Guardian Angel of South Beach

Neil Plakcy

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Despite regular work-outs, out-of-shape computer geek Leo can’t build the body he dreams of. Then he meets a strange old man who mixes up some magic pills, and Leo’s body blossoms. But even though he’s developing...
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Despite regular work-outs, out-of-shape computer geek Leo can’t build the body he dreams of. Then he meets a strange old man who mixes up some magic pills, and Leo’s body blossoms. But even though he’s developing a killer body and having lots of great sex, he’s not happy, until he begins to change his personality, too. Can becoming The Guardian Angel of South Beach, protecting the weak, weird, and drunk from predators, make him happy and help him hook up with Dan, the man of his dreams?

  • Note:This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Male/male sexual practices.
Excerpt

A New Body
Biceps: 15.5”
Waist: 38”
Weight: 220 lbs.

The closer I got to home, the more tired I was. Damn, I’d never had a workout draw so much out of me. I stopped at the Starbucks near my house and got my standard raspberry mocha. The barista, Dan, smiled as he rang me up. “How about an extra shot, on the house?” he asked. “You look like you could use it.”

“That would be great,” I said and yawned.

He scribbled on the cup. “Leo, right? Your name and your sign?”

I nodded, almost unable to keep my eyes open, though I was embarrassed that I must have repeated my catchphrase often enough that Dan remembered it. I yawned a couple of times while I waited for the coffee, and took a deep gulp as soon as I had it.

The caffeine gave me just enough juice to make it the last few blocks to my apartment. By the time I got there I was exhausted. It was a dozen blocks from the bodega to my little apartment at the north end of the Deco District, but I felt like I’d walked for miles. Between my gym workout that morning, and what the old man had put me through, I was fried. I stripped down and stumbled into bed.

I didn’t wake up until dinnertime. I grilled a steak and mashed up my fruit for a dessert smoothie. Then I saw the container of pills on my kitchen counter, where I’d left them when I came in. I opened the bottle and looked inside. The pills were jumbled together. The only instructions were the word uno, a slash, and then semana. Even with my basic Spanish, I could work out that you couldn’t take more than one a week.

I shook one capsule into my palm. It looked like any kind of vitamin you’d buy at the health-food store. I shrugged and swallowed it with the last of my smoothie. Then I yawned and stumbled back to bed for another couple of hours.

By the time I woke again, it was eleven, time to hit the bars and see if I could find Mr. Right Now. I jumped up and looked at myself in the mirror, hoping to have been transformed into Ray. But there was nothing.

I flexed a couple of times, and the results were pitiful. I struck a bodybuilder pose, closed my eyes, and wished. It worked for Dorothy, right?

When I opened my eyes, I was so surprised I nearly fell over. It looked like my biceps had grown at least an inch. How the hell did that happen? I struck the pose again, this time with my eyes open, and I concentrated on my biceps, triceps, and deltoids. This time they bulged more as I watched.

That was all I could get out of them, though. I wasn’t going to take any prizes at a Mr. Miami Beach contest, but they were better than they’d been. Could I do the same thing with my stomach, I wondered? I’d been indulging too much in microbrew and chocolate desserts, and in profile I looked like I was a couple of months pregnant.

I inhaled and sucked in my stomach, concentrating like mad. And sure enough, when I let out my breath, my stomach did not resume its former position.

The high was better than coke, which I’d only tried once or twice, too worried about damage to my cerebral cortex, not to mention my wallet. Isolating the muscle groups, the way I’d learned years before, I worked my way around my body.

When I had finished, I surveyed the results. I couldn’t do much with each group, but the overall effect was stunning. I was a hunk.

There was just one place left on my body to try. For that, I had to close my eyes and remember Bob Bergman, a college crush I’d finally gotten naked with one night during senior year. He was the gold standard when it came to dicks -- better than Ray, maybe even better than the old man. He’d been a football player, and his body was grade-A beef. The dick I’d spent four years dreaming about was no disappointment, as thick around as a soda bottle and nearly eight inches long.

He was more a shower than a grower, but when he got hard, the results were porn-movie impressive. I concentrated on the memory of Big Bob’s bad boy, and when I opened my eyes again, my six inches had grown to seven, and the body of my dick had swelled fatter than I’d ever seen it.

Even when the erection subsided, my three-piece set was imposing. I dressed to impress, pulling on tight pants that emphasized my basket, and a sleeveless, midriff-baring T-shirt that read The Best You’ll Never Get. For the first time, I felt I deserved that slogan.

It was time to celebrate.

Lincoln Road is a pedestrian mall, and every bar and restaurant has tables out front. I walked up to my favorite gay bar, Score, and as I strolled past the guys sitting outside drinking, smoking, and laughing, I felt heads swiveling. I couldn’t help swaying to the Latin beat coming out of the speakers. I wondered if my ass had been beefed up like my muscles and my dick. I’d have to check it out when I could.

As soon as I walked in the door, a dark-haired guy with sloe eyes buttonholed me. “Dude,” he said.

“Dude.” We made eye contact, and I could feel the heat coming off his slim, toned body. He wasn’t my type -- he had a hawk-nosed profile and his loose T-shirt highlighted his skinny arms, but he was interested in me, and that meant he’d do.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, shouting over the loud music.

I put my hand around his head and pulled his lips toward mine. We kissed, at first with just the lightest pressure, then as if we were trying to swallow each other. My dick stiffened, and my pulse accelerated. When I pulled away, I said, “I’d kill for a margarita.”

The guy staggered back from the force of the kiss. “Up or on the rocks?” he croaked.

“On the rocks.” I reached down and stroked his dick for a second, then nodded toward the bar. He almost bowled over a pair of drag queens in his hurry.

Other guys tried to catch my eye as I lounged against the wall. I’d look -- and then look away. I leaned back, putting my hands in my pockets so that my rock-hard dick was silhouetted against my pants. I licked my lips and flicked my hair.

When my dark-haired cutie returned with my margarita, he said, “I’m Brett.”

“Leo.” I resisted telling him that it was my sign too. I had to get over that.

“Didn’t I see you at that photo shoot at South Pointe Park last week?” he asked, talking into my ear. I could feel his hot breath tantalizing me. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy who’d blow in my ear.

“Wasn’t me,” I said, smiling lazily.

He gently traced the outline of my dick with his hand. I thought I might come in my pants if he did that too much. We sipped our drinks and he nuzzled up against my ear again. “I want to blow you so bad.”

I could see him on a billboard. There was something about his face that was as louche as it was handsome. “You are a bad boy,” I said.

He ran his hand over my ass. “Punish me,” he said into my ear.

“Come on.” I drained the rest of my margarita, dumped the glass, and took his hand. We pushed our way through the bar to the men’s room. There were a couple of guys at the urinals, eyeing each other, but the door to the handicapped stall hung open. I stepped in, and Brett followed, latching the door behind us.

I leaned back against the wall, and Brett unsnapped my pants and pulled down my zipper. He massaged my dick through my briefs for a minute, the head poking out over the waistband and already slick with precum. The sensation made my body shiver, and I moaned with pleasure.

Then he got on his knees, pulled my boner out of my shorts, and wrapped his full lips wrapped around it. His mouth was warm and wet, and he knew how to use it, licking and sucking. Maybe my dick was particularly sensitive that night, after my experience with Pedro, or maybe he was just a world-class cocksucker. Either way, I was in heaven.

He had beautiful hair, shoulder length and dark brown. I reached down and stroked it as he worked. With one hand, he held my dick out straight so he could suck it, and with the other, he teased the area behind my balls. Every graze of his nail or the pad of his finger sent electric currents through me.

It was awesome, but I didn’t last long. The orgasm shook my whole body, and the ejaculation rocked me down to the cellular level.

He suctioned his lips around me and swallowed everything I had to give. Then he stood up and kissed me again, and I tasted my salty cum on his lips. He started rubbing his dick through his pants, and I knew just the way I wanted things to go on. I dropped my pants and briefs to the floor and turned around, presenting him with my ass.

“Sweet.” He dropped to the ground again and leaned his face toward me. I felt his tongue teasing around the edge of my hole, and when he found that sweet spot, I shivered.

I pressed my palms and the side of my face to the tile wall, swaying my body to the rhythm of the piped-in music as he tongue fucked me. “Yeah, eat my ass,” I said. “Get me good and lubed up.” I reached down into my pants and pulled a condom out of the back pocket. “Here. I want to feel you inside me.”

I felt a physical sense of loss when he pulled his tongue out of my ass, but I knew it meant there was something better coming. He fumbled for a minute with the condom, but then he put his hands on my shoulders. “Here it comes.”

There was a starburst of pain, but I sucked my breath in and concentrated on relaxing my sphincter muscles. His dick wasn’t as long as the old man’s, but it still felt damned good. He nibbled my back and shoulders as he stroked my nipples, and I felt like I’d inhaled a whole bottle of poppers. He hit my prostate every time, and I loved the feeling of his pubes scratching against my ass.

My dick was stiff again, and he spit in his hand and reached around to stroke me. He made a couple more slams against my ass, increasing in speed and force, and he went limp behind me. I heard him make a yip of pleasure. He rested his head on my shoulder, that long brown hair tickling my skin, and I sighed with contentment.

I was still hard, and I felt like I could have stayed there in the stall and serviced every guy in the bar. I was so hyped up with adrenaline and alcohol and the thrill of sexual pursuit and conquest.

But then it was all gone, and I felt bone weary. I pulled my pants up and slumped against the toilet. “Dude, you okay?” Brett asked.

“You fucked the life out of me.” I laughed and took a couple of deep breaths.

I could hardly stand. Brett took my hand and led me out of the men’s room, then out to the alley behind the bar. He hailed me a passing cab and poured me into it. I don’t even remember giving the cabbie my address or kissing Brett good night.

The next morning, I felt like I’d been run over by a paving truck, the kind that flattens out the asphalt nice and smooth. Every muscle and tendon ached, not just my dick and ass. I stumbled into the shower, and when I was nice and clean again, I stopped in front of the mirror to admire my new body.

It was all gone. I was back to the same flabby, pouchy-stomached loser I’d been. What the hell had happened?

Copyright © Neil Plakcy

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