By Onix

He's Baaaaaaaaaaaaack! That's' right after a short hiatus due to a miscalculation of a certain spell I was stuck in the 16th century for awhile, but I met this fantastic French occultist with a knowledge of time travel and a body that would make you think of all 7 deadly sins. Well, in reality I was traveling I had to puck up and move during august and September to a new institution of higher education and that kept me pretty occupied but since then I've been blowin off class work to write more segments "Of that Old Black Magic" Series. A lot of people expressed concern over the "to be concluded" at the end of "When I fight authority" and even though I do plan for the next story to be the last in the "Old Black Magic" Series. I doubt it will be the end of Damien's adventurous. So don't worry, he's still got his books and I still have an updated version of Microsoft Word.

The Waterloo was a dive. There was no mistaking that fact. It was a dying breed of bar, where the pool tables were darkly lit and the stench of beer and vinyl mixed with the bad attitude of the waitress, to recall an era of time gone by. It was the kind of bar where a barroom brawl was expected like clockwork, well it would have been if the bar wasn't almost completely vacant. The day of the Waterloo had come and past.

Somewhere between 1983 and the present day the clientele of the Waterloo dwindle off to just a few hapless drunks off the streets.

The days when heavy rockers would bring in their over hair sprayed girlfriends and drink like there was no tomorrow were gone.

"If I have to work one more shift in this hell hole I'm going to stick my head in a god damn oven." Deana Said to no one in particular.

"Tell ya what," came a heavy voice from the end of the bar, "I'll turn on the gas for ya if ya promise to kick me out of the nearest high rise window." Deana smiled at the joke and walked toward the disembodied voice.

At the end of the bar sitting in the shadows was a cute college age guy with dark hair and bangs that hid his eyes. It seemed like his baggy black shirt was hiding a tight build but as he was almost completely slumped over the edge of the bar in misery she couldn't tell. "What do you have to complain about you DECIDED to drink here, I'm the one who has to punch a clock to keep these roaches company..." The guy put his head up and looked around for what must have been the first time since he came in, "yeah this place is a dive." He agreed and then slumped quickly back down in disinterest. "When you said roaches were you talking about insects or clientele?" he asked worriedly eyeing the floor.

"It's a toss up." She said as she put down her tray of empty glasses and took the stool next to the kid. At 29 she could call him a kid. She had been working for so long she felt 62, she still had her looks even if she had put on a little weight to the front and back, that's one of the danger's of bussing people's orders around all day sooner or later you start to look like an actual bus. "What's your problem kiddo?"

He sat up a little and looked at her through squinted considering eyes, his bangs moved and she was taken back by just how blue and almost dangerous those eyes seemed. But after a minute he smiled gratefully at her and slouched back down. "Nothing" he moped.

"Look a pretty boy like you doesn't find himself at the waterloo without someone dying, someone Lyin', or someone cryin' now which of those is it?" She asked as she pulled her long dark hair up into a makeshift ponytail. He gave her a long stare and said, "It's a toss up."

"Oho a comedian." Deana offered. "Well Mr. quick response, it's me or the beer coaster take your pick. Personally I think I'd be a better conversationalist." The guy laughed a deep rich laugh the kind that sounds like the person only uses it on rare occasions, like just one laugh is a holiday or something. "I don't know the coaster was telling me the most fascinating things about mutual stocks. I'm Damien."

"I'm Deana, waitress, barkeep and indentured servant of the waterloo. So now that we have been properly introduced..." Deana gave him the once over and said point blank, "What's her name?"

"Her name? Oh...it's not like that never mind," he said as he slumped back down obviously dismissing her.

"Alright then what's his name?" The man arched up right like a lightening bolt, "what makes you say that?'

She chortled a little at his surprise, "listen kid you're not going to shock me I've been around the block enough to know what the real world is like. Anyway big saucy broad like me had played the hag to many a fag. now are you going to tell me what your problem is or am I going to go back to giving the rats vodka stingers."

There was a minute when Deana looked at the blank and somewhat intimidating stare that she had the distinct feeling that she had made a major mistake sitting down next to this strange guy, but then his crystal eyes lit up and he laughed again, that same exhausted exuberant burst. He tipped his glass to her and said "You're good people." He took a swig and then began to tell her his sad story, "I've been kind of flirting with this guy....It's not really a relationship but I'm growing attached to him."

Deana began collecting nearby bottles, "...and he doesn't know you exist right?"

He chuckled a self-depreciative sigh, "Oh no he knows alright, Christ does he know."

"So what's the problem? Break out the soft lights, the Barry white records and the KY then."

Damien smiled with confused eyes, "I think I would..."

"But?" she offered wiping her hands on her pants.

"But he doesn't have a clue who I really am, I've done some really heinous things that he doesn't even realize or couldn't even begin to understand.... And I did some of it to him." He answered rolling the beer in his hands speculatively.

Deana gave him a long flat look, "Are you Jewish?"

He looked startled, "no."


"Hell No!"

"Then what is with all this guilt?" She asked matter of factly. "If he don't know it and it ain't gonna hurt him why even worry about it? Unless of course all the things you did will come back to haunt you."

"Oh it did come back in my face." He laughed, not the happy relieved laugh of before a darker malicious chortle. "But I took care of it."

"How did you handle it?" "I turned the guy who was going to rat me out into a gay bike cop out of a Tom of Finland colanders." He said it with the straightest face she had ever seen.

He was so ridiculously serious that she had to bust out into a deep- bellied gale of laughter. "You're a nut." She laughed even harder. And for some weird reason her healthy laughter made Damien want to join in, "Yeah it is kind of crazy when you think about it." He added.

"HEY KEEP IT THE FUCK DOWN! We're trying to tune up assholes!" a gruff and unfriendly voice screamed at them. They both turned abruptly and for the first time since stumbling into the Waterloo Damien noticed the five guys lurking in one of the far off back corners of the large bar room. Deana brushed them off nonchalantly; "If you want those guitars to sound better get someone else to play them!" she yelled then turning back to Damien. "Ignore them."

"Fuck you Fat bitch." Came another catcall. Damien stood up to defend his new found companion but she put a firm hand on him and pushed him back down, "It's no big deal It's just RANCOR, It's a no-talent band that plays here on Tuesdays, They're as harmless as they are useless."

"This place has live talent?" Damien asked stunned.

"Well I wouldn't call it Live and I definitely wouldn't call it talent but back in it's hey day the Waterloo was one of THE clubs for heavy metal bands on their way up," she paused looking around, "And well now it's the last stop for Wannabee's on the way out." "Their band's name is Rancor?" He said in disbelief as he could begin to hear the clumsily strumming of an electric guitar and the uninterested tapping of a drum set.

"Yep, You see that lanky crackhead looking blonde over there?" She pointed to a tall white man whose hair strangled down his back and was as blonde as it was greasy. It was kept out of a drunken and tired face by a worn bandanna. He sat idly as his band set up, his skeletal form hanging loose on a chair, "That's Diesel, he used to be huge back in the 80's, back in the era of the hair bands, now he just does horrible vocals for those guys, and the cadaver on the drums..." She pointed to a man who looked to have the body of a 40 year old and the face of father time, worn from hard living and bad Karma. His Frizzy dark hair flew carelessly around as he unmotivatedly tapped his drums. His Tour T-shirt was stained and his jeans looked as if there were three good stitches holding them together "That's Kline, the two of them were in the same band until they got into Coke and Heroin and all kinds of legal trouble then they both got booted out."

She gave him a crooked smile, " They absolutely hate each other but now they have to be in this shit band together to pay rent. It's hilarious."

Damien observed the pair of washed out rockers and then noticed a bulky thugged out white boy carrying in a speaker, "Who's He?" "Mike? Doesn't seem like he belongs with those losers do he? Looks like that new brand of white rapper rocker huh?" They both inspected him with interest. He was short but built broad and wore the typical gold chains backward hat and baggy sports clothes of a white boy trying desperately to be ghetto. He must have noticed because he raised one Vein dissected and hairy forearm to give them the finger. "Yeah he wishes he was, he's as talent less as the other two...now Ryan he's got a talent I suppose but he's in the wrong damn band."

Damien saw the boy she was talking about, a sickly looking pale guy off in a corner plucking a bass looking to the world as sad and morose ad Damien felt. He was nondescript and palpably geeky, wearing flannel that seemed to coat him head to toe. "He looks like the reanimated corpse of that guy from nirvana."

"Pretty much, " she offered dismissively, "He writes great but it's wasted cause they won't use his stuff and he's too much of a puss to stand up to any of them. They push him around like a rag doll" She paused considering, "I'd pity him but he's so arrogant about his deep moody song writing I think he deserves it."

"Wow there's a starting line-up." Damien laughed. "But who's the brute with the amp?" He asked pointing to the large ripped and bleached blonde thug lugging in sound material. "That's Diesel's younger bother he works as there roady...I think his name's Frank he's a bigger Dick then them all put together, and as if just to emphasis that point the frank kicked the seated Ryan hard with one thick corded leg.

"Priceless." Damien observed.

Damien stared at the dangerously gorgeous brute. "What ARE YOU GAWKING AT BITCH?" The tattooed and scarred hulk yelled.

Damien considered "Nothing much." He answered.

"That's what I thought fucker!" And then he went back to moving the huge speakers.

"Frank don't you have some naive little punk rock chic you should be doing statutory things to?" Deana yelled back.

"Shut up you fat bitch." The ogre roared back as he continued loading.

"Yeah Deana Shut-up we're about to do our set." Ryan whined at her, his hair falling into his face for the one-thousandth time.

"C'mon let's get this over with," Diesel rasped from the barstool he was perched on, his hands clasping a bottle of Vodka tightly.

Kline laughed violently making his huge bush of black hair shake; "Yeah diesels' got a hot date with three hot guys, Jack Daniels, Mr.. Smirnoff and Jose Quiervo."

"Fuck you," Diesel spat as he took a swig from his bottle.

Mike began grumbling from behind them all his heavy Brooklyn accent and harsh voice raising above the others, "I bet if Diesel was queer we'd be topping the fucking charts."

"What?" Diesel yelled.

Mike put looked up, his heavy brow disguising the contempt in his eyes, "Only fucking Queer ass boy bands are making it these days, with their faggy clothes and fiery dancing. Nobody likes good music anymore man just queers in tight clothes."

"True dat man!" Frank grunted.

"Fuckin' homo's ruin everything!" Kline agreed.

Back at the bar, as Deana watched the rag tag band in disgust, Damien began to bang his head against the bar in frustration.

She turned to see him successively smacking his head against the bar's surface sending his black bangs up and down sharply, "Hey I know there music sucks, but you don't have to knock yourself unconscious! You could always leave baby doll."

He stopped smacking his head and just put his head in his hands with a tired expression, "I think I'm some kind of magnet!" He said darkly with a look of universal impatience.

"Huh?" She asked confusedly.

"If there is a homophobe in the tri-county area I'll find him and he'll mouth off in front of me.... It's like some kind of god damned curse. It's like ignorant straight boys fucking see me coming!" He was almost yelling now. " I mean I made a promise and I planned to keep it but it's like I have this sign that says, "All Bastards please spew your opinions here.""

Deana looked at him skeptically, "honey, I think you're flagged."

"Oh never mind anyway, I obviously have some work to do." He spat angrily getting up from the bar like a petulant child who didn't want to do his chores.

Deana still didn't comprehend, "Thanks for the company though," She smiled.

"Oh don't mention it," He answered and then considered and gave her a slight kiss on her rosy round cheek, "Thank you for the advice Deana, I'll consider it, and Deana...Your good people you deserve better then this dump."

"Hey honey, I know that, you know that, but that and a quarter will get ya...well hell it won't even get ya a cup of coffee. See ya round baby doll."

And with one last look at Deana's sad smile Damien left the waterloo and went through the darkened bar and out on to the street with Rancor playing him out on his exist with a charming little ditty about heroin, crack whores and angry pimps. Damien was out in the street in front of the waterloo staring at it's greasy windows and seeing the pleasant but pained waitress listen to the ridiculous hate-corded into music being spewed by the rag tag bunch of schoolyard bullies and burned out assholes and he began to reconsider. It was just one little spell. One little flash and he wouldn't have to worry himself about this anymore. But he had promised. Gino would be disappointed in him. And suddenly that thought angered him since when did he care what someone would think? He answered to no one. He did what he wanted when he wanted it. Period, but still behind the heat of agitation was a nagging voice that said he had promised. He had promised Gino that he wouldn't go around sapping his fingers and changing people's lives with his hocus pocus for awhile. "Fuck that." Damien spat as he raised both hands in the air. He stood like he was worshipping the clear night sky, arms stretched in a wide arc as he muttered under his breath. With a flash of lightening he dropped his arms back to his sides, and the accompanying thunder was just in time to punctuate his wicked little grin. The perfect skyline that had been dotted with hundreds of stars now began to darken and bleed rain like a running inkpot. A sudden and arcane rain. He lit a cigarette and stepped under the overhang just as the rain began to pelt down onto the sidewalk. It didn't take long for the band to come stumbling out drunkenly. "Fuck you man," Diesel rasped knocking errant flecks of straggly hair from his eyes, "I still got it, it was your fucking rhythm it's off beat. Kline the frizzy haired and obviously fried drummer raised a hand as if to strike at the other man. "My drum's are fine you prick." He growled. "You've never been able to keep up with me man!" Diesel spit at him. "Fuck you." Kline returned halfheartedly. How imaginative Damien thought. "You want to settle this shit now crackhead?" "Who you callin' a crackhead you dope fiend." "You bitch," Kline roared as he grabbed the blonde man with both fists. "Mother-!" Diesel began but quickly stopped as Kline put him down. Kline let him go and walked away morosely, "you're not even worth it dickhead, forget you." "Whatever," Diesel said as he walked in the opposite direction. Both of them soaked to the bone in the rain. "Yo I'm out ya'll," Mike yelled as he grabbed a cab and headed to a hip-hop club down town, but not before he too got noticeably wet. Last out came Frank and Ryan. Well Ryan came flying out with frank laughing menacingly from behind him. "You tripped me." Ryan accused. Frank was walking away laughing, "What are you gonna do fairy cry?" Ryan pulled himself up and gave the looming form of the muscle-bound roady the finger as he walked away. Ryan turned to leave in the other direction and came face to face with the strange guy from the bar. "You don't have to take that from him," Ryan looked at him sullenly, "What's it to you?" The guy shrugged, "Nothing I just thought you should stand up for yourself, poindexter." Ryan pouted brushing off his flannel coat, "He thinks just cause he's so big and dumb that I'll just take it." The man in black looked at Ryan with a wicked Cheshire cat grin. "But if you were big and stupid you wouldn't have to put up with all that bullshit." Ryan considered glumly, "yeah but I'd be just another Neanderthal dickhead like Frank." The guy in black considered, "That's right," then he paused giving Ryan a flat look, Life's full of tough choices, In' it?" This guy was a genuine nut. "No I'd never want to be one of those fucking no brained gorilla's." "C'mon think it over. No more mopey sadness. No more heavy heart." The man in black circled the gaunt songwriter taunting him on, "instead of being bullied around you'd do the bullying." "Then I'd be what I hate most I'd be big and muscled and...hot and ...and..." Ryan was losing his train of thought at the stranger's taunting. "Blissfully ignorant my friend." "No I don't want to be a big dumb ox." "Yes you do." The voice was more command then suggestion. Ryan stuttered back, "Yes I do."

The strange man walked away with Ryan's agreement silently humming to himself happily a song that sounded so familiar...it was from the 70's. Ryan wanted to move and keep talking to the charismatic man and black but he just couldn't seem to come in out of the rain. Later when he finally got it together to move back toward the room he was sharing with Frank he felt like his steps were heavier and he found it hard to concentrate...

I was much Later that after the band guys were long gone and Damien had wandered off that Deana Slipped out the back entrance of the waterloo haggard and beat. She mentaly swore as she pulled her tattered jacket up around her neck to keep out the unexpeted rain. She had of course forgotten her umbrella. As she meandered home soaking wet she wondered if her day could get any fucking worse.

Frank stumbled into his hotel room stupidly. He had spent the night at a bar on the south side and had gotten into two or three fights. His nose still showed signs of dried blood. It had been broken so many times in so many fights that it had the strange handsomeness to it that marked him as a rough neck. IT was Frank's kind of night, lots of brew and lots of violence. He rubbed his thick and hard cock through the denim of his pants...too bad there wasn't any pussy. "Now don't go and get started without me, bitch." A harsh and commanding voice echoed behind him. Frank spun as fast as any man could when he had the mass that frank did. His back was so built it made his cut biceps arc outward like he was stretching. "Who the fuck?"

There was a man sitting on frank's bed. And not just a regular guy, this guy was huge. The man had to be at least 6'4 and weigh the same as a truck. The guy looked like a line backer for the 49ers with a neck the size of his massive square jaw and shoulders that were so wide and round he looked like he had a football players shoulder pads on under the tight Abercrombie t-shirt he sported. The guy had pec's wider then frank's back. Big round mounds of hard plate like flesh that jutted out proudly from an abdomen that was more trunk then body.

The man's thighs were the worst though. He was wearing a pair of cut offs so every huge bundle of over gained muscle in the man's leg bulged like crazy. The tear in his thigh alone was enough to make frank think the man could pull a redwood up by the roots easily.

He was dressed in a preppy gap fashion, with his t-shirt and designer cut offs. His dirty blonde hair was cut in the surfer pageboy so his golden locks fell into his dark eyes.

The preppy football player looked at Frank darkly, "I thought I'd find you here sweet cheeks." He said in a gruff but commanding Alto voice. "Who the hell are you?" Frank asked The man grabbed his arm and before Frank could pull away from the vice grip, he said with a smirk, "C'mon sweet cheeks, you know you're too little to take me on." Frank felt his center of balance twist from beneath him, suddenly his vision shifted and the intruder wasn't looking up to him but slightly down at him and the hungry look in the muscled boy's eyes was more intimidating then before, "Alrighty sweet cheeks, get out of those clothes for me." the strange dark haired man almost ordered. Before Frank could react by cold cocking the cocksucker in the jaw he was removing his dirty sweat stained t-shit over his big biceps. Undressing like he was told too. He knew he shouldn't be getting naked in front of this queer but for some reason he just couldn't stop himself, he had thrown the shirt to the floor and was fighting with the belt around his waist when the guy told him as he looked at his hair in the mirror, "you know if you weren't such a little tramp and didn't wear all that tight girly shit it would be easier for you to get undressed." There was that strange blur of vision again and suddenly Frank felt like the circulation was being cut off from all over his body, he looked up at himself in one of the wall mirrors and realized somehow he was completely dressed again...only in some body else's clothes. His huge drastically ripped guitarists body was stuffed into an outfit that was obviously ten sizes to small for him. A pair of shiny black plastic pants held in the girth of his muscular thighs just barely restraining the huge calf and thigh muscles without busting their shiny seams. The top of the pants were cut in a feminine way so that the waist scooped down in front to reveal the cut beauty of his gorgeous groin, waist and hip bones. The affect was put off a little by the fact that his massive bush was sneaking out of the top lewdly. His big harsh Abs was left exposed by the tight little crop top that stretched ridiculously over his heavy pecs. The bright yellow top looked like a woman's sports' bra or some fruity shirt. It had a dragon emblazoned on it in sparkles.

The extra small clothes would be revealing on a man whose size they were mean to fit but on Frank's massive build it looked like he was not only wearing revealing pussy clothes but the clothes of a five year old girl. He looked ridiculous. Every inch of pale rock hard skin that wasn't exposed daringly was barely covered in straining fabric. It was comical.

The burly football player crossed his massive guns across his chest and smiled hungrily, "You look real pretty tonight sweet cheeks, but you're taking to long...let me help you. Come over here and let your man take care of you sweet thang."

Frank's blood boiled who. He seethed. White rage made every muscle thickened vein tense in fury. Who the fuck was this guy to treat him. The shit-kicker he was, like some little girly bitch. He was going to put this pansy ass in the fucking ICU but as he stalked over to his victim he realized that he wasn't stalking. The plastic pants creaked loudly under the stress of Frank's exaggerated sashay. His large manly ass flicked back and forth as he strutted femininely to the man's side. His big meaty ass cheeks flicked up and down more invitingly then a call girl on a slow night. And his shoulders arched and fell with the precision of a super model. If seeing this big scary man in those ridiculous clothes was funny watching him flounce around and prance like a teenage girl was hysterical.

The football player put his hands on the bulging bow of frank's completely bare shoulder's, here let me get this for you, it most be impossible for you to get off.... you and your jewelry..." he laughed deeply...masculinely.

Frank's air supply suddenly seemed to be cut off and his head snapped to see his reflection. As he spun he heard the clink of metal and realized that his arms were covered in dozens of clanging bracelets. The strangling sensation was coming from a choker that encircled the width of his bulky thick neck. It was black and looked like it would break under the strain at any second. It had a little silver charm on it that said, "bitch". Two medium sized hoops hung from both ears making him look even more like he was going to a costume party dressed as a little fag.

Because even though he was dressed the part, no one would think that this big muscled brutal man was really the person he was dressed like, it had to be a gag.

"What are you doing to me? He growled in frustration and confusion," the big muscled jock only smiled until his dimples looked like they were going to burst, "nothing babe just playing our usual game," he gave him another look and tisked, "and don't use that gruff tone it makes you seem angry."

"Of course I'm angry...I ieeeeeee." He grabbed his bull neck and the choker that confined it, "what's wrong with my voice?" The big man asked in what was now a high soft-spoken almost shy timbre. The voice of a quite young teenager. An flamboyantly effeminate young teenager."

"Nothing hot ass, that's the way your voice has to be if you want to hit all those high notes in our songs."

"Me sing? I don't sing...Singing's for girls and queers..."

The big ham face smiled again, "but babe you love to do girly things sometimes you're just a big sissy and about the fag business..." Again the man who seemed his same size overpowered him easily and began to grope at his. And then put one hand luridly around his acheingly and embarrassingly hard dick, "as you can see that's not up for discussion."

"Oh stop!" Frank lisped as he felt a deep blush creep over his craggy cheeks. He tossed his head like a cheerleader and swiveled saucily away from the grope. All the while desperately trying to get control of his body back, but he was loosing the fight terribly do to the fact that the more that he acted like a girly little bitch the more he started to like it!

Alright baby lets quit playing games I'm ready to let you ride my monster...saddle up bitch." The heavy brow arched down hungrily and the thick snake like veins on the jocks neck pulsed intently. Frank was terrified. His first inclination wasn't to hit the preppy poster boy, it was to shove his painfully confined ass toward the intruder in hopes the man would grab him and fuck him like an animal. His whole body began to ache with a horrifying need to have the other man's coarse lips over every inch of his own body. He wanted the guy to use him like he himself had used so many women.

Frank stood confused and bewildered. He was completely lost. He stood there in front of the big man whose size and height didn't much out strip his own, eager horny and desperate but at the same time repulsed, disgusted and pissed. In only a few short seconds he had been robbed of his masculinity forced to wear ridiculously tight clothes that looked pathetic on his hulking frame and he suddenly was behaving like a girly bitch. And worst of all he had never been this hard in his entire life. "Don't be shy baby," The man moved forward his every motion a liquid flow of mass and density. Frank found himself noticing the sexy way that the big guy's thighs rubbed across each other and the way his meaty ass moved up and down. He was putty in the bigger man's hands.

The guy was right up against his sweat soaked back. Frank could feel the hard nipples and rippling flesh of his big fat pecs, and then he could feel a hot breath in his ear, "I know you're really frank sweet cheeks, but now I'm the cocky prick with the attitude and muscles and I'm going to fuck you into my little cream boy...how's that sound?" Frank was confused. "Huh?" He gasped sexually unconsciously gyrating his hips hungrily.

"It's me Ryan..." The guy admitted and suddenly Frank understood why the guy looked so familiar, he moved in shock but with one massive paw Ryan brought franks own strong jaw against his own and forcefully kissed him. Devouring the other man's mouth angrily. It was more show of superiority then kiss.

Frank's mind was at such a loss for explanation that he just shut down and let his hot and aching dick do his thinking for him, so when Ryan's big hands pulled down the leather pants and with one big imposing thigh brushed his legs apart. He just moaned, his huge from spent and bent over the bed.

Ryan smiled dumbly and thrust his huge dick into Frank's virgin ass. Frank growled in pain but still made no move to escape the others mans aggressive embrace.

Ryan pounded on pumping harder and harder fucking the other man savagely; getting out all the bullied aggression that had dogged him for so long. He fucked frank raw and loved every minute of it. And underneath him lying grunting on the bed frank began to change. His Tattoo's melted away into his skin; leaving not even traces of the dark inks to mar his beautifully and immaculately tanned arms.

His muscles softened becoming the tight defined muscles of a young man. Loosing hid brutish bulk his waist narrowed waspishly making the size of his bubble butt seem exaggerated. The tight waist spread in a perfectly symmetric V into shoulders that were broad but graceful.

And his pecs seemed more like firm round tits then the mounds of chest muscle they were. He looked like the stereotypical gay boy in every urban neighborhood. Muscularly thin, pretty and petulant. Ryan let go of his boy's ass without getting off, saving his load for later.

Frank stirred on the bed, his white blonde hair spiking up in a daring style and his trashy clothes and excessive jewelry now clad his smaller more effeminate svelte party boy body.

"What happened to me?"

"Nothing TJ baby."

"Who's TJ?" Frank asked in a soft timbre that was nowhere near the powerful roar of his old voice. "You are sweet cheeks."

"No I'm not I'm frank...I'm.... I'm..."

Ryan grinned a wide grin the split the broad jaw wide, "Not anymore, from now on your TJ my little slut...or I won't let you at my dick no more." Ryan put the thick piece of flesh in his large hand and swung it tauntingly at the now smaller and less imposing frank.

"But...but..." Frank whimpered. He knew this wasn't right. That he was Frank and that he wasn't a queer and that something was terribly wrong but something in his libido and his crouch took over. No matter how much he wanted to fight it, he had to agree with Ryan because he was just so horny. He needed this big hunk's cock. He lusted for the big hunk's body. He wanted to be this man's slut.

TJ fell to the bed and arched his back femininely and grabbed his legs with an acrobat's precision he raised his creamy silk thighs into the air revealing his ass to his the man who had made him into his slutty vain little lover with the force of his big cock, challengingly, "c'mon on baby work me out."

Ryan put to big meat hooks around the pole of his big dick, "Pushy aren't ya!" Ryan used his thick arms to hold TJ's graceful legs in the air, the man who once looked like a bouncer now looked much more like a ballerina.

The sweet looking boy on the bed winked lecherously and sighed, "you wanted a slut hunk, now you have one."

Ryan fucked him three ways to Sunday. Bending his willing and eager body over the bed and ripping into him doggy style, skewering the big bubble but harshly, while all TJ could do was squirm to take more of the massive dick and scream hungrily, "Fuck me baby, Fuck me!"

Ryan roared above him, flexing and posing as he beat his cock into the beautiful ass. A sexual monolith with his heavy body and heavy cock. Ryan was in heaven with the big mounds of muscle pressing against him, dominating him, making him submissive and compliant.

He begged for it, and tried to let his hands, thighs and legs touch as much of Ryan's god like body as he could.

Kline was in the rental car for all of about two minutes before he heard the sound of police sirens and the extremely familiar glare of blinking lights, "bloody hell man," he mumbled over the cigarette clenched between his lips. He doused the cigarette on the floor of the car completely ignoring the ashtray and put the open bottle of bourbon that was his only companion in the glove box. All he needed tonight was to be hassled by some fucking pig.

Back when the band was at it's best Kline would run into about three hundred angry pigs a night and each one could be ignored or sent off happily with a wad of cash but now that they were in the gutter of both the charts and life, he had to avoid getting into trouble. There wasn't a record company to bail him out anymore, or anyone else for that matter. He would start bar fights, riots drive drunk as a sailor his bad boy attitude was legendary, he was the greatest bad ass of his fucking day man. As he sat in his run down car he thought back to the night he totaled a vet while driving down sunset strip. Those were the days wind in his hair, needle in his arm, and some hot bitch in his lap. He almost killed himself that night and when the doctor told him he almost died Kline laughed in his face and took a shot of tequila from the bottle the band had brought him. Back when their records were selling like water during a fucking drought he didn't have a goddamn care in the world. It was irresponsibility and bad ass behavior in spades...but now, Kline took a disappointed look in the rearview and examined himself, now things were pretty fucking shitty.

Back in his hey day he was the greatest drummer of his generation and every hot little teenage slut had a poster of him grabbing his leather clad dick and looked at it with lust. Now he sat in a run down car, his bushy hair all out of place, framing his head like an unruly bush, his face no longer that of the sexual predator who had sex with a new girl in every town. It was the face of a tired aging has been, and the scar that laced down the side of his face, a reminder of the accident, only made things worse. His once lithe and tight body was developing a paunch and woman who used to line up to suck his dick now looked at him with disgust. Yeah pretty Shiite, and now he couldn't even relive those moments by taking a couple swigs and going driving. Sure drunk drivin was reckless and shit but who the fuck cares he certainly didn't.

"Do yah no how fast ya'll were goin back there boy'a?" The cop said in a tight southern accent.

"You're the one with the radar gun pig." Kline spat. There was a tightening of the jaw but that was the only reaction Kline could illicit from the stony handsomness of the cops face, "Ah right, ya can get outa tha car now," Kline fumbled with the door handle and stumbled drunkenly onto the dark gravel of the highway, his ten-year-old acid washed jeans scrapped as he struggled to stand up and he had to straighten his has so the mop of frizzled hair didn't obscure his view of the wide and imposing police officer.

"Ah'm gonna have to ask ya to face the car with both o those hands on the hood." The menacing man growled.

"I fucking, hiccup, guessed so..." He had done this thousands of times over and over in all fifty states and the routine never changed, the cop patted him down with his heavy leather gloved hands and then told him to turn back around.

"Aright boy now gimme your license," The officer ordered.

"Why the fuck do you keep calling me boy?" Kline asked the man who was obviously ten year's younger then him, "And don't you know who I am?" He asked.

"What?" The cop asked, a strange look crossing his face.

"I said..." Then the weirdest thing happened suddenly his voice seemed to change and instead of the harsh hard driven bass he asked the question in a good nature light baritone, "don't you know who I am?"

There was a couple minutes silence as the cop kept staring at him with that strange confused expression but it suddenly disappeared and his craggy countenance was broken by a tight smile, "Of course I do your one of the members of that band," Kline was ecstatic at least someone remembered him and the band after all this time, "What's it called oh yeah...U Got Male."

"What?" Kline asked suddenly shocked sober.

"You're one of those guys singers in that band, you do all those pop songs and dance right? You're Kyle right?"

No I don't that's pussy shit I'm in a rock band you queer that what's he wanted to say; instead he answered confidently, "yeah, that's me."

"Ah thought so." NO! My name is Kline and I play drums...and carry the baritone line in harmonies...No I don't know how to sing, I play drums...I took three years of singing lessons..."yeah it's hard for me to not get recognized."

Kline center of gravity felt off, like he was stumbling not because he was drunk but because he wasn't used to his body, He mechanically looked down at his driving licensee and a stranger stared back, Kyle Kline, 24, blue eyes, black hair. That wasn't his first name or his age...and the picture certainly wasn't him either, the man who stared back from the picture hand short cropped hair in a preppy crew cut, that shined glossy black with gel. He was young too, about what the age had said and he was strikingly handsome. More handsome then Kline hand ever been. With white teeth a smile that seemed fixed on his face and broad shoulders that belied a muscled body. And the eyes sparkled with a bright blue happiness and sweetness in a way that Kline's gray eyes never had. Awe shit I'm so fucked up...He thought, "Excuse me officer but I think I need to sit down for a minute."

He made a few powerful strides to the car and half collapsed back into his seat, What's going on I feel so strange...and then he saw the man from the license again...only now he was staring back from the rear view mirror. Awwww shit...."Oh gosh..."

Smooth features, a Roman nose, strong jaw and meticulously styled black hair...he looked like all those frat boys he had mocked growing up.... No he had been in a Frat before joining the band...

"Are ya ahl-right son?" the cop asked putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh yes, just a little dizzy I think." No I'm not all right

I'm ...I'm...I'm Kyle Kline oldest member of the band U Got Male. No I'm not I'm Kline I dropped out of high school when I was fifteen I....I was the president of my frat and left college to be in a boy group. I was a Loser! I was voted most likely to succeed! I have a beer belly and track lines, I work out 4 times a week and have a strict diet.

Kline looked into the mirror at the happy handsome and youthful face and started to remember what it was like to be Kyle and he liked it. He started to slowly accept he was Kyle, He slowly wanted to be Kyle. Big strong strapping Kyle with his good looks and big smile. Kline was a dirty has been Kyle was young and clean cut, he was everything Kline never was. With a confident smile at himself in the mirror Kyle flashed his pearly whites and good attitude and destroyed any last vestiges of the repulsive old rock band metal head he had been. His Leather Italian shoes landed firmly on the ground and he stepped out smoothing his dark Dockers out around the bulge in his Dick that the muscled and hot cop had given him, he adjust the loose flowing blue shit he was wearing over his wife beater T-shirt. The shirt was blue to accentuate his eyes; the wife beater was tight to accentuate his big round pecs and his tiny wasp like waist. "I'm feeling much better now officer, " he answered happily in a smooth and soothing voice that dripped with genuine charm.

"I'm glad boy," The cop answered with his deep southern brogue. He let the mirror glasses he was wearing slip to the edge of his nose revealing his beautiful eyes, "Ya mind if I make ya feel Mighty betta," He licked his sensuous goatee' encircled lips.

Kyle put a tentative hand on the rising crotch of his khaki's, he loved it when an older man wanted to seduce him. At 24 he was far from old but he was the oldest member of the group and the other guys treated him like their fucking big brother. It was nice to be in the firm hands of a man in control. It was nice to be in firm hands period.

He unzipped his fly and released his pink cock from the confines of his boxer briefs, and the cop immediately went to his knees. Kyle felt two hard-gloved hands on his ass and suddenly his body came alive with the electric sensation of another man's mouth smothering his cock head.

Kyle sat back and massaged the cops shoulders as he went to work on the rigid cock the sprung out from beneath his well-ironed Dockers, Kyle arched his back in ecstasy, the cop was good damn good. He wasn't in the habit of letting random men suck his Dick. That would be stupid and irresponsible but being a heartthrob had it's advantages and one was when you could make a guy throb take advantage. He was always careful and his boyfriend Darien knew he sometimes got a blowjob from the occasional fan. Kyle began thinking of Darren and wondered if his young lover had put on his Pajamas and gone to bed yet. It was murder trying to get Darien to full around after he had put on his Pj's.... •

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