Pumping Iron

Story note: This takes place during Colt and Iron's younger spellbreaking days, long before Colt founded the GSA.

“Look at that handsome guy!”

John Henry–AKA, Mr. Iron–tried his best to ignore his tag partner's compliments. He couldn’t deny Colt's incessant praise boosted his ego (not that it needed any boosting to begin with) but John Henry also knew that Colt did it because it made him blush. And Colt liked to tease. 

It had been a quick and somewhat boring match. By now, the so-called Kings of New Orleans tag team, composed of the giant Mr. Iron and the devilishly handsome Colt the Bolt, had ran undefeated on the southern circuit. Though Mr. Iron preferred keeping it local, Colt had recently gotten the itch to bigger. John Henry suspected their tag teaming days were bound to come to an amicable end somewhat soon.

But for now, it was easy money. Mr. Iron kept Colt in check from partying too hard with the booze and women, and Colt pushed Mr. Iron out of his comfort zone when needed. It was perfect pairing. Plus, the visibility of a black man and a white man tag teaming was good medicine for the Southern Circuit. It didn’t help that they were both damn fine to look at as well!

 As they entered the stadium’s shower, Mr. Iron pointed out the clean tiling and well lit bathrooms.  “Vegas is much nicer than New Orleans,” he said, eager to strip off and get clean. “Sorry about the lack of street drinking though.”

“Tryin’ to cut back anyway,” Colt admitted. He yawned, looked down at his silver trunks, and snapped the band. “This place looks like damn Olympus compared to most venues we been to. Which is fitting though, seeing as we’re gods, aren’t we.” He elbowed his partner in the ribs, playfully.

The two large men rounded the corner into the shared shower area–demarcated by tiled partitions and facing a row of benches. There wasn’t a whole lot in the realm of privacy, but Colt and Mr. Iron didn’t care. Still, despite all the time spent around each other, Mr. Iron and Colt couldn’t remember actually seeing what the other guy looked under his respective skimpy gear.

There was only one other fellow in the shower room, it seemed–a lanky, diamond-cut young man with abs the envy of most swimmers. With coal-black hair and pool-blue eyes, he looked like the quintessential boy-next-door type. He leaned back, lost in the thought, looking not unlike a country boy version of Narcissus staring lazily off into his own reflection. Only a white towel across his lap kept him covered.

As soon as Colt saw him, his heart leapt into his chest, and his cool, confident aura was replaced with an energy not unlike that of a golden retriever. “Shit, is that my little buddy?”

Willis McCoy, better known by his ring name, Billy Kidd, whipped his head towards the familiar, masculine voice. “C-Colt!” he piped up. His eyes filled up with starlight and affection for his old mentor. “Sir, I saw you on the card just before I went out, otherwise I woulda’ tried to catch you!” Billy stood up out of politeness, making sure to wrap his towel around his waist.

If Colt the Bolt was the Cowboy King, Billy Kidd was the scrappy sidekick gunslinger in training. Of course, Colt didn’t stay put long enough to train the poor kid properly, but they had crossed paths a few times before. Billy Kidd, who normally wore a blue bandana and matching trunks, was a Wind mage with a clever gimmick. A ‘gunslinger’ of a sort, he could fire off wind bullets–which he usually did by making, what else, but a finger gun. It was a bit corny, Colt thought, but it worked for a cutie like Billy.

“It’s all good, Billy-Blue-Eyes,” Colt said, using his affectionate name. He tried to hide his blushing. You see, Colt the Bolt was pretty much straight as an arrow. With some exception. He had a thing for pretty men, and Billy–thus far–was the only guy he’d ever rolled around with. Something about that teacher-student relationship got Colt going, and fresh off his recent divorce, he was a bit more open minded about experimenting. 

Colt ran over to pull his young admirer into a tight, muscular hug. “It’s so good to see you,” Colt said, not shy about holding Billy close. With his broad back turned to his tag partner, Colt wasn’t afraid to subtly rub his bulge against his young wards–just to remind him how he still felt.

Billy’s face turned red, and he pulled back shyly. “It’s good to see you too, daddy–I mean, sir!”

Colt poked him on the nose, ignoring Mr. Iron’s “I’m-catching-on-to-you” stare. “How’d your match go tonight, son?”

“Errr. Not so well, sir.”

“That’s okay–you’ll get ‘em next time, killer.” He playfully ruffled Billy’s hair. “Oh, this is my friend, John Henry.”

John Henry extended his giant, meaty hand. “How do you do?”

Billy, star struck, took it and gave it a good shake. “Wow, Mr. Iron! I-it’s an honor, sir.”

“How old are ya, kiddo! You look like you’re barely out of your school uniform.”

“Just turned twenty, sir! I…uh…I should probably clear out and give you guys some privacy, huh?”

“Nah, stay and shoot the shit!” Colt said. He walked over to the shower stall and turned the faucet, releasing a cloud of soothing steam. John Henry took the other stall.

“We’re just gonna get clean,” Colt said, dropping his briefs and giving Billy a great view of his muscle ass. It wasn’t the first time, anyway, so Colt didn’t feel shy about it.

Billy gulped, making sure his hand covered the front part of his towel. “You’ve…gotten more muscular, sir.”

“Aw, ain’t you the sweetest thing,” Colt said. He took his young admirer’s lead and wrapped a towel around his waist. Of course, he gave his audience what he wanted, flexing his bicep for his young admirer.

Billy’s mouth watered. “Wow. Colt, you look so good, sir. Your chest is amazing.”

“Thanks!” Colt replied in kind, flexing his pectorals in perfect isolation. “Don’t be shy now, hahaha! It’s okay to look. They don't post masterpieces in museums just to ocver up them now, do they?”

John Henry, a towel likewise covering his essential features, stepped out of his stall to admonish his tag partner. He crossed his arms. He hated being outdone, and wasn’t afraid of a little competition either. “You want to see what real muscle looks like, kid? Take a good, hard look.”

With the grace and precision of a bodybuilder, Mr. Iron went into an abbreviated pose routine--flexing back, quads, arms--and ending with a most-muscular pose...enhanced by his prize-winning smile.

At this point, Billy actually had to grip down on the front of his towel to keep from tenting. “That’s…unreal. You two are like gods, I swear!”

“I can see why you like this man of exceedingly great taste,” John Henry said to his (now jealous) friend. “This little rookie probably never got an eyeful of what real muscle looks like.”

Now, that set Colt off! His ego–enhanced by his body–was not something to be challenged. Besides, the Cowboy King wasn’t about to let his best friend mosey on in and swoop the twinkiest stud in the Wild West away from him! If he was gonna win this contest, he was gonna have to pull out the big guns.

Or…at the very least…one very big gun.

“Hellll no, brother!” Colt snarled, taking a fistful of his towel. Well, so much for keeping a bit of discretion between partners! “You wanna see what a thunder god looks like? Get a load of this, pardner!”

In one swift movement, Colt whipped the towel right off his line-cut waist, letting it drop to the ground. With a satisfied smile on his face, Colt–semi-hard–showed off his stunning piece of horsemeat. At least a good 8 and a half inches long, and girthy on top of it! 

Billy had seen it before, of course, but the reveal didn’t diminish the awe. “Woah…he is a horse.” He found his mouth watering, and his own cock–impressive for a a skinny guy like him–start to harden.

Colt gave himself a playful tug and turned towards Billy Kidd, giving him a sly wink. “Name’s Colt, if you didn’t catch that. Built like a horse. Fuck like a horse. And I cum like a horse. You wanna get another breeding session with the stud, pony boy?” 

John Henry rolled his eyes at his friend’s overindulgent bravado. “Showing off again, cowboy?” He’d seen bigger…

“Damn right!” Colt fired back, jabbing his thumb between his round, protruding pectorals. “I worked hard for this body. Heh! I’m sure you’re impressed too.”

Billy, in any case, definitely was. He sat down on the bench, a last-ditch attempt to hide his hard-on. Seeing his mentor in the flesh like this again was like beholding a living god. 

Mr. Iron raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore Colt’s preening and flexing. What a himbo. “You’re packing, Colt the Bolt–ain’t no doubt about that.” 

“Yeah!” Colt growled. He placed one arm around his own beck, showing off his massive tricep, while flexing the other, bicep bulging–veins pulsing. Between his legs, his rod--full hard--swung proud. “I won!”

“Have you now?” John Henry challenged. He looked to Billy, hypnotized by the muscle show he was getting. Mr. Iron was happy to raise the stakes. “Your tag partner might just show you up, boy!”

John Henry let his towel drop. Both Colt and Billy gasped at the same time.

Colt recoiled. “...Holy shit!”

Billy’s eyes nearly fell out of his skull. “Woah!”

No wonder John Henry had always complained about wearing skimpy outfits. The piece between his legs was nearly the length of Colt’s neck to the top of his head! If Colt was a horse, John Henry was a damn bull in his prime. Mountainous, pointed, girth swung Colt’s way–threatening to club him where he stood. A foot long? Maybe a foot and an inch? It was impossible to tell. It was, quite frankly, a fantastic work of nature.

“J-John!” Colt stammered, so impressed by his friend’s enormity that he honestly didn’t even feel bad. What man could compare? “That’s…damn, what you feedin’ that hog?”

“Ha!” John Henry smiled, and flexed with both of his hands behind his neck, showing off his glory for Billy and Colt to gaze upon. “Nasty words for this stunning piece of equipment, Colt.”

Colt whipped his head, snapping himself out of his trance. “Why, I oughta!” He confidently approached John Henry, his own impressive girth swinging between his legs as he did. “You steppin' up to me now John Henry Iron? I’ll wrestle you right here in front of this audience of one!” He pointed dramatically at his young admirer, sending him a million-dollar smile. 

Billy, stunned, did not protest.

“Heh,” John Henry scoffed. “Always seeking attention, this one.” 

As Colt would have said in his own words, he was ‘downright ornery’ about being shown up. John Henry could no longer tell if the steam was coming from out of the showers or his ears! The cocky, confident cowboy with the now wet, stringy locks of hair sticking to his pectorals stepped forward and chest bumped his friend and tag partner. As he did, his cock brushed up against Mr. Iron’s–but it was a lot like a rattlesnake trying to mess with an anaconda.

Still, John Henry thought somewhat embarrassed, he didn’t exactly hate the sensation. 

 “Let’s raise the stakes,” Colt said, poking John Henry in the chest–a rude gesture he did not at all appreciate. “Since you got me horned up. First to cum loses.”

John Henry eyed him, suspiciously, but he put on a smile all the same. “Boy, I thought you were a lady killer?”

“And that’s the gospel truth, Mr. Iron! But hey, I like a nice set of muscles and, well…a cowboy’s gonna shoot his lasso any way he can get it. Can’t put a label on that now can you?” To illustrate the point, he stroked his own cock, getting more erect, though hoping it might intimidate his opponent–who was much larger in almost every way.

“Fair enough,” John Henry said. He cracked his neck to the side. “Well, let’s get to it, ace.”

Though he was plenty eager to do so, John Henry was also a big believer in common decency. He nodded to Colt’s young admirer, reluctantly acknowledging that the young stud really was a pretty boy heartthrob. “Hey, Kidd! All of this cool with you?”

Turning several shades of red, Billy nodded shyly. He bit his lip. “I…like muscle guys.”

“That’s the spirit!” Colt said. “Feel free to ditch the towel, too, son. Have some fun with us!”

“Y-you sure?”

“Fuck yeah!” John Henry chimed in. “Ain’t every day you get to stroke it to some muscle gods, right? If Colt’s got glowing reviews of you, you deserve a good time!”

“I…” Billy started. “Sure.” Somewhat awkward, but gathering the courage to do so, Billy removed his towel and sat back. His own modest, but attractive member flopped out onto the bench. Felt like sacrilege getting off to two of the biggest studs in spellbreaking, even if they did give him permission. 

John Henry nodded approvingly. “Hey kid, that’s nothing to sneeze it! For a skinny guy, you ain’t so bad either.” With that said, John Henry didn’t waste another moment posing and posturing. He went right for it, diving into Colt with the fury of a runaway train. “Sorry I gotta humiliate your old coach in front of you, though!”

John Henry wrapped his massive arm around Colt’s neck, squeezing down hard and shoving him into his massive chest.

Colt gasped. “Agh…that’s a dirty move!”

John Henry sprawled his feet out for leverage, pulling Colt down despite the trained fighter’s resistance. “Can’t use your electric powers now, can you, bad boy? Not with all this water and steam around!”

Colt was surprised–and not surprised–at Mr. Iron’s deadly combo of brawn and brain. “You jerk–”

John Henry was serious, though. And not only was he already winning this one-sided, shower room tussle, but he was getting harder about it too! Billy stared in complete awe. How much bigger could he get?

By now, Mr. Iron had transitioned from a headlock into a tight choke, his veiny, massive arms bulging out and threatening to completely bury poor Colt’s head. It was terrifying for Billy to see his mentor completely out gunned, struggling for air!

“What’s that?” Mr. Iron growled, grinding his steel-beam sized arms around Colt’s meaty neck. He sneered over at Billy on the bench. “Hey Kidd! Start strokin’, boy, or it’s lights over for Tex here!”

“N-no, not teach!” Billy did as he was told, not wanting to watch one of his favorite fighters pathetically choked out in front of him. He was already hard as a rock anyway, so it was easy to start pumping–though Billy felt a bit guilty enjoying this display of dominance.

John Henry, who was definitely enjoying this, growled at his partner. “What do you say, cowboy? Looks like your tag partner’s got you in his iron grip now. And it’s a very nice grip too.” He illustrated his control by reaching down and giving Colt’s big cock a good stroke or two. “Now, it’s time you learn your lesson for good!”

Mr. Iron released his hold, giving Colt the brief respite of air. Colt gasped for breath. He was already weakened by the stamina and oxygen drain. Hell, his neck was so red and raw that Billy could see it a few feet away, clear as a beacon.

But the brief mercy was just so Mr. Iron could get Colt in the perfect position for his deadlier technique–the Iron Claw! With one hand on the cowboy king’s shoulder, John Henry pulled his pal in and CLAMPED his giant, massive fingers over Colt’s face, gripping in tight. His hand alone was enough to completely cover Colt’s nose, mouth, and eyes.

“Mmmmffff!!” Colt’s muffled cry was swallowed by John Henry’s deadly grip. 

Billy had seen Mr. Iron nearly crushed men’s skulls like this before! He reckoned it would be mere seconds before blood started spraying out of Colt’s face, running down his prone, naked body. But Iron wouldn't do that to his friend, would he? 

“How do you like me now?” Mr. Iron laughed. He thrust his hips forward, adding insult to injury by slapping his giant piece of meat against Colt’s wet pecs. “How that feel, ace? Could titty-fuck you right here in front of your little friend, and you’d just have to take it!" Iron slapped his enormous cock against Colt's heaving chest. "One. Two. Three! Count out! Hahahaha!"

“D-damn it,” Colt rasped. “I can’t lose.”

“Stud, I think you want to lose.” John Henry, thankfully, released the hold. He’d drained his target’s energy completely…now it was time to drain something else...

Mr. Iron shoved Colt onto onto his knees, catching his back and pulling him in tight. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, cowpoke! The Iron Giant’s got you good.” Once again, he pressed his bicep into the side of Colt’s throat, gripping him single-handled with one arm. Colt struggled on the wet tile, trying to arch his back and regain some leverage. 

John Henry reached around with his free hand and began tugging on Colt’s cock head, playing with it like a cat to a new toy.

“How’s that feel?” John Henry laughed. He leaned in and gave Colt a mocking kiss on the forehead. “How’s that feel, baby boy? What, can't speak anymore?”

“J-John!” Colt said, shocked–and, even worse–turned on! Helpless, Colt leaned back and closed his eyes, moaning in ecstasy. “Oh fuck…that feels amazing.”

“Yeah, get on your knees know, unless you want a broken collar bone. Thaaat’s right. That’s my horse-boy. Oh yeah.”

Billy bit his lip, noticing the trail of precum running down his throbbing shaft. “This… is so hot.” Almost better than spellbreaking!

By now, John Henry had removed from some teasing tugs to full on, rhythmic, slow strokes. His hand gripped Colt’s cock, traveling from base to tip and capping off with a slight twist on the head. “Mmm…yeah you like that too.” A vicious technique, John Henry edged his friend by tapping his finger on the head, drawing out a bead of precum from one of the most coveted cocks in the sport.

Each movement brought Colt closer to the edge. “Oh, yeah,” he moaned. Every time John’s hand got to the tip, pulling back in a twisting motion, Colt’s body gave a little jolt. A minute in, Colt readjusted his knees–already red from being pressed into the tile–and let free a strand of pearly white precum that ran the length of his slit to the floor.

Billy didn’t care that his teacher was being full-on milked and humiliated in front of him now, cradled in the arms of this massive stud. This was paradise on Earth. 

“You gonna say ‘I give’ when you blast?” Mr. Iron demanded of his captured cowboy.

“I ain’t blastin’...” Colt choked, wincing in not pain, but pleasure. “I ain’t blastin’ yet!”

“Oh you will,” John Henry laughed softly. He gave Colt a gentle kiss on the neck, then leaned in forward, pulling Colt back (and relieving the tension on his knees) into a full on cradle. The repositioning served another purpose though. Spreading Colt’s legs apart, in a sort of standing version of a grapevine, John Henry leaned and threaded his massive, hungry cock through Colt’s meaty thighs.

It was impressive as it was humiliating. Almost looked like the cowboy was riding a horse! John Henry moved his foot-long cock in and out, rubbing the top of his shaft and head against Colt’s underside, piling on the pleasure.

“I saw you admiring my tool, boy. How’s it feel now that it’s conquering yours?”

Colt’s wet hair fell onto John Henry’s chest as he leaned his back and groaned. “Ohhhh ffffuck. It feels amazing. Velvet smooth.”

John Henry kept thrusting and stroking, a combo move unlike anything Billy had ever seen before.

“Yeah, I got your finisher…right here.” John Henry sneered, slowly increasing the speed and rhythm. “Trapped in metal muscles must feel really good with that thing rubbing up on you. You feel my cum vein pulse against you, cowboy?”

“Oh no…” Colt choked.

Sure enough, Billy watched the veins in John Henry’s cock jutting out, now doubt adding some intensified sensation to what Colt was going through. 

“Oh yeah!” John Henry said. He nibbled Colt’s ear. “Won’t be the first guy who fell to all this magnificence between your legs. Won’t be the last. Now…cum for me cowboy.” He looked up and smiled at Billy. “Hey, Kidd, ask him!!”

Billy, knowing it was all in good fun and that Colt’s enormous ego was unlikely to be permanently scarred from a little locker room play, stroked himself without worry. “Heh. Whaddya say, Colt?” His voice was all mischief. 

“N-no!” Colt winced. But his release and defeat was inevitable now. He was leaking like a faucet already, his head twitching in anticipation. Even a breeding stud like Colt could only hold back the torrent for so long before bursting.

But Colt wasn’t the people’s champion for no damn reason. Even on the back foot, he could pull out a surprise. Even in defeat, he'd look victorious. Colt's lips curled into a smile. He reared his head back like the wild horse that shared his name/

“Aw fuck,” he said, laughing to himself, knowing something that these two good-looking guys in the room with him–including the one working on his cock–didn’t. “I think y’all are about ready to see what a real breeding horse in heat can do!”

John Henry was happy to play along, and drive his buddy to the breaking point. No matter what, Colt the Bolt was always gonna put on a good show. “Here’s my finisher, Colt. How that feel?” Mr. Iron spread his knees out, leaning forward and letting go of Colt’s neck–without fear of retaliation. He brought both of his hands around his cock, and Colt’s grinding and stroking them together.

Colt moaned. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. That feels too damn good!”

"Yeah, that's my frot finisher. Call it the Pleasure Forge!" John Henry looked up at Billy. “Gonna temper and polish that cock of yours with my magic hammer. Ask him again, Billy boy! He's done!”

“Heh. What do you say Colt? Do you give?”

“Fuck, you think I lost this? Get fucking ready for some horse power! Pleasure Forge? HA! Baby, it's mating season here! And this colt is still king!” Colt’s muscles all tensed and flexed at once. He tossed his head back and let out a long, desperate, beastly, “FFFFffffUUUCK!”

At first, Billy thought to turn away–as it looked for a brief moment as if Colt had started to piss. Then, with shock and fascination, Billy realized it was cum–or a flood of precum. This fountain gave way to an even bigger giant blast–or ropes–of milky, viscous cum that shot clear across the room and hit Billy right on the legs. 

Even John Henry, still stroking, looked on wide eye and in awe. “Damn! Damn, should I stop?”

“Fuck no!” Colt shouted, with a wide, proud grin. “Ain’t call me Double-Shot in college for nothing. FUCK. Here we go, cowboys!”

A final blast--more like a a geyser--completely soaked the tile in front of Colt in a puddle of milky white.

Billy had to stop stroking himself, or else he was bound to blow prematurely. Now, he sat and stared, suppressing an amused giggle. “Hot damn, teach. That was hot!”

Wherever Colt was now, his eyes glazed over and looking longingly in the distance, John Henry wanted to go there. Though Colt was wide awake, his body had gone slack–save for the occasional “after shock” jitter. John Henry held his partner close to him, if only because he was afraid if he let go, Colt–in post orgasm fugue–would crack his handsome head against the tiling.

“Easy now, cowboy,” John Henry laughed. “Damn, I thought you were gonna pass out. You shot ropes.”

Colt sighed, finally maging to move his head and look up at his partner. “Told ya,” he said, punctuated by another trail of spent cum from his shaft. He winked at Billy. "Remember when I filled your ass with all that, boy? Pretty sure you still have some of me inside you to this day."

Billy gulped and turned away, both turned on and embarrassed by such a lewd remark. Colt's 'gift' was no joke, though.

John Henry gently lowered his friends head to the tile, before crouching over him and spreading his thick thighs for a humiliating victory pose, making sure the cowboy got a good, hard look at his iron glutes.

“That’s right!” Mr. Iron said, flexing his biceps for the invisible crowd. “Mr. Iron always bags his guy! Drained. Defeated. Done!” He looked down at Colt, lazily rubbing John Henry’s rock-hard quads and thighs in affection-admiration. “Yeah, you love that muscle body don’t you?”

“Aw shucks, I do.” Playfully, Colt leaned up and kissed John’s beefy butt check. “There. Happy now?”

“Hahahah!” John Henry stood up and pulled Colt up off the floor, careful to make sure he didn’t land in his own self-made puddle. “Ah I can’t be too mean to ya–you’re my tag bro. Now, what about my fun?” He looked over at Billy and winked. “Wanna join in, boy?”

As if the young stud needed to be asked twice. He stood promptly, cock flopping eagerly as he did. “Y-yes, sirs!”

Colt stood side by side with his giant buddy, motioning for Billy to come closer. “That’s right, son. We’re gods. Worship us.”

Doe-eyed Billy looked timidly at the grown, before Colt gently grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into his arm, in a soft embrace. Billy went to work, kissing his pecs, sliding his tongue in and over the curves and crevices around his bicep, before touching his lips to his. Colt’s beard tickled, like always. His kisses were deep, controlled, masculine. One followed up with another, like the man was addicted. But, that was Colt. A mixture of dominant and deeply affectionate. He'd find chemistry with almost anyone, and treat them right on top of it.

“Oh, damn,” Billy sighed, catching his breath. He was fully erect against Colt’s abs, not realizing he was rubbing himself against his mentor.

"Love kissing beautiful guys," Colt said, holding Billy close. "And I missed you so much, Billy-Blue-Eyes."

Billy slid his hands over Colt’s pec, and Colt returned the gesture with a smile and a flex, making sure Billy–practically drooling–got a good handful. “These muscles. Colt…”

“Yeah, son, you like those pecs, don’t ya.” He leaned in and gave his ward a quick kiss, then pushed on Billy’s shoulders, turning him towards his larger tag partner. “Now do his.”

Billy fell forward into Iron’s arms. He noticed, first, how good he smelled. His tongue found Iron’s nipples–which jutted out a bit more than Colt’s–and started tonguing and worshiping them. It was like licking polished steel.

“Don’t hold back,” John Henry said, softly, indulging on how good Billy’s mouth felt on his nips. “Use those teeth now. Go ahead. Ahhh fuck, that’s good.”

“He’s got a great mouth on him, don’t he?” Colt said, slapping Billy’s ass. The cowboy was already hard again. “Billy boy, you’re so damn sweet.”

Colt was generous to a fault, naturally, and was happy to get on his knees and starting sucking his younger friend from behind.

Billy let out a soft yelp, but was at a total loss for words as he felt Colt’s stubble beard on his soft hole, eating him out, tonguing him deep. “Damn, teach.”

Hell, even John Henry was almost jealous of the kid! “I ain’t ever seen anybody on Earth as horny as you, C-man. Now, let’s make this Kidd’s day. He’s precumming like a bitch and I want to see if he can shoot as hard and fast as his teach. What you say, gunslinger? You want a muscle sandwich, boy?”

Billy wasn’t quite sure what that entailed, but it sounded good, so he nodded in his head in weak-willed pleasure. 

Colt stood up and embraced Billy from behind, kissing his neck soft, while in front, John Henry pulled both of them into a restrained bear hug. Billy found his face trapped in between the sweet valley of Mr. Iron’s pecs, while Colt’s chest pressed against the back of his head. Both giant men flexing and grunting like two bulls, they grinded against the younger fighter. The pressure was just right, bordering on too much.

“I…” Billy started, unable to vocalize. He was distracted by Mr. Iron’s cock working against his, covering it completely, rubbing up into the spot just above his naval.

“This little cowboy is muscle drunk,” Mr. Iron said, heaving. “Come on now, we won’t crush ya. How’s that feel?”

Colt rubbed his beard on the back of Billy’s beck, thrusting behind him. “Feels good, don’t it Billy?”

An underestimated if there ever was one. Hard, slick bodied rubbed up against Billy, nearly crushing him in a world of muscle. His cock couldn’t take it anymore, in part due to Mr. Iron’s girth. If his was an Anaconda, then it was almost swallowing Billy’s snake alive.

Billy couldn’t take it anymore. “I…I AGGGGH!” He shot viscous bands of cum all over John Henry’s cock, lubing it up for him.

“Shiiit.” John Henry said, looking down at the mess Billy had made. He took Billy’s hands in his and moved them to his bulging head, showing him how to get him off. “Come on, now. Stroke it just like that.”

Billy was happy to oblige, and more than thankful he wasn’t expected to take John Henry’s mass into his mouth or hole. Then again, he wasn’t exactly surprised. Mr. Iron was a gentleman, even when he sexually dominating his guys.

“Is this okay?” Billy said. He felt Colt continue to paw at him, kissing his neck. Even post orgasm, this was absolute bliss, being caught in the arms of these muscle gods, giving them worship. 

“Yes, it is. I’m close anyway.”

Despite John Henry’s directive, Billy couldn’t control himself. He dropped to his knees in adoration and put his mouth on John Henry’s throbbing head, tonguing and licking it. It was like a jawbreaker, trying to fit in, and Billy couldn’t imagine trying to do more.

“Damn, kid! That's right. That feels amazing!” John Henry locked eyes with Colt. “You gotta keep this kid around, Colt. Teach him every damn move. He’s paying in full, brother!”

The cowboy was still enthralled in his post orgasmic trance. Then again, Colt had once confided to his tag partner that he was never not horny. He locked eyes with him, and stared at him with a mix of admiration and hunger. “You don’t mind if I…?”

John tensed up, mostly because of the sensation of Billy’s amazing mouth going to town on his cock. But also because kissing his tag partner felt like a taboo being broken. “Sure. But let’s…maybe not talk about this too much.”

Colt, a little too eager, pressed his mouth against John Henry’s. Right away, either man noted that the other fellow’s energy was too masculine for their liking.

John Henry chuckled to himself. “Aw, Colt, the stubble!”

“You like it!” Colt said, puffing out his cheeks. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want that for awhile, John! Everyone wants a kiss from the cowboy king, no matter what they got between their legs!” Colt looked down. “Especially that eighth-world-wonder you got right there!”

But John was in no position to laugh at his friend’s jokes. He was at the edge, driven there by Colt’s apprentice and his magic mouth. “Damn.” He thrusted, gently, making sure the kid wouldn’t gag on him. Fuck, this cowboy’s mouth. I can see why you keep him around. Look at that two hand stroke. FFfffuck. No, Billy boy, don’t worry about the mouth, keep that shit up. Just like that.” John Henry closed his eyes. Rare that he’d let another man worship his cock like this, but he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it. “Ughhh. Billy, watch out, I’m gonna–”

Poor Billy got a face full of Mr. Iron’s massive nut. If Colt shot ropes, then Mr. Iron was a loaded canon. Billy was completely frosted. John Henry, sighing and heaving, tried to get a grip and prevent from falling back onto the tile.

“Ah shit,” Colt laughed, feeling a bit guilty now. “You blasted him!”

John Henry made sure to grab the towel off the floor. “Stay still, Kidd! I’ll clean you off. Sorry about that!”

Feeling good after his facial, Billy laughed at the whole scene. “Don’t worry about it. I should be thanking you.”

Every man was rightfully satisfied. Colt took the initiative and pulled Billy off the floor, holding him close and keeping up with his repeated soft kisses to the neck.  “How was that, Blue Eyes? Your daddies take good care of you?”

“Yes, sirs.” Billy sighed, in pure ecstasy. “That was amazing.”

“Let’s hit the showers and clean each other off,” John Henry suggested, reminding Colt of the original reason they were here. “Damn, boys. We should all do this again sometime…”

“Done deal,” Colt agreed. He clapped his hand around John’s, their special handshake. “Tag bros for life, metal man?”

“Tag bros for life, cowpoke.”

The three men entered the shower, letting the hot water and steam caress their bodies. Of course, muscles glistening wet and shining, the Olympians of the stadium were content to caress each other’s bodies as well, alternating between washing up and fondling each other. Their fun didn’t exactly end there in the showers, that fateful night, but that’s a story for another time…

The End!

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..."