Starstruck Part 2 - Rock and Roll Nightmare

"Five minutes til you're on, Mr. Stevie."

The square-jawed, lean jock in the military fatigues glared back at the Brazilian PA just trying to do her. She smiled politely at Cadet Stevie, who was, at present, doing push-ups in the middle of his dressing room.

"Don't interrupt my set!" the brash American snarled back. "Two-hundred-and-ninety-eight....two-hundred-and-ninety-nine....three hundred." He gasped for breath, pushing off the ground and onto his feet. 

"New record." The spellbreaker flexed his chest in the mirror, admiring his looks. He grabbed the towel off the counter and patted himself down. This whole place was a dump. Dirty. Dusty. Crumbling.

These Brazilians are so undisciplined, Stevie thought. Too lazy. Too hedonistic. None of them could ever hope to regiment themselves into acquiring a body like his. He took in the sight of his sculpted abs and biceps, all of them earned by copious amounts of strict diet and exercise. He'd trained hard to get this far, and if these drooling, drunken morons out in the audience couldn't see that--recognize his glory--then they were worthless. Then again, it didn't matter. This whole match was a write-off anyway. Stevie figured he'd get paid for the gig, kick some loser's ass, and then fly back to America as soon as-

"Ahem..."

That annoying PA again. Stevie sighed, adjusted his camo pants, and turned to the door. "What now--" He stopped short.

Framed in the doorway, like a work of art, was a lean, muscular individual in hot-pink, zebra striped pants. Their torso was bare and oiled, every muscle glinting in the dressing room lighting. Long, pink hair--held back by a tasteful bandana--travelled down to just below their neck. Their lips were lightly painted.

The fighter gave Stevie a wolfish smile.

Who let the circus in? "Who are you?" Stevie bit. He pulled a jar of pomade off the counter and gelled back his buzzcut, hoping this...weirdo, or whoever they were, would leave them in peace.

The pink-haired stud laughed to themselves, then stepped into the room. "Your worst nightmare," they said in a confident tone. He undressed Stevie with his eyes. "Or, your sweetest dream." With a dramatic bow, Iggy extended their hand in a gesture of sportsmanship. "Iggy Astro. The pleasure is mine."

Stevie shook their hand, but only out of general etiquette. It was soft, but very strong. The Cadet's eyes travelled down to their fingers--was that nail polish? Ugh!

Straight-laced and proper, Stevie reeled back in disgust, pushing Astro's hand away, rudely. "You're my opponent? Ugh. Figures these idiots would put me up against a freak. Well. If you've come by to be a good sport, I appreciate it...I guess." 

Stevie thumped his chest--and then, in a act of obnoxious, masculine bravado, tore off his fatigues, revealing his green-and-brown, camo wrestling trunks. "But I'll beat you down all the same!"

Iggy rolled their eyes. "Camo under camo? How tacky." He shrugged, tossing back his bubble-gum colored locks, letting some of his magickally produced, luminous glitter fly off him with the swoop of his hair. "To me, you look like a little boy playing in his underwear." Iggy adjusted himself in Stevie's presence.

Even Stevie couldn't hide his expression once he'd zeroed in on Iggy's prominent bulge. For a moment, he felt something stir inside him, his mouth water. He shook his head. "Puh-lease. I am a disciplined, hard working, conservative American. What gender are you even supposed to be?"

"Ha! Gender? It is for lesser mortals."

"Hmph. Figures you'd think that. I've seen your women here, flaunting themselves! The men, just as worse. Disgusting."

Iggy crosses their arms, studying the upstanding soldier, taking in his arrogance and self-righteousness. "I am sure this might come as a shock to you--as someone who clearly makes snap-judgements based on one's personal appearances, my sweet soldier--but I consider myself a very philosophical person. The Goddess gave us our bodies so that we may do with them as we please, provided they do not violate the liberties of another. As you are a visitor from a land that supposedly prides itself on freedom, I am shocked to hear you you feel as if you have the right to tell people what to do or how to live their lives."

"This city is a hell hole." Stevie grit his teeth, counting each vice on his finger. "Crime. Violence. Deviance."

"My three favorite things!" Iggy sized his quarry up. Still, he wasn't beyond extending an olive branch. "Tell me, gatinho. You can't be all starch and clean underwear. What music are you into?"

"Certainly not rock and roll. It's The Adversary's music! Corrupting youth!" He spat on the floor, dangerously close to Iggy's custom made, green boots. "Freaks like you are a disgrace." He glared daggers at his opponent, willing them to get out his sight.

But Iggy Astro saw something else behind his eyes. As a Light magi, he could sniff out someone's aura, see it in crystal clarity. Stevie's was a cloud of uptight, gray-green ego concealing a soft pink bud of unrepressed desire. 

Iggy's new goal was to nurture that bud until it bloomed.. 

Iggy licked his lips, hungrily. "I...know that look. In your eyes."

Stevie took as step back. He was angry at himself for backing down. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, I know it well." Iggy drew closer. Predator. Seducer. He slid a finger across the mirror's countertop. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." 

Stevie didn't back away, but Iggy could smell the fear on him, even if the boy didn't show it. He had no idea what he was dealing with, of course. Iggy smiled, then slid his finger up Stevie's chiselled abs. The military whelp glared at him, unflinching. But his insides told a different story.

Iggy Astro pressed his hips against Stevie's pelvis. "I know you want me, Stevie. And do you know where I want you?" Iggy's stare went icy cold, but he grinned even wider. "On your knees. Begging for mercy."

Stevie's shoulders fell back. Still, he was military trained, and wasn't going to back away from a challenge. He pushed his chest into this pink pansy. "I'm going to kill you," he growled.

Iggy dismissed the weak threat. "No. Oh, no. You won't." He turned and walked away, making sure to swivel his hips and let Stevie get a good look at his rippling back and steely buttocks as he did.

Leaning against the doorframe, Iggy looked back over shoulder and blew Stevie a neon-lit kiss print. "But by the time I'm done with you, kitten, you're really going to wish you had."

"This place remind you of New Orleans?"

John Henry gestured to the cramped auditorium. Exposed piping and wiring. Mold on the walls. Yet, despite the venue's dilapidated appearance, Colt spotted all the little details signifying the passion put into the sport. Flags and banners covered the walls. Carnival-colored bunting ran over the ring, criss-crossing the lighting rig. It was a firetrap, to be sure, but there was love here too.

"That's what I love about spellbreaking matches outside the US," Colt shouted over the rambunctious but genial audience. He lifted his plastic cup of cheap beer in salute. "It's a lot harder for some places to fund spellbreaking. I was talking to the guys who run the venue and could tell all the hard work they'd put into it. Lots of gratitude. That's why I want the GSA to get bigger! So we can start funding more ventures like this abroad."

"For the love of the sport...or the love of money?"

Colt winked. "Mostly the sport." He eyed the crowd. Seemed there more women in attendance than American or Texan shows. Beautiful women at that. "Of course, this gig you comes with its perks..."

"And what do you think about this Iggy Astro? You saw them make eyes at you?"

"Who doesn't make eyes at me?" Colt fired back playfully. "People with bad taste, that's who. Besides, it's a modern world. Helps to keep an open mind."

"Sounds like you might have a crush."

"Nah. Couldn't date a guy or gal with a pony bigger than mine." Colt teased his longtime friend with a sly wink. "Else I'd have married your handsome ass a long time ago."

"Hah! Drink your beer."

The lights in the auditorium dimmed, as did the general chatter in the crowed. The announcer, speaking in Portuguese, welcomed the first contender to the ring. Patriotic, American-flavored music swelled from out of the loudspeakers. Cadet Stevie threw open the curtain at the back of the aisle, standing with his arms behind his back in perfect military posture, all the while glaring at the audience. The response was a mix of cheers and boos.

"Now there's a fit guy," John Henry commented to Colt. "Sure we shouldn't be trying to recruit the All-American? You like heroes, don't you?"

Colt scrunched up his face. "I don't disagree, but this guy's got zero charisma. Plus, he reminds me of my creepy neighbors growing up."

"The ones with the kids who used to torture the frogs by the watering hole?"

"Yep. Real Church-every-Sunday type folks. This boy's got their scent all over him. I support the troops, sure enough, but not this troop's spellbreaking career. Besides, strictly between you and I, I think the Navy has more flair."

"Sailors over soldiers, huh?"

"Who doesn't love a man in uniform, big guy?"

Cadet Steve marched down the aisle, ignoring the amiable locals extending their hands for high-fives or handshakes. The young warrior with the buzz cut looked at the crowd as if they were visibly diseased, opting instead to go straight for the ring. A modest head-nod towards the female ref, dressed in standard referee attire, was the only cordiality he offered. Stevie let her pat him down, looking visibly uncomfortable that a woman he wasn't married to should be touching his pure, pristine body. Once she was satisfied, he lazily removed his military fatigues.

Colt frowned. "That's it? No flexin'? No showboat? What's he doing, getting into a ring or getting into bed for the night?" Sure, the kid had a killer bod, but he looked...well...bored. Or worse, boring. "I hate to say it, but our home continent isn't putting out its best for this match, J.H. I'll be interested to see what--"

A sharp guitar riff drowned out Colt's voice. In ring, Stevie covered his ears to dampen the hellish sound.

Beam of pink, green, and yellow light exploded out from the curtain, blowing it back and bringing the audience onto their feet, screaming like they were at a rock concert. Smoke and glitter poured out in a deluge. Carried along the neon torrent, Iggy Astro glided out like a rock and roll god, whipping their head back and throwing the crowd the good ol' devil horns. Headbanging along to the metal melody, they strummed along in time to with the solid 'light-beam' guitar cradled in their hands--one of their 3D light conjurations. A glowing neon croptop clung to their massive chest, giving Astro's many admirers a great look at their diamond-cut six pack. Their pink, zebra stripe pants bore the same glow-in-the dark effect. Both pieces of attire looked painted on, they were so tight. Unlike Stevie, Iggy was content with taking their time getting to the ring, basking in the glow of the crowd. Smoke and light wrapped around them, obscuring the auditorium floor, making it look as if they were a neon Venus emerging from the ocean.

With a snap of their finger, Iggy's light guitar burst into hundreds of neon, rainbow sparks, ascending upward to the rafters and creating a matrix of luminous beams. The audience members had come for a spellbreaking match, but that wasn't enough for Iggy Astro. He wanted to give them a rock concert and a lightshow too.

The neon demon strutted down the aisle, lip-synching to his own lyrics.

I am your fire, your angel from hell

Taking you higher, under my spell.

And indeed, his light magic had its hypnotic effect on the crowd. It activated the audience's neurons, releasing serotonin, putting all in attendance into an ecstatic trance (or pushing them much closer to an epileptic fit, in any case).

A selfie pose with a devoted fan here, a quick autograph there, a cheek-kiss there. Iggy Astro was the odd contrast between untouchable deity and neighborhood star. They were Bacchus come down to revel among his worshippers. 

Colt and Henry, in any case, were speechless. The only thing the cowboy king could do was grin wildly and be assured again why he loved this sport so damn much. 

Iggy Astro straddled the ropes, letting the audience admire him in frame of the whole ring. Instead of sliding through the topes, he back-flipped over the top, landing perfectly on his feet. He cupped his hand to his ear dramatically, waiting for the crowd to give him the love. They did so, in abundance. Again, the audience roared, rendering Stevie--sulking with his arms crossed in the opposite corner--even more pathetic. He was overshadowed.

Iggy approached the ref and gave her a respectful kiss on both cheeks. "Hello, my darling, so good to see you..." It was more like greeting a friend at a party than someone expected to police his moves. "Now, my love, you better ignore any of my...indiscretions tonight."

The ref rolled her eyes, giggling and dismissing Iggy like a lovable scamp, and not someone who could rip a man's arm out of its socket in under five seconds. She handed him the microphone.

Time to have some fun. "Look at you," Iggy purred, licking his lips seductively at the scowling young man in camo, leaning against the opposite ropes. "Aren't you adorable? Do you feel the energy in here tonight, soldier boy? The celebration!" Iggy extended their fingers to the ceiling, willing a bright, blue star shape into the air. The audience responded in kind. "Little Boy Stevie. I am giving you a chance to join in. These are good folks in the crowd tonight, yeah. We Brazlians are loving people! We just want to have fun." Iggy gestured to the crowd, his admirers. The affection was palpable.

Iggy snapped his fingers, shattering the star above him into glittery dust. It fell around them like neon snow, or--more appropriately--Carnival confetti. He blew another kiss to his opponent. "I, on the other hand, am not so forgiving. So, kitten, what will it be? A fun, colorful match? Or..."

Iggy grabbed a fistful of their tight, 'crop-top'--but it was certain, in that moment, that it was actually one of his cleverly woven light constructs. Iggy ripped it away, combusting it into flakes of light, revealing their oiled chest. While the crowd lost their minds (and increased their libido levels), Iggy did the same with his pink, zebra-striped 'pants', showing off their muscular legs and intimidating, bulging pink thong with star-print.

Iggy, the neon god, towered over Stevie. "Or...will I need to put you in the hospital?"

Stevie choked on their own spit, reeling back at the sight of this...this...muscular, bronze being anointed with oil and glitter. "A...thong? That's your gear?"

"It is Brazil," Iggy shrugged, showing their glutes off to the crowd. The pink warrior waved dismissively at Stevie's drab briefs. "So sad...all of this."

To the right of Stevie, the ref supressed a laugh. The cadet was not amused, his lips turning upwards into a snarl. "I'm gonna wipe that lipstick off your face!" They made a fist with their right arm. The ambient dirt and dust coalesced around it, forming a gauntlet of solid rock.

So, an Earth magi. How boring. "Oh, so that's your power? Heh. You really are dull as dirt!"

The bell rang. Iggy stood there, cocky and confident. "Well?" He made a 'come on' motion with his hands, sparkling with neon stardust. 

"Ragggh!" Stevie shot forward with a jab of his stone fist. Iggy merely leaned to the left to avoid. The cadet anticipated his opponent might be quick, and followed it up with a right hook. Iggy reacted by falling to his knees and flipping back with his legs, cartwheeling out of the way. The crowd loved it.

"Grrr!" Stevie reconfigured his rock fist into a long, sharp, spike. "I'm gonna skewer you like Brazilian barbeque!"

"Ha!" Iggy spat in reply. He brushed his long hair back. "By the end of this match, you're going to be my biggest fan, padrãozinho."

"What did you call me, you little freak?" The Cadet launched another volley, aiming for Iggy's pretty face. Iggy countered with a chop to the arm, blocking the punch and dragging the spellbreaker's arm with one, swift, fluid motion. In the blink of the eye, Iggy twisted Stevie's arm to the back of his muscular back, pinning it into a hammerlock.

"Agh!" Stevie wince, caught off guard by the sharp pain. "L-let go!" Try as he might, he couldn't move it. Bent in this position, with Iggy driving his elbow joints the exact opposite direction, it felt like Iggy might rip his arm off any second.

Dangerously close to his opponent, Iggy pushed his hips further. Iggy leaned in close, brushing Stevie's neck and shoulders with his hair, and then proceeded to slowly lick the trapped fighter's earlobe.

"Let me give you a tour of Brazil," Iggy whispered. "Through combat. Least I could do for my biggest fan..."

Iggy turned his hand sideways, another 'chop' stance, this time going for the back of Stevie's knee. He scooped him up easily, lifting him off balance, and then struck him on the side with their hip, lifting him into the air--and higher still-for an impactful body slam.

Stevie hit the canvas like a piece of wet meat. To add insult to injury, Iggy's magick caused the collision to spawn a series of star-shaped lights, fading like sparks from a flame.

"Whoops!" Iggy laughed. He turned on his bootheels and ran to the ropes, building momentum for a killer elbow drop to the back of Stevie's spine.

"GAH!" Stevie yelped. A pity that he couldn't see the comical lightning bolt shapes conjured from of his damaged vertebrae. Another byproduct ofIggy's enchantment.

"Come on soldierboy," Iggy said as he forced his opponent onto his knees. "Let's see those muscles!"

Stevie did as instructed, giving Iggy a brief double-bicep flex, transforming both of his arms into solid rocks. "You like rock and roll, freak? I'll give you some rock and roll!" 

The Cadet went for a shoot, intent to take the star-powered stud down to the mat. Iggy was quicker, jumping up and over Stevie like a hurdle. The one-man-lightshow pirouetted around and balled their hand into a fist, a bright light blooming in the threads between their fingers.

"Hey, Stevie, I got a surprise for you! Look at what I got here!"

The Cadet recovered their stance and whipped their head around just in time for Iggy to 'blow' them another kiss--a fistful of neon 'stardust', right in their eyes.

"Fucking Hell!" Stevie cursed, much to his own disappointment. It was like someone had just taken an arc light and turned it on in front of his eyeballs. Searing with pain, Stevie was blinded. He panicked and punched the air with his stone-hard fist, in the approximation of where he thought Iggy was standing. The pink haired fighter merely danced around him, dodging the blows with graceful sidesteps. Most of the home crowd recognized his triangular movements and pivots as capoeira style. That alone was impressive enough in its technical execution, but what really had them laughing was Stevie's completely pathetic, clumsy attempts to land a single hit on his opponent.

"Too easy," Iggy muttered under his breath. He turned on his feet again, spinning on an axel. His leg cut through the air, trailing a spectral, luminous after-burn image. The armada kick struck Stevie right in the chest, shaking loose a series of neon red broken hearts. The stunned cadet fell back into the ropes, a rubber band effect that sent him right back into Iggy's control zone.

This time, Iggy licked his lips, and the more observant--and perverse--members of the audience noticed his massive bulge stiffen in anticipation of the landing his next move. Iggy 'wound up' with another tripod movement, this time falling to their palms, an almost cartwheeling motion. Being a musician, timing and rhythm were their specialty. Iggy knew exactly when to throw their legs back into the air and slam them right into Stevie's midsection with a meia lua de compasso. Befitting the move's name, cartoony light-shapes of half-moons and crescent-mons exploded out of Stevie, another visual signifier of Iggy's impact.

The half-moon kick completely knocked the air out of Stevie. The Cadet fell back, stunned, and landed with his arms splayed across the ropes. The ref ran to his side to check up on him, but Iggy nodded his head towards her. Not yet, love. Don't ruin my fun. She wisely backed off.

An artist of pain, Iggy surveyed his latest work. Stevie's fair skinned torso glowed red and raw with knee print and boot marks. 

But not nearly enough for Iggy's liking.

"You look tired," Iggy sniffed. He clamped his nail-polished claws down into Stevie's traps. It was enough to make Stevie snap back to reality. He grimaced, his face straining with pain.

"Gaaaahhh. You dirty cheat!"

"What? Me!" Iggy pretended as if he was offended. "I would never pull off a dirty move! And definitely not something like THIS!" 

"Wh-"

Iggy's knee--thankfully padded--collided into Stevie's chest with the force of a cannonball. Instead of spittle, pink glitter flew from Stevie's mouth, as well as all the oxygen inside him.

"Yay!" Iggy said, clapping their hands with sadistic enjoyment. "We're having fun!" This time, they rolled their boot's kickpad flap down, exposing their knee. Iggy made sure to maintain his wicked grin the whole time, in plain sight of the ref. What was she going to do about it anyway?

"Come on, Stevie! Aren't you having fun?" They slammed their knee into Stevie's stomach and abs again, creating a splash of fuchsia-colored skull effects. They repeated the move again, the light constructed skulls growing bigger and bigger with each blow, symbolising of the damage Iggy was doing to Stevie's muscles and insides.

"Stop!" the ref called out.

Iggy smiled at her. "No!" he said cheerily, continuing his assault. "I gotta' treat my biggest fan the right way!" Another gut blow with the knee, and another burst of skulls. By the time Iggy thought he heard a cracking sound, the skull light-forms had transformed into bleeding skulls. By the time Stevie's eyes had rolled back into his head, they were bright red.

"Heheh, I should probably stop before he passes out and ruins all my fun." Iggy cupped his slumped over opponent's head into his armpit. "Forgot if I wore deodorant today or not. I can be such a dirty doggy." He squeezed down on Stevie's neck, making him arch his back and squeak pathetically. "I love the sound of your squealing, Stevie! Come on, let's head bang!"

Iggy shot up the devil horns, stuck out their tongue, and tossed back their mane, before jumping up into the air and bringing Stevie's head down in a sharp DDT. This time, the light flare accompanying the impact were broken and bleeding hearts.

Stevie's back arched up, his head resting against the canvas at an odd angle. Iggy pulled the cadet's legs back into the air leaned his hips against his downed opponent, making sure to rest his bulge on top of his neck. Iggy winked and blew a kiss to the crowd, then counted down with his fingers as the ref went down to the mat for a count out.

"One...two...WHOOPS!" Iggy jerked Stevie's head back before the ref could finish. "Wow, Stevie, you're so strong! You kicked out." He picked up Stevie's drooling, drooping head, slapping his cheek to wake him up. "You kicked out, Stevie! You kicked out!"

"Unnn..." came the sleepy, stunned reply from the bruised and battered soldier. "Just...stop...please..."

"Oh come on," Iggy said, patting their cheek. "Let me help you up onto your feet. There you go. All good! Come on, you're my biggest fan right?" Iggy narrowed his eyes, showing his true intent. "Right?"

Stevie's head drooped. It took all the effort he had left to stand and hold it up in a weak-willed attempt at meeting Iggy's stare head on. Iggy smiled. 

Stevie's reply? To lodge a huge wad of spit, right in their face.

The crowd gasped. John Henry cringed. He gave Colt a concerned look.

Colt, however, smiled ominously. "I think this is where the fun really begins..."

"Oh, right," John Henry mumbled. "Forgot that for a face, you're a bit of a sadist."

"Hey, I'm a tough face," Colt corrected him. "Not my fault if I like seeing villains get 'what for' in really nasty ways."

It was dead silent in the auditorium. Only a single cough from the crowd dared interrupt the moment. Iggy took a deep breath and wiped the trail of spit from off their cheek, collecting the wad on their finger tips. 

"Hm." They smiled at Stevie. "You really shouldn't have done that."

Just as it dawned on Stevie how much trouble they were really in, Iggy pried open the boy's mouth with his long fingers.

"Let me give this back to you," Iggy said, shoving the wad of saliva and mucous into Stevie's mouth and down his throat, clawing at the side of Stevie's face and forcing their fingers deeper, ignoring the Cadet's muffled cries.

"Really gotta work on that gag reflex!" Iggy said through their teeth, clutching down harder. Their eyes glowed a bright, furious pink. This is what you get for your shitty attitude. Iggy pulled Stevie's head in closer for a tight headlock, pressing their ambone against the side of his face, crushing it against him. 

 "Hey! I think it's time for a concert." Iggy looked down at his squirming, struggling opponent, whose stone-shaped gauntlets had all but crumbled to dust at this point. "What do you think, you little bitch?"

"N-n-no."

"Those abs look like they hurt. Would be a really shit situation if someone...stretched them out."

Iggy kicked the back of Stevie's knee, sending a stream of pain into their leg. But that was the least of the Cadet's problems. Iggy pulled half of Stevie's torso one way, stepping over Stevie's feet and placing him into a brutal ab stretch. Combined with the internal damage already done to his abs, the pain was unbearable. Felt like someone was ripping each ab muscle out of his stomach, one by one.

"FUCK!" Stevie cried out. "FUCK!"

This is so, so satisfying, Iggy thought wickedly. Lines of pink light formed around Stevie, like a cage, forming the shape of a guitar--his poor, bruised abs, the strings. Iggy 'played' him, banging his head up and down, and jerking Stevie in every direction.

"Love a good jam session," Iggy laughed, showing off his new 'instrument' for the pleasure of the audience. "Those are some pretty high notes you're making too! I call this song, 'Dismantling a Basic, Little Bitch Boy'. Name needs work--I know, I know. And I dedicate that one to all the freaks in the audience!"

And sure enough, the whole audience responded with a hearty shout and round of applause.

The concerned ref went to Stevie's side. Tears ran down his face. Still, he sputtered, "No...no...I can't lose. I can't give!"

Iggy rolled his eyes and let his prey fall to the canvas. "See? He is fine," he said, punctuating the end of his statement with a boot to Stevie's back. Iggy leaned back and touched the ground with a gymnastic grace, bridging himself, humping the air for a few laughs and "oohs" from the audience. He smirked at the wolf whistle someone let out.

But this was all just showing off. He wasn't done with Stevie yet. "Let's take a breather. Huh, biggest fan?" With the grace of an apex predator, Iggy slid his legs around his downed opponent, hooking one meaty thigh over his neck, pulling his arms in close, before locking the other leg around his head. Iggy's bulged asserted its authority right into Stevie's face, while Iggy's legs imprisoned and compressed his poor neck in a sadistic, humiliating leg triangle.

Stevie panicked, kicking his legs back and down in a weak-willed attempt to pull himself out. Each time, Iggy pressed his barley-contained girth into his face, and calmped his legs down a little more.

"How's that taste?" Iggy asked, licking his lip. "I said take a breather, so why not take a deep breath?"

The ref gave Iggy the briefest of admonishing looks, then attended to poor, struggling Cadet Stevie. "Do you want to give?"

Iggy answered for him. "Nah," he said, reclining back, yawning, and stretching his shredded arms out for the audience's admiration. "He doesn't want to give. See? He's still moving, yeah?" Iggy tossed his hair back, thinking how he could really do this all day if he wanted to. "What do you think will happen first, you little twink? Will you pass out? Or will I crack your head like an egg?" He thrusted again just to hammer it home.

"MMMffff!"

Pathetic. Iggy let up, giving Stevie a brief respite. Red faced, Stevie gasped for air.

"Like a fish on land," Iggy laughed. They cocked their head to the side, hair falling back over their shoulder. "What do you say? I'll give you one last chance to apologise for your rudeness. I'm feeling generous. C'mon, Stevie, you ain't gonna get a better offer than that! I can put you out the nice way or the rough way--what'll it be?"

"No..." Stevie gasped. "Fuck....you..." They pushed up and away, out of Iggy's reach. Iggy was genuinely shocked to see they still had some fight left in them. Stevie held his neck, getting back onto his feet, but even Iggy could tell from the way they leaned forward and winced that their abs and stomach were absolutely devastated. Presuming the kid walked from this match alive, they would be wine-purple for days, even with the soma's protection and rapid healing.

Iggy stood and brushed off their shoulders. In truth, he was glad Stevie had held out so long. The rock-and-roll god knew those reps from the GSA were watching, and he'd promised them a hell of a show. He'd already delivered, of course. The rest was all just fun. Cat and mouse.

Stevie spat on the canvas. Iggy noticed blood in the saliva. "I'm not gonna lose to a cross-dresser."

"Doesn't matter what clothes I wear," Iggy said, taking a right hook for their jaw. It sent Stevie spiralling backwards. "I can kick your ass in a thong. A skirt. Fishnets. Really doesn't fucking matter." 

It was time to stop playing with their food and go in for the kill.

"A crossdresser! Ha! You say that name with such venom," Iggy said, grinning ear to ear. "Guess I'll have to defang you now!"

Forgoing his Earth magick, opting for brute force instead, Stevie charged forward, ready to beat the pink-haired rock star to a pulp. He'd unwittingly done exactly what Iggy had hoped--put himself in attack range.

Um...dois...três...perfeita!

Iggy leaned back on the ball of their left foot, and kicked up--in a smooth, neon arc--with their right. The timing couldn't be more perfect. His hard, plastic coated boot collided with Stevie's jaw--spraying out all sorts of colorful stars and shapes (and, quite possibly, teeth).

Everyone in the audience heard the sound of jawbone meet foot. They reacted in kind.

Stevie fell to the mat, struck dumb. The ref's eyes widened with concern. She knelt beside him, checking to make sure he was okay.

"Do you want me to call it?" she asked the downed boy.

Iggy, blank-eyed, with a predatory glint, kicked Stevie over onto his side. A stream of red trickled down from his lips. He looked up, his eyes white, in both terror and shock. Iggy wasn't even sure the idiot knew where he was anymore. His lower jaw jutted out at the wrong angle.

"How's that jaw feel, ghatino?" Iggy smirked, watching as the magick of soma reset it for him. He put on a playful tone, which was somehow even more threatening than deliberate intimidation. "Your arms might be made of rocks, but it sounds to me your jaw is made out of glass." He laughed. Inside though, he burned bright with sweet satisfaction. 

"Are you..." the ref started, but Iggy shooed her away.

"Don't worry," Iggy said to her. He made a cutting motion with his neck. This is going to end soon. He leaned over his dazed opponent. The way his eyes moved and wobbled...Iggy knew he'd him hit hard. 

Iggy walked his fingers up Stevie's abs, forcing a weak cry of pain out of him. "Aw," Iggy cooed. "Did we party too hard, kitten?" He leaned and gave Stevie's abs a gentle kiss, leaving behind a glowing, pink print. He mounted Stevie, crawling on top of him until their face met his.

Stevie, stunned, looked up into his executioner's eyes. He said nothing, or couldn't. Iggy expected, and had almost hoped for, pleading. And though the fear was plain on his face, there was still too much defiance for Iggy's liking.

Looks like I'm going to have to give him a night to remember...

Iggy leaned over, like a lion ready to tear out a fallen gazelle's throat. Soft, pink strands of hair tickled Cadet Stevie's cheeks. His prey struggled to bridge off of him, but it was a useless attempt.

"Want to know a secret?" Astro whispered into his ear. He nuzzled his opponent's neck, giggling softly to himself. "Hm? Wanna know a secret, Stevie? Huh, Stevie? Hehe. I'm....gonna...break your arm." They smiled.

Iggy savored the brief moment Stevie's eyes enlarged with horror, before Iggy tumbled over onto his side, swinging one leg over Stevie's arm and pinching it between his legs. He grabbed Stevie's hand, almost like he was going for a handshake, and twisted it the wrong direction, using his own legs for leverage. As Stevie struggled to free himself, Iggy took the opportunity to grind the front of his bulge against Stevie's arm, which he pushed slowly past the threshold of pain.

"Should I?" Iggy grinned. "Yeah? Should I?"

"No, no!" Stevie forced out. "I g--"

"OOPS!"

CRACK!

The audience's reaction nearly drowned out the inhuman sound Stevie let out, like a rabbit caught by a hawk, a death-cry. 

"I'm calling it!" the red shouted desperately. The bell rang. Thank the Goddess.

Iggy pressed his fingers to his lips, looking out into the audience--picking up on the scent of Colt's aura. He laughed. "I'm such a naughty kitten."

Stevie's cries turned into desperate, deep-throated sobs, as he grabbed weakly for his broken arm.

"Such a sweet melody!" Iggy sat up on their knees and looked over the broken, weeping boy, gently brushing the ref away. "Awww, that looks like it hurts! Does it hurt real bad, Stevie?"

Before the ref could stop him, Iggy pushed at the break in the boy's arm, causing Stevie to shriek.

"Oof, yeah." The sadistic rockstar clicked their tongue against their mouth, then brought their arms gently around Stevie's neck. "We better elevate this, huh? Don't worry. I can take the pain away."

The ref didn't have time to protest. Iggy was far too quick. He wrapped Stevie's head between his biceps, putting him in a perfectly executed triangle sleeper.

"My light shines bright, but yours...is going out." His muscles bugled, cutting off blood flow to Stevie's brain. Nuzzling his neck, cradling him as rocking a baby to sleep, Iggy whispered. "Lights out, Stevie. Lights out. Shhhh. Lights out..."

Stevie struggled to use his one, unbroken arm, trying to pry his neck free from Iggy's iron-clad gasp. But there was no point. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his face turning red, then blue, cheeks puffing outward. 

Above him, Iggy conjured a green bar or meter, slowly draining towards empty. "Lights out..." he kept whispering, softer and softer into Stevie's ear, as he slipped further and further into the dark. Iggy could tell he was grateful for the release into oblivion. "Good boy. Let go. Go down. Sweet dreams, jobber."

The light meter above Stevie's drooping head completely depleted, transforming into the flashing letters K.O.! Meanwhile, a stream of drool escaped Stevie's lips, a viscous strand hanging from his parted mouth. His body jolted once, his nerves trying to correct the sudden loss of blood flow. Iggy kissed him gently on the cheek before lighting the grip. Last thing he wanted was to actually kill him. How would he learn his lesson otherwise?

"Count him out," Iggy said to the ref. 

"But the match is over."

Iggy glared at her. "Count. Him. Out." He fluttered his eyes at her. "Pretty please?"

The ref swallowed, embarrassed and put on the spot. "One...two..."

"No, no. Not like that. Lift his arm! I want to see it drop..."

The ref did as told, letting Stevie's limp--unbroken arm--drop once. Twice. Three times.

"One more!"

The ref sighed. "Iggy, he's out. Like...really out."

"Then call the medics--I don't give a shit!" Iggy laughed. "Any fucking homophobe, misogynist, or transphobe gets in the ring with me? I break a limb and I put them in a coma. Or, nearly a coma." 

Iggy was glad this dumb, slumbering idiot was cradled across their body, otherwise the audience would see how rock hard a rock star could really get. Iggy looked down at the unconscious spellbreaker's broken arm

Let's just make sure. Oh, good...

The magick of the soma, a mercy, snapped Cadet Stevie's arm back into place, rapidly setting and healing it. He'd be no worse for wear. Just his ego.

It was almost...disappointing. Iggy shrugged. "Looks like you partied too hard, Stevie!" He let Stevie's head fall to the floor. He would be out for a good, long while, Iggy reckoned. The rock and roll god got back on to their knees and straddled his KO'd opponents head, making sure his bulge did the pinning for him. Iggy laughed. It covered most of the poor loser's face.

Their tongue sticking out, Iggy gave the audience the double devil horns, with a double bicep flex as the cherry on top, and posed over his prey. Above Iggy, neon pink, yellow, and green stars formed the words WINNER! 

"I love you, Rio!" Iggy shouted to the adoring crowd. "And whoever you are, don't let anybody ever try to hide your light!" He looked down at this opponent's sore, purple and yellow abs. "Or else you'll end up like this sad, pathetic, little boy here. Well, I'm a generous god. How's about an autograph? What did you say your name was again? Meh...doesn't matter. You're just a jobber to me anyway..."

Starstruck! Part 1 - The Heel from Ipanema

Soft guitar, carried along by the ocean breeze, washed over the two large men on the beach's edge. The temperature was just right, the sky unspoiled by cloud cover, and the breeze just cool enough for the summer day. With bustling Rio Da Janeiro and the shadow of Corcovado behind them, the two giant men were not exactly out of place among the beautiful bodies sunbathing along Ipanema Beach–aside from the fact that they were obviously tourists.

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!