Date: Thu, 12 Sep 2002 20:06:51 -0700 (PDT) From: Info Calypse Subject: Bang On -(Part 1)- Disclaimer: All acts below are fictional, and any celebrity figures contained wherein are of unknown sexualities, and are used in a strictly fictional and for adults only manner. If sexual acts between males offend, please refrain from reading further. Bang On Part I: To Screw A Mockingbird It is a dark night, still in respect to wind, but there is much action about. A small party is being held in the home of one Jimmy Kimmel, celebrating his new talk show. The home is a large one story in the outskirts of Los Angeles, close enough for the commute, but far enough to be in a better neighborhood and to avoid a bit of the overbearing traffic. Jimmy is sitting on the balcony, admiring his view off the tall bluff on which his home is built. Smoking a cigar, holding a Guinness, the star is attempting to soak in his success. It took a while, but when it hit, it sure did pile up fast. The money, the fame, the sex his wife could never know about. Hey, a guy has to live it up, five minutes of fame is all one can expect. "Nice night, Kimmel." Jimmy turns slightly to his left, nodding at one of the random celebrities the Network invited. "Goldberg." Jimmy grunts, holds up his beer and downs a brief swallow before returning to the view. Jimmy is slightly surprised that they made suits to that size, probably custom work. "Congrats on the show. I know that we haven't really met, but I have liked your work." Goldberg states, drinking his whisky sour in a glass almost swallowed by his hand first. Goldberg's suit is a deep gray, with a collarless, black undershirt. He is poured in, each muscle rippling at the fabric, struggling to be released. "Supposed you would." Jimmy states, sipping at his beer. "Yeah, big muscle guy love girl on trampoline." Goldberg says, impersonating Tarzan, pounding on his chest with deep thuds. He glares slightly at Jimmy, challenging him. "Sorry Cap'n, your character is the only thing I know of you." Jimmy says, attempting to cool the waters. No need to get oneself murdered by muscle-bound TV personalities. Goldberg smirks, the winner, he takes his first two fingers and wipes the foam off of Jimmy's upper-lip, who jumps slightly at the sudden movement towards his face. He takes the fingers, shows them to Jimmy, and puts the fingers in his mouth. The come out clean, and Jimmy has to avert his eyes. "Hey, Jim? There is some drunk chick in here who demands to see you." Fred Durst whispers, sticking his head out of the sliding glass doors to the living room. Jimmy looks at Durst, then at Goldberg, and half-runs inside. "How's it hanging, bro?" Durst shakes hands with the giant. "Good, good. Who's the drunk?" Goldberg says, slighly annoyed. "Calista." "Ah. Probably can't take that her show was cancelled." "My band broke up, but I'm still with it." "That's cause you eat." Goldberg jokes, slapping Durst's growing belly. Durst is wearing a blue tux, jacket open, with a wife-beater underneath, and of course, his signature backwards cap. Durst laughs at this. Some drunk guys get touchy when they start going. "What'cha doin' after, dude?" Durst states, eyeing the dying party. "Don't know, why?" "Me and some of the other guys are going to hit a bar, then maybe back to my place." Durst states, drinking the remainder of his bottle of Corona. "Sounds cool. Maybe we can get Kimmel to come." Goldberg gestures to the host, who is presently partially visible in the kitchen, holding Calista's hair over the sink. "Rock." Durst clasps Goldberg on the shoulder, grinning. "Who all is up for this?" "Just Dean, Bruce, Rus and a lesser Backstreet Boy." Durst states, turning to the view. "Which one?" "Who gives a fuck, he invited himself." Durst grunts, slamming his Corona and throwing it over the edge. "Hey! Don't throw shit out there, some people have to live here." Kimmel yells, sliding the door closed after him. "Hey we're all going to a bar after, wanna come?" Durst says, lightening the mood. "Sure, I really don't wanna look at my kitchen for a while." Kimmel responds, turning to see the last few guests filing out. "Who's we?" "We're meeting em there, let's go." Goldberg says, punching Kimmel on the shoulder and opening the door. "Whatever." Kimmel huffs, and follows Durst, locking the doors and tossing off his suit jacket. Now sporting a slate gray shirt and rust colored pants, Kimmel activates the alarm and grabs his keys. <<<<>>>> Drunk and disorderly, the men return from the bar to Durst's penthouse suite at the closest five-star hotel to the airport, same hotel he gets in every city he hits. All look the same after a while. Somewhere along the way they lost the Backstreet Boy, one of the blond ones, and Russell got in some fight with a bouncer and went off in a huff. So five men enter Durst's room, under some sort of their own power. Durst drops his pants, and yanks off his shirt, and stomps to the bathroom, pissing with the door open and his hand on the wall, holding himself up. "I got next." Bruce grunts, controlling a belch. He's in a T-shirt and blue jeans, as he changed in his car, before he left it at the bar. Less drunk drivers are better than more. Goldberg yanks off his shirt jumps on the king-sized bed and throws off his shoes. The suite is huge, one big room with a giant bed on a brass frame, a couch and some matching brown chairs, a table with some more chairs, and a formal bar in the far corner by the wall of windows, which lead to the balcony and a hot tub. Kimmel sits on the couch, and tosses off his shoes and belt. No need to hide the belly around guys. "Remote anyone", referring to the giant television. "Got it." Dean says, sitting on the corner of the bed, shirtless and removing one shoe as he flipped the channels. "Spectra on 198, bro." Durst says to Cain as he exits the bathroom, gesturing Willis to his turn at the bowl. "Cool." Dean says, moving to lean on the backboard, ugly brown mahogany to match the tables and chairs. Durst sits next to Kimmel on the couch, in nothing but white boxer briefs and his hat. "You always wear that thing." Kimmel jokes, flipping up the visor on Fred's hat. "Nah." Durst grunts, and tosses it at Goldberg, who throws a pillow at Fred. "Watch where you throw your shit." Goldberg grunts. "Or what?" "You know exactly what." Goldberg grins, looking at the television. There is a guy plowing his huge cock into a girl with obviously bottle-blond hair. Durst jumps up and runs over to land on Goldberg, pinning the wrestler. "You honestly don't think that will work, eh?" Goldberg grins, flipping Durst unto his back while Dean jumps off the bed. Durst has a hard-on. Only Goldberg notices the ten-inch pole peeking out of Durst's waistband. Dean sits by Kimmel on a chair, to avoid any further injury. Bruce comes back and sits on the couch. "What you got there?" Goldberg whispers in Durst's ear, brushing his right hand across his exposed head, holding both of Durst's arms with only his left hand. "Uhh... nothing?" Durst whispers, a bit scared of the giant. Until he looks down, nervous, and sees Goldberg's giant cock tenting his slacks. "Went commando." Goldberg grunts quietly into Fred's ear, his hot breath sending chills down Fred's body; that and the forefinger flicking under his foreskin. Goldberg gets up suddenly and goes to the bathroom, leaving the door open, his backhand flicking slightly to Durst. Fred waits a second, looks at the others, who are content with the woman with the come on her face, and follows. Goldberg is naked when Durst enters. All muscle, a thin coat of hair coating his entire body, slightly thicker on his chest, and the path to his cock, which widens as it meets his eight-inch, thick as a healthy cucumber, oozing member. Low balls dangle below, which he scratches as Durst closes the door. "Heh-heh, nice." Fred says, stripping off his last article of clothing, the boxers. Fred stands about three inches shorter than Goldberg, is a bit chunky in the midsection, sporting a healthy ponch. His whole body is covered in fur, thick on his chest, tattoos covering his arms. Fred has six small poles through his well filled sack, going down the middle, for his cock to rest on when it isn't about to shoot from a situation such as this. "Come here." Goldberg points at the floor in front of him. The bathroom is huge, a four-person tub with hot tub jets, and black marble tiles floor to celing. Barring the floor up mirror, only obstucted by the small sink, which seems to be floating on the wall. Goldberg sits on the toilet, black like the tile. Fred licks his lips and dives onto Goldberg's thick shaft, taking the entirety into his mouth in one swoop. Goldberg's hands pull on Fred's head as his hips gyrate to the rhythm of Durst's bobbing head. Fred gives over control, as Goldberg stops guiding and starts fucking his face, pushing his head until Fred's nose is buried in Goldberg's thinly cropped pubic hair. Fred reaches down, attempting to relieve some of the tension in his balls, but Goldberg drops a hand, and slaps Durst's hand away from its goal. "Don't, you will ruin my fun," Goldberg grins, speaking huskily, like a man with his cock being serviced, "And you wouldn't want that now would you." With that Goldberg leads Fred's errant hand to his nuts. "Nah." Fred says, pulling back to speak around the huge missle in his mouth. With that he plunges back in, massaging Goldberg's nuts while getting back into Goldberg's strong clasping mitts. "Fuck yeah...uhhh" Goldberg grunts, loud. "Quiet, man." Fred whispers in a yelling voice, pulling back to talk, then pushing the pointer finger from his left hand in between Goldberg's giant glute muscles. Fred is pushed back on track right as his finger finds Goldberg's tight hole. "Fuck..yeahh..." Goldberg groans, a bit quieter this time. He stops thrusting and starts gyrating his ass over the bowl, still pushing on Fred's head, but fucking Durst's finger instead of his mouth. Fred's finger is clamped in there, cutting into his circulation. "Man, you are one tight fucker!" Durst grunts, probing another finger at the small iris of the wrestler. "Well, I do the fucking, I don't get fucked." Goldberg grunts, rolling his head back. Goldberg's movement becomes quickened, his breath erratic, and he starts balling his toes. Fred redoubles his efforts, feeling the wrestler's grip tightening on both his head and his two fingers. "Fuck.. yeah.. uhhh." Goldberg groans, his mouth hanging open as his balls constrict. "Fuck.. yeah.. yeah.. F-FUck." Goldberg grunts, a deep yell of a fighter in the ring, as his legs buck forward, releasing load after load of hot come into the singer's wanting mouth. Fred drinks the juice, gulp after mouthfilling gulp, savoring the flavor of the wrestler's seed. Goldberg's hands slip off of Fred's head, onto his shoulders, masssaging them as Durst backs his head away from the softening missle. Fred pulls his hand out from under Goldberg's perfectly sculpted ass, licks them, and then wipes his face off on his hairy arm. "Tasty." Is all that Fred can utter before the door is opened. Both men look at the intruder, shocked, unable to hide what they had been doing. "Um.. hi." Fred manages to say, as Goldberg covers his wilting cock with a towel. To be continued..... Comments? Observations? Ideas? On my first erotic tale.. Contact me @ alpha_male@pridepost.com