a goodie-two-shoes to wield the gift of the Goddess, no? I can make beautiful works of art.” They nodded to their terrified love-slave. “Or, I can improve upon a canvas. I call it light graffiti. I save it for especially annoying jobbers. My little 'autograph'. Oh no, it’s not permanent. I am no Vahni Rage. Ha! Speaking of those who lack finesse. The spell wears off within a week or two, and the little one here consents anyway. I would never push anybody past a limit they weren’t prepared for. You like it, don’t you, boy?”
Iggy wrapped their muscular arms around the boys throat, and began nibbling on their ear, their neck, right in front of Colt and John Henry. Their servant moaned with pain and pleasure.
“Oh yes,” the boy groaned, in ecstasy–or pain–it was hard to tell. “Please hurt me again, Mistress.”
Iggy’s arm around their throat tethered their bicep bulging against their trachea and carotid arteries, cutting off their air.
“I am thinking ‘Master’, now,” Iggy whispered mischievously. “Oh, my little love-servant, you look like you’re turning blue!”
“Ghhh…” The boy tapped on Iggy’s bicep, imploring them to let go. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell if they were struggling or in ecstasy.
“Hmm. Should I put you out in front of these two bigger men? They are much bigger than you, aren’t they? You’re just a little weakening, being put down like a dog. Right? Poor little doggy…” They kissed the side of their boy’s head and let them fall to the sand, much to Jacob and Ella’s amusement.
The boy gasped for breath, holding their throat. The tent in their skimpy, red speedo left no ambiguity concerning whether or not they enjoyed it. “Th-thank you, Master.”
Iggy circled Colt and John Henry. Even though the men were technically both larger than the pink-haired spellcaster, and outnumbered them two-to-one, the star-slinging rock star eyed them hungrily all the same. Colt had only seen fighters that cocky a few times in his life...mostly from looking in the mirror!
“Fetch them drinks,” Iggy said to their love-slave. They kicked them, literally, in the butt, sending them scampering again. They turned back to their audience. “It was a great pop band that once said, ‘Domination's the name of the game. In bed or in life, they're both just the same’.“
Iggy brushed his hair back. They smirked. “I prefer to dominate. Lucky, I am a merciful divinity, so the boy and I have an arrangement. He works as my little servant, and I erase his graffiti it in a day or two.” He shrugged. “Hm. Maybe.”
Colt was sold. “Hot damn, you are a heel.”
“It’s fun to be bad,” Iggy said, delighted in his own deviousness. He gestured for his servant, now running over with a cooler, to place it down near the inflatable. “Yes, very good. Now, Boy, I think it is time you oiled me up.”
Iggy turned around and leaned over to grab the tanning oil, giving Colt an intimate look at his backside. Rock hard, sculpted cheeks. They swallowed Iggy's g-string. Colt suddenly felt inadequate.
Iggy shoved the oil into his servant’s hands, and then took a seat on the suggestive inflatable. “Care to join?” Iggy asked his company.
All of this preening and showing off was starting to remind Colt why he didn’t like villain spellbreakers all that much. He crossed his arms and eyed Iggy up and down, thinking he’d like to test out the spellbreaker’s might in the ring himself. “Hm. So you think you’re big and bad, huh?”
“Bad?” Iggy blinked innocently. “You will just have to see that for yourself, vaqueiro.” He pushed his hips out and tugged on his thong strap. It was a clip on. “As for ‘big’, well, you also be the judge…”
Iggy unclipped his thong. Hand to Goddess–Colt hadn’t seen a piece that big in a very long time. Iggy’s cock practically unravelled, pushing the flimsy piece of fabric aside. Hard. Erect. Perfectly proportioned. A solid 8 or 9 inches at most, just standing there golden and proud in the Brazilian breeze. The proportions were the perfect balance of long and thick.
Iggy pushed his hair back and straddled the floaty, allowing his servant to oil up his muscular, delicious body. "What's wrong, Colt? Are you eying my...banana?"
Sun kissed and radiant, Iggy didn’t need light magic in order to glow. Jacobo, Ella, and the servant looked on in worship.
“Touching me is your reward,” Iggy growled to his love-slave as the boy slid his hand up and down his shining pecs. “Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, master,” his servant said, oiling up his abs now. “It is a pleasure just to look upon your body.”
Iggy tugged at their massive cock. “If you’re a good little boy, you might get a treat later. Hope you picked up that throat numbing spray I mentioned.”
John Henry’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “Hooooollllly sh–”
“Damn!” Colt cut him off, equally impressed. He nudged his companion. “Theirs is almost as big as y–”
“HAHAHAHAAAaaaaa!” John Henry clamped his hand over Colt’s mouth, pulling him into a tight, inescapable headlock. “I think what Colt here was trying to say is that we’d love to discuss signing you if you’d like to further the conversation.”
Rummaging inside his beach bag, Iggy removed a lighter and a piece of rolled paper. “I most certainly would, handsomes.” They put the joint to their lips, lit it, and took a long drag. “But, it wouldn't be right for you to come all this way and not see a taste of what I can do in the ring. I would invite you to a demonstration."
The rock-and-roll monarch exhaled rings of bitter-sweet smoke. Erect, glorious, and godly, they sat on their throne and soaked in Colt and John Henry’s attention.
“There is a spellbreaking match on tonight,” they explained. “I shall have my boy give you the address.” They blew a trace of smoke, right into Colt’s face. “Come watch me be a star, kittens. And then…we shall talk contracts and all sorts of things.”
John Henry released Colt, choking and coughing on marijuana vapor.
The cowboy recovered, but threw this rebellious whelp a stern look. Nevertheless, they had piqued their interest. “Sounds like a plan, Mx. Astro.”
“Ah, but we are friends now–Iggy is fine.” The rock star leaned back, picked up their sunglasses, and placed them on their face again. Joint perched seductively in their lips, they nodded to their new friends. “Whatever you need, gentlemen. Whatever you want. Tell me. I shall make it happen. Rio is a gem of a city and we pride ourselves on our hospitality.”
With that, Colt and John Henry said their goodbyes, leaving Iggy to hold court among the seashore. Iggy watched Colt and John Henry walk and chatter, content that he'd left an impression of them. "Too bad vaquiero might become my boss," Iggy sighed. "If he wanted to ride a real stallion, I'd give him the rodeo of his lifetime."
"What about the Iron Titan?" Ella suggested, turning her hips towards the sun. "He is yummy, no?"
Iggy nodded, blowing out bittersweet smoke rings. "Too true. And not that I am above seducing married men, but I find it's more fun in theory and messier in practice." Iggy leaned back on their velvet beach chair, turned on by the attention...and so much muscle. "I think this calls for a celebration. Boy? Come here." Iggy stood, nearly knocking his drink aside with his giant, swinging cock.
Eyes turned to the sand, the attractive fighter in the red speedo bowed to their supreme ruler. "Yes, master?"
"I'm looking for release."
"Oh? Shall I fetch you the Fleshlight, sir?"
"Ha!" Iggy snapped their fingers. "Your mouth is the Fleshlight, have you forgotten? Kneel. Service me. Now."
"Y-y-yes," Boy said, getting onto their knees.
"Ah, ah. Kiss it first."
Iggy's love-servant looked upon their stiff cock like they were in the desert, and this was the first drink they had in days. He kissed the head, then the shaft, tonguing Iggy's girth and length.
Iggy leaned back, letting their hair fall behind them. "Yes. That's a good boy. Worship it."
"I do," the Boy said.
Iggy glared down and slapped his servant across the face with their meaty cock. "Who said you could talk?"
"I-I'm sorry, master."
"Just for that," Iggy said, jamming their cock between their defeated opponent's lips, "I'm changing your name from 'Boy' to 'Mouth'. Do you like that, 'Mouth'? Say it without opening."
Iggy's servant gargled back in reply, with a muffled answer. They sucked Iggy down with a desperate hunger.
"Ffffuck," Iggy moaned softly. "Precumming like a bitch today." They turned to Jacobo and Ella, already watching the show with interest. "Come here, you two."
Jacobo and Ella cradled their heads into Iggy's shoulders. He embraced them, letting them touch him and rub his sleek, muscular body down.
"Feels so good to be worshipped," Iggy said softly. He leaned and kissed Jacobo on the mouth. Then, Ella. He tongued her mouth, then kissed her softly. "Getting head wile making out with my favorites. Doesn't get better than this. Does it, 'Mouth'? Shit, let me make that 'Throat' instead. You can go deeper than that."
Eyes streaming with tears, Iggy's servant took in his whole length into his throat, gagging but forcing himself to continue...or suffer the consequences.
The rock and roll god stretched their arms out to the sunny shoreline. This really was paradise. "I'm gonna kick so much ass tonight," they said, stiffening even harder at the thought of dominating. "I'll show that sexy cowboy how much of a delicious monster I can be."
"You're the champion," Jacobo said, tonguing Iggy's nip. "You're my champion."
"That's right," Iggy said, thrusting harder into his living Fleshlight's mouth. "I'm the fucking winner. The rock and roll stud."
"They're cheering for your name," Ella moaned, fondling her idol's chest.
Iggy looked down at his servant. Poor kid is gonna pass out, he thought, sneering. "Do you think you're worthy enough to take my load down your throat?"
Iggy's boytoy removed themselves from Iggy's wet cock. He looked up at his mater with pleading eyes. "N-no."
"That's fucking right you aren't," Iggy said, stroking himself. "But I'm in a good mood. So I'll give you your reward all the same. Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."
The dominated, young man did as told. He opened his mouth and leaned back, waiting for his blessing.
"FFffffuck," Iggy moaned, mane tossed back like a lion in heat. "I'm the fucking winner."
Long, white ropes shot down the boy's face, soaking him completely. A good lot it landed on his tongue and in his throat.
"Oops," Iggy said, mockingly, smearing their cum around their servant's face, making sure he leaned back and took it. "I'm such a naughty kitten."
Basking in the glow of his orgasm, Iggy stuck his finger inside his sub's mouth, and removed a glob of his own cum. "Jacobo. You've been a good boy too. Here."
The Brazilian hunk in the blue speedo opened his mouth and sucked it off Iggy's fingers. "You taste so good."
"I know," Iggy said, yawning. He sat back down and waived his servant away, dismissively. "Go clean yourself off. You're a mess. And bring me a towel too, while you're at it."
Matters attended to, and needs met, Iggy sat back and admired their own glory. "Why settle for king or queen?" they said, flexing their abs. "When you could be a god?"
Next Chapter!
