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      Help contribute, donate via PayPal or join with a monthly Patreon contribution.   01/01/17

      To help raise funds I've introduced a monthly contribution option called Pateron. This service allows you to pledge a monthly contribution plus allows me to offer you some rewards for your contribution. If you have any questions you may PM me. If you'd like to make that contribution please click on the image below:      
    • CMiller

      NEWS: Discord Server & Clubs (aka Groups) are back!   08/19/17

      Hello everyone I'm back with a couple big updates! Firstly we now have a Discord server, this is a real-time chat messaging client you can run on your phone, desktop, or anywhere. It's a pretty powerful desktop application that enables people to chat together, and with multiple channels you can find people interested in what you're interested in. If you don't already have a Discord account it's pretty easy to get one, just click the following invite link to get started: https://discord.gg/Ahzu9jC Secondly I'm proud to announce the return of Groups, it's been renamed to Clubs and is now available here: https://muscle-growth.org/clubs/. This system is entirely user generated and allows users to create groups of their own based on any subject they want. Go ahead and try it now, visit the link above to get started if you want to create or join a group!   As always thank you to all of our donators and Patreon contributors who keep the forums going! 


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About joeysilverado

  • Rank
    1000+ Posts
  • Birthday 10/10/1952


  • Location
  • This profile is a...
    real profile.
  • Gender
  • Orientation
  • What are your interests?
    Making muscle images. Writing muscle stories. Editing video. Unusual muscle images, bodybuilders, musclemen, good muscle stories, morphs, muscle videos, flexing, posing, biceps, some muscle worship. Not into raunch, please - at all. Overall pretty vanilla.
  • What are your stats?
    I used to be pretty hot - but I'm waaay past it now. Not a muscle daddy and not pretending to be. Lived in the gym for 25 years, 1976 - 2001....since then just sporadic. Now content just to ride my bike, kayak, walk, smell the roses. I leave the hardcore pumping to you young guys! :-)
  • What are you seeking?
    Muscle stories, images, video
  • What are your dream stats?
    The way I looked in 1982!
  • Favorite Stories
    My own!!! Would love to read stories as good as mine and would like to post some here...
  • Favorite Bodybuilders
    Current favorites are Johnny Doull and Dana Baker. I like Paco Bautista, sometimes Roelly Winklaar, Sagi Kalev, Peter Molnar, Steve Kuclo, Mark Erpelding, Justin Compton, Hugo Marques, Eduardo Correa, etc etc etc blah blah
  • Got Any Fetishes?
    Let me think....

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  1. The Show

    As always, MuscleAddictUK, you write muscle stories that are actually HOT, WORTH READING and WORTH SAVING! Which is really rare! Smart, fantasized takes on real bodybuilders. Love your stuff!!! (and your blog) - a fan for years.
  2. That is what I am writing in CHAPTER 24 - THE MUSCLE SANDWICH..... it should be ready by next month!
  3. Fuck buddy - amazing morphs and totally mind blowing stories!  Pose and Approve gives me a massive hard on - nothing like flexing and being admired and being the BIGGEST!   GRRRRR!

  4. Links to other chapters: Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 M/M "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 Chapter 23 Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, And Makes a New Friend February 10th, 2022 2110 Hours Casey knew he could trust Ensign Victor. Sam was, after all, a muscle worshipper. And Casey was close to the best there was. Casey had long dreamed of his very own muscle worshipper. The legend that bodybuilders are aloof and don’t want to be worshipped? Bullshit. Bodybuilders wanted their very own private worshippers just as much as muscle schmoes wanted bodybuilders. If Casey knew anything at all, he knew that. He’d learned it in LA. And now he was going to tell Sam all about it. And then tell Sam that he knew just exactly what he was. And Sam, of course, was all ears, all solicitation and comfort. Even as he felt his own excitement growing. He felt his cock, too, burgeoning in his trousers, until he didn’t think he could stand it much more. But of course, he’d have to stand it. At least until Casey was finished talking. And so, Sam listened. Patiently, as it happened. And Casey talked and talked. As Sam’s cock got stiffer and stiffer. “So talk about something else. Do you have friends?” “Well. The guys from the cadet dorm, I guess. But I don’t see them anymore. Guess I don’t get out as much as I’d like.” “No friends outside the compound?” “Naw.” “Are the men of The Twenty your friends?” “Well, I’m one of them….” Casey seemed uncomfortable, so Sam moved on. “Family?” Casey looked down, then looked back at Sam. “The Twenty are my family,” he said after a moment. He paused. ‘Guess we seem to be some kind of crazy cult, hunh?” “Kind of, yes.” Casey seemed to want to ask something. Sam half smiled, waiting. Finally he prompted. “Yes?” Casey was clearly embarrassed, but Sam could see determination in his eyes. “It’ll wait. What else?” “Well, how strong are you?” “Pretty strong. Maybe a little stronger than the others. I can bench 800 pounds. Easy. Curl 350. I run really, really fast, too. Oh, and I’m a good diver. I don’t know how that happened, but I am. I can do anything on a diving board. Don’t even think about it. And I look awesome in a Speedo. But I’m not as strong as Moster. Or Abdul. No one is. They could snap me in two.” Casey didn’t mention the Turkish wrestling night when they got covered in oil and he beat Karim Abdul. No sense in scaring Sam by acknowledging that maybe, yeah, just maybe, he was the strongest man there – and just 19. “I don’t believe that.” “Well, maybe not in two. But he could fuck me up pretty good if he wanted to. He’s an extreme fighter.” “I thought you were, too.” “Well, yeah…. .” “You got thrown out of school for fighting.” “Only once. I only fought once,” he said. “Some guy pissed you off?” Casey smiled. “18 guys pissed me off.” “Wow.” “Yeah, wow. I got ‘em all good, though.” “One after the other?” “All at once.” Casey grinned cockily. “I beat the shit out of all of them.” “Why?” “I got tired of them making fun of me.” “They made fun of you? Sounds dangerous.” “I wasn’t as big then.” “No, of course not. Why were they making fun of you?” Casey looked hard at Sam, and bit his lip. Then he shrugged his shoulders as if determined. He stood up, towering over the table. Sam watched him evenly. Casey reached down and unzipped the steel fly of his pants. He reached his hand in and pulled out his enormous, limp cock. He squatted so that his hips were even with the tabletop. It flopped heavily and noisily on the surface. Thwack. "…. And, boom… there it is,” said Casey. “There it is.” He looked up, shrugged and smiled shyly. “Yes, there it is.” “See, it’s really, really big.” Sam took in the tool’s impossible size for a moment, and whistled. “Yes, I see that. Nice,” he said sweetly. “It’s very big.” “It’s huge,” said Casey, with a sweet blend of sadness and pride. “It’s more than a 15 inches long. It’s like a fucking snake with a life of it’s own. I get hard all the time. I could never hide it in anything I wore. The kids at the home used to laugh at me, call me freak.” “They were jealous, no doubt.” “Probably, yeah, maybe, but fuck. But I got so sick of it.” He started to stuff it back into his jeans. “So one night, I beat them all up.” Sam reached out and lightly touched Casey’s hand. “It’s okay. Keep it out.” Casey looked up, hopefully. “You like it?” “I do.” Casey looked hard at him. He was suddenly shy. He wanted to tell Sam about the field trips for worship, and there was a lot more to tell, too. But he wasn’t certain how it would sound. Sam wanted to help him. “Was there a first time you were worshipped by ‘investors’? By a group of men you didn’t know before?” “Yeah…” “For money?” Pause. “Uh hunh.” Casey was clearly now afraid Sam would judge him. “A lot of money?” Casey didn’t quite know how to tell him exactly how much. “I’m not a prostitute.” “No, I know that. You’re not,” said Sam, looking pensively at Casey’s huge penis extending out of his open fly, lying quietly on the tabletop. “What you are is an uncommonly huge, sexual, handsome 19-year old bodybuilder with a need to show … what you have.” Casey looked at him gratefully. Now he knew he was falling in love with the calm young Navy officer. But even here, in the relative safety of his quarters at Valhalla Labs, and with the gym and training rooms and all the other men so close by, and especially after that wacky muscleshow earlier in the evening to the military brass, the sweet-natured muscle giant was suddenly seized with nervousness. But Sam seemed okay with it. And, indeed, he was. “And…how was it? The first time you were worshipped by strangers?” “Okay. I guess it was okay.” He paused, and his eyes flickered a bit. With excitement, at the memory. “Who were they?” “Some Hollywood dudes.” Sam suddenly recalled. Was that last year in LA the night that…? Oh, God! YES. It was briefly in the TMZ reports late last year, the latest conservative blast against the Hollywood Liberal Elite, some big party night that went south and required some hospitalizations and a lot of huge money. And then – silence on it. All stories withdrawn. No word on it. He’d googled it a few times. Nothing. But Casey remembered. In fact, it was incredible – all those fat old rich men schmoes, and then his new friend Mike later on privately swooning, licking his pecs and swooning over his big biceps and with his sweet little face in his hard butt and then closely inspecting with awe his mighty machine…. But he wasn’t quite sure about how all this would sound to Sam. There was a pause. Sam gazed at the muscle monster boy evenly a moment. “You can tell me all about it. I’m not here to judge.” Casey remembered the night. And his new friend, Mike. “I wonder how I’m gonna tell Sam about Mike?” he worried to himself. After a brief pause, Casey made his decision, and manfully, went on with his story. December 5th, 2021 Los Angeles: 2100 Hours The bus pulled up the drive at 9 PM, the first stop of the evening. It was a large cliff side home high in the Hollywood Hills, lavish and dark, with a glimmering Olympic-sized pool in the back and fountains quietly spraying gallons of illegal water. Beyond and far below, the glittering lights of LA shone in the far distance. Zaftig’s longtime off campus associate, the puny weasel Dr. Shaft, would be waiting inside, in attendance with a group of 9 investors, all quite anxious to see the young gods in action. The bodybuilders filed off the bus in the dark. “Golly, who lives here?” asked Hension, awestruck by the size of the house. “Some Hollywood dude movie producer,” muttered Lang. “Who cares? Time to FLEX.” Casey barely noticed. He was eager, for soon he’d be headed back to his private muscle planet, the place he first visited on the morning his cadet buddies came to say goodbye and stayed a little to admire his muscles. He was all ready to flex for these dudes. He neither knew nor cared who they were. Sergeant Moster, who had gotten off the bus first, quietly barked orders in the large circular drive. Moster, who had gotten off the bus first, quietly barked orders in the large circular drive. “Inspection. Strip down, men,” he commanded. “I don’t want to keep our hosts waiting.” The ten musclemen hopped and danced in the half light, removing slacks, baggies, t-shirts, jeans, shorts, underwear, jock straps, thongs, and boots as poor long-suffering Dr. Irving ran from man to man, frantically gathering up discarded clothing, quickly organizing as to owner, and distributing the proper poser to the proper man. Each poser was personally assigned, custom-tailored to cut across inches south of the lower abs, reveal generous slices of meaty glutes in back, and with frontal sag sufficient to generously reveal the top six inches of root and thick, plunging shaft of each man. The side straps, while thin, were sufficiently strong to hold even at top erection. “Oil up, men.” Bottles of mineral oil were passed around, and the men dutifully applied slathers of oil to their muscles. Finally they were ready, their muscles gleaming in the night. “Line up, squad,” said Moster. “Adjust your posers. When you pull your pants down, I want these dudes to see your top six inches of root and cockshaft.” He had stripped down himself and was now rubbing his own oil in to his mountainous black muscles. “I know with some of you that still leaves another 6 inches or more covered up. Right, Casey?” “More,” said Casey. Still, in the dark Casey turned deep red, still immediately shamed by the thoughts of his huge, unhideable cock. He still wasn’t quite over those years of taunting. Which always flashed his thoughts quickly to Tiffany. Good thing the ginger-haired terror wasn’t with them tonight. Casey always performed better when that boy was nowhere near. “Waring, get over here and do my back.” Waring went to Moster, dutifully pouring oil onto his calloused palms, mixing them back and forth as if he was tossing a muscle salad, and smacked Moster’s broad back hard, rubbing thick oil deep into Moster’s wide lats. The Sergeant felt the man’s rough blisters on his back and smiled. “You’ve been working, Private.” “Yes, sir, I sure have, sir.” The men fell into line, and awaited inspection. Moster paced in front of the muscle lineup and critically appraised his special forces team: Alvarez, Lang, Hension, Schumacher, and Waring. Washington, Abdul, Obatu, Gunst and Rockland. Muscle gods all. He nodded his satisfaction. “Line up according to height. Shortest man first. Private Hension, that’s you.” Hension was pushed to the head of the line. “Put the pretty boy first,” guffawed Obatu. Hension colored deeply, embarrassed as always to be referred to as the group ‘pretty boy’, but obeyed orders. “Dr. Irving, distribute White Caps,” Moster ordered. Irving passed the ration of capsules to the group. “It’s going that be that kind of showing, hunh?” chuckled Obatu. He popped a capsule and within seconds began to envision his powerful sexual fantasies come to life. He tugged slightly on his poser and glanced down to make sure the prominent, pulsing thick veins of his mighty dipping cockshaft were showing. He nudged Washington. “Check it out,” he said. Washington nodded. “Suckable,” he said, busily squeezing his own nipples into pointy hardness. Moster crossed behind the men and walked along, surveyed the lineup of rolling, hard, powerful glutes. He nodded. Huge mountains of gleaming, perfect, rock hard butt. “Butthole inspection,” he announced. Corporal Karim wished he had his butt plug with him, but didn’t betray himself with even a flicker across his stern face. He scowled, but even so Moster knew what the man wanted. He glanced down at Karim’s achingly firm glutes. “You clean, Corporal?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “Good.” Moster knelt, lowered the man’s posers for a moment to quad height, and quickly inserted his thick fist deeply up inside the man’s butthole, up to his wrist. Karim never flinched. Moster rotated his fist, and just as quickly withdrew, with a butthole POP!, noting to his satisfaction that the Corporal was indeed clean. “Keep your concentration.” He wiped his fist with anti-bacterial lube and moved on to the next man. Hension was looking apprehensive. Moster approached him. “Any women inside?” Hension asked nervously. “Why do you ask, Private?” “Sir, for my best performance, sir, I like to get my face slapped first. And during. By a pretty girl with muscles.” “Not here tonight,” said Moster. “Bend over.” “Yes, sir!” Hension bent over, showing his twin glutes of extreme hardness, shape and striation. Moster lowered the muscleboy’s posers, made a fist, and once again plunged his fist up to his wrist up Hension’s taut butthole, twisting, probing and turning. Like Abdul, Hension never even raised an eyebrow as his welcoming rosebud enveloped the powerful fist. He was excited about lay ahead. His cock began its 12-inch journey to solid stiffness. He pulled his posers back up with some difficulty and wrapped the taut cloth as best he could around his growing engine. Alvarez appeared serene. He knew a good Pose and Approve session was ahead. Lang glanced at him and smiled. Alvarez was best with an audience. An admiring audience. His cock twitched in anticipation. Moster was quick with Alvarez, nodding approval, quickly inserting a probing fist, and moving on to Lang, doing the same. Up the drive at the house, a curtain fluttered. Someone was watching. Alvarez nudged Lang. “What?” asked Lang, clueless. “You see that?” “See what?” Alvarez smiled. “This is gonna be fun.” He stood “Let’s see those biceps, Gunst,” Moster commanded. Gunst complied, and flexed his meaty guns. “26 inches this morning, sir.” “Excellent. Turn around and bend over.” Gunst complied and Moster’s fist entered his butthole. He nodded satisfaction. Moster continued down the line of musclemen, inspecting pecs, nipples, hard abs, and ending with each man by inserting a giant fist up an eager butthole. Finally it was Casey’s turn. “Ever been fisted before?” Moster asked crisply. Casey had to admit it. “Yes, sir.” He turned around and bent over, his perfect butt now in Moster’s face, his fists buried in his obliques, jutting out his butt. It was an incredible ass. Two round globes of muscular golden flesh, perfect, hard-as-nails ovals of sleek construction. Powerful, huge, an incredible human loading dock of rounded power. Inside the darkened buttcrack Moster could see close-up the throbbing, inviting deep of Casey’s perfect butthole. Moster plunged his fist in, and turned it, pulling it out again after a minute. Clean as a whistle. “Good work, Rockland. “ Casey stood, turned and smiled. “I think you’re ready.” He turned to the driver, standing by the bus, impassively staring. “Ferdinand, Dr. Irving, come back in an hour. We should be done by then.” Then, quietly, he asked Irving, “Did the money come in yet?” “This afternoon, sir,” answered Irving. “$35,000.” “Good.” Moster took his place at the end of the line. “Shaft here yet?” “Inside, Sir.” Dr. Irving fiddled with his phone, getting frantic texts from Dr. Shaft. “Good. Give the men back their clothes. Men, get dressed.” Much fumbling and hopping about in the dark. Then - “Move out, men.” The musclemen marched into the entranceway of the one-story cliff side glass house and, single file, marched into the brightly lit living room. Inside, nine manicured, pampered, plumpish Hollywood movie execs, dressed in expensive Italian suits, ties down, were draped around the room, propped up on large plush sofas, drinks in hand, cellphones and Blackberries at the ready, waiting inside. Two or three were handsome enough to gain Alvarez’s slight interest. The smell of marijuana wafted through the air. They’d been drinking. And smoking. And snorting lines of coke. In fact, they all appeared smashed. And ready to see serious muscle. The tenth, a slender young man, sat separately, almost shyly, by himself, across the room on a smaller sofa, right before the vast picture window with the lights of LA twinkling in the distance. “Fucking finally! Bring on the talent!” one of the fat schmoes yelled as the men entered. But as the musclemen got into the room and turned, facing their clients, at full attention, the movie dudes were stunned into silence. “Holy shit…look at them!” "Fuckin' A..." For their part, the musclemen were themselves stunned into a moment silence by the lavishness of the room that extended before them, and the extraordinary view of the city through the plate glass windows, far, far below. The drapes had been opened. The moon shone full in the sky. “Wow,” breathed Lang. “Where the fuck are we?” "Fuckin' A is right," whispered Hension. There were a few moments on silence while everyone was amazed, albeit for different reasons. Sergeant Moster was first to retain his composure. "Gentlemen, thank you for inviting us for the evening. We think we have quite a show ready for your personal delectation..." Dr. Shaft rose from a white sofa. Even as familiar with the muscle in the room as he was, he was never less than stunned each time he saw more than three of the bodybuilders together. The sight of ten of them, including the impossibly giant Sergeant Moster, was enough to momentarily knock the air out of him. “Yes, thank you, and good evening, Sergeant Moster. Good evening, men.” He whispered to Moster. "I'll handle this." Dr. Shaft was excited. The men had not only arrived on time, they all looked….well, incredible. Beyond incredible, in fact. Unreal. Inhuman. The years of P-21 meshed with hardcore raw training had built magnificent muscle specimens unlike the world had ever seen before. No bodybuilding contest – and Shaft had attended hundreds – ever had the kind of raw muscular development that stood before them now. It was as if every muscle on every man had a muscle. Heaped pounds of raw lean man beef. It was staggering. Moster hid his irritation, already planning the next black eye he'd happily plaster on Shaft's face in their next private. “Good evening, Dr. Shaft. Men, you all know ....Dr. Shaft.” Hi, yeah, sure, hello, uh hunh, yeah we see him, etc etc, came from the musclemen. “May I introduce the men to their hosts?” asked Dr. Shaft ceremoniously And the lineup of musclemen turned to their agog clients. Hands at their sides, fists clenched, veins popping, tight white shirts wrapped around massive physiques. Legs spread wide. Quads bursting out of slacks. Biceps about to tear shirt sleeves. Fly bulges loomed to the floor. And the clients, schmoes all, stared back. Breathing. Panting. Disbelieving the universe of muscle they were seeing. Alvarez, Lang, Hension, Schumacher, and Waring. Washington, Abdul, Obatu, Gunst. And Casey Rockland. Team leader, the massive Sergeant Moster. The muscle team was here at last. The clients, schmoes all, stared back. Breathing. Panting. “Fuck, man. They’re fucking huge,” said one of the fattest men. He gulped. “Whatta they gonna do to us?” “You mean…what are they going to do for you,” said Sergeant Moster. “May I present…. nine of the most muscular men on the planet today.” He paused, glanced at his watch. “You have two hours.” He turned to the men. “Men, you may go to work.” The men moved into a line, first marching single file and then fanning out towards the edge of the broad staircase leading down to the sunken living room. At the top step they stopped, stood still, and displayed themselves proudly. Below them, the room of wealthy Hollywood elite schmoes fell into shocked silence, turned their heads, and stared agog at the massive muscle before them. The schmoes were seated together, as if for protection, on a heavy plush creamy white sofa, overloaded with soft, luxurious pillows, extending twenty-five feet across the room from the large picture window. It was a perfect setting for bodybuilder muscle worship. And there they stood. Calm. Blank faced. Each man handsomer than the next. Perfect tanned skin. Waistlines no larger than 32 inches on men each weighing up to 300 pounds – and more. It was going to be a insane night of muscle worship. And a profitable one, too. Shaft had been circulating rumors inside the Hollywood mill for years about this army of ungodly huge and handsome musclemen, and finally had assembled just the sample group of mega-rich movers and shakers that he needed for the initial private presentation. This meant big bucks in the future for Valhalla Labs. Sergeant Moster had delivered as promised, in spite of Dr Zaftig’s worry and misgivings back at the Valhalla Lab. But Shaft had faith. He knew these musclemen. He’d had too many private sessions to not know a little about them all by now. As long as they all behaved, that is, and no one got seriously hurt. They were hard to control, he knew, once they really started flexing and posing and showing it all off with feats of ungodly strength and their insatiable need to dominate. He knew all about his own tendency to wind up in the San Jose ER after particularly enthusiastic sessions with Moster. But, damn, he just couldn’t help it. Shaft had to admit the fantasy of Moster’s (relatively speaking) lightly damaging face punches and the spirited butt spankings he received as punishment for his own poor cock and body and his lame cocksucking was, well, just what he deserved, being the worm he was. And the fantasy memory of all that abuse kept him masturbating feverishly for months after. He hoped his Hollywood schmoes might fare a little lighter punishment than the stuff that he was now addicted to – unless of course they wanted the same treatment? But then, it might get picked up as a tasty little news item, all over TMZ. That couldn’t happen. Could it? It could rock the Hollywood establishment. Top studio heads beaten by massive, crazed bodybuilders in bizarre Hollywood Hills muscle showdown. No. That wouldn’t do. It was all pretty dangerous, but, what the hell. Shaft licked his lips with drooling anticipation and inspected the astounding male muscle display that confronted them all. The ten magnificent young men, plus the-even-huger-still Sergeant Moster, were now lined up, beefy shoulder to shoulder, round and perfect tri-headed delts touching massive delts. They stood in a perfect lineup of muscle on the steps leading from the 20’ ceilinged foyer down into the sunken living room. The entry way was a perfect dais for display, more than 40’ long, roomy enough for a panorama of beautiful beef and rippling vascularity unlike anything the staring schmoes down below had ever seen, or even imagined, before. And even fully dressed in tight, tight t-shirts and ferociously clinging tan slacks, the men were an unbelievable sight to behold. As if carefully posed, men all stood casually with their hands planted on powerful hips, legs spread wide. Muscles gleamed and bulged. Physiques rippled enticingly, displayed for delectation in the clinging super-wide white spandex t-shirts. Every vein, every muscular bulge, every pound of sinew, every cut, every hard-packed slab of fatless lean and bulging male beef was on display for the stunned, wealthy Hollywood insiders. “Jesus fucking Christ,” someone mumbled. “Look at them. They’re not human.” Muscle worship was what these muscle giants lived for. Shaft knew that. Well, it was one of the things they lived for. He was fairly certain they also lived for training, lifting, eating, sex with each other and as many partners, male or female, that they could find. And – of course- getting huger every day. But Shaft couldn’t be sure that muscle worship might not be even more important. And of course, it made sense. After all, weren’t they all getting bigger, handsomer, stronger, more muscular, and more aggressive just so they could be worshipped? It hardly mattered, no more than the original intent of Dr. Zaftig all those years ago when he first started research on creating the ultimate team of massive male bodybuilders. For there they were, eleven muscle gods, still and easy, unmoving, posed, both tense and calm, showcasing magnificent, perfect male muscularity. And there were nine others, just as huge, handsome, and hung as the men before them, back at the lab. The atmosphere in the room crackled. And Shaft could feel it now, could even see the musclemen’s eager anticipation of the impeding worship of their physiques. Their excitement was just beginning to show, starting to loom now, like a faint musky aroma, getting stronger, seeping into the room. They seemed to be getting bigger, to be growing before them. They were certainly measurably heavier in their tight slacks, their flies just beginning to bulge forward and droop down with pointed pushing, with throbbing penis weight, their erections about to bloom and show and push out and forward and up inside their tightening pants. And considering the price tag of upwards of $85,000 the Hollywood elite schmoes had laid out for this private muscle show, inwardly he was relieved that it had all started out without the slightest hitch. And the new man, Casey Whatever His Name was, was there, too, there on the end. The handsomest of all? Shaft wasn’t sure. And, per Zaftig’s regular reports, on his way to being the biggest? And only 19 years old, too. The promise that lay ahead. He’d better be, at a price tag of $15,000 just for his appearance. That shorter man was also improbably handsome. Shaft studied the impressively beautiful Chris Hension, with his perpetual half erection always looming in his pants, thick masculine dark brown nipples, devilish smile and darting eyes; he was certainly a square-jawed piece of eye candy. And then there was Alvarez, always with the thick-lipped handsome Lang nearby – moist lips, always slightly shiny, always recently licked, lips that Shaft just knew glided lightly and lovingly up and down, root to head, over the long, thick penis shaft of his muscle husband Alvarez during their after-hours Pose and Approve sessions. And the scary hairy Karim Abdul, glowering in the middle of the lineup, with the shorter beefslab hardass Schumacher right next to him – weren’t they each other’s nemesis? Maybe they got hard posing together? And that giant Gunst, he of the amazing nearly 28 inch biceps. Shaft hurried over to Moster, just stepping down into the sunken living room, extending a wet hand. “Sergeant Moster, we’re so glad to see you -- ” He was suddenly cut off. Suddenly, from that muscle dais above, came an outraged roar. “Are you who the fuck I think you are?!!!” It was Gunst. He was shouting now, pointing down at someone in the room, at one of the waiting shmoes. All stopped and turned, stunned into silence. On the sofa was sprawled a fat, unshaved, tall mass of slob schmoe, who looked up from his phone, startled and scared. “Yeah, YOU, You FUCKING ASSHOLE!” “Do I know you…?” the schmoe blubbered. “I know you! You fucking asshole! I know you! You preyed on my sister!” Gunst was roaring now. “Get that worthless worm over here!” Waring and Lang stepped down, as if on cue, striding manfully into the room, heading to the creamy white sofa, then grabbing and holding down the particularly fat and ugly Hollywood former studio head, now sprawling agog, to prevent him from bolting. “Never mind, I’ll fuck him up myself…. ” Striding forward, every muscle in his massive frame now quivering with rage, Gunst pushed past Waring and Lang and into the room. The man was an impressive, fearful sight, his veins throbbing, ripped muscle on a mission, his huge pecs roiling and bursting in his tight t-shirt, his piston-thick arms slabs of disciplined beef, his fists clenched and ready to do damage. Casey was stunned. His mouth open, agape. He’d never heard the normally gentle giant Gunst so angry before, never even envisioned it. And he seemed crazed, pointing down at the terrified schmoe, accusing, now standing wide-legged and in full aggressive mode. “You don’t know me!” he screamed. “I don’t know you, either! What is this??? Dr. Shaft??” Shaft came forward, frightened but trying to maintain control. “Corporal Gunst?...” he started. He suddenly felt Moster’s hand on his shoulders, stopping him, pulling him back. Shaft tripped and fell on the carpet. Moster helped him up, shot him a quick look and a little smile, and putting a finger to his lips, shook his head. He mouthed, “No no.” He smiled. Shaft froze and, regaining his balance, stepped back, and did as he was told. Gunst was now standing above the cowering, terrified schmoe, roaring, his legs spread wide, his thick fists plunged into his obliques, ripped intercostals bulging like bricks, htting a powerful front lat spread. He rotated on his heels to show his lats at different angles. His pecs soared to the ceiling, his nipples went taut and pointed downward to the floor, bulging in his t-shirt, the luscious brown areola outlined. “You wanna see muscles, you fucking asshole?? check out these muscles!!! FUCKING WORTHLESS WORM!!! I’M GONNA SHOW YOU WHAT THESE BIG MUSCLES CAN REALLY DO!!!” From the facing sofa by the picture window, the small pipsqueak pencil neck schmoe was seemingly ignoring it all. Transfixing, he was staring directly at Casey now, seemingly unaware of the threatening Gunst, who was apparently on the verge of beating the fat schmoe to death right across the room from him. Casey, ever sensitive, knew he was being stared at. He turned his head slightly and returned the pencilneck’s gaze. He smiled. The pencilneck smiled back, tentative, shy. Casey began to do a slow, subtle, bubbling pec dance in his t-shirt, his mammoth chest bouncing slightly, right to left, left to right, his nipples taut and pushing powerfully into the tight fabric. He smiled a little more broadly. “You like that?” he mouthed. The pencilneck stared and nodded slightly. He did like it. Gunst was now in full flex fury mode. He glided from his threatening front lat spread into an equally threatening front double biceps. POW! he shouted, Just Look at these fucking guns! BOOM! His monster biceps broiled with iron packed sinew, laced with mammoth, pulsing cephalic veins. BAM!!! he added, extending his meaty arms to their full length, working the fingers of his powerful fists before clenching them into furious fist-weapons. “These are muscles, asshole!” he shouted. “And they’re comin’ to get YOU!” And then he bent, slowly, inexorably, coming closer, this huge mass of muscle and rage, smashing his fist in his meaty palm, and grabbed the schmoe by the shirt front, pulling his terrified ugly face up to his spitting, furious mouth. “I’m gonna FUCK YOU UP. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, and I’m not even gonna touch you with THESE fists. I’m JUST gonna do it with my pecs. And then with my dick. I’m gonna beat your face bloody with my pecs and my dick!” The schmoe was blubbering now. Casey regarded it all somewhat calmly. He’d seen such behavior before at the Home, of course, and the Twenty were always wild and crazy like this on the gym floor, particularly during White Cap workout nights. They often beat the shit out of each other, bounding back for more. Nothing new here. What’s more, he figured it was probably all an act. Gunst was probably being paid for this interesting little muscle play. It was all working, of course, because none of the other musclemen had moved, as if they knew what was coming. And if there had been any serious, real danger, Karim Abdul and Moster, whose combined strength couldn’t even be gauged, would have stepped in to pull Gunst back and subdue him. More to the point, now he realized he recognized the schmoe from online. Something about how he had abused women for 30 years or more, and was now out of the studio, nationally shamed. Some big fat slob who ruined women’s careers if they didn’t fuck him. But he was still super rich, and he’d profited off of his exploitation and cruelty. Now set adrift in the Hollywood community and unable to work ever again, he was still worth several hundred million, and was not feeling any pain. Until tonight, of course. Now he was gonna get what he deserved. Still, Casey was more interested in his potential new friend, who seemed sober, quiet, respectful, and agog at the size of his muscles. That was just the way Casey figured he’d like them. Quiet and worshipful. As he walked over to the distant sofa, his cock twitched heavily, rolled in his pants, and began to point and grow. His new little fan seemed to be the exception in the room. He sat alone on his sofa across the room, maybe 20 feet away from the group of fat schmoes on the long couch. He was just staring at Casey, longingly, neither talking nor texting. Standing before him now not six feet away, Casey smiled in a friendly way. The pipsqueak smiled back, staring at Casey’s physique and handsome face and his ever-growing crotch bulge, blooming in his tight slacks. Tentative, nervous, a little frightened, shaking. “Hi,” said Casey, friendly. He got closer and extended a huge paw. “I’m Casey.” “I know. I’m….I’m Mike.” Mike reached up to shake hands, frightened and brave, his soft little hand covered by Casey’s enormous mitt. He stared at the pumping forearms as Casey gently shook his hand. He was very careful not to crush the little guy’s fingers. The fat slob was screaming now. “Hey, I’m just here to see a little muscle! You want money? I got a lot of money! I'll give it to you. Leave me alone!! Don't hurt me!!!” Gunst laughed nastily. “You just wanted to see a little muscle??? How about FUCKING HUGE MUSCLE??” He started slapping the man lightly across the face, back and forth, little humiliating stinging slaps that popped and smacked in echoes bouncing across the vast living room. “Ouch. Ouch! Leave me alone….!” “You belong to ME, asshole.” Gunst scooped the fat man (who must have weighed 300 pounds or more) up from the deep, sheltering confines of the plush sofa cushions. Effortlessly swinging the screaming man wide above his head, the man’s legs and feet flying in a circle around the work, Gunst swept the slob high above his head and held him there. Carrying him from the room, he yelled back to Waring and Lang, “You boys can join me later when you’ve finished with this group. But for now - he’s mine!” He turned his head up to the impotently squirming producer and lowered him down to meet his face. He spat his words. “Come to think of it, I’m gonna start you out nice and easy. You like glutes? How about some world-class musclebutt? I sure hope so. Casue I’m gonna sit on your face for the next 45 minutes. You’ll get to see my muscleass up close and personal….” And then they were gone, down the corridor. Silence. The schmoes staring, transfixed. “What was all that about? Who is that guy?” Hension whispered loudly to Obatu. Obatu shrugged. “Some movie producer.” “So why did Gunst go off on him like that?” “Maybe he didn’t like his movies.” “Private client,” said Alvarez. “It’s a put-up job. Extra money.” “This guy is paying Gunst to park his muscle ass on him for 45 minutes?” “No.” Alvarez smiled and whispered back. “The dude’s wife. Extra credit for public humiliation.” “Are the bedrooms through here?” Gunst asked, in the distance, his voice now conversational. “Noooooo…!” screamed the fat man. Down the hall they could hear a door opened. “Would in here be good for you?” Gunst asked calmly. “It’s good for me.” The schmoe’s screams continued for a moment, even after the door was closed. And then, they stopped. Very suddenly. Replaced by another sound, that could only be described as “mmmmpppphhhllllfffffffff…!!!... ..uuummmmm…” Presumably Gunst had undone his belt, lowered his slacks, squatted down his naked perfect butt, and was now getting comfortable on the man’s face. “Let me know if you have trouble breathing,” they heard him say, as if he was asking to pass the salt. Mike had watched in silence, his face surprisingly unexpressive. Unfrightened by Gunst’s outrage. That was interesting. He was clearly more nervous about Casey’s unanticipated friendliness. Casey turned back to the roomful of rich Hollywood schmoes, now numbering eight. For schmoes was what they were, and now, Casey had a pretty good gut level understanding of what a schmoe actually was. A schmoe was a creepy, ugly, fat, rich guy who was clueless, mean, selfish, liked musclemen, and was willing to pay his pleasure, and assumed money was all he needed. That was a schmoe. Casey’s lip curled in contempt. And far from frightened or intimated by the display of alpha male dominance Gunst had just performed, effortlessly carrying a kicking and screaming man over his head and out of the room, the schmoes were now quietly giggling, texting, snorting coke and toking up. They seemed to have enjoyed what they just witnessed. Nasty fuckers, thought Casey. He turned back to little Mike. “You’re not like those other guys.” “No.” “Why are you here, then?” “…..well….it’s my house.” Holy Shit. The Jackpot. That was fast. “Really? This is your place?” Mike nodded. “Yes.” Casey went to the point. “You like big muscles?” Casey asked, excited now. No sense in wasting time with pleasantries, although truth to be told, Casey probably had never heard the word before. “Yes, I do.” “Okay, then, watch this. All for you.” Casey moved fast into a front lat spread, rotating from side to side. “See these fucking pecs? They’re huge. You like this?” Casey’s shirt stretched and seemingly groaned from the strain. “….Golly….” Mike was breathing heavily. “Will ya look at that…?” His hand involuntarily moved to his crotch. Casey winked at him, nodding and smiling, reeling off his obvious talents. “Obliques, intercostals, abs like bricks, pecs like cannonballs, all hard and solid. And that’s just for starters. Here’s a most muscular crab shot.” His shirt fabric began to tear as his muscles exploded with sinew, mass and popping veins. “How about big guns?” he asked, flexing his brutal biceps. “26 inches,” he whispered proudly. “These guns measure 26 inches. You wanna touch ‘em?” Mike nodded, dumbly, reached out with tentative fingers, as Casey bent down to offer a closer view of his huge guns. “Touch ‘em! Go ahead and feel ‘em. Stroke ‘em. Ever felt anything so hard?” Mike’s fingers lightly caressed Casey’s 26 inch right biceps. “Wow,” he breathed, and stared up into Casey’s eyes. “I got great glutes, too,” he said conspiratorially, bringing his face now close to Mike. “It’s the ass of death. You’ll see. You can see them later. Really awesome.” Hey, he thought. This guy was kinda good-looking. Maybe he only weighed about 135, but he was cute. And probably really rich. Casey got even closer, flexed that powerful biceps right under Mike’s nose. “See that vein? It’s like a snake, watch it now…go ahead, lick it. Yeah. That’s right. Lick…” “Casey,” warned Moster. “Not yet.” Casey turned back, straightened up. “Yes, sir,” Casey said. “Join us,” said Moster. Casey looked at Moster, nodded, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” And then returned to look down at Mike for a second. “Just a moment. I’ll be right back. He wants us to flex for your buddies. Don’t be scared. It’s just an act.” Mike was nodding feverishly. Casey could see his fly was bulging, and the bulge was not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe he was hung a little? He hoped so. “Well, you shouldn’t be scared,” Casey added. “The guys may beat up those other assholes a little, but I’ll protect you. I’m strong. You won’t get too hurt. And I’ll flex for you, and you can suck my dick awhile, and play with my glutes, and I’ll suck your dick, too, and maybe I’ll even fuck you, if you can take it. You can fuck me! Your butthole big enough? We all good?” Mike nodded, breathless, staring. “Great!” Casey was excited. This was going to be fun. “I like being worshipped! It’ll be dope. Hang on. This’ll only take a second. You wait.” The words came in a rush. “I…can wait….sure.” “Awesome. I’ll be right back.” Casey bounded back and rejoined the team. He readied himself, changed his face, scowled, and looked mean. Moster hid his smile. He was mightily amused. He should have foreseen that Casey would somehow ferret out the one dude who was signing the checks. The other men of the Twenty were, at the end of the day, too narcissistic to note personalities, character, differences, subtleties. For them, it was only about dominating, posing, flexing, showing off muscle. And the schmoes? Like any muscle lovers who lived closeted, rich, narrow, spoiled lives, they were only in it for themselves. But Casey definitely had possibilities. Moster made a mental note. He must remember not to mention this to Dr. Zaftig. Then he spoke, and his voice brooked no dissent. “Gentlemen, you will now silence your devices. Per the agreement in our mutual contract, there are to be no pictures taken, no recorded video, no texting, no emails, Instagram, Facebook or tweets.” There was a pause. Mike pulled his phone from his pocket and switched it off, looked up at Casey, and smiled. The schmoes stared up at Moster, not moving. “I’m waiting.” Still nothing. “Boys?....” said Moster quietly. Together with Casey, the nine muscle giants took a step towards the big sofa, alert, ready hands at their sides. There was a tense pause. “I didn’t sign any agreement…” one of the schmoes started to protest. Moster barked a command. “Men, front double biceps!” The bodybuilders didn’t hesitate to follow orders. Nine pairs of insanely muscled arms rose high into the air, stretching high above handsome heads. Hands shot to the ceiling, then 18 fists clenched, and slowly descended into tilting, powerful, mega-biceps displays. On each man, twin peaks of veiny, chiseled biceps muscles roiled, then bloomed, expanded and rose high. Higher and higher, harder and fuller, inch after blooming inch of biceps. The muscle monster forearms twisted with intricately twisting, immense brachioradialis, flexors, and extensor muscles. And just above, the powerfully clenched fists, threatening weapons promising fearful damage atop mountainous mounds of perfectly shaped muscle. Muscles, rumbling to life, rising swiftly into staggering pointing peaks of iron and flesh. And as masses of arm muscle bellied up into fantastic iron-hard masses, slowly emerging from beneath expanding fabric, the sleeves of the men’s spandex t-shirts stretched and strained, instantly close to bursting. To a man, their pecs were fully expanded, round shelves of chest muscle, jutting out high and horizontal. Lats flared. Quads seemed to be about to burst out of tight pants. The schmoes could only imagine the insanely round, hard glutes, each fully curved into enticing man flanks. First studying one magnificent arm, then turning his head to take in the other, Casey joined the others and methodically tilted his own arms high into massive front double biceps. By now, Casey’s was not the only crotch beginning to show activity. The men’s packages behind taut slacks flies now rolled with blooming, threatening erections, bell-shaped penis glans with deep pissholes standing out in the slacks fabric, pointing straight out and upwards heavily. The schmoes were now cowering on the long sofa, gripping their phones, and Casey could see that, to a man, their puny little free hands leapt to their own pathetic yet growing bulges, now appearing in their expensive, tailored slacks. “Fuck me….” breathed the fat schmoe closest to Casey. Behind him, he could sense Mike, staring at the muscle display. “Sir, bustin’ sleeves!” shouted Alvarez. Casey’s own sleeves strained, and, threads parting slowly, ripped into tears as the peaks of his biceps expanded to their full 26 inches. He was proud of his arms, his size. “Continue to flex!” The command was not ambiguous. “See those muscles? My boys can do some serious damage. Are we clear about the cellphones yet?” The schmoes were not so much defiant as frozen. “Let me join them.” And Moster stepped forward and, slightly gritting his teeth, and calmly raised his own arms into powerful double biceps flexing. And from behind his fly, his giant member twitched and groaned, the bulge moving like a giant animal, rolling over and awakening from deep sleep. He rotated his clenched fist slightly, his corbeling biceps meat hard and peaking higher and higher, filling with chiseled, throbbing muscle. The uppermost peak was graced with an intricate network of thick veins that pushed his tight, thin black skin to its limits. “Sergeant Moster, let’s not get excited now…” It was Dr. Shaft, of course, already whining and fearful, stepping forward from the group, his hands raised in protest. Casey had to hand it to him, though. As frightened as Shaft obviously was – and hadn’t Moster hospitalized him more than once during their “worship” sessions – still, he was attempting to keep order. Moster smiled, still flexing biceps. “Do I look excited?” Alvarez snickered and cocked his head down and slightly at Moster’s blooming crotch, and slightly pushed his hips forward to better display his own package. “Yes, sir, you do,” he said quietly. “Private Waring?” “Yes, sir!” “Why don’t you take our good friend Dr. Shaft in hand here, and privately show him the very good work you’ve been doing on your quads?” “It would be my pleasure, sir.” Waring stepped forward, dropped his arms, and grabbed Shaft by his necktie, pulling him roughly out of the room and heading down the corridor. “Oh, but, I think….um…well, if you think so….? Private Waring? Hi! Have your quads indeed gotten even bigger since the last time I saw them?...” “Oh, ever so much more so bigger, sir!” They were disappearing down the same corridor where Gunst had carried the fat producer. “And allow me the pleasure of showing them to you, sir.” And they were gone down the corridor. The remaining muscle monsters continued, unwavering, unmoving, their arms tilted high, biceps and forearm muscles rippling and bulging insanely. And now their tight sleeves were splitting from the expanding biceps, cloth in tatters on their huge arms, one by one, down the line…. R-I-I-I-I-I-P……! R-I-I-I-I-I-P-P……! R-I-I-I-I-I-P-P-P……! And the sleeves were gone, just shreds of cloth dangling down the sides of the flexing men. “Are you ready to put down the phones, gentlemen. Last warning.” A pause. And one by one the schmoes hurriedly put their phones away. “Gentlemen, you may now remove what is left of your clothes.” At his command, all of the men remaining in the line-up began to strip. The ragged t-shirts popped as if in unison as they were released from the massive upper body of each man. The boots were unlaced and pushed away. Nine belts hit the floor, and nine pairs of regulation khakis followed. Beneath, all wore the same barely restraining white Spandex posers. Cocks and balls bulged forth, each man spilling half a foot of visible cock into barely sheathed pouches. “Arms behind backs!” barked Moster. He turned to the schmoes and became one with his men. “Spread legs!” All spread their legs wide, shooting their right legs out in choreographed unison. At one end, Casey did the same. “Prepare!” Fists clenched, crammed in solid obliques. “Front double biceps!” All arms slowly rose. And 18 pairs of cannonballs of enormous power ball biceps snapped into ungodly peaks. The men faced straight ahead, all eyes high and level, as if gazing into infinity. “Jesus,” breathed someone from the sofa. The lineup of ten men stood all flexing with massive front double biceps power. Then Moster brought his arms down strode slowly across the room to the sofa. As he moved, his half-covered organ swayed heavily, muscular root and veiny thick shaft exposed for a plunging eight inches, the rest of his penis barely sheathed, lower dick and balls swaying heavily from side to side in his posing pouch. Behind him, the lineup of men continued to flex biceps without wavering. They didn’t glance at Moster. They stood gazing straight ahead, his arms up and steadily holding biceps pose. "Corporal Schumacher?” “Yes, sir!” barked Schumacher, standing in full ripped muscle display. “Get over here. I think our friends need some persuading.” From the sofa, more whimpering, but gleams of interest. “I want him…” someone whispered. “Yes, sir!” Schmacher stepped forth, his bright teeth showing a gleaming, vicious smile. “Karim?” “Yes, sir!” “Join us.” “Yes, sir!” The same for Karim, a powerful muscle monster blanketed with wire-thick black hair, the terrifying muscle size looming. “Oooooo, he’s for me,” came a girly squeal. “Obatu?” “You got it, sir.” “Washington?” “On it.” “I think our friends are ready to play. Aren’t you gentlemen?” “I want the pretty one!” said a particularly nauseating schmoe, pointing at Hension. Hension came forward, smiling willingly. “Why not? Hension?” “You bet!” He was still flexing his huge rocky biceps. His heavy penis was now beginning to pole to the ceiling in anticipation of worship. “Gentlemen, let’s shake our friends loose from their little refuge” “Yes, sir!” Karim, Schumacher, Obatu and Washington stepped forward, their cocks swaying heavily in their revealing posers. “Holy shit, here they come!” yelled one of the schmoes from the sofa, where they all now cringed, in spite of their excitement. “I’ll take this end,” Schumacher said to Karim. “You take that. You guys take the middle.” Karim grunted assent. “Men. Squat.” And as if rehearsed, the four men positioned themselves at the sofa’s edges, rotated muscular hips, spread legs wide, and squatted deep, preparing to lift. “Grab your corner.” Each man grabbed a section of the 25’ sofa (which weighed about 800 pounds). Powerful man glutes pointed ceiling high. Casey had to admire the view. “Nice display of muscle butt at work,” he thought. “Casey, will you move that coffee table out the way, please?” What’s a coffee table? Casey wondered. He looked over at Mike, who gestured to the large, heavy low table in front of the sofa of now screaming schmoes. “Oh. Sure. I mean, yes, sir.” Casey stepped forward and picked up the 10 foot long oak coffee table. “Toss it over there,” said Moster. “Let’s get this night going.” Casey squatted, his own flanks firm, picked up the coffee table in powerful hands (which itself weighed about 300 pounds), lifted it easily, and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed, breaking in two solid pieces. “Now lift it high,” said Moster. And easy as could be, the four muscle monsters lifted the sofa, up, up, up. Hoisting it first to quad level, then to their waists, to their pecs, over their shoulders, and then high, high over their heads. “Yes, sir!” all shouted, and getting underneath it, the men repositioned, regripped, and tossed it high and easily up in the air with all nine schmoes clinging to it. They held it aloft a moment, the schmoes peering over the edge. “Toss it.” And it flew, flew, 10 feet across the room in the air, several tons of a sailing tumble of pillows, wood, steel, plush, upholstery, and screaming fat executives. Crash landing on the floor in a mass of feathers, splinters, pillows, torn cushions, and squirming, screaming men. “I'm calling my lawyer!” screamed one of the men. Moster glanced briefly. As he thought, the plush cushions sheltered the men in the crash. No one appeared seriously hurt. Yet. “Gentlemen, select your partners.” “I want him!” an exec screamed. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. The choices are to be made not by you, but by my men.” “Okay, asshole, you’re MINE,” declared Obatu. He grabbed a schmoe by the scruff of the neck, pulled him up, flexed a beautiful biceps in his face, and dragged him from the room. “Let’s go play.” From his sofa, safe and untouched Mike looked at the tangle of men, watching as each of bodybuilders stepped forth, grabbed a man, and carried him aloft and out of the room. Three minutes later, the room was empty. And a few moments after that, from the bedrooms and corridors throughout the house, moaning, groaning, smacking, slurping and squishing noises could be heard. Muscle worship, it seemed, took on an audible life force in this house. “That sofa cost $26,000,” Mike said quietly. Casey turned and looked at him. “It did?” “It did. Yes. And the coffee table was another $10.000. No matter. I’ll order another tomorrow.” He sighed. “We’ll just have to barter the expense.” Moster came forward, and suddenly even he was a little stricken. The game was just getting started, and already damages amounted to $36,000. The men had gotten out of control, it seemed. What would Zaftig say? However, Mike was calm, and now, for the first time, completely in charge. He looked up at the two musclemen standing before him and assessed the situation. “Boys,” he said calmly to Moster and Casey, “let’s review. I see a lot of muscle here before me. And I’m very rich. I can afford it. I’m a billionaire. Many times over.” Casey gawked openly. “Hell, I could buy and sell you both 100 times before breakfast,” Mike confided jokingly. “But. I’m not a bad guy. I have some talents of my own.” He stood and placed gentle hands on the solid pecs above him, as the men looked down. “So. Let’s barter. I’m willing to forget the damage. Forgive and forget, I say.” Casey glanced at Moster next to him, now keenly listening closely to every word. The power had shifted, but Moster didn’t seem to mind. “The beautiful muscular 19-year old, perfect blond god, and the handsome black giant,” cooed Mike. “I see you both for what you are. Gleaming muscles on both of you. I see thick, pulsing necks, impossibly strong, leading down to mounds of trapezius muscles. Shoulders impossibly wide, and your round shape is perfection itself. Deltoids, three rounded huge heads, all blooming, full and heavy. And those cannon balls terminate at your triceps with insertions on both of you that form deep chasms between the muscle groups.” Casey was hypnotized. “Simply astounding muscle development. Cephalic veins that run downward to feed your thick, rippling forearms. Your biceps are the size of most men’s legs. Flex them again, for me, will you?” Without question both men raised their arms slowly and flexed powerful biceps in Mike’s face. “Thank you, Beautiful. Beautiful.” “Gosh,” breathed Casey, still flexing powerfully but unable to move or think. He was now entering his muscle worship planet. All he wanted to do was flex his huge muscles for this man, and plough his huge cock down his throat. “Go on,” said Moster. “Oh, just keep flexing. It’s what you do best. Not think. Flex. And, I gather, fuck. You know, I think it’s your massive chests that assert the core of your power. Those thick plates of muscle housing twin brown areola which were capped with peanut-sized nipples. These nipples actually point to the floor because of the protrusion of the pectorals.” Mike reached up and lightly flicked all four nipples in front of him. Casey’s penis trembled and bounced in his posers at Mike’s confident touch. “They’re plates of meat cantilevered out over the void. And your lats are so wide and thick they force your arms almost straight outward. Intercostals and abdominals working together, girdling your lower torsos to pour the huge muscle downward, cobbled with brick, pouring into a narrow confluence at your tiny waists. It’s as if your arms, back and chest are at a war to occupy the same space. But I know you’re impossibly limber, and flexible. You dive beautifully, don’t you, Casey?” “I’m awesome in Speedos…” Casey breathed, deeply under the power of Mike’s words, from his muscle planet, ready to fly. “I’m sure of it. Because, there’s your huge, huge cock. Erect. Both of you. The biggest human penises on the planet, aren’t they? Always ready to spurt. To cum. To explode with quarts of semen.” He looked down. “Do I see precum now? I think I do.” A long pause. “You’re a poet,” said Moster. “Oh, I’m more than that. And you’re both lab creations of the highest order. Perfect specimens.” And suddenly, easily, Mike unzipped his jeans. And his surprisingly large organ tumbled out – not as big, of course, as the gargantuan penises of Moster or Casey, but a good 10 inches in length, and surprisingly beautiful. A member full of solid strength and promise. Both men stared down. Casey gulped. “Very impressive,” said Sergeant Moster. “Now what?” There was a long pause. “Boys,” asked Mike, his fingers now dancing lightly across impossibly thick beefy plains of pec muscle, all while tweaking those heavy, stiffening nipples, looking up into rapt and handsome faces, “what would you say to few hours of a muscle sandwich?”
  5. Thank you! A lot of the reason I write is for YOU! Because you have stepped forward. I need only a few vocal fans. I confess I have no reaction to 99.99% of the muscle fiction I read anywhere, including here. Musclepla.net, and the strange world of Seanny Scott Reid, is a notable exception - but Seanny has his limitations based on his publicly acknowledged lack of real world gym experience and his lifelong gay-closeted preference. His longing and wistful writing, however, often gets me off. No one else does. I lifted hard and heavy in NYC and LA gyms for 25 years. I knew dozens of bodybuilders, competitive amateur AND pro. And as an acknowledged and proud gay man, they never looked down on me. That may make a difference. I know a little about it. And I know there are dozens of muscle fans here who DO know a LOT about bodybuilding, lifting, training hard and heavy, sweating and getting dirty. They're potentially the best fans. The men who know. Anyway, thank you for having followed me!
  6. I am updating "The Twenty" and adding an ALL NEW CHAPTER (Chapter 23) within 24 hours! Much thanks for the renewed interest in my story. Chapter 23 Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, And Makes a New Friend Note I have been writing "The Twenty" for nearly a decade (though since late in 2016, I have not been writing, busy with other matters.) The new muscle images and comments from my very few fans have renewed my interest. I'm slowly updating everything from 2017 to 2021. Remember, when I first started to write, back in 2008., 2017 was still a long way away. Now it's last year. The Twenty takes place in a muscle future. There are anomalies throughout, wrong dates, contradictions, as to be expected in a nearly 400-page muscle novel that I have been working on for a decade. For me a muscle novel MUST be about characters, fantasy, flexing, posing, sex, and OUTRAGEOUS MUSCLES. Look for the latest chapter by TONIGHT. And thanks to all. COMMENTS WELCOME.
  7. I am updating "The Twenty" and adding an ALL NEW CHAPTER (Chapter 23) within 24 hours! Much thanks for the renewed interest in my story. Chapter 23 Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, And Makes a New Friend Note I have been writing "The Twenty" for nearly a decade (though since late in 2016, I have not been writing, busy with other matters.) The new muscle images and comments from my very few fans have renewed my interest. I'm slowly updating everything from 2017 to 2021. Remember, when I first started to write, back in 2008., 2017 was still a long way away. Now it's last year. The Twenty takes place in a muscle future. There are anomalies throughout, wrong dates, contradictions, as to be expected in a nearly 400-page muscle novel that I have been working on for a decade. For me a muscle novel MUST be about characters, fantasy, flexing, posing, sex, and OUTRAGEOUS MUSCLES. Look for the latest chapter by TONIGHT. And thanks to all. COMMENTS WELCOME.
  8. Great renders!! Thank you, Lazlong! I am updating "The Twenty" and adding an ALL NEW CHAPTER (Chapter 23) within 24 hours! Much thanks for the renewed interest in my story. Chapter 23 Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, And Makes a New Friend Note I have been writing "The Twenty" for nearly a decade (though since late in 2016, I have not been writing, busy with other matters.) The new muscle images and comments from my very few fans have renewed my interest. I'm slowly updating everything from 2017 to 2021. Remember, when I first started to write, back in 2008., 2017 was still a long way away. Now it's last year. The Twenty takes place in a muscle future. There are anomalies throughout, wrong dates, contradictions, as to be expected in a nearly 400-page muscle novel that I have been working on for a decade. For me a muscle novel MUST be about characters, fantasy, flexing, posing, sex, and OUTRAGEOUS MUSCLES. Look for the latest chapter by TONIGHT. And thanks to all. COMMENTS WELCOME.
  9. It's been almost a year and a half but I'm back with the ADVENTURES OF CASEY! A complete re-edit of this chapter.....check it out.....leading to the long-awaited MUSCLE WORSHIP CHAPTER (well, okay, another one).... thanks to Casey's fans for patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for a continued installment....
  10. Thanks for your renders and images!! You've inspired me to write again!

    1. lazlong


      believe me it was my pleasure :) cant wait for another chapter!

  11. "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6

    Thanks! A superb job! and another chapter on the way - after almost a year and half!