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  1. Previous chapter: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster Chapter 16: Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After Casey’s first workout demonstration for The Nineteen that afternoon promised to be brutal – and awesome - as he had hoped it would be. He knew he would love every moment of it. He knew it would almost make up for the confusion and fear he had felt the night before. He would be as strong as a god, sailing through every lift, every rep, every set with strength he didn’t know he had. Almost make up for it. Not quite. But maybe afterwards, he could pose for them? Just a little? In the locker room, alone, and about to go before these crazy huge guys once again, he ruminated. He was, if he admitted it to himself, not a little leery about these guys. After all, he had a big black eye. And just about 12 hours ago, thick, creamy jets of cum had shot from18 firehose cocks and plopped down on him while he lay tangled in a sweaty muscle mass mess with Karim Abdul, both of them with swelling black eyes and bloody noses. Kind of a strange introduction to the world of supreme muscle he had been looking forward to for two years – and had been fantasizing about for far longer. “I wonder what Miles would say,” he thought to himself. He had glanced at his black eye in the mirror in the locker room. It was fully open, not bloodshot, just rimmed with black and blue. Not too bad. Actually, it looked fucking hot. He quickly did a side chest. Bam. Nips high. Rivers of striations. Yeah. Lookin good. He was hot. He knew it, too. Or, rather, was beginning to know it. He found his old sweats, thoughtfully hanging up and waiting for him in a large locker with his name on it, which he assumed was his. He noted that the lockers themselves were almost like storage units, not the shameful, small individual skinny things most gyms had. He looked up, slightly startled. Musclemen Gunst and Obatu were suddenly there at the end of the locker row, waiting for them. At first he barely noticed what they were wearing. But then he saw. “What the fuck?” “You ready?” “Uh. Yeah.” “Let’s go, then.” He stripped down fast, found his old jock in the locker, and grabbing his huge cock and balls, shoveled his heavy machine into the pouch. As always, it sagged heavily, groaning softly from the weight of his manhood. He glanced down the row. Gunst and Obatu were blankfaced. Casey threw his sweats on. “Now?” “…..yeah.” Casey slammed the door and waddled towards them, throwing a bathsheet towel over his broad shoulders. “Let’s go lift.” Gunst and Obatu brought Casey onto the workout floor. All of the musclemen in the squad were in attendance, naturally wanting to see how much weight the pretty muscle boy Casey could handle. After all, he may be huge, and all realized he was pretty fucking strong in the ring. He could move fast, and his mandatory poses last night were impressive. But could the dude lift? Could he train?? Dr. Irving stood by with the video camera, fussily taking his precise notes. And Zaftig was there, of course, hanging back, saying nothing, just watching, watching. And now, at least, Casey could remember the dude’s name. Dr. Zaftig. After all, this was the dude who was going to make him huge. He nodded shyly to him. “Good afternoon, Dr. Zaftig.” “Good afternoon, Casey. Welcome to Valhalla.” “Thank you…” “Let’s get going, Casey,” said Sergeant Moster. “You’re keeping us waiting. Again.” “I’m sorry,” Casey said. Moster frowned. No signs of reaction to all the White Caps swimming around in his bloodstream. There were, inevitably, more moments of muscle awkwardness to be had first. First off, Casey was entirely unprepared for the men’s workout gear. His usual workout clothes fully covered him, a ripped and worn outfit of dirty, sweaty baggies, a sloppy oversized sweatshirt that seemed to have been made for a man of 600 pounds, and full-length sweatpants, ragged and much the worse for wear. Even in these baggies, his bulge loomed heavily, swaying from side to side as he came onto the floor. Moster had changed into his full-dress spotlessly clean green uniform slacks, boots, and a skin-tight regulation t-shirt. His mammoth black muscles gleamed with ferocious power, and his crisp, clinging t-shirt outlined every peak, valley, cut, bulge, thick vein and crevice of his astonishing physique. Casey tried not to stare at him. He was oddly drawn to this black mountain of muscle. “I wanna be as big as you someday,” he said softly to himself. The squad, on the other hand, he nervously noted, were all dressed in White Cap Night Valhalla regulation gym gear: ripped, torn and ragged wife-beaters with muscles bulging every which way. Dripping sweat, muscles red and inflamed, their workouts over. No shorts, Army boots, heavy cable socks, and sweaty, swollen, looming Army-green mesh jocks. Bulging packages protruded, looming cocks, also swaying heavily with each muscleman movement, all around the gym floor. “This is how you guys dress to work out?” asked Casey timidly. Okay, so it was still weird. His question was ignored. There was a lot of barely sheathed bulging heavy duty muscleman dick on this gym floor. His own was more modestly covered. If just as bulging. And just as evident. And no one’s on the floor appeared to be as big as Moster’s. Once again he stared for a moment at the man’s obviously huge, looming penis, outlined clearly in his green trousers. He could see the penis corona, even the deep piss slit through the thick dark khaki fabric. Moster sure wasn’t ashamed of his cock. So maybe Casey shouldn’t be ashamed, either. And what Casey couldn’t know is that the men, just having finished their workouts, were delaying their shower sports. White Caps racing in their bloodstreams. And holding back. Not 10 minutes before Moster had sternly separated Blankenship and Lang from some foreplay, giving each man a quick spanking on their bare bottoms before all the other men. Afterward Alvarez pulled Lang back and eyed him dangerously. There would be words between them tonight. Lang was staring at the floor. Blankenship, of course, was grinning. Toothlessly. “How about starting off with some incline flyes?” said Moster. “You need a warm-up set?” “I wanna stretch first,” said Casey. Miles had always taught him the necessity of proper technique. Light warm-ups were part of that, though once he actually started lifting, what constituted a warm-up for Casey might be a final blasted set for another man. “Always smart.” The men stood watching Casey intently. “Don’t you guys wanna go workout somewhere?” he blurted out. “We’re done,” said Alvarez. “We’re waiting for you.” Abdul was staring at him with undisguised hatred. Tiffany was smiling sweetly, butter not melting in his mouth. Schumacher was blank-faced, and all the scarier for it. The others were intent, if blank-faced. Even Hension, whose thoughts were usually betrayed on his handsome face, wasn’t reacting much. He just was staring. They were all staring. Casey shuffled off to a corner of the Marley mat and began his stretch routine, arms swinging, legs kicking, gentle but firm. The men watched him. “He’s bow-legged!” whispered Hension. Loudly. “Yes, we see that,” said Alvarez, mocking the whisper. “I think that’s so hot….!” Casey heard a resounding smack! echoing through the room. “Ow!” Someone had hit Hension again. Casey, his face turned away, had to smile. Apparently the pretty boy got hit a lot. “Um. This takes 20 minutes,” Casey said. Suddenly he didn’t care what they thought. He was going to stretch. He started torso turns, his hands behind his head. Moster spoke. “Casey, we don’t have all day.” Casey turned back to him and repeated himself firmly. “This takes 20 minutes. I stretch for 20 minutes. If you don’t want to watch, don’t.” And he turned back, cupping his big hands together, continuing his torso turns. Moster smiled slightly. Good. The White Caps had obviously kicked in after all. It seems Casey required more White Caps for an effect, and the societal restrictions weren’t so easily abandoned. But the boy was asserting himself, and quite naturally. Zaftig was suddenly next to Moster. “He’s not so easily bullied,” he whispered. “Not like your other men. You won’t have your way with him so easily.” “You don’t think so?” “No, I don’t.” “Well, we’ll see, then, won’t we?” Zaftig frowned. Clearly, Moster wasn’t concerned about Casey digging in his heels at his first workout, doing it his way, defying the Sergeant. “What do you know?” Zaftig hissed at Moster. Moster, never taking his eyes off the teen muscle giant now doing rapid pushups, turned to Zaftig, laid his cards on the table. “The kid has never been worshipped before. He wants it, he needs it. He needs someone to tell him how amazing he is. And he needs musclesex. Badly. He doesn’t know how much.” “I see. It’s your musclesex thing again. Goddammit, Sergeant. This project is about youth and strength and creating the most fearsome army the planet has ever seen. It’s not about sex. It never was. It was about creating the perfect physical specimen. The most extraordinary physiques the world has ever known.” Moster smiled sardonically. “You’ve forgotten, Dr. Zaftig, or perhaps you never knew. Even when you were a young man. Were you ever young?” Zaftig smiled. “Amazing to consider, isn’t it?” Moster continued. “Everything for men is about sex. And bodybuilders? Even more so. And for these bodybuilders? All that times about 200. 500. All these guys want is to be admired. Worshipped. Sucked off. Felt up. Fuck. And, I might add, get fucked. Train, lift, eat, sleep, shit, fight, suck, get sucked, fuck, train some more, fight some more, fuck some more, suck some more, eat, shit, sleep. And,” he added sweetly, “…that’s about it.” “Fuck you, Sergeant.” But now Zaftig was smiling. He knew there was more to it. Wasn’t there? Moster sighed. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zaftig. But that’s what you’ve created here. Millions of dollars poured into fucking machines. But look at the bright side.” He leaned in. “It’s going to make you millions, as well. All of us.” “I already have millions. I don’t care.” “Well, I don’t, and I do.” “By the way, how did the boy get that black eye?” “Looks pretty hot, don’t it?” “Less than 24 hours in the compound and already someone’s slugged him.” “Don’t look too closely at Abdul or Blankenship.” Zaftig glanced over at Abdul, sporting a shiner of his own, and noted the missing teeth of the blond bomber beauty Blankenship. Zaftig groaned inwardly. Another trip to the dentist. He hated having to take the men off the mountain. But there was a dentist in San Jose who fixed up the men regularly, regular hygiene, capping, replaced teeth, crowns, implants, the works, and charged nothing, content merely with big biceps flexed in his face while he sat in the chair playing with his tiny dentist dick. Then, Moster to Casey, “You about done there, boy?” “No, sir.” “All right, then.” The men were getting restless, shifting from foot to foot, now staring at Zaftig and the ever-cool Moster. Alvarez was the only man on the squad who seemed calm and in control of himself. A fact not unnoticed by Moster. Or Casey, for that matter, now secretly watching all this play out for himself. He was beginning to catch on that there was even more to these big dudes than just training, taking this crazy drug, and spanking their monkeys. “Men, time for some biceps curls,” Moster announced. “All of you go do 15 sets of light reps. 25 reps per set per arm. No ball busting, now. Get to it. No more than 25 pounds. I mean it.” He turned back and smiled at Casey. “We’ll wait until The Boy is ready.” Okay, so he was The Boy again. Zaftig wasn’t done. “In a few months the Joint Chiefs will be here for review. I want Casey ready and I want the men at their sharpest, and no funny business. Intensify their training.” He turned away. “You leaving?” Zaftig turned back. “Hell, no” he smiled. “I want to see my latest boy wipe your men all over the floor. Maybe you’ll listen to me then.” Moster nodded. Inwardly he had to admit he respected Zaftig deeply. The man may have been a puny genius with no body, but he wasn’t dishonest, and he was clearly unafraid of Moster. He had no personal need for muscle worship, and never bothered the men. He was, at the end of the day, a partner Moster could trust, if never take advantage of. He admired that. Moreover, Zaftig had never indicated another other than scientific curiosity about Moster’s treetrunk tool. That was a plus on his side, too. Moster turned to Casey and called out. “Okay, you’re done,” he said, brooking no denial. “What’s your starting weight for inclines?” “Um…..180?” Hension, 20 feet away and now doing the ordered biceps curls, stared at Casey. “Damn!” he squeaked. He put the dumbbell down and scratched his barely covered balls. “180?? To start?” Casey looked away, trying not to notice. That boy certainly was pretty. A perfect face. Without realizing it, Casey licked his lips, staring a little at Hension, who, gawking at the muscle monster, inadvertently smiled back, absently scratching his balls. The exchange did not go unnoticed. Lang nudged Alvarez, who nodded sagely. “180 it is. Let’s see what you got.” Moster strode to the bench, grabbed two 180-pound dumbbells as if they were sacks of feathers, and handed them to Casey. Casey took them without a blink, two sacks of feathers. And so the workout began. One by one, the men re-racked their light weights, approached the bench where the giant Casey lay, ready to lift. Casey’s perfect technique was evident from the start. He smoothly lowered his huge bulk onto an incline bench. He raised his arms into position, the two dumbbells easily held aloft overhead. In no time he reeled off twenty reps of perfectly calibrated incline flyes, then peeling off into overhead presses, gently touching the dumbbells one another, then down to the tips of his big brown nipples, outlined in his oversized sweats. His chest bloomed, rivers of sweaty muscle flowed, the pumped pecs seemed to reach to the ceiling as he pumped. “Pow, pow, pow, pow,” he breathed to himself with each rep. Light stains of pec milk appeared on his sweats. “Wow….” breathed Hension. “Do you see that??” “What’s next?” “Do it again.” “Okay.” He reeled off another set. The men watched him stonily, now all gathered around the bench. More pec milk appeared. “Now?” “Do another.” “Sure.” He did another set. Finishing, he clanged the weights to the floor. “Can I work with something heavy now?” Moster smiled. The White Caps had taken effect. He shot a look over at Zaftig, who merely raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Certainly, boy. Take it to 220.” So he was still Boy. “Anyone have gloves?” “Sure, Case!” Lang reached into his bag and tossed a pair to Casey. Casey smiled a little, hearing Lang call him by the same nickname the cadets down the mountain did. “Thanks.” He caught the gloves and slipped them on. Everyone was watching now. The red light of the video cam continued to blink. Standing next to Lang, Alvarez was blank-faced, but not unapproving. In the corner, Dr. Zaftig now had his head tilted back, musing. This boy will go the limit, he thought. No matter what Moster says about what the men really want. This boy is different. He’s pure muscle, and nothing else. No, that was not right. He was muscle, cock, and butt. This boy would be worth millions. And very, very soon. An uncommon sex machine of the first power. Innocent Casey, unaware of the plans being made around him, rose, took the two 180 pound dumbbells, and re-racked them, two sacks of feathers back to the their featherbed. He strode down the line and grabbed two 220s, returned to the incline, lowered his bulk, and reeled off another set of 20 reps, grunting loudly and blowing out air with each rep. More milk flecks appeared on his shirt. He blew sweat and spit, began to groan mightily. “ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh….” When he was finished he set the dumbbells down gently on the marley floor, and looked up at Moster. Absently he wiped the milk away from his nipples with thumb and forefinger. “Nicely done, boy,” said Moster. He spoke loudly to the group. “Notice that Casey does not drop the weights.” He looked pointedly at Jin, who was famous for throwing the weights to the floor after the punishing final set of any lift he did, excepting squats – where he re-racked as noisily as possible, all while screaming. Jin looked back, defiant. “Why do you do it that way, boy?” Casey shrugged. “Way that Miles taught me, I guess. It’s harder.” “Miles?” “Miles Donovan, Raw Weight Gym.” So that was it, thought Gunst. Miles Donovan. He should have known. Donovan was a biceps freak, and hosted many others in his gym, taking their pay-offs for private posing from men who liked to blast big guns in the faces of the hapless, endlessly paying schmoes. No doubt Casey had been a major revenue stream for the notorious Donovan gym, he reasoned to himself. Of course he had to have huge guns. Miles would have seen to it. Blankenship grinned, a front tooth missing and looking all the hotter for it. “Yeah, makes sense, he came from that old horn dog Donovan’s gym. You worked out on the 3rd floor yet?” Casey looked at Blankenship a little blankly. “Um. No.” Obatu spoke up. “Casey is still too young and green for the 3rd floor. Besides, he has been training at the cadet gym down the mountain for the last several months. Haven’t you, Casey?” “Yeah, I guess. What’s next?” “You flat bench?” “Sure. How much weight?” “Let’s see what you can do.” The squad backed away a little as Casey, gripping each elbow and stretching his arms over his head, walked towards a row of flat benches. Gunst despaired a little. He was wrong. Casey wasn’t posing and being paid for it at Donovan’s. Which meant he’d built those mountainous biceps on his own. “Lose the shirt!” squawked Hension. “I want to see your nips milk!” “’Kay,” said Casey. He stopped, slipping out of his sweatshirt, folding it up carefully. Underneath he wore a baggy green t-shirt, which may probably have been at one time a pup tent. “My nipples always make a little milk when I train,” he explained. “See?” He reached under his soaked t-shirt to a nipple, gathered some white liquid, held out a finger dripping with milk droplets. “But it looks like I’m making a little more today.” In spite of himself, Moster was touched by Casey’s innocent neatness with his sweatshirt. And his explanation. “T-shirt too,” said Waring. “Not yet,” said Casey. Moster’s eyebrow raised a little. He glanced over at Zaftig, who nodded. Good. Good. It was all good. The White Caps were claiming his ego. Casey was showing signs he could stand up on his own. “Load up a starting weight of 360 pounds,” directed Moster. “You can handle 300, can’t you, Casey?” “Sure, easy.” Casey laid his bulk down on the flat bench while Waring and Lang placed eight 45-pound plates on either end of the bar. He began to suck in air in preparation. “Hey, can someone wrap my elbows?” he suddenly asked. “Sure. Washington, grab some heavy wraps for Cadet Rockland. Get to it. The man has to lift.” He lifted the bar off the bench and began to bench, pumping his enormous pecs. Now he was working his hardest. He was now more determined than ever to fit in with these huge men. He was going to show them now. The workout continued. Flat bench, declines, more flyes. All pecs stuff. More milk. Throughout the workout Hension, Lang, Jin, Bogarde, Washington, Meyer, Waring, Duncan, Chad, and Corporal Blankenship were cheerful and approving. They howled their encouragement and counted the reps. “10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!" Throw the weights, Casey!” "Okay to throw them?" Casey asked Moster, holding 600 pounds aloft, just about to bring it down to his milky nipples. He was calm. "If the men want. This time. Throw it when you're done." "Okay." He finished pumping, and instead of reracking... Clang! Casey threw the weight on the floor, sat up, grabbed the plastic bottle and chugged a half-gallon of water. Water poured from the side of his mouth onto his shirt. The men whooped and hollered. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and strode forcefully to the next weight. Immediately the men were counting again. “10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!” Clang! Wipe. “YEAHHHH….!” And on it went for 45 minutes of grueling, punishing lifting. Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, LeFevre, and Alvarez and Private McIntyre seemed more reserved. Corporal Abdul just grunted. But he was impressed, in spite of himself. The boy was training harder than he had ever seen. His muscles were blooming, seeming to grow as he watched. Gunst was quiet and watchful. Zaftig was beaming with professional pride. Moster remained aloof and keenly observant. And all the while, Dr. Irving followed every move with the video cam. The cocksure little Private Joe Tiffany cheered him on just as loudly. Casey pretended not to see the evil glint in the muscleboy’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it. He’d learned at the Home how to read signals. The Home…..hmmm. A memory appeared dimly, and, just as quickly, was gone. While resting between two punishing sets, Casey was still silently agog at the size of Moster’s muscles. Occasionally he found himself staring at the improbably large mound resting atop his CO’s left quad. The tip of the mound reached to just above the giant’s knee. He noted the other men seemed to be avoiding looking directly at Moster’s leg. Even though they all seemed to be sporting packages of similar size. Damn, their dicks are big, Casey thought. Are they real? And deep inside Casey, a little voice proudly squeaked…..”Wait until they see MINE…” Then he remembered – …..oh yeah.... They’d already seen it. And he had seen theirs, too. Sorta. Between his half-closed black eye. His hand went up, and he rubbed the black eye. Looked at Abdul, and his black eye. Adbul was smiling a little now. Not friendly, but hard - but still, a smile. Casey grinned wearily as he finally finished up with the last set of triceps pulldowns. Private Meyer, a big toothy grinning lighting up his handsome, beaming face, burst forward from the group, and pumped the newcomer’s hand. “Thanks,” said Casey. Meyer nodded enthusiastically. “He can’t hear you,” said Private Waring. Casey looked at Meyer, stricken for having forgotten that Meyer was a deaf mute. “It’s okay, he doesn’t mind.” Casey, touched, shook Meyer’s hand vigorously. Meyer shook his head cheerfully, touching his lips, and shrugged his shoulders to show that indeed he didn’t care that he couldn’t speak. Then he stepped back and proudly flexed his own powerful, round right biceps, smacking them with his left hand, and reached down to grab Casey’s wrists. He pulled his arms up encouragingly and Casey, getting the message, proudly brought his huge guns up and flexed mightily. “Mother fucker!” yelled Lang and Hension simultaneously. The men roared with laughter, and Casey colored a deep red, smiling sheepishly. Alvarez clamped that affectionate paw of his around Lang’s shoulders and hugged him close. But he looked worried. Something was on his mind. Behind them Hension eyed them both steadily, with longing. Meyer kept his hands on Casey’s obliques as if he was rotating his upper body for all to see. “It’s okay, plebe,” said Jin, laughing. “You’ll get to know us all.” While all through the devastating workout he had been stronger than he could ever remember, now he felt – well, almost frail – as if something, suddenly, was missing. “All right, men,” said Moster calmly. “Rec room in 15 minutes. Casey, shower up.” “Yes, sir.” “Men, file out. Casey, come here a moment first.” He glanced at the men, who leaned in, curious as to what Moster might be saying. “Well, Cadet Casey, it looks as if you’ve made it.” Moster spoke quietly. Casey looked up at him, and grinned wearily. “Thanks, Sergeant Moster.” The men gave him a round of applause, Casey noted that even Corporal Schumacher seemed to approve. He lowered his head, modestly grateful. Then Moster turned back to the group. They were still applauding. Casey was embarrassed, turning to go. He didn’t see Moster’s stone face shift into a slight smile. “Men, get dressed. Shower up. No play time. Get to it. I expect you all in uniform, neat and clean, in the rec room, in 10 minutes. Hop to it. Get a move on.” Then, to Casey, “Casey, use my private locker room to shower.” He pointed to a door across the floor. “You’ll find clean sweats in there. They’ll fit. Grab them after you shower. And no jerking off, boy.” Casey, embarrassed that Moster seemed to be reading his mind, nodded dumbly and headed to the door. He was worried again. He had only masturbated once today so far, and on a day like today, he needed a lot more….especially after that worship session with the cadets this morning. He was discovering….something….and his huge cock wanted to know more. But he went, dutifully, into the private locker room, showered, and changed into the clean sweats he found there. Before he left, he checked his guns and his pecs in the full length mirror. Flexing, he breathed to himself. “Damn. I’m fucking awesome.” And with the capsules still not in apparent full-force effect, dressed in baggy trunks and a clean, white light tee, he stumbled his way to the rec room. For what, he couldn’t tell. Probably more weirdness. But now, he was ready. Dr. Irving was there ahead of them all. He had set up chairs for all the bodybuilders in a semi-circle, with the inevitable video cam set up. There was a chair in the center, obviously meant for him. He glanced over at Moster, who nodded and gestured towards the chair. Casey waddled with his bodybuilder’s walk towards it slowly and sat. He looked around with anticipation. “So now what?” he asked. Zaftig took Moster aside. “This boy is gentle. We don’t want to break his spirit. He’s had a tough time and he just wants to make friends. Go easy on him.” Moster’s shoulders stiffened. The veins in his neck popped a little. He looked Zaftig dead in the eye, and said, “Being sweet to him now will kill him later. Is that what you want?” “No.” “Then let me handle it. I know what is best.” “Did you at least give him a capsule?” “Sure,” answered Moster. “He’ll be just fine.” “Doesn’t seem to have taken effect yet.” “He’s a big boy. Blood volume and all. It takes time.” “Fuck you, Moster.” Moster’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he knew not to protest. Zaftig was properly proud of his discovery. “You know fucking well that White Caps P-21 take effect immediately regardless of ‘blood volume’, if you want to put it that way.” “Dr. Zaftig, it’s my turn now.” “It’s always your turn.” Zaftig turned on his heel and left the rec room without further comment. Moster watched him go. The men were sitting impatiently. “All right, men. Let’s get to it.” He turned to Casey. “All right, Casey. Welcome. You’re one of the group now. We’re now….The Twenty.” “Yeah, baby!” “Bout fucking time.” “Tell him what that really means….” said Alvarez. “Spank him!” yelled Hension, and then, before Chad, sitting next to him, could swat him, he said, “Don’t you fucking hit me!” Chad did anyway. “Ow!” yelled Hension. Casey chuckled. “That’s gotta hurt. These dudes seem to hit you a lot.” “You will too, in time,” said Waring. “What did …he….”….um…” “Alvarez,” said Alvarez. “What did Alvarez – sorry – mean – when he said “tell him what that really means?” Silence. Casey continued. “I mean, what does it mean to be one of The Twenty?” Moster smiled. “Yes, let’s talk about that, Casey. Men, why don’t we show Casey what it’s all about?” Then he paused a moment. Casey wasn't reacting. He was just sitting quietly, albeit with great body tension. His muscles were hugely pumped, and Moster could see the fabric shifting as Casey's enormous cock began to uncoil in his sweats. Soon he would be hard. But the boy wasn't moving. Odd. Quietly, he asked, leaning in, “Casey, level with me.” He looked the teen in the eye. Casey couldn’t look away. Inwardly he was stammering. He was looking at Moster's crotch. “No, look me in the eye. Look up. Not down there. Up. How many White Caps have you taken?” “White Caps?” “The capsules. The pills. How many?” He gazed at him levelly. A pause. “Four, I think. Five?” He shrugged, weakly. "i don't remember." "Where did you get them? I gave you one...." "Uh..." Casey didn't want to indict the men on his first day. Weirdness notwithstanding. “Never mind. I can guess." Moster looked back at the group, all standing still, attentive, neatly dressed in their uniforms. And every cock seeming at attention, poling out hugely in their khakis. The men were ready to play. Past ready. Mmmmm. Not much effect on Casey, though, for 5 White Caps. A few moments of assertiveness and a powerful workout, but…..not much. "Are you feeling anything…unusual?” “Well….” Casey paused and looked away. He found himself staring at the men and their looming erections. Jesus. Here it came. Strong societal blockers, Moster thought. "Do you want to have sex? Like now?" No answer. Casey just stared at the cocks in the room. The men were deadly quiet. Then it hit Moster. Of course. “Casey, are you hypoglycemic?” Not so much to his surprise, even the dimwitted Casey knew exactly what that meant. Still staring the the men's rocket crotches, he spoke softly. “......I need oranges or candy bars sometimes.....” “They told you this when you were growing up?” “They told me in the Boys Home. My blood sugar. I have problems.” Of course. That was it. It happened sometimes. He reminded himself he had to mention it to Zaftig. It was the same for Obatu when he first checked in, and then, years later, for Eli Meyer. Since Meyer could neither speak nor hear and his sign language didn't encompass the subject of hypoglycemia, it took them a few days to realize that a cup of chocolate milk worked wonders on the tight glutes of the hot little muscle fuckee Meyer. Give the boy some cocoa and he'd take massive tool after tool up his butt for hours. He called over his shoulder. “Dr. Irving, please step into my office and get an orange. You’ll find a bowl of fruit on my conference table.” He turned back to Casey and smiled a little. “It’ll be just a moment. Then we’ll tell you what The Twenty is all about.” Irving left the room, used to being invisible except when ordered about. Moster stood up, in front of Casey. "It will only be a minute now." The men, behind him, were now pawing the floor like racehorses, ready to rock and roll. Casey, sitting, was now eye-to-crotch to Moster, in front of him. He stared openly at Moster’s enormous bulge in the fly of his uniform khakis, a thick pylon of sheathed cock snaking heavily along the edge of huge quad muscle, and gulped, looking up. Though Moster was the only man in the room without an erection, his penis yet appeared to be the biggest. “Yes, sir,” he stammered. And stared again. His heart was pounding. Moster put a hand on Casey’s beefy shoulder, kneading his fingers slightly into the thick muscle. “Hang on. It won’t be long now.” He turned to the men behind him. “Men? Drop trou.” Zippers unzipped, belts slipped out of belt loops and went to the floor, as the 18 bodybuilders – even Abdul – dropped their uniform slacks to their ankles. Pants down. Around the room. Now all the men were in micro posers. Those massive bulges were unleashed. Looming, heavy, hard, all already pointing straight out. Their cocks almost fully exposed except for the bulging, straining fabric barely covering cockheads. Some of the posers were ready to snap. Casey stared at them all. "Wow...." he breathed. "Men why don't you do some posing for Casey? You've seen his muscles. I don't think he's had the opportunity to see yours." "You, too, Sergeant," said Abdul. Moster looked at him. He paused. "All right, then." He unbuttoned his bulging dress shirt and slipped it off. Casey could almost imagine he could hear the groan of relief of the fabric, suddenly relieved of the need to stretch over the man's massive muscles. But he wasn't prepared for the massive musculature of Moster. Cocks and balls bulged forth, each man spilling half a foot of visible cock into barely sheathed pouches. Casey felt a dribble of precum shooting in his posers. “Arms behind backs!” barked Moster, clearly now the leader of the group. He turned to Casey and became one with his men. The Nineteen placed their hands behind their lower backs. “Spread legs!” All spread their legs wide, shooting their right legs out in choreographed unison. “Prepare!” Fists clenched, crammed in solid obliques. “Front double biceps!” All arms slowly rose. And 40 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 Casey. He fumbled with his crotch a moment. His head was spinning. The lineup of 19 men stood before him, all flexing with massive front double biceps power. The black muscle god brought his arms down strode slowly across the room back to Casey. As he moved, his half-covered organ swayed heavily from side to side in his posing pouch. Behind him, the lineup of men continued to flex without wavering. He stood next to Casey, and impossibly, appeared to tower over even him. Dr. Irving returned with the orange. “Chow down on this, Casey,” said Moster as Irving handed it to him wordlessly. "Men, drop the biceps pose." The men relaxed. Hension snickered. "Yeah, chow down, Casey." Then, warning Chad...."Don't you hit me...." “Dr. Irving, would you get back to your camera, please?” Dr. Irving went back to the video cam, checking his clipboard, and began to tape. The men circled around Casey as he took a big bite out of the orange, and then another, and then another. A moment passed. Casey began to flush, a deep crimson red – and then, just as quickly – the flush faded. He looked up at Moster, and smiled. Broadly. “I’m fine now,” he said. “Casey,” asked Moster evenly, “have you ever sucked cock before?” “No, sir.” “Would you like to?” “Yes, sir. I think I would.” Snap! Snap! Gunst's and Blankenship's posers snapped. Their cocks bloomed free, swaying heavily, ready for service. Gunst stepped forward, but Blankenship elbowed him heavily out of the way. Gunst looked at him threateningly, raised his fist, ready to punch face. Moster stood back. "Easy, men. There's time for everyone. Who should he start with?” he asked the group. “I think he starts with ME,” said Abdul, striding forward, his hands on the straps of his bulging posers. The 14 inch shaft was fully exposed, the tendrils of Abdul's thick pubic hair shining in the rec room light. “Fine with me,” Casey said, still smiling. “How do I do this?” “Don’t worry. It’ll come naturally. Just let it happen.” Abdul took his position in front of Casey and pushed out his powerful hips. As Casey leaned in, Abdul roughly cupped the back of the teen’s head, and pulled him in close. "Get to work, boy..." Casey open his mouth. Wide. "Sorry about last night, " he said up to Abdul, who loomed over him, taking his mammoth cock out of his posers and aiming it. "Wider," said Abdul. "Can I pose for you guys later?" Casey asked. "Sure thing!" squeaked Hension. Smack!! "Ow! What did I say??" "I said OPEN WIDER," commanded Abdul. "Sure thing," said Casey. He opened his mouth wider. "Let's go." And so.... it began. **** Want to read "The Twenty" from the start? 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 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets
  2. 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 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets Chapter 17: The Presentation February 10th, 2018 2000 Hours “Rose, dim the lights, and please – please leave us alone. Lock the auditorium doors behind you when you leave so we won’t be disturbed. Does everything have everything they need? Wi-Fi connection good? And Rose….tell Dr. Irving to bring the men upstairs to the lab. We’ll be ready for them in about 30 minutes.” A crisp response in the affirmative. The auditorium lights dimmed. There was a tapping of sensible heels, and the double doors at the back of the Valhalla Laboratories Assembly Hall opened and shut quietly. The lock clicked. Dr. Ira Zaftig cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and looked out serenely at his audience. He clicked his remote. The screen lit up, the light spilling out into the chrome and concrete bunker auditorium. “Are we ready, Gentlemen? Good evening. Welcome to Valhalla Labs.” The Valhalla logo glowed on the 20’ screen. Zaftig’s calm voice echoed darkly into the far regions of the room. “Gentlemen, I know you’ve had a long day. Flying in from Washington, checking into your quarters, touring the facility grounds, and now, after that splendid dinner, I know you’re curious to see the results of our mutual contract with the United States military and the Joint Chiefs. The unveiling, in fact, of our great 15-year initiative.” The five Officers in the front row murmured quietly. Out of courtesy, one or two nodded. Admiral Walrus, the Joint Chief Chair and Committee head, was seated dead center. He said nothing. He waited. Well behind the officers in the half-light sat a row of junior officers and young aides in attendance to the brass. “We here at Valhalla Labs know that we have achieved stunning success. We’re proud to be able to share it with you tonight.” Zaftig spoke easily, confidently. He clicked the remote again, and the first slide came into view. In their swivel chairs, the five Pentagon Officers sat back and turned their attention to the image on the screen. And then they stared. “Jesus, Zaftig, what the hell is this?” demanded Admiral Walrus. “Gentlemen, I give you Prototype 1-A of Project Herculaneum, Specimen Casey: Mr. Casey Rockland.” The image of an impossibly huge, muscled behemoth of a young man was on the screen, presented in four views: front, left, right, and rear. He was squared-jawed, thick-necked, blue-eyed, and handsome, with a deeply cleft chin and full, luscious lips. His arms hung at his side, and his legs were spread confidently well apart. His gaze was centered straight ahead, his jaw set firm with business-like grimness, his head erect. His waist was impossibly slender, given the mass above and below, perhaps 29 inches. His cobblestone abs rippled insanely. His posture was that of a classic anatomy chart. Every vein, every muscle appeared to pulse right off the screen. The young man was clean-shaven. He had a short blond military crew cut, but his eyebrows were thick, dark black, and lustrous. The left brow was slightly elevated with cocky arrogance. His face set him at about 19 years, but the muscle density of his enormous physique made it difficult to precisely age him. Seated in the dark behind the officers, Ensign Sam Victor, Admiral Walrus’ coolly handsome young personal aide de camp, looked evenly up at the screen and took in the image of the young muscleman with cool calm. The muscle boy’s skin – for he was, with his angelic face, little more than a boy, at least in years - was shrink-wrapped over the most astonishing display of musculature Sam had ever seen. Every muscle group, every vein, every cut, every separation stood prominently sculpted, in separate relief from the adjacent muscle group. He wore only the briefest of posing trunks, which sagged deeply to expose the gently curving, then plummeting, upper 6 inches of his tawny-colored, vein-lined penis. His oversized ball sac bulged ferociously in the heavy pouch. The Joints Chiefs were stunned. In the front-view image on the far left, subject Casey Rockland displayed hugely rounded, shining, mountainous pectoral muscles, gleaming with powerful deep furrows of striations, punctuated with thick dark brown, 3-inch sand dollar-sized nipples, poutily pointing downward. His broad shoulders, thick powerful traps and heavy delts looked as if the boy could easily carry a 600 pound bull around a corral. His lats spread almost horizontally behind him like the outspread wings of an eagle. The mighty 3-headed biceps were triple slabs of muscle on each arm, huge beyond all reasoning, the forearms laced with networks of half and quarter-inch iron thick veins. The boy held his enormous hands at his sides, his heavy fingers and thick thumbs crooked slyly inward towards his bulging crotch. Smokestack quads rippled and burst with muscle, and he was supported by a set of calves that ballooned behind him. His feet were enormous, with large thick toes and perfectly groomed nails. His tanned skin glowed with health. Sam assumed the subject’s teeth were probably perfect, too, but for the moment his gaze was leveled just below Casey’ rippling midsection. Well, well, he thought. Let’s just look you over, now. Just who are you, buddy? Superman? Captain America? Tiny Yokum? Johnny Holmes? Naw. This was no cartoon character. No porn star. But no superfreak that Sam had ever encountered before – and he had known many – could boast the cock this boy had. Between his legs in the front view hung a monster penis, less than half covered by the straining, flimsy Spandex posing trunks. The top half of Casey’s shaft was plainly visible. The trunks loomed heavily with the outlined round bulge and piss slit of his cock head. The generals were now murmuring loudly in shocked disapproval. Admiral Walrus just sat and stared. Behind them in the darkness, most of the aides and junior officers avoided one another’s glances. A few men gazed meekly down into their laps, looking up only furtively with appreciative eyes. A few stared outright. “This specimen, gentlemen,” intoned Zaftig’s voice out of the dark, “or, if you prefer, Private 1st Class Casey Rockland, is at present only one the world’s most perfectly-developed men. There are, of course, 19 other specimens.” Sam let out a low whistle. Ensign Tyler, to his immediate left, caught it. “There are 20 of these dudes?” Sam murmured to Tyler. “There’s a challenge for you, Sam. Never known you to turn your back on a challenge.” Tyler responded. “Shut the fuck up, Tyler, or no play time later.” Tyler smiled sardonically but said no more. Sam leaned back to enjoy the view. His brought his big hands behind his head, and leaned back in his seat to contemplate. He focused on the image of Casey’s crotch and allowed himself to dream, if just a little. Casey’s testicles bulged heavy and full in the sac of white Spandex, and the top quarter of the shaft of the penis spilled out and curved visibly downward before being enmeshed in the barely restraining pouch. The cock appeared flaccid, but no matter: the thickness was like tube of a flashlight, and the cock head bulged and pointed down with insistent heaviness. Under the thin sheath of Spandex, Sam could make out the long, curling, resting shaft, the rim of the bulbous cock head, the bulging cock head itself, the inviting piss slit, and the 2-softball scrotum. Curled tufts of iron black pubic hair spilled out from beneath the poser’s tightly hemmed edges. The poser straps strained mid-hips, threatening to burst from the weight. In the left and right side views, thick horseshoe triceps rippled along the battlefield-ready arms, their huge round sweep arcing backward. His pecs bloomed mightily, those taut brown nipples still tantalizingly pointing down. Lower, brick-like washboard abdominal muscles tapered into that impossibly slender yet powerful, vascular waistline. His obliques curved up and outward with menacing power. The roundness of the hard butt and the sweep of Casey’s hamstrings jutted past the back of the line of his head. In the rear view, his deltoids upended mightily blending into mountainous traps, soaring into a thick network of back muscle. His legs were spread wide. Two tight globes of thick, oblong gluteus muscle curved below a rock-solid butt shelf of power. His rocky butt glistened with sweat and oil: a blissfully full, solid, fatless furnace of power. Each splendidly ripped butt cheek appeared to be glancing slightly to the side, barely opening the center spread. Mr. Rockland’s poser was as inadequate going as it was coming, and unable to hide the deep red cherry butthole, which glowed invitingly around the right edge of the tight thin strap that traveled and sank into deep, darkened buttcrack. Below, the exponentially huge, shaped and separated hamstrings exploded, supported by freaky split calf muscles. Get a grip, Victor, Sam thought to himself. It’s just a picture. In his loose white Navy uniform slacks, Sam felt his own cock twitch longingly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and reaching down surreptitiously beneath his regulation belt, his slipped his hand into his rapidly knotting underwear. He rearranged his package. Next to him, Tyler was doing the same thing. They caught each other’s eyes, and in spite of themselves had to suppress immediate blasts of explosive mirth. “Quiet, back there!” barked Walrus. Then: “We came here tonight to see a fucking muscleman?” he said dangerously to Zaftig. Tyler was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing, and Sam busied himself with his laptop, seemingly taking serious notes. Lucky he thought to bring it, he mused. It was covering a fierce erection, now pushing protestingly out of his tight uniform trousers. “I think you’ll find all the men interesting, Admiral Walrus. This specimen, Casey Rockland is 19 years old. He is 6’- 7” tall,” said Zaftig, now in full control. “He weighs 335 pounds. Casey was enrolled in the project formally only a few months ago, when he was just 18. Already he has made extraordinary gains.” Sam noted that the men on either side of him seemed to be breathing more heavily. His cock stirred heavily in his pants, and Tyler was still fooling around with something in his lap. He glanced down the line. Even in the half-light of auditorium he could see that all of the men were beginning to sprout fierce trouser trouts. Even the straight men. “Hmmm,” he thought to himself. “I wonder…” Zaftig continued. “Casey has 1.5% bodyfat. He’s in splendid health, his heart very slightly enlarged perhaps, but his blood pressure holds at an even 130/80. Casey’s lungs are clear. To our knowledge, he has never in his life smoked a cigarette. He can run almost 30 miles per hour for 2 to 3 hours at a stretch. He bench-presses 800 pounds, and can easily perform single arm curls at 160 pounds. He squats easily with 500 pounds, and has been known to do deadlifts of 600 pounds in a set of 25 repetitions.” Zaftig coughed modestly. “Casey is also an accomplished gymnast, and can hold an iron cross on the rings without moving for 5 minutes. His extreme flexibility enables him to land from a flying dismount into a full 180 degree split.” Baby, breathed Sam to himself. Come to daddy. He licked his lips just a little. Tyler was taking short, shallow breaths, as if he was hyperventilating. “Calm down,” Sam chuckled to Tyler, who was trying in vain to appear neutral. Tyler elbowed him sharply. “You calm down…” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. Sam smiled and ignored him. “Go, man, go!” came a breathless voice from down at the end of the row. Clearly Sam and Tyler weren’t the only men excited by what they were seeing. Zaftig clicked his remote. A new slide appeared with Casey holding a front double biceps pose. “Casey has 26 inch biceps,” Zaftig continued. “His waistline measures 30” after a heavy meal. His quadriceps are 32 inches, and his chest, when expanded, measures a rather staggering 69 inches. His calves and his forearms are, respectively, 20 inches and 25 inches.” Yes, I was going to ask about Casey’s dimensions, Sam thought wickedly. He glanced right and left and observed his colleagues were probably wondering, with various degrees of personal interest, the same thing. “He eats 8 times a day, about 15,000 calories daily, a special diet of lean meat protein, clean animal fat, and low carbs. He drinks between 5 to 8 gallons of water during the course of a normal day. He trains 4 days a week, and the other three days he is required to remain at full body rest and in meditation, so that his body may fully recover and continue the growth process. His workouts are not shade less than brutal. Still, we are very careful not to overtrain any of the men, but because of Casey’s particular passion for heavy bodybuilding, in his case, we have to be unusually strict and watchful. He’d be in the gym day and night if we allowed it. Fortunately, over the years, we’ve learned better.” “I’ll bet you have,” thought Sam. “Casey’s also a black belt in karate and could be a champion extreme fighter – that is, if I ever let him out of the lab.” Zaftig smiled devilishly. “He has a mean left hook,” he added. “He can knock a 250 pound man unconscious with a single punch. His vision far better than 20/5 – what you can see at 5 feet, he can see at 20. Casey doesn’t drink or do drugs. And he has never in the three years we have worked with him here at Valhalla had so much as a gram of processed sugar. In short, gentlemen, Casey Rockland is a perfectly-developed male specimen.” One of the 1-star generals on the Committee blurted out. “Doesn’t do drugs,” General Needling echoed, as if appalled. “That’s a steroided physique if I ever I saw one!” he shouted. Walrus frowned. Another officer, General Wampum, added his harsh agreement. “He’s Ahhh-nold,” came a deep voice from somewhere in the junior officer row. “I’ll beeee beck.” Some chuckles, immediately silenced when Walrus, without turning around, sharply lifted an index finger to one ear. The men were clearly covering their growing excitement with feeble jokes. Zaftig continued. “On the contrary, gentlemen, there are no contraband controlled substances anywhere in Casey’s bloodstream. He’d test negative for any drug. No growth hormone, no insulin, no pain blockers. Nothing synthetic. I assure you there have never been any sort of street drug protocols at any time in Casey’s extraordinary development. Casey receives nightly injections of P-21, Valhalla Labs patented muscle-building enzyme, painstakingly developed by our technicians a decade ago, and unavailable to the general public. All of Project Herculaneum’s subjects receive nightly injections. There are no negative side-effects of any kind to P-21.” He paused for effect. “And it is not a steroid.” Zaftig let that sink in. Admiral Walrus snorted. He didn’t believe a word of this crap. He’d had enough, and the meeting wasn’t 3 minutes old. “What the hell are you talking about, Zaftig?” demanded Walrus. “Is this how you’ve been spending your Pentagon contract? Is this what you’ve brought us across the country from D.C. to see? A muscleman?! Some gym freak? Goddamn it, man!” “Admiral Walrus, sir, “ said Zaftig, his voice lowered to easy familiarity, “let’s just look at the facts. Casey Rockland is no ‘gym freak.’ He’s not simply “a muscleman.” Casey is the result of years of pain-staking research, protocols, hard-core training, and delicate systemic honing. He and the other 19 men we are presenting to you tonight are uniquely developed physically perfect beings. They are trained to exert control in all situations, and to follow orders to the letter. To the letter, I might repeat.” I can think of a few orders I could issue, thought Sam, shifting in his seat. Once again, his twitching cock was beginning to bind in his shorts. He mused if such wishful thinking might indeed have a payoff. The Generals murmured in low tones to Walrus, who nodded fiercely. “He looks – what did you call it?” Needling whispered again to Walrus. “He looks Photoshopped! How do we know this is real? No man looks like this!” Zaftig turned and faced the group. “Gentlemen, I assure you, there’s no trickery here,” he confided with a touch of theatricality. “Zaftig, this is a waste of our time.” Walrus started to get up as if to leave. The other officers stirred, hesitating. Zaftig resumed pacing. “Gentlemen, I confess, I’m disappointed. In fact, I’m speechless. You think this is all pure speculation?” He gestured at the figure on the screen. “Theory? Scientifically uncertain? Wish fulfillment, perhaps? Photoshop?” He paused for effect, and turned to a tall, lanky, owl-like man hovering at the end of the first row. “Dr. Shaft? Perhaps you might confirm to the Admiral…..?” He waited smugly. The Joint Chiefs personal physician, Dr. Shaft, was invariably called in as a paid expert on any matter remotely medical, for which service he balanced his time between coasts, living half his life with his annoying socialite wife of 35 years in an impressive Chevy Chase McMansion near the Washington, D.C. beltway, the other in a smaller, more secluded ocean-front home off the Pacific Palisades. Shaft had remained silent and withdrawn up to now. He turned meekly to Admiral Walrus, cleared his throat and spoke nervously. “Admiral Walrus….requesting your indulgence, sir, but Dr. Zaftig is quite correct. Casey – and the other 19 muscle specimens – does indeed exist. And his specifications and dimensions are just as Dr. Zaftig is presenting them to be tonight.” Walrus grunted. “After all, Admiral Walrus,” said Zaftig smoothly, “Dr. Shaft is your own representative in Project Herculaneum.” “And they’re all living here in this compound?” he demanded. “Now? Tonight?” “Yes, sir. They’re all in residence here at Valhalla Labs. You can see them for yourself in a few minutes, if you wish. In fact, we have planned on it.” A moment passed. Walrus resumed. “Get on with it, then,” he muttered. “It’s a waste of my time, but get on with it.” He snorted. “Admiral Walrus, sir,” said Dr. Shaft, placating him with superior charm. “Dr. Zaftig and the team at Valhalla are indeed introducing a species of super-beings. I have had the opportunity to personally review them myself in the not-too-distant past.” For years, Dr. Shaft had upon occasion enjoyed the discreet company of out of town young male visitors from Venice, California in his West Coast home, whose ‘careers’ on the bodybuilding competition stage he had generously funded. When Zaftig’s informant, one retired pro bodybuilder by the name of Miles Donovan, revealed Shaft’s little secret, Zaftig knew he had an ally, if an unwilling one, amongst the Joint Chiefs. He’d played his cards right, and covertly brought Shaft in months before for an unofficial unveiling. Shaft had been stunned into fawning speechlessness, and gratefully accepted a deal in exchange for support. Zaftig found the man useful but repugnant. And now - review the men? Is that what he calls it? “Let’s not exaggerate, Dr. Shaft. I haven’t created a species. After all, I’m not Victor Frankenstein,” Zaftig said humorously. “Aren’t you?” asked Dr. Shaft. “Who are they? Where did they come from?” asked General Wampum, glaring at Shaft. “They all came to me on their own at different times during the last 18 years,” replied Dr. Zaftig. “On their own, they were already splendid specimens, ranging in age from 18 to 40. Though I searched them all out personally, no one was recruited. Moreover, their dedication to this project is unquestioned.” Zaftig’s audience began to murmur. “This is crazy,” said Wampum. “Crazy?” Zaftig responded, his voice raising. “Crazy, you say? I assure you, General Wampum, these men are real and at the height of their development.” The officers all seemed to speak at once. “Perhaps, to satisfy your doubts, I might pause and take some of your questions now.” “They’re volunteers?” “Are they soldiers or civilians?” “What are their backgrounds?” “How about their general health? Are they medical freaks?” “Are they even Americans?” Walrus demanded to know. “Are they even human?” asked Wampum. “Dr. Zaftig, I have a question.” Sam raised his hand. Walrus half turned, but nodded, permitting the question. Ensign Victor may look like just a pretty boy, but he has brains and guts, Walrus thought. His gesture silenced the group, and he allowed the Ensign the floor with a slight nod of his head. “You haven’t mentioned I.Q. How sharp is Casey’s intellect?” For the first time so far that evening, Zaftig seemed to hesitate. He recovered instantly, but Sam caught momentary crack in the façade. “Casey has the normal requirements of intelligence for a gifted soldier,” he answered. Aha. “This man’s a soldier? He’s enlisted in the US Army?” demanded Admiral Walrus. General Wampum preened a little. “Casey Rockland holds the rank of Private 1st Class in the US Army,” repeated Zaftig, but offered no more information. “Dammit, Wampum, why didn’t you know this?” Walrus demanded. General Wampum stopped preening and slumped in his seat. General Needling came to his defense. “We didn’t know any more about this than you did, Walrus,” he growled. Zaftig turned back to the image of flexing Casey, resuming his presentation as if nothing had happened. He brought his pointer up, lightly touching the tip to the biceps of the left arm. “Note the triple biceps head,” he continued. “The unusually separated deltoids, and the dynamically thick trapezius muscles.” His pointer lightly tapped each muscle group as he spoke. “You see the unusually dense vascularity. Also, pay special attention to Casey’s thin skin. Men with this low bodyfat are often cold, their own bodies incapable of supplying sufficient heat, and their skin can be fragile. Casey is never cold. His metabolism prevents it. And his skin is as tough as rawhide.” I’ll just bet, thought Sam. Zaftig clicked through a series of images showing Casey stripped down in different posing straps, in a various array of training room shots and routines. He lingered on a final image of Casey in a deep leg squat, a barbell of several hundred pounds weight resting easily on his shoulders. His hams were so thick they almost touched the floor. Behind him his butt curved powerfully upward. Far from grimacing at the colossal weight, Casey’s handsome face appeared serene. The auditorium pinged with tense silence. The officers stared hard at Dr. Zaftig. Zaftig gazed calmly back, his mouth now a thin line of determination. Behind him at the head of the table, the screen was frozen with Casey in deep squat suspension, the only light in the dimmed room. Zaftig resumed airily. “Casey Rockland and the other 19 perfectly-developed specimens not only are living and training full time in this very facility, they’re thriving. Within this very complex, these 20 perfect men completed their second shift in another day’s hard training protocol 30 minutes ago. They’ve showered and changed two levels below us while we’ve been talking. In fact, they’re not more than 100 feet away from where you’re sitting now.” Sam’s ears perked up. Zaftig placed his palms on the dais table and leaned in towards the uniformed officers. “I am ready to present them to you now, if you wish.” He let the statement sink in for impact, and pushed away from the table. Behind the Generals and Admiral Walrus, the Junior Officers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. All except Sam. This is getting interesting, he thought. “Perhaps I should do just that,” Dr. Zaftig said, “We might amend the agenda tonight. I think we need to break a little early. You all probably want to see the results for yourselves. Only then can you make an informed determination for your report.” He crossed toward the stage apron and turned to the group. “If you will all will be so good as to accompany me into the lab?” Confusion. The officers look dumbly at one another. Even Walrus said nothing. No one moved. Zaftig clicked his remote again, and the screen rose. “Dr. Irving?” he called out, climbing the stairs to the stage. “We’re coming into the lab now. Get the men ready.” He flicked some switches on a panel and the stage lights came up. At the back of the stage, a white-coated lab technician appeared, opening double doors. Beyond, the white glare of Valhalla Laboratories was revealed. “Admiral Walrus, Dr. Shaft, General Needling, Gentlemen: if you’ll all follow me.” Zaftig turned without a backward glance and crossed the stage to the opened lab doors. He turned and beckoned the group to follow him. A moment later the group rose, and with some uncomfortable putting away of laptops which had been hiding bulges, and with embarrassing shifting of slacks and trousers, which told the telltale signs of arousal, they crossed the stage and entered the lab. And with the notable exceptions of Walrus and Wampum, Zaftig noted with some satisfaction, that every man in uniform was sporting a straight-ahead trouser trout bulge. ******* Click below for the next chapter! "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed
  3. Chapters 7, 8 Precis so far: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. Chapter 7: Training Night 1: Good for Morale October 20th, 2021 1900 Hours The gym floor was buzzing with activity. Each man had a 5-gallon aluminum jug of water from which he regularly took enormous gulps, occasionally pausing to drench both himself and his training partners as needed to stave off the effects of the heat. All wore specially designed army green jockstraps. Regulation jocks were hardly adequate for their needs, and all 19 men (and especially Sergeant Moster) required XXX-large custom-fit pouches. Pendulously bulging, sweat, cum, and piss-stained, even these firm-gripping supersized mesh pouches could barely contain the musclemen’s super-sized genitalia. Gently curving cock shafts plunged from heavily veined, thin-skinned pelvic girdles on each man, leading to jaw-breaking cockheads. The jocks hugged the men’s cocks tightly, providing only barely adequate covering. Moster’s policy was that shorts and sweatpants were unnecessarily encumbering. All around the room, as the men moved from weight to weight, their mountainous packages swayed freely back and forth. On most of the men, the top 5 to 6 inches of their veiny cocks were visible, plunging into their over-burdened pouches. The men’s powerful, deeply striated glutes were fully exposed in back. Colorful do-rags, thick cable socks and black army boots completed their attire. On the floor, workout buddies Private Dan Gunst and Private Steve Waring were spotting each other through a sixth set of murderous curls. 24, 6'-10", 375 pounds, blond, huge, sporting a severe crew cut, and with a big nose and oversized hands, Gunst was a decidedly homely muscle giant, packed with imposing hardcore brawn. His bullish traps sloped massively from his 24” neck. The man’s 27-3/4 inch biceps were second only in girth and mass to Sgt. Moster’s, though he hadn’t yet attained the shapely cannonball peaks of Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, Blankenship and Alvarez. At 3.8% bodyfat he tended towards a thin coat of luminous bloat in his 375-pound physique; he was all the same, super-humanly powerful, and during his training sessions the bloat seemed to melt into a latticework of shrink-wrapped vascularity. His partner, the 26-year old Steve Waring, was uncommonly good-looking, if, at a mere 276 pounds of raw muscle, not nearly as big as Gunst. He was, however the far more ripped bodybuilder, having been in the program 2 years longer. His vascularity was astonishing, a complex map of thick, dizzying, zig-zag veins that criss-crossed his magnificent physique. Square-jawed, dimpled and brown-eyed, he always had a neatly groomed 2-day beard. As expected for a leaner man, Waring’s particular beauty lay in his batwing lat spread and chiseled abs, which tapered radically into a mere 29” waist. Cobbled, veiny abs lead down to his fearsome bulge. Now Waring was up. He tied on a pair of dirty wristbands and cinched them tightly, licked his lips, approached the 160-pound weight, and looked up at Gunst with a half smile. “What’re you waitin’ for? C’mon, get moving,” said Gunst impatiently. “It’s my third set.” “I know. C’mon, man, you’re stalling.” “You know what I want.” Waring winked and grinned, and his dimples broadened deeply. Gunst rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus. You and your third set mantras.” He leaned into Waring, cupped his palm, and roughly took the jock pouch bearing his partner’s heavy balls into his calloused hand. He flicked Waring’s leathery testicles with his thick thumb and with strong fingers stroked the curling cock shaft tucked into the jock. Waring closed his eyes and exploded breath. Gunst fondled the cock, feeling where the 11” flaccid shaft coiled into a sagging downward-pointing firehose U-shape. His own cock began to stiffen as the pouch bearing Waring’s junk began to expand under his touch. He gave a last thumb flick and stepped back. “Yeah!” shouted Waring, and he squatted, grabbed the weight, stood, and reeled off 15 perfectly executed curls. The veins in his biceps expanded and contracted powerfully, eddying currents of blood in a river of muscle. 40 feet away at the incline bench press, Privates Aja Jin, Reed Bogarde and Derek Washington were taking turns doing dumbbell flyes with 125 pound weights. Ginger-haired Bogarde was up, while black muscle giant Private Washington spotted him, and the Asian Private Jin muttered hyper-masculine, mono-syllabic bon mots of encouragement. "C'mon. Get big. Get huge. C'mon man. Push. We're right here." The three heavyweights were generally together. If they weren’t closely supervised, they’d spend more time than absolutely necessary on pec workouts. A year before they had petitioned Moster to be allowed to wear their prized brass chained nipple clamps during their training. Moster had refused at first, but after they appealed to Dr. Zaftig, he finally relented. “The pain inspires them,” Zaftig told him. Moster had to agree that this one time, he had been wrong to withhold his approval. And once again, it was good for morale. The chain to Bogarde’s clamps was draped over the t-shirt and lay across his mammoth, boyishly freckled pecs. He’d completed 11 reps seamlessly, but was now pausing, his arms open wide, the dumbbells held aloft. “Do, it, man,” he growled, and as Moster watched, Private Jin reached over and with gentle, adroit firmness, tugged slightly on the chain. Bogarde’s face contorted with pain. "Push, asswipe!" screamed Jin. Bogarde completed the set. “Thanks, buddy,” he breathed, as he slammed the weights to the floor and sat up. “Privates!” Moster called out. “Remember I want to see you remove those clamps every 10 minutes for an exact period of 20 more minutes!” “Yes, sir,” said Washington, about to take his seat on the bench for his set. “By my watch, it has been more than 11 minutes. Those clamps come off. Now.” “Shit,” muttered Washington, but he duly turned to Private Jin. “Take care of this for me, and I’ll do for you.” “Okay,” said Jin. He lifted Washington’s t-shirt, and gently unscrewed the clamp on the left nipple. Instantly Washington’s face contorted with pain. Jin leaned in and tenderly licked the swelling brown nipple with his tongue for a few moments. Washington nodded, and Jin repeated it for the right nipple. “I’m good,” he said. Jin lifted his shirt and Washington returned the favor, caressing Jin’s nipples with his tongue as he removed each biting clamp. “Hey, what about me?” Bogarde grinned, slipping off his t-shirt. His large nipples pointed heavily downward, with lusciously round, perfect aureoles. He pumped his 58” ripped chest fully, fists at his side, and stood smiling expectantly as his two muscle buddies moved into his side, their heads to Bogarde’s chest, each manning a clamped nipple. For Private Bogarde, the only good thing about the unclamping was the minute of stimulation he received from his buddies to keep the excruciating pain he so adored from making him instantly cum into his overstuffed jockstrap. Once he came, his partners knew the chest workout would be effectively derailed for a good 15 minutes, and so to prevent such time wasting, both men were inclined to be extra attentive. Over time, they developed a routine. Together the two bodybuilders carefully unscrewed the clamps, and swiftly leaned in to kiss, lick, bite, stroke, and caress Bogarde’s freed, erect nipples. Bogarde moaned, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, his cock now swelling threateningly in his jockstrap. “Shit,” he moaned, and his buddies glanced down at the straining pouch. His mushroom-round penis head poked heavily over the top and began to climb up his abs. Jin and Washington knew that he might shoot his load at any moment. The two double-timed their nipple licks. After a minute, their tender administrations allowed him to regain control. He nodded – he was okay – and they backed away. Satisfied, Bogarde pumped his pecs to their fullest size and inspected them both closely, nodding with serious, unsmiling self-approval. Wet with spit, his stiffened nipples bloomed. “Freaky,” he breathed. His buddies nodded. “Awesome pecs,” said Jin. “Awesome.” Bogarde stuffed his receding cock back into his jock, and winked at Moster. Moster watched. When it was clear Private Bogarde was past danger, he called out again. “Back to your work. You have twenty more minutes before you can put those damn clamps on again.” The men nodded dutifully. Washington sat, grabbed a dumbbell in each hand, hoisted them to his knees, leaned back, and effortlessly pushed them both to the ceiling. His chest expanded mightily. Bogarde shouted the count. “1! 2! 3!” Jin spotted, his powerful hands lightly meeting Washington’s elbows with each rep. For a moment, Bogarde fondled his smarting nipples tenderly. He caught Moster’s stern eye and, still counting Washington’s reps, nodded sheepishly and slipped back into his sopping t-shirt. Corporals Rene LeFevre, Tony Chad and Private Chris Hension were supersetting between bent-over single-arm rows and military presses. The massively muscled corporals, both in their mid-30’s, were the compound practical jokers. Their perfect foil was the slightly dopey 22-year old, 260-pound superheavyweight Private Hension, a square-jawed, curly-haired, dreamily handsome inductee who had only been admitted into the ranks of The Nineteen from the cadet squad six months before. Hension's face was so unusually beautiful that he was catnip for all who gazed upon him. With his deep blue eyes, perfectly square jaw, high cheekbones, imposing Roman nose, thick eyebrows, short curly black hair, powerful young physique and endearing, gap-toothed smile, he looked like a hyper muscular refugee from some crazy TigerBeat boy band. Teen muscles personified, and unusually huge, though he was 3 years past his teens already. His hazing was not quite over. Tonight he was burning from the red-hot chili powder LeFevre and Chad had worked into the folds of his jockstrap. Early in the workout he had waddled with his bodybuilder’s muscle-laden stride over to the 50-gallon water cooler, pulled down his jock, and poured a quart of refreshingly cold water onto his stinging red shaft. Every ten minutes he had to return to the cooler as his P-21 enhanced, ever-growing penis began burning anew. He couldn’t figure it out and was embarrassed. The fabric of his jock was now transparent with wetness, and the crimson outlines of his snake-coiled penis could be seen glowing painfully. LeFevre and Chad hid their grins innocently as a baffled Hension trudged back towards them, his fingers gently probing and rearranging his drooping big package for maximum comfort. “Something the matter, Private?” asked LeFevre. Hension nodded. “My junk hurts,” he said. He still wasn’t entirely used to the newly achieved girth of his organ. “And it itches.” “You keepin’ it clean?” “Sure.” He stuck his hand in his jock. “It’s getting too big. It don’t fit in these jocks.” “How big?” LeFevre winked at Chad. “I ain’t measured.” “Really?” “You lie.” “Okay, it’s past 10 inches now.” “About the medium point, then.” “You’re probably jerkin’ off too much.” “All that new size. Kinda hot, right?” “Gotta wipe all that jism off after you shoot, son.” “I keep it clean,” Hension protested. “Okay,” said Chad. “We can take of that later for you.” “Thanks,” said Hension, and then he noted the wicked gleam in Chad’s eyes. “Oh, you assholes,” he whined. “What did you do?” His buddies began to roar. Furious, Hension grabbed a 200-pound dumbbell and flew through a set of punishing one arm bent-over rows. His wide back roiled with shifting mountains of muscle, and as he jerked and lifted, his damp wife-beater gradually crept up to reveal his hardened, vulnerable butt, pumping up and down, undulating with each rep. A red handprint from a private discipline session with Sergeant Moster the night before still glowed on the right buttcheek. And the men laughed even harder. “You got it coming and going!” said LeFevre. Hension slammed the weight into the mat, turned abruptly and placed his big hands protectively against his ass. Then he grinned. “Yeah, yeah, it’s funny, so go laugh!” Inside his jock, his stinging member twitched. Private Hension liked humiliation. In fact, there was nothing he liked better, and both Chad and LeFevre were onto it. As far as they were concerned, the handsome Private’s hazing would continue indefinitely. Just two weeks before, Corporal Chad had hacked into Hension’s private PC and found links to dominatrix S&M websites on Hension’s private PC, with cum-stained downloaded jpegs and pngs of leather-clad, spike-heeled mistresses, face-slapping hapless, undersized men. Mixed in with the images were pictures of a huge muscleman tied up with ropes and chains, a rubber ball in his mouth and an enormous butt plug shoved up his anus. Hension’s private fantasy – and he was a little embarrassed about it, which was only good manners – was to get his face slapped, viciously and unrelentingly, by beautiful, affronted, enraged women. He dreamed of being caught sucking Alvarez’s massive cock, and being interrupted, and hauled to his feet by a beautiful blonde mistress of discipline, who would slap his handsome face repeatedly, leaving welting, bright red, stinging handprints on his clean-shaven cheeks. His head would whip from left to right, from right to left, under her powerful bitch slaps. Happy tears would roll down his face onto his stinging cheeks. “Aw, baby…” he’d cry, pretending to be in pain. “Don’t slap me!” And his mighty cock would also whip from side to side. “You deserve to get your face slapped, you filthy muscle slut!” SLAP. And meanwhile, Alvarez would drop to his knees and lovingly administer skillful oral to his massive cock. This dream of slapping punishment from angry mistresses filled his nightly jerk off fantasies. Chad printed up a few and privately slipped them to LeFevre, who laughed devilishly. “Someone’s been in my room playing with my computer,” Hension complained that night at dinner. The two feigned innocence. “Why, how can you tell?” asked Chad innocently. “Because the asswipe left it on.” “That might have been you.” “Nope. The asswipe left it on at a website I like. I would never do that.” The men roared. Hension pouted. “Don’t worry, baby face. Maybe some day soon on a field trip, we can set up a surprise for you, now that we know what you like.” Hension brightened. “Really?” he asked hopefully. “We’ll see if you’re a good boy. Why don’t you come by for some posing practice tonight?” “O—okay,” he said, shooting a furtive look at Corporal Alvarez and Private Lang, quietly sharing a table on the other side of the dining room. Chad caught it and for an instant was jealous. He knew Hension longed to be a part of Alvarez and Lang’s notorious “Pose and Approve” nightly sessions. Private Robert Lang was a younger version face and body look-alike for his buddy, Corporal Julio Alvarez. The same exact height, the two bodybuilders kept their bodies shaved, and might easily have been mistaken for one another at a distance, if it weren’t for Alvarez’s neatly trimmed mustache. Alvarez also boasted the same brutal muscles, the same sweep to his triceps, the same broad back, and the same peerless baseball biceps. Older, wiser, and a touch serene about his muscles, he and Lang were like brothers. Brothers, however, they weren’t, and they exhibited no instinctive physical filial reticence with one another. Lang, standing 5’ – 10” and weighing in at 285 pounds, was dark, serious, extraordinarily handsome, and brutally built. Secretly unsure of himself, he sought approval whenever he could, a little mortified by the beauty of his face. He had pronounced horseshoe triceps of uncommonly full sweep, an impressively broad back, and, as Alvarez noted, a beautifully rounded muscle bubblebutt graced with an almost horizontal butt shelf. To help bolster Lang’s flagging self-confidence, Alvarez – without question the alpha dog of this pairing, even as he was the slightly bigger muscleman - developed a ritual he called “Pose and Approve.” At first, it developed quite naturally. Over time, it had evolved into mutual muscle worship. Alvarez’s judgment and approval of Lang’s muscles were his drug of choice, next to P21, that is, and his own brutally punishing workouts. They started out privately in Alvarez’s room. From the first night, he was ready. An 8’-0” x 10’-0” lit posing dais dominated the back bedroom in his quarters. “Built it myself,” he said quietly as Lang stared at the polished wood surface. When did he find the time, Lang wondered. Alvarez carefully adjusted the cool LED lights. Lang watched eagerly, stripping down to tight posers straining under the weight of his throbbing, veiny penis. Alvarez took his sweet time setting lights and atmosphere. Lang watched, shoving his hand into his sagging pouch and absently manipulating his big tool to half erection. When he judged all was ready, he’d step back. “Okay. Get to work,” he said. Eagerly Lang jumped onstage and hit a front double biceps. Alvarez nodded his approval of his buddy’s muscles. “Nice. Big old cannonballs. Show me more.” Another pose. This time a side chest. Lang’s pecs pounded and seemed to reach the ceiling. His heavy nipples were already taut. “How do I look?” Lang asked nervously. “Looking all right,” Alvarez said casually. “Lights need adjusting.” He half turned away as if to check the wiring. This prompted Lang into frenzy, and he began whipping out pose after pose. “The lights are fucking fine! I’m smokin’!” he cried. “Look at me, Alvarez! Check out my muscles! I’m fucking huge!!!!” Alvarez smiled. “Okay, big man,” he said. “I see. I see what you need.” And casually bending in, he took Lang’s by-now rock hard penis into his mouth and lolled it about gently. Inside, his tongue stroked the long, thick shaft, working its way up and down the veins. “It’s your reward for your perfectly developed muscles.” Lang was in heaven. Then they switched. Alvarez stepped up and surpassed his buddy’s posing performance. As he flexed, Lang sank gratefully to his knees to admire his musclegod buddy. Alvarez hit a pose - wham! - and Lang would greedily slurp on his gigantic rod. "Boom," purred Alvarez. "Big biceps, baby." "Twenty fiiiii---vvve inches...." "Bullshit." "Twenty-five baby. Feel 'em. Suck my cock." "You got it. Sucking now, man." They went back and forth for hours. Flexing biceps, smacking roiling quads, pec dancing, sucking each other's cocks. After a few sessions, Lang developed a surprisingly insatiable taste for Alvarez's stunningly perfect glutes, and sometimes lost himself rimming the man's rosebud butthole while Alvarez posed, legs spread wide, gazing at himself thoughtfully in the wall-length mirror across the room from the dais. Whenever Lang's face was buried deeply in the bigger man's butt, Alvarez found his creative posing juices to be inspired, and he was able to flex for hours without getting tired. Over time, they worked out new routines this way. Of course, Alvarez and Lang had long since taken “Pose and Approve” into more stratospheric, not to mention more public, levels of performance during the last year. The men liked to watch, and occasionally were invited to join in. For more than a year now, the men all knew that Lang slipped whenever he could into Alvarez’s room late at night for an hour of nearly silent shared posing routines and powerful rounds of cocksucking. At the end of their private sessions, each man could be heard roaring in the compound’s corridors as he spurted a mighty ejaculation inside his buddy’s mouth, onto his abs, or inside his yielding bubble butt. Just a week before, when a confidence-challenged Lang was standing in front of the corner mirrors after general workout, trying vainly to figure out a new routine, coach Alvarez decided to take it public. After all, all the men knew. And were curious. And were watching. Eagerly. Even Karim bothered to look up from his own fascination with his flexing biceps. Alvarez directed Lang from pose to pose, nodding. He ran his fingers smoothly over his body. Then he dropped quickly to his knees, stripped off his jockstrap, took his cock into his mouth, and continued to direct him from there. “Bring your right arm up a little. Now tilt your head. Look up. Pretend you see something,” garbled Alvarez, his mouth full of Lang’s cock. “What am I looking at?” asked Lang, a little anxious. “Clouds. You see clouds. Good. More clouds. Right. Here’s your reward.” Alvarez licked his cock hard for a minute. “It’s like he’s licking an ice cream cone,” said Hension. “An ice cream cone with veins,” said Blankenship. Washington stared, grinning. Lang colored slightly. In his jock, his heavy penis head began to expand and push against the thick fabric. “Yo, bodybuilders deserve to get their cocks sucked while they’re posing,” Lang said dreamily, flexing. “I’m down with it,” said Washington. “You can suck mine next.” And Lang did. Alvarez sucked Lang’s dick approvingly, licking the thick shaft lovingly. Then he pulled back to allow Lang to pivot to the next pose. Lang crunched into a most muscular, Alvarez nodded again with serious respect, and sucked him as his reward, as his buddy held a crab shot for 60 full seconds. They moved as one: pivot, flex, a nod of approval, a minute of cocksucking, withdrawal, pivot, flex, another nod, another minute of cocksucking. Absorbed by their mutual passion of posing together, the two silently went into matching, impromptu routines, flexing their powerful guns in unison as if choreographed, slapping their quads, turning to flair their lats, all the while staring appreciatively, each transfixed by the other. And the men stared, too. Soon all they all joined in. The workout was effectively over. Cocks filled mouths for the next hour. Rough, calloused hands appreciatively patted and stroked flexed biceps. Pecs danced. Tongues licked sand dollar sized, downward pointing nipples. Moster was not pleased. Nevertheless, he waited until the last groans had finished, and the last drops of the quarts of ejaculated bodybuilder cum had burst from throbbing cocks down eager throats. "Are we finished?" he asked quietly. The men lined up, sheepish, all with dripping cocks and cum flecks on their lips. Hension's face, inevitably, was covered. "It got into my eyes," he complained. Smack! "Owwwww!" he yelled. Moster waited, and then spoke quietly. “There’s a time and a place for everything,” he barked, all sheepish and spent, wiping the cum from their lips and bodies. After that, Moster determined to keep Lang and Alvarez separated on the floor as much as possible, for the two men were so – was ‘inspired’ the word? – attuned to one another’s powerful physiques that the Sergeant had determined it would be more efficient for all if they trained apart. It always led to “Pose and Approve,” behavior that Moster determined was more efficiently left to the locker room and showers. “Pose and Approve” was all very well for private time, but on the gym floor the men had been known in the past to become hypnotized by one another’s muscles. On rest days, of course, Moster kept them completely separated. That was an order. These days, the two grudgingly but unquestioningly yielded to their CO’s command. Once, Moster had caught them together outside on a bike path on a prescribed rest day, both naked, erect, and posing feverishly. He watched silently for a few moments, waiting for the inevitable moment when Lang sank to his knees and greedily gathered Alvarez’s cock in his mouth. “Gentlemen!” he boomed, striding forward onto the path. “Today is a rest day!” He swung mightily, he clipped the surprised Alvarez right on the jaw. The punch felled the muscleman immediately. Even the usually arrogant Alvarez was a mere beta puppy before the 7’-0” Moster. “In my quarters! Now!” Ten minutes later a cowed Alvarez was stretched over Moster’s powerful knee, receiving a serious butt paddling. Lang stood by nervously, knowing he was next. “You’re like two bad boys,” he said gruffly as he spanked Alvarez’s perfectly rounded buttocks. Neither man protested, each watching the other meekly as he received punishment from the implacable giant Moster. The loud spanks were heard echoing down the hall for 40 minutes. The men sat in the mess and listened to the spanks and howls. “No one crosses Moster,” Schumacher said airily, to no one in particular. The distant sound of spanks bounced off the walls. Perfect musclebutts were receiving perfect punishment. “Gee, what did they do?” asked a fearful Hension. “Someday you’ll find out,” said LeFevre darkly. He winked at Chad. Later, they emerged sheepishly from Moster’s quarters, red-faced and gingerly rubbing their painfully reddened glutes. The two were barred from contact of any kind for three weeks. Moreover, the enforced temporary change in the training schedule upset all of the men, who privately handled the transgression in their own manner. There was a strict code of punishments the men had privately devised and agreed upon over the years, and when training violations occurred, the offender was subject to the discipline of the group, most often provided by a steely-eyed Corporate Karim Abdul. The night after their ordeal with Moster, Abdul and Gunst visited the men in their quarters. The men each stood meekly, as Karim punched their faces with cool precision. Then he spanked them both, followed by Gunst’s stern force-feeding of his cock. Then, for good measure, both men thoroughly fucked their butts. The next morning at chow, each man sported two black eyes. Their flanks ached, and closer inspection revealed that sitting was painful for more reasons than were immediately apparent. “Dudes, what happened to you?” shouted Chad across the mess hall. “Shut the fuck up,” grumbled Alvarez. “Report to the infirmary,” said Moster. “Sergeant, begging your pardon, we’re fine.” “As you prefer, Privates.” “Abdul stretched the shit out of my asshole last night,” Lang complained quietly to Alvarez. “Me too,” Alvarez asked. Silence. Then they both laughed quietly. “Was it worth it?” asked Alavrez. “Fuck yeah,” said Lang. Nevertheless, the men grudgingly acknowledged privately it was their due desserts. After that, Lang and Alvarez obeyed orders, and it didn’t happen again. Their eyes healed quickly and though they remained separated at night, soon they were back on the gym floor the same day Moster suspended their sentence. “No sense in losing perfectly good training time for those two. They’ve learned their lesson,” Moster said to Zaftig, who was always puzzled by the developing social rules within his own lab rats. Three weeks passed, and the night they were finally reunited, Moster smiled privately to himself in his quarters as the excited groans of the two reunited men echoed down the corridors long after hours. The next morning, far from being tired, they appeared at 0700 hours breakfast as if entirely rejuvenated. The other men looked a little weary, having been kept awake all night, but all were in grudging good humor now that the two muscle buddies were together again. Backs were slapped and good-natured jibes taken with grinning good grace. “Have fun last night, Lang?” teased Obatu. “Yep,” said Lang, his mouth full of eggs. “Alvarez get any bigger in the last three weeks?” “He sure did,” Lang nodded seriously, chewing and swallowing. The men guffawed, and Alvarez smacked Lang playfully on the back of the head with a giant paw. “What’d I say?” asked Lang, perplexed, and the men laughed harder. Across the table, Karim never looked up. Faggots, he thought. Still, his cock twitched in his jock. He had liked punching the handsome faces of both Alvarez and Lang, though he didn’t want to admit it, and the crisply delivered black eyes he had administered had made it all even more exciting. And the fucking was fun, too. Moster was satisfied. All in all, it was good for the team. Good for morale. Chapter 8: Tiffany’s Talent Karim was in the corner, working out on the punching bag. His buddies, if the taciturn Lebanese from Michigan could have said to have “buddies”, Privates Duncan and McIntyre, were alternating between bench wrist curls and neck-strengthening dumbbell lifts. The rhythmic volley of Karim’s rapid punches filled the air. Abdul Karim was, at his most social, on the taciturn side. At 6’-3”, 275 pounds, and less than 2% bodyfat, Karim had a beard and mustache that he kept meticulously groomed at all times. He had the Arab’s big nose, dark skin, and, except for his back and shoulders, a full body armor of tight, black curly hair. His muscular chest was black with fur, with two deep red-brown nipples poking through. His quads were oak trees. His bullish biceps, covered with bright tattoos, were stacked and wired for maximum damage. His fists were huge and calloused. Karim was an extreme fighter of the first order; calm, methodical, practiced, powerful, relentless and merciless. Zaftig had plucked him from the State Penitentiary of Washington about four years earlier. He was in for manslaughter, having beaten to death a suspected serial rapist in Seattle; the trial transcripts stated that he had simply held the dude aloft by his collar and repeatedly punched the guy in the face until he grew bored. Inside, it was said, he had beaten to bloody pulps 5 inmates who had jumped him one night in the shower with sharpened shivs and the intent to kill. How Zaftig got him out was still a mystery to Moster, but, as his CO was bigger and possibly even a hair stronger, Karim silently respected him without grudge or attitude, and there was no real breach of discipline. Still, it was tough to pair him off in extreme fighting matches in the compound, although Corporal Schumacher was a close match. Annoyingly, if understandably, both Chad and LeFevre were careful to keep the beautiful young Private Hension away from Karim. Secretly protective of their young initiate, they didn’t take any chance that the longingly masochistic Hension might approach Karim, and get a lot more than he bargained for. Karim, for his part, wasn’t particularly interested in Hension. For him, a hole was a hole was a hole, and as for getting his cock sucked, he preferred women to do the job, as long as they shut up about it. Oddly, he didn’t seem to mind if effeminate boys took care of his meat, if no pussy was available. A bitch was a bitch was a bitch, though he took care to show basic respect for being serviced (even if, of course, it was his due). He did, however, like piss. Karim liked to be pissed upon, and he liked to piss on others. He marked his territory. He especially liked it when big boy Gunst pissed on him. After all, he respected the man. He didn’t consider it a sexual fantasy. To Karim, piss was just the right expression of muscle and power. Late at night, he sometimes came to the workout room alone and worked on the heavy bag. On those nights, he made sure that the kitchen boy, Pedro, was standing by. A slender 16-year old kid, barely 130 pounds, and a sweet-natured homey if ever there was one, Pedro would wait patiently in a darkened corner until Karim summoned him to approach, get on his knees, and suck his unusually hairy cock while he worked the light bag. The boy loved hair and muscles, and Karim’s big veiny tool got an appreciative coating between his lips. Karim would grunt, shoot, coat the boy’s face with globs of semen, pat him affectionately on the butt, and head off to bed without washing off. The boy scampered into the kitchen to start breakfast for the men, happy to have been of service. Good-natured Privates Bill McIntyre and David Duncan were often buffer zones for the brooding Corporal Karim. Calm and circumspect, like Karim they too were hairy big boys who preferred the ladies, albeit always in groups with the Lebanese. Moster occasionally arranged for private liaisons for the three bodybuilders with three high-priced, Amazonian professional girls flown in from Las Vegas. The men fucked their women vigorously, always with their eyes on one another. After they finished up and the ladies had departed, Karim often polished off the night fucking his buddies’ shapely muscle butts, alternating between them. It took a lot to satisfy Karim, who could fuck all night, and sometimes Moster was hastily summoned to make sure the session ended. He often brought Gunst with him to break up the party, for Karim liked nothing better than to finally cum while Gunst pissed in his face. “Feels good,” he would grunt as Gunst’s firehose cock shot streams of piss on his muscles, while McIntyre and Duncan stood by smiling, gently fingering their reddened, aching buttholes. Karim would work his cock fiercely with his powerful fist, quickly spurting buckets of semen onto his hairy abs, and, as always, trudge off silently to bed without washing or saying good night. Gunst would then get the privilege of sucking Moster’s giant cock while McIntyre and Duncan watched respectfully, stroking their own cocks. Sessions would end with each bodybuilder shooting his cum into Gunst’s mouth. Gunst could swallow volumes of cum. “Makes me bigger,” he’d say. The big boy preferred monster penis, and liked it best with other musclemen standing by watching. So it worked for everyone. Beyond them, Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, and Blankenship were besting each other in sets of deep squat deadlifts. A 42-year old muscle veteran with tattoos, steel-wool skin, acne scars, an explosively powerful physique dense with vascularity, and all honed by nearly 30 years of raw, intense training, Herman Schumacher was the current king of this group, with his wide-oval, pronouncedly roiling, round hamstrings of pure power protruding far behind him. His broad, solid, rounded manbutt rolled above his hams, meeting into a firm, deep butt crack. His calves were split into two deep and distinct diamond-like heads. Schumacher had no-nonsense iron-grey hair and was generally scowling. He knew all who saw him wanted to fuck his mighty butt. Secretly, he was happiest when either fucking – or being fucked. His formidable, muscular, hairy glutes demanded attention. He was loath, however, to acknowledge his fantasy top. Rarely fucked by the other men, and always only after extreme begging and some act of subservience, Herman Schumacher had some private fantasies of his own, involving heavy rope and buttplugs, that one day he hoped he’d have the courage to investigate. For now, the opinions of the other men were still too gravely important to him. He wasn’t ready to betray himself. Not yet. In the mean time, it was generally understood that Schumacher’s powerful tool was always at the ready to plow a tasty ass. Just out of his hearing, the other men all agreed - and even Karim - they craved his particular kind of butt fucking. It seemed he could always find the g-spot, and he quietly provided hours of late night pleasure for those men who had just finished a grueling squat workout, and whose eager buttholes needed relief. Obatu chose to shave his head bald, had shiny black skin, and like Schumacher and Karim, nearly always had a fearsome scowl on his face. His glory were his bull-like traps and his mammoth pecs, which at 66”circumference approached Moster’s own in size, shredded cuts, and separations. His fearsomely large genitalia had a habit of rolling out of his jockstrap during training, and he’d absent-mindedly scoop his balls and cock back into place, often pausing unconsciously for a quick couple of strokes on the extra-long, heavy shaft and a quick flick of his thick thumb on the bell-shaped cockhead. Then he’d lift and adjust the heavy pouch and resume his powerful lifts. On white cap nights, however, he often didn’t bother to repouch. Blankenship, younger than both and only recently having attained the rank of Corporal, didn’t have the ripped density of Schumacher nor the sheer mass of Obatu, boasting instead superb genetics and beautifully honed symmetry. Good-humored and outgoing, the roman-nosed young Blankenship favored classical Greek poses in his routines, and he often showed off his alluring lines with his muscular arms held overhead. He was a statue come to life – and he knew it. Shouting encouragement and taunts at one another, Schumacher completed another grueling set of 25 reps with 400 pounds. On the last rep, he strained to replace the weight on the floor with disciplined quiet, in control of the weight to the very last. Then he blew out a mouthful of spit, shook his head violently so that his sweat flew everywhere, and straightened up. Blankenship planted a solid smack on his naked butt. “Nice!” he yelled. Schumacher smiled wearily and nodded. Then he turned and glanced across the room to see if Private Joe Tiffany had been watching his set. Tiffany was working triceps and delts with Private Robert Lang. Alvarez was at the squat rack, training legs with Private Eli Meyer. The good-looking All-American Jewish Meyer was the shortest man in the squad, standing only 5’- 3”, and sadly, a mute. He was a highly developed, talented gymnast, double-jointed nearly everywhere and was astonishingly supple for a little muscleman. He easily contorted his 210-pound body into positions the other men could only dream of. He favored the relatively simple – for him – pose of planting his rippling arms on the floor and swinging his legs sky-high behind them, tilting his pelvis forward past his elbows and holding steady for long periods of time. The pose was catnip for the squad, who, after hours in the compound rec room, loved to more closely inspect Meyer’s proudly displayed hairless, supple pink butthole, which he playfully puckered in and out for them at will. Meyer would smile hugely and nod encouragement, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as the excited men scrambled to their knees and took turns playfully licking and probing his asshole. Alvarez enjoyed a lick as much as the other men, but he always noted Lang’s slightly hurt gaze and promptly retreat with his buddy for some private posing. For his part, however, Alvarez had no issue when Lang, occasionally overcome himself, dipped his handsome face into Meyer’s butt for a taste of honey. Afterwards, Alvarez noted, he would pose harder than ever. For Tiffany was trouble. Alvarez noted that Tiffany was studiously ignoring Corporal Schumacher’s impressive set of deadlifts. Lang, almost as dim as Hension, hadn’t seemed to notice. But then, Lang hadn’t learned yet that he shouldn’t trust Joe Tiffany. Joe Tiffany was 19. He was gap-toothed, dark-haired, freckled, had slightly big ears, and looked a little goofy. He was bow-legged, weighed 235 pounds, and had almost no bodyfat at all – and what little there was lay sweetly atop what Herman Schumacher imagined was probably the most beautiful butt on the planet. On the day of his arrival into the Project facility just a little less than a year ago, Obatu had nicknamed him ‘Huck Finn’. The name stuck, and over time morphed into ‘Fuck Him.’ No one had, though, as of yet. Not privately, anyway. Tiffany was smart. He looked dumb and played the innocent, but he was canny, shrewd, and manipulative. He also had an unusual talent, which he had privately shared with the curious Sergeant Moster not long after his arrival. It was not unlike perfect pitch: Tiffany could take astonishingly accurate size measurements – orally. Moreover, he had no gag reflex. It appeared that he could take anything. Any cock. To its full length. Even Moster’s. Moster had found out quite by accident – or so he thought. In the showers alone one night, the black muscle giant was lathering up his armpits when he turned and discovered the Private staring at him from the doorway into the locker room. “You’re here late, Private.” “I forgot my jockstrap.” “Better get it and head to bed. Training tomorrow at 0700 hours.” Tiffany held his jock up silently. He waited. Moster stopped lathering and returned his look. “Is there something I can do for you, Private?” he demanded. Tiffany said nothing but gazed straight at Moster’s gargantuan, swaying dick. “Private?” Moster stepped forward. Tiffany didn’t move. “Sir?” He gazed unblinkingly at the cock. Moster glared. “Well?” Tiffany looked up and came to attention. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But that is the biggest dick I have ever seen in my life, sir.” “It is unlikely you have seen a bigger one.” “I’m guessing no one has, sir.” “No, probably not. Just how big do you think it is?” “Sir, if you will forgive the indulgence, sir, but I believe I could tell you, sir, and quite accurately, too.” Moster had already heard about Tiffany’s after-hours mess hall boasts. Now was the chance to see if the boy had the stuff. “On your knees, then, Private.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany stepped forward in the shower, got to his knees and opened his mouth. He held still. Water poured from the spigot and in an instant, Tiffany’s t-shirt was wringing wet and bulging with his tight teen muscles. He looked up expectantly at Moster. He was calm. “Doesn’t look like anything I can’t handle, sir.” Annoyed at the Tiffany’s arrogance for a flashing moment, Moster slapped his swaying, dripping cock fiercely three or four times. It blew into an engorged 20-inch-plus vein-pulsing snake inside of 5 seconds. Water from the shower splashed onto it and ricocheted off the walls. “All right then. You’ll have to open up much wider than that.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany opened his mouth as wide as he could. Moster strode forward, grabbed the back of the young Private’s head, and forced his face onto his cock. Amazingly, Tiffany’s lips easily enveloped the enormous head, then the shaft, and slid down until Tiffany’s nose was pressed against Moster’s body. Somewhere inside, Moster’s giant shaft had disappeared deeply down Tiffany’s throat and into his upper body. Yet the muscleboy didn’t gag. Instead, he looked up and smiled, his mouth full of black bodybuilder cock. He held still a full minute, as Moster’s cock throbbed inside him. Then he slowly pulled his head back. “18 and 5/8s inches, sir. 8 pounds, three ounces. You weigh 396 pounds tonight, sir, your body temperature is 97 degrees, and your blood pressure is 120/85.” He smiled serenely. Damn, thought Moster. He’s right on target. There was just no telling where P21 protocols could lead, and what talents it might unearth. He nodded, satisfied, and then plunged his cock deeply back in and out of Tiffany’s mouth. In spite of its huge girth, Tiffany bowed and obediently went to work. As Moster pumped his hips rhythmically and Tiffany sucked mammoth cock, the sergeant’s mind drifted towards the men. Hmmmm, he thought. He was deeply in thought, automatically flexing his muscles and yet barely paying any attention to the efficient, powerful, machine-like sucks of Private Tiffany. Finally he began to shoot rivers of cum into the teen’s mouth. After a minute or two of shooting, he withdrew his cock and coated Tiffany’s face evenly with the last blasts of semen. Tiffany licked and took in as much as his tongue could reach, and then he stood, at attention once again. His cute face was covered with clouds of thick cum, which dripped down in thick globs onto his body under the spray of the shower. He saluted again, and wiped his mouth so he could speak clearly. “I hope that was satisfactory, sir?” “It was.” He didn’t appear to be injured in any way, at which Moster privately marveled. He turned away and began soaping the blobs of cum off his cock shaft. “You’re aware that sucking your CO’s cock is a privilege awarded rarely to men of your rank.” “Yes, sir. I know, sir.” “You will report to my private exam room tomorrow about an hour into the evening session. I’ll let you know when.” “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure, sir.” He started out of the shower room, and turned, adding, “By the way, sir, your cum tastes a little like banana. I love banana.” He saluted again, and was gone. “Fresh punk,” thought Moster, but he was pleased. Starting the next evening, Moster began to require that the priapic dimensions of each muscleman be included in his records, the information to be obtained in privately conducted sessions he personally oversaw with Private Tiffany on hand to take the strictest of measurements. As always, the sergeant immediately designed a standard ritual of procedure. Ordered one by one into the examination room off the gym floor, each bodybuilder entered singly, wearing a tight posing strap, and walked silently into the center of the room. Private Gunst was first. “Stand under the light,” Moster ordered quietly. The bodybuilder stepped onto a posing dais, and poised himself under a single focused spotlight shining from the ceiling. He awaited orders, hands at his sides. He wondered why Tiffany was present. Moster stood in half-light, fully covered in clean white sweats, as always. The silent Dr. Irving sat in a pin light in the distant corner, armed with a video camera and scribbling in a small pad. Tiffany, wearing the white regulation tight t-shirt and khakis, stepped forward from the shadows. “Let’s see what you got, man,” murmured Moster, and Gunst swung into a posing routine. The first pose was a side biceps pose with the muscleman leaving forward and rotating his back towards the sergeant, so that he might better appreciate the three distinct cannonball deltoids, the broad lat sweep, the baseball separations of the biceps head, the powerful shape of his obliques, the shapely, hard glutes, and the roiling hamstrings. It was a landscape of muscle, and the men all knew it was Moster’s preferred pose. Then Gunst straightened, reached toward the single spotlight, and slowly brought his arms down into his most powerful, sustained front double biceps pose. “26 inches, sir!” he shouted. He held it for about 30 seconds. “Looking good,” said Moster, slightly bored. A three-minute posing routine followed. There was no sound in the room apart from the rapid tapping of Dr. Irving’s pen, the hum from the spotlight, and the waves of air being sucked in and out of Gunst’s mouth as he glided smoothly from pose to pose. Front lats, pivot, side left chest, side left triceps, pivot, rear lat spread, rear double biceps, pivot, side right chest, side right triceps, pivot, left quad, shake, slap, flex, right quad, shake, slap, flex, overhead ab crunch, and finally a most muscular, crunching viciously into a vein-exploding crab shot. Then the bodybuilder stood still, waiting. Thick rivulets of sweat poured down his physique. “Okay. Front double biceps again, please.” Gunst flexed his mountainous peaks. “And hold it.” Gunst smiled and strained, eager to please his C.O. “All right, Tiffany,” Moster said quietly, “get to it.” “Yes, sir,” said Tiffany. He strode forward, and as Gunst stood steadily flexing the classic front double biceps, the shorter Tiffany gracefully reached forward, took hold of the elastic side straps of his thin mesh poser, pulled the pouch forward and down, and unveiled the muscleman’s flaccid, long, thick, imperial penis. Moster cracked a quick smile, noting that Gunst first looked startled….then curious…. and then aroused. The giant gazed down as the business-like Tiffany got to his knees, gently fixed his pretty lips on the man’s junk, closed his eyes a moment, plunged deeply, holding the instantaneously stiffening penis deeply in his throat for about 60 seconds. “Wow”….breathed Gunst. He continued to flex his biceps, but tears appeared in his suddenly glistening eyes, and his cheeks flushed deep crimson. Below, Tiffany held firm and steady, his moist lips gently enfolding the thickening penis, widening his jaw to allow the throbbing member to enlarge to its true, pounding, blood-filled girth, standing gradually as the man’s cock began to climb towards the ceiling. He appeared to be making some internal calculations. He allowed 30 seconds more to pass; then he lolled his tongue around the muscleman’s cockshaft, pulled back, dipped again to twice lick the bulbous cockhead, paused again, and then gently parted his lips and pulled back, smacking his lips happily. He wiped his mouth. Gunst stared at him. "Huge cock, man. Nice." Tiffany turned to Moster. That was all it took. Gunst promptly began to spurt ropes of milky cum into the air, which Tiffany deftly dodged. He announced his findings. “12 and three-quarters inches, sir, tip to base,” Tiffany announced with obvious pride. “As you see, he is uncircumcised. Foreskin is clean and about six inches around. Penis weight, five and one half pounds. Shaft circumference, eight inches. Head size, three and three quarters, sir. Two pronounced lateral veins.” Tiffany paused. “He weighs 325 pounds, sir, and at the moment, his blood pressure is 140/80.” He grinned. “It’s quite a penis. You should be proud, sir.” “Yeah, thanks.” Gunst was still shooting. Ropes of cum hit the walls. “Sorry, sir.” “That’s all, Private,” said Moster. “Dismissed.” Gunst, his dick still shooting volleys of cum, stepped off the platform, glanced with confusion at Tiffany, and walked slowly out of the room, his posers barely covering his throbbing cock, leaving a trail of cum as he went. “Tell Corporal Abdul to come in next,” Moster called after him. Gunst turned. “May I watch, sir?” Moster considered. “All right.” At the outset of the tests, Moster was immediately on hand with a tape measure and a blood pressure cuff to verify what he could. After awhile, he didn’t bother. Tiffany was always right. By the next morning, Moster had realized that Tiffany had deftly strategized the whole routine. He’d been punked, and by a newbie. It was as if Tiffany had foreseen Moster’s every move, and now, in record time, every man in Project Herculaneum was aware that Private Tiffany’s blowjobs were a vehicle to provide new particularized personal information being added to their charts. Moster was secretly amused at the teen’s cojones, but knew that he’d have to regain the upper hand again, and soon. Still, it wasn’t for him to break Tiffany personally. That would have made his displeasure too apparent. He began to look for opportunities for the cocky Tiffany to be bested by one of the men. A face punching by Karim would be too brutal. He considered other ways. Maybe in the wrestling ring. Yes. ******* Links to other chapters: "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 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed
  4. The first two chapters of my muscle novel-in-progress, The Twenty. Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "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 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets Precis: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes the twentieth muscle god, young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 19-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decades-long Project, itself only now beginning to suggest its full potential. Introduction The 3-story steel, glass, and concrete compound was snugly nestled in the misty rural hills that rolled gently inland from the ocean, where the Santa Ana winds met the hot air rising from the distant desert to the east. Poised at the edge of the highest peak of the Santa Cruz Mountains, the 4,000-acre gated complex was just barely visible from the discreet entrance on Pacific Coast Highway below. A single sign stood at the locked automatic entrance gate, reading - Private No Outlet The private drive wound up the mountain, snaking through dark woods of redwood and pine, finally arriving at the labyrinth of vine-covered high concrete walls, topped with barbed wire, which surrounded the entire complex. Closed circuit cameras marked every turn of the road. Manicured lawns and open fields could be occasionally glimpsed through thick veils of leaves, branches and red rock. 350 miles south was Los Angeles. San Jose was the closest city, 30 miles away. Local residents drove past the gate on Pacific Coast Highway, wondering about the mysterious multi-million dollar complex. The place had seemed to spring up overnight, seemingly from nothing, more than 10 years before. The traffic in and out was largely limited to food delivery and supply vans. Unseen generators hummed through the night. The people who worked there appeared to be in residence. Was it an athletic training facility? Low planes flying overhead clearly identified a likely indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, bicycle trails, playing fields, and more. There were also a few outer buildings that appeared to be well-appointed dormitories, with small lawns and private drives. A building attached to the central core might possibly be a central hall, with sizable private, enclosed terraces open to the sky. Convoys of SUVs, all bearing the logo VALHALLA LABS were parked in a half-empty parking lot in front of the main building. Occasionally local delivery men, bringing whole sides of raw beef, fresh vegetables, lab equipment, chemicals, electrical supplies, and – this was the most perplexing part – hundreds of tons of expensive exercise equipment would spot one or two dozen young men on bicycles, pedaling furiously through the high hills, always followed at a discreet distance by an unmarked black car and by the one of the SUVs. From a distance the men on the bicycles appeared to be unusually large. In any event, the local deliverymen weren’t talking. Most would just shrug and say they didn’t know. Besides, they’d signed a confidentiality agreement barring their conversation about what they might happen to observe within. And since no one appeared unduly nervous about the place, over the years the matter dropped. Still, the rural locals who hung out at the motorcycle bars and music clubs nestled deep in the hills continued to buzz. Most assumed that it was some kind of military base and laboratory. Others noted the apparent residence buildings from the air, and thought it was either a private Olympic training compound, or some kind of crazy health nut cult commune. Certainly it was neither a prison nor a university. But no one really knew what it was. And over the years, little by little, the mysteriously well-tended commune was enveloped in the mists of revered local mystery, a legend the hill people of the coast, who were mostly Northern California biker clubs, surfers, horsemen, and artichoke farmers, relished and loved, without knowing anything about it. Remote, mysterious, un-Google-able, not listed on any map, no one really knew what the place was, and even less was understood. However, since it was apparent that no nuclear waste was being discharged, no one worried. No one appeared on either San Jose or San Francisco streets with appeals to join some far-out religion. No shots were fired in the night. And because, in fact, the whole compound was refreshingly green, paid its local bills on time, and was mysteriously quiet at night, for years no one really worried about the place. If only they had known it was the wellspring of the Fountain of Eternal Youth. Or, as it came to be called years later, after all the fuss and scandal and stories had finally faded into the misty aura of legend – the Lourdes of Bodybuilding. ********* This is the story about the day that it all changed forever. THE TWENTY A Government Issue Adult Cartoon -XXX- Muscle Fantasy By Joey Silverado This book is dedicated to Tiny Yokum – and to all his fans, past, present, and future. From Dr. Warren Irving’s Notes List sorted according to date of entry into program. Click tables to see details. Chapter 1: Project Herculaneum October 20th, 2021 1855 Hours In Valhalla Labs’ 15,000 square foot soundproofed gym, 18 of the longtime test subjects of Project Herculaneum were approaching the second hour of their balls-to-the-wall workout. On the west wall, one-way visibility windows framed the magnificent mountaintop panoramas in the growing twilight. As the sun disappeared, the glass increasingly glowed with the golden reflections of a roomful of massive male musculature. The workout floor crackled with the sounds of iron clangs, grunts, groans, and ecstatic roars of pain, shouts and taunts. The air was thick with hot sweat, crotch and armpit smell. Low ranking solders in the US Army, and ranging in age from 20 to 45, the 18 were, to use the argot of the world of male bodybuilding, freaks. Huge muscle freaks. Animals. Swole. Jacked to the balls. ‘Roided to the tits. Except that they weren’t ‘roided at all. Every man on the squad was clean and clear of the usual bodybuilding drugs required to build massively muscled specimens of uncommon size and strength. And they weren’t just conventionally “huge” either. All of the soldiers of Project Herculaneum were fired by one supplement only. P21. And Project Herculaneum, now approaching the end of its first decade, was finally yielding the astonishing results promised from the beginning back in 2007. The Project Director and Genius Factotum, Dr. Ira Zaftig, had long dubbed his lab creation enzyme P21, “The Fountain of Youth.” The wellspring of eternal energy, strength, youth, beauty, and sexual power. Perhaps the secret of life itself. The Men of Project Herculaneum thought of P21 differently, though. “It’s the straightest line between two mostly unreachable points: freaky muscle, and ba-boom!” Or so said Private 1st Class Dan Gunst, a 6’-10”, 375-pound mountain of ripped muscle whose growth on the enzyme had surprised even project founder Zaftig. Off to one side, the 19th man on the squad squatted on a bench and closely surveyed the men's training with half-lidded eyes. By far the largest man in the room, CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster’s muscular perfection was unparalled, even in this room of freakishly huge men. Squared-jawed and blindingly handsome, 44-year old Rod Moster was 7’- 0” tall, weighing in at 395 ripped and shredded pounds, a black mountain of solidly ridged muscle: deeply separated, profoundly striated sheer muscle mass, boasting a body fat index of 1.2%. Dr. Zaftig was the heart and genius creator of Project Herculaneum. The squad and their CO were the ongoing subjects of his personally supervised “Top Secret” project. For years, the men had been receiving regular lab-controlled injections of Zaftig’s carefully developed muscle growth enzyme, P21. Sergeant Moster, on the enzyme for more than a decade, was the project’s powerful senior officer and unopposed trainer. Yet in spite of Moster's formidable size and strength, he was soon to be equaled by two of the soldiers in his direct command, Corporal Karim Abdul and Private Gunst. He knew it, too. The workout room met Moster’s strict standards. Room temperature was always set exactly at 90o. Moster would not allow air-conditioning on the workout floor. After all, sweat lubricates muscles and encourages growth. No one disputed Moster's rules. On a sprung workout floor measuring 10,000 square feet, there were two dozen squat racks, 42 benches, 8 rows with hundreds of dumbbells ranging from 5 to 300 pounds, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gleaming machines, standing bicycles, elliptical tracks, cable racks, ropes, belts, grips, and stacks of weights. Hundreds and hundreds of tons of weights. In the distant corners of the gym, a few normal-sized Valhalla lab assistants scurried silently in the shadows with video equipment, towels, heavy water jugs, and cleaning equipment. The men on the floor never paid any attention to the pipsqueak lab rats, as they called them. Occasionally, one of the pipsqueaks meekly approached Sgt. Moster with questions or a need for direction. Moster was always gracious, brief and business-like with lab underlings. They were Zaftig’s people, after all, and he appreciated that it just might be difficult to recruit them. More importantly, the lab rats were not, after all, muscle worshippers. Geeky science majors somehow matriculated from Berkeley and Stanford, their applications for their employment were most thoroughly scanned to determine both their dedication to science, and their lack of sexual interest in the project subjects. Past circumstances had indicated that the men of Project Herculaneum were unusually vulnerable when it came to the possibilities implied by muscle worshippers. The less of that from outsiders, the better. For now, anyway. Besides, there was real money to be made with the advent of worship. That would come later. Above all, Moster didn’t want to water down the future possibilities. Some day, when all this was over, there was a lot of money to be made. Moster was counting on it. Under his leadership, the goals of his 18 musclemen were never ending, their focus never dulled by the daily routine of their sequestered lives inside the Valhalla Compound. And for Moster, it was all about building muscle. Solid, rock-hard, healthy, powerful muscle. Muscle supported by bones and internal organ strength. Whereas Dr. Zaftig was compelled to his daily grind of endless lab research and observation of the men by his quest for eternal youth, Moster was not distracted by such vague, high-minded creationist illusions. All Moster cared about was that his men develop huge, serious, ripped, dominant, clean, overpowering muscle, muscle like the world had never seen before. Moster relished the fact that his extraordinary development was still a constant inspiration to his men. He generally preferred to remain completely covered, rarely choosing to display his magnificent physique. His custom-built oversized sweatsuits were carefully tailored to camouflage his physique while not hindering movement. They were heavily reinforced at the seams to avoid tears and bursting, and were neutral in construction and color. The sweat pants were gathered into tight stretch bands at Moster’s ankles. He generally wore combat boots and a white do-rag. But even the careful design of more than 25 yards of a blend of durable synthetics and heavy cotton couldn’t disguise Moster’s 60-inch wide shoulder girth, 7'-6" reach, 70-inch chest, 36-inch quadriceps and 25-inch calves. An observer might only be able to guess at the Sergeants’ biceps, triceps, and brachialis size. Moster chose to wear his sweatshirt loose, masking a slender, powerfully shaped 32-inch waistline. He never tucked it in, always making certain he was successfully covering his crotch. He had his reasons for this, which were well known by his men. Whenever Moster appeared in uniform, or civilian clothing, his appearance was all but terrifying – and, at the same time, insanely alluring. Rod Moster's boxing, wrestling, and extreme fighting skills were superior to all but Corporal Karim. Moreover, by now in this stage of team development, Moster found he had to work harder than his men in order to maintain the very slight edge he still held. Zaftig knew this, much to Moster’s subtle discomfort. He knew could be unseated by the right man at any time. Project Herculaneum was that far along. He remained proud of his team, knowing as he did that some day soon they might surpass him. When it became apparent to all that his long-held edge over the others was narrowing, a few of the men privately anticipated the day that he might finally be bested by one of the 18. The bets were on Karim Abdul, though Abdul had no particular vendetta against Moster; all the same, it would be a day of reckoning for the alpha CO, to atone for some of the more painful and humiliating extra-curricular disciplines he had long enforced. Hey, as long as that day doesn’t come too soon, he would joke in the mess hall. And all would laugh, even as they exchanged meaningful glances. Moster’s dedication to Project Herculaneum was total, even if it did lead him to occasionally lock horns with the dreamy, physically underdeveloped senior genius Dr. Zaftig. The 67-year old Zaftig was both crafty and kind-hearted. Though he held a basic unshakable respect for all, he was not above manipulating the men’s fragile psyches to get what he wanted out of them, and he made it a priority to know and understand all of them for their personal strengths and weaknesses. Over the years, it had been hard work finding and inducting these particularly gifted men into the program, and, once introduced, each man represented years of painstaking research, investment, time and testing. It was only right that he would pay close attention to what made each man tick. On the other hand, Moster preferred to accent his authority with an occasional dash of cruelty. He felt it was good for the team. After all, life was cruel, wasn’t it? And so together, Zaftig and Moster had forged a decade-long alliance of good cop/bad cop, each man sharing in his own personal way a common goal. Both cared only for the success of Project Herculaneum. At base, however, they held profoundly different motives. Zaftig hoped to find the perfect candidate for P21. As magnificent as the 19 men were, the final, perfect genetic recipient of the miraculous compound had yet to be discovered. Sergeant Moster, meanwhile, had other plans. All those worship sessions loomed ahead on a promising horizon of money, power, travel, and new opportunities. After all, Moster wasn’t a fool. Zaftig might be, but he certainly wasn’t. Chapter 2: P21 1987-2021 Ira Zaftig’s 2007 successful lab synthesis of Protein P21 promised nothing less than a physical revolution for all mankind. For more than 30 years, the eccentric, obsessed, and touched with genius, Harvard Med educated Dr. Ira Zaftig had parlayed a vast inherited private fortune and the proceeds of his own lucrative San Francisco medical practice into ongoing lab research and experiments. At first, he sought to develop nothing less than an injectable synthetic that would, of course, cure cancer. The usual dream of every young medical researcher, the youthful and wealthy Zaftig, heir to a lumber empire long sold to a larger conglomerate for a lifetime profit that elevated him into the 1%-ers, had the means to set up a private lab to do it. Over the years, that cure for cancer evolved into something else. As he aged, Zaftig grew more interested in creating a formula permanently extending youth, while enhancing physical strength and systemic health. The years passed with no result. Zaftig grew more obsessed, and eventually discarded his practice. He never married and avoided personal relationships, building an impressive private lab in the Santa Rosa Mountains outside San Jose. And he became a hermit whose life routine was only about continual research, testing, developing, synthesizing, note-taking, and video review. He amassed a team, whose job it was to test protocol after protocol on lab rats, guinea pigs, and rhesus monkeys. None of the animals, he was satisfied to note, were ever harmed by his injections, but none ever exhibited any permanent signs of renewed vigor, either. It was as if they were injected by harmless placebos. Over time, lab teams noted some temporary strength and health benefits in some, not all, of the lab animals. The effects were temporary, at best, and it was difficult to determine which animal might feel the effects, and which ones would not. Zaftig assumed sympathetic systems were required for any effects at all to take place. By 1998, Zaftig had engaged as his permanent first assistant the all but silent, studious, equally hermetic Dr. Warren Irving, whose natural reticence disguised fervor equal to Zaftig’s. By then, Zaftig’s ever-growing lab employed small army of coming-and-going lab workers, security personnel and personal administrators, whose silence and trust was purchased with time-stamped temporary employment terms, astonishing starting salaries and carefully drafted legal confidentiality contracts, were on hand in the continually refurbished lab facility, now enlarged into a complex of some size. Since Zaftig was seeking the creation of a God, he appropriately named his ever-growing facility Valhalla Labs. At first, in the specialized world of pure research outside the lab, ‘Zaftig’s Folly’, as came to be referred to, was an unending in-joke on the perils of vanity research. However, it was equally observed that any man or woman who had served in Zaftig’s lab emerged silent, circumspect, and deeply respectful about what went on within. Over the years, the jokes stopped, and by the late 1990s, ambitious young researchers hoped to spend a few seasons at the secluded lab, if for only to slake curiosity – and to make a lot of money. Still, the lab had produced nothing. No patents had been applied for. On it went, year after year. Then, after 30 years of steady non-production, in 2003 the 53-year old Zaftig had a breakthrough. A crop of lab male lab animals appeared dramatically invigorated by a trial run of newly developed formula. Careful notations of animal behavior indicated that the rejuvenation of the lab animals was deeply organic in nature. Most importantly, after protocols were ceased, the effects remained. And the animals grew surprisingly. They did not become monsters, but measured, in some cases, a quarter larger in size and weight than they were at the outset. They were somewhat more aggressive, too, but, as all were relieved to note, did not become, maddened, dangerous or even slightly mean. In fact, personal handlers reported that the animals appeared “cheerful” and “playful.” They also, when allowed, copulated with the other males, and sometimes the females, almost continuously. This was noted by Zaftig, who duly recorded it. Dr. Irving felt Zaftig somewhat ignored the sinister implications. After a year of continually successful lab animal results in select males, it was finally time for the first human trial. Zaftig, ever the Henry Jekyll tried P21on himself. The results were disastrous: violent vomiting, nosebleeds and headaches forced Zaftig into a week of bed rest. “Wrong genetics,” he had to admit to himself. He assumed the formula was a failure for humans, and lived in despair for weeks. Once recovered, he volunteered for trial his chief lab assistant, the meek, complicit, and nearly silent Dr. Irving. The injection nearly killed him. In sympathetic systems, it was as if evolution was sped up 10,000 years. P21 was capable of creating nothing less than jaw-dropping gigantism, coupled with glowing organic health, visually stunning physical perfection, astonishing strength, grace, speed, coordination, and renewed sexual energy. It only worked on X-Y heterogametic chromosome pairings – that is to say, on human males. Moreover, at this point in its development, it was successfully observed in very few subjects. Because of the necessary secrecy of the project, Zaftig lacked proper comparative controls, but by his estimation, he calculated P21 to be beneficial for only 1 out of every 1,000 men. However, for that one recipient, the sky was the limit. Zaftig finally saw the light on a subject for whom the formula might work when he met Rod Moster. That was in 2006. Moster was facing prison then, charged with manslaughter. Zaftig had heard all about the man’s prodigious muscularity, and got him the best defense money could buy. Moster served 1 year, and was released. Zaftig awaited him at the prison gates, ready to whisk him away to the Santa Rosa Mountains, to another kind of a prison, and yet one that Moster would soon relish. And so, in 2007, Rod Moster (soon to be Sergeant, USAC, hurriedly and secretly enlisted) became Project Herculaneum’s first official entrant. The already competition-trained superheavyweight bodybuilder Moster took to P21 like a duck to water – or, rather, like gasoline to fire. And Moster beat even Zaftig’s greatest expectations. Muscles bloomed on muscle. Strength quadrupled. Now that he had a perfectly responsive candidate, Zaftig was eager to find another. Later in 2007, another superheavyweight bodybuilder, the near-silent Turkish giant Abdul Karim, was discovered at Raw Weight, the hardcore San Jose gym owned by 50-year old retired pro bodybuilder legend Miles Donovan. Immediately whisked into the program, Moster and Karim trained like madmen in the Valhalla Labs compound, where a new gym was put into construction just for the two of them. They didn’t much like one another, but that led to heightened competition, tension, anger, and, inevitably, greater muscle growth. And now Zaftig could make some truly accurate notes on the success of P21 in sympathetic systems. Zaftig observed in his lab notes that it was as if the full assimilation of P21 triggered alterations in deep genetic timestamp coding. It was exactly as if the body suddenly redefined its male development to date as late ‘childhood’, and began to take itself into something like a new ‘adolescence’, blooming into a new definition of ‘adulthood’. Consequently, accompanied by proper training and consistent regulation of nutrition and rest cycles, muscular growth was not just enhanced; it was prompted into a supersonic explosion unlike anything Zaftig had anticipated. As intended in trial development, P21 was, in effect, nothing less than a miracle formula, successful beyond Zaftig’s wildest imaginings. He was still tinkering with it in the lab, however, in hopes that somehow he might find the key to more universal acceptance, including female development. The injected enzyme boosted performance, it seemed, only in those recipients whose natural dopamine and endorphin levels had already reached a certain high capacity, following either years of regular workouts, or a monitored high-intensity training in very young, genetically predisposed teens. Moreover, once on the enzyme and going forward, steroids, regular insulin injections, pain blockers, and growth hormone proved not only unnecessary, but also potentially dangerous. A protocol of P21 worked best on a naïve system, or, at the very least, a metabolism cleaned over time from the longtime effects of other injectables. Mental acuity was not diminished, but then again, it wasn’t improved, either. At first, Zaftig had been disappointed P21 didn’t produce intellectual giants as well, but in time he accepted it. After all, as long as subjects weren’t rendered newly stupid by the protocol, and followed orders, he accepted that it wasn’t really an issue. It was about muscles and strength, not smarts. More subjects were introduced into the program. By 2011, the men in the program included competitive bodybuilders Rene Lefevre, Herman Schumacher, Anthony Chad, Derek Washington, and William Obatu. Muscle monsters all at the outset, and mostly discovered by Miles Donovan, as each man moved into the compound and began the training and the protocols, their size and strength increased with rapid gains measureable almost daily. Most astonishingly, perhaps, was the measurable growth in each man’s height. Over time, all recipients grew anywhere from 2 to 5 inches taller. The skeletal structure itself was affected by regular injections of P21, and bones lengthened and thickened throughout each man’s body. The principal area of bone growth appeared to be in the legs, but even the arm bones slightly lengthened. A 6’-0” man with a finger-to-finger reach of 6’-3” before injections was gradually able to reach a length of 5 inches in addition to his newly gained height. The lengthened arms, of course, gave the men a slightly ape-like appearance, with the tips of their fingers now brushing the patella of each kneecap. However, the men did not become ungainly as a result, seemed to grow at the same time in natural grace and motor coordination. Muscular density almost doubled, strength nearly quadrupled, subcutaneous fat tissue was nearly eliminated. Muscular separations, ripples, cuts, and deep tissue striations appeared where before, even on a beautifully developed physique, there had been nothing but smoothness. Muscles roiled and bloomed with magnificent grace. Even symmetry improved; it was as if the muscular system had developed an over-all critical eye as to the proper balance and sweep necessary for each man to remain at optimum performance levels. Even so, with the loss of subcutaneous fat, waist size was stunningly diminished. Within six months of starting injections, a formerly 200 pound muscular man with a standard 34” waistline would find himself sporting a mere 30” at his midsection, with his rectus abdominus muscles and lower obliques newly reknit into interlocking, striated layers of shapely support musculature, easily able to carry the newly burgeoning upper body mass. His bodyweight would shoot up at least 20 pounds, all of it lean muscle mass. Fast-twitch and slow-twitch muscles were affected alike: a man on P21 was not only able to lift almost impossibly heavy weights, but run like the wind. Motor-nerve coordination profoundly improved. Endurance was beyond imagining. Although the subjects’ diets were kept clean, this appeared to have little effect one way or the other. As long as the men were regularly fed full meals six times a day, and drank a quotidian 3 gallons of water, then diet itself was moot. However, to maintain the psychological fiction that diet was still “important”, food selections were limited to lean meats, arrays of vegetables and proper complex carbs. The men held the “no veggies” diets of standard, “middle earth” bodybuilders in profound contempt. “If it’s green, it’s good,” was the mantra. With the six meals a day and the explosion of muscle growth, human waste products predictably doubled. The men seemed to require 30 minutes daily for proper excretion. Each man found himself pissing rivers of bright, clean urine. Happily, their digestion systems were as efficient as could be hoped for, and pleasure-filled howls filled the residence halls periodically as the men eagerly shat their meals. “A good shit is like great sex,” Obatu observed. Pissing was as pleasurable, for as powerful as their kidneys were, each man produced ropes of healthy white piss, like clockwork, 5 times a day. Their glowing prostate health allowed them to empty their bladders thoroughly with each resoundingly copious piss. A man on P21 would also exhibit astonishing skin health. Blemishes and scars faded to nothingness. The men’s complexions glowed as if powered by an inner laser. Hair health flourished, and though some of the men on the protocol preferred to shave their heads, it was not for a lack of healthy follicles. Even the bald Sergeant Schumacher, hairless as a wombat when he entered the program, was delighted to see his full head of hair restored within six months. Later, however, in response to other psychological effects, he chose to shave it off daily. Normal pain thresholds decreased proportionately. Sleep cycles were not affected. Over time, any already-accomplished athlete’s natural talents were likely to be exponentially sharpened. Newly recorded performance benchmarks surpassed any previous personal best. In short, the benefits were astounding - provided the recipient was initially genetically gifted to begin with, and had already achieved a certain performance level. Once P21 had been introduced into the system, after 3 years of weekly injections, Zaftig had discovered the protocol must be carefully monitored, and in some cases, stopped for periods of time. Not everyone developed at the same rate. Once the protocol was stopped, the successful manifesting effects enjoyed by the recipient to date would not be lost, but any continuing development would slow and finally stall. However, to avoid trauma, the project’s subjects weren’t informed of this, and several of the older men had been receiving intermittent placebos for years, in order to avoid a state of psychological withdrawal. More seriously, and although Zaftig was not yet certain of the veracity of his latest finding, he was keen to observe with a continued injection schedule, that the men’s aging processes seemed to stop entirely. This is the most sensitive of all the information he gathered, and the top-secret introduction of placebos disguised the anti-aging effects for the older men in the project. It was critical that this be kept a closely guarded secret. Was part of P21’s astonishing potential the end of natural aging? Zaftig was at war with himself on this point. As a scientist, he was elated. As a sympathetic human being, he was appalled. No one but he and the deeply trusted Dr. Irving were aware of indications that P21 was The Fountain of Youth. And just as P21 seemed to promise unending anti-aging, not all of the other developmental effects could be anticipated. Nor were they, in fact, terribly convenient. Its extraordinary properties included some rather startling, not to say unexpected, priapic side effects, which had first manifested themselves in the first guinea pig lab rat Sergeant Moster, nearly 15 years before. Since then, as new men successfully entered the project, different results were recorded for different recipients. All the same, universally P21 provided something like miraculous growth and enhancement for all who responded to it. Even now, in 2021, Zaftig could only guess how it might manifest itself in different subjects. Zaftig didn’t really want to deal with the complexity of the multiple sexual side effects. For there were surprising sexual benefits as well. After all, a physically evolving male always experiences a coinciding change in sexual stats and activity. What he had not anticipated was the dramatic extent of these changes. Zaftig discovered it not long after he first tried it out on Moster in 2007. The most observable immediate change was the startling increase in genital size. At the outset of his induction into the program, Rod Moster’s penis was already unusually large, looming forth when erect at a majestic 8 inches. While impressive on most men, all the same for a muscleman of Moster’s size and development, in appearance, it came off as merely average. All that changed once Moster entered the program. Six months after beginning the P21 protocol, even when flaccid, Moster’s penis measured just over 10 inches. When erect, it approached 16 inches. Midnight black, cobra-thick, and lightly laced with a cross section of interlocking capillaries shooting off from two pulsing central shaft veins, it had become a dangerous, dazzlingly beautiful machine. In fact, Moster’s penis had become a weapon. While he was delighted with his newly gargantuan cock, it presented him no end of trouble. For one thing, there was simply no hiding it in his clothing. His dress slacks uniform trousers had been custom-fitted to accommodate his massive quads, glutes, hamstrings and calves. Now, unless he wore specially designed rubber mesh briefs under his slacks that firmly restrained him, his slack member lay lazily on his quads, with muffled slapping against his thighs as he walked. The flies of all his clothing had to be forged from blue steel, and even so, were doubly reinforced to prevent bursting from the strain. Standard bodybuilding posing trunks were all but impossible if he wanted to remain covered; his cock and balls simply didn’t fit in any pouch. Most of the time, Moster chose to wear ultra-baggy sweats, with the sweatshirt hanging down to his thighs to cover the always-looming member. Otherwise, it was all just too distracting. Over time, Dr. Zaftig discovered that for all enrollees into the program, the size of the subject’s genitalia similarly grew to outlandishly large proportions. A man with average endowment was soon delighted to note that his organ, when flaccid, enlarged half again in length, girth, and stamina. A man considered ‘well hung’ at the outset would enjoy even greater growth. But that wasn’t all. Moster quickly realized a greater sexual appetite to match his newly achieved girth. Soon after injections began, normal societal behavioral blockers that prevent many men from acting on their fantasies all but vanished. Deeply buried sexual fantasies began to seem not merely attainable, but regularly actionable. Over time, the sexual activity of the subject became an all-pervasive cycle of, at first, increasing need, accompanied by a single-minded determination to fulfill the fantasy. Moreover, it was apparent that the recipients of P21 responded with particularly heightened sexual energy and passion to other recipients of the enzyme. So-called heterosexuality was no longer an issue: choice was abandoned. The men needed close supervision to keep their sexual activity confined to the proper hours, settings, and duration. And it took some doing to keep the men in line. Of course, any partner was possible for the men. As long as their muscles were the source of longing, they were eager to spread their copious seed in any number of ways, among any number of partners. Fortunately, a psychological fail-safe was built into the men’s newly ripening sexual psyches. The men were at their most vulnerable when presenting their muscularity to outsiders. Always able to leap into swift action, whether fighting, flexing, posing, Zaftig discovered after some carefully administered lab control tests that if the men were confronted with levels of apparent sexual unresponsiveness from observers, their sexual impulses were notably dampened. While their overall athletic, training, and bodybuilding prowess was never diminished, the translation of muscle energy into unfettered sexual energy did not occur unless observers explicitly expressed longing. In other words, the men needed to be sexually worshipped, gawked at, touched, stroked, admired and longed for in order to become aroused. They needed to flex their powerful biceps and rotate their mountainous quads for the stunned and appreciative. It was slightly ironic, therefore, that these astonishing physical specimens of undeniable Alpha males were, actually, subservient to the atmosphere of admiration. Indifference seemed to cow the men into silence and confusion – all except Sergeant Moster, of course, whose internal sexual battery was always on full charge levels. Fortunately, for the orderly continuation of Project Herculaneum, Sergeant Moster was aware of what he called “the Kryptonite effect” on his men. He could douse their sexual energy easily with a disparaging glance or an offhand comment. The small army of resident support staff, facilities associates, cafeteria and maintenance personnel, and office and lab workers were duly advised not to show any sexual interest in the men on any level. Zaftig himself was never troubled by the issue. Proud of his men, he nevertheless seemed to regard them as his “boys”, growing adolescent sons, in whom he had nothing but the purest parental love, devoid of any sexuality. Moster was more than well qualified to handle that job. Zaftig took a step back, promising himself that “some day” he’d approve a comprehensive study on P21 and sex. Over time, the psychological benefits had proved addictive. In other words, P21 was crack cocaine for bodybuilders. Any man receiving regular injections of P21 had to be handled with extreme care and caution, which necessitated a largely cloistered lifestyle. They were simply not ready for general public release. Nor was the public ready for them. To be continued.....
  5. "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. 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 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey Chapter 6: Casey Is Discovered The day that Casey Rockland first set foot inside a gym, he was a shy, tongue-tied, lonely, oversized 12-year old. He stood, frightened and abashed, at the front desk of Raw Weight. He had walked around the block for an hour before he found the courage to walk through the dark-glass swinging doors. Miles stood behind the desk. “Yes, son?” he asked after a moment. God, this kid has potential, he thought. Gosh, he’s handsome, Casey thought. He gawked at the huge, veiny arms that poured from the short sleeves of Miles’ sports shirt. The hugely rolling biceps made his dick twitch a little. From the moment Casey first laid eyes on Miles Donovan, he thought he was the handsomest, smartest, most masculine, most muscular man he had ever met in his life. Just the sight of Miles’ hardcore physique, casually displayed in loose-fitting slacks and a navy blue sports shirt boasting the Raw Weight logo, made Casey’s well-hidden, oversized teenage member leap to attention. It was love at first sight. Which was not lost on Miles. “C-can I join?” Casey finally stammered out. “You want to train here?” “Yes, sir.” “How old are you, son?” “Twelve,” answered Casey honestly. Miles paused, and then asked kindly, “Where do you live?” “San Jose Boys’ Home.” Aha, thought Miles. His heart went out to the beautiful, over-sized, sad-faced kid. “Of course you can join. Ever trained before?” Casey’s heart leapt. “No, sir!” “How much can you pay?” “I can work for you, sir! I can clean the locker rooms, and the toilets, and take out the garbage, and paint the walls, and – “ If Miles had allowed it, a tear would have come into his eye. Besides, this kid had overwhelming genetic promise. He held up a hand. “No need for all that. Of course you can train here. We’ll discuss money some other time. Let’s get you started. Do you have workout clothes?” “N-no, sir.” “Well, let’s get you fitted out. Come on along with me. Sid, take the desk,” Miles shot to the flirting young muscleboy trainer who was chatting up one of the wide-eyed fitness babes who trolled the workout floor, looking for available young muscle studs. “And try to keep your mind on your work.” Back to Casey. “What’s your name, son?” “Casey Rockland.” “Well, Casey Rockland, I think you might have found your new home. Let’s see what you got.” He moved out from behind the desk and approached Casey. Casey’s heart was still leaping. Miles Donovan was an astonishing man. Casey had never dreamed that such a huge, handsome, masculine, muscular man would ever take notice of him. Like an eager puppy, he fell into step behind Miles, who was leading him out onto the workout floor. There, dozens of men and women of various sizes, states, dress, and degrees of sweat were toiling away at nameless, complicated activities involving weights, machines, benches, bars, cables, racks, mats, balls, rings, and rope. One or two looked up curiously at Miles and the gawky big kid trotting behind him. William Obatu was one of those who looked up. Already in enrolled in Project Herculaneum, the handsome black African muscle monster Obatu was allowed to steal away from the compound to his home front of Raw Weight (with occasional forays to the 3rd floor, where he regularly held personal worship sessions). Obatu takes a selfie.... “Who’s that big kid?” he asked Miles one evening a few weeks later on the 3rd floor. He was working arms, doing slow concentration curls, generally ignoring the rich twinky boy on his knees before him, begging to worship the bulging cannonball biceps. “What kid?” asked Miles innocently, walking by. Obatu continued doing curls and feigned the same indifference that Miles was displaying. “You know. The big kid. Downstairs. He ever come up here to 3?” “Naw. Too young.” “Pleeeeeaazzze…..” begged the handsome kneeling twink on his knees, reaching up in hopes to get a quick fingertip brush of iron muscles. Obatu glanced down, a little impatiently, and reracked the weight. “Whtchu want?” he demanded, and slapped the kid’s face. Some ‘a’ this?” He flexed his biceps. The kid moaned gratefully. “Shut up, worm,” he commanded. Flexxxxxx… “Boom,” he said. “25 inches. Feel ‘em.” Back to Miles. “Saving him for yourself?” “Nope. Saving him for your boss. And your commanding officer. Is Tyrone any good?” Obatu was perplexed. “Who’s Tyrone?” He continued flexing, gazing admiringly at his peaks. Miles pointed down at the kid who now was both reaching in vain to touch the iron biceps while feverishly licking the heavy downward-pointing bulge in Obatu’s regulation tiny posers. Obatu shuddered with pleasure but covered. “These posers are too damn small.” “You must be used to it by now.” “You never get used to it.” “I repeat, is Tyrone any good?” “What do you care, I’m paying $5,000 a month to be up here,” mumbled Tyrone, his mouth now scooping up the thick black muscle cock that tumbled from Obatu’s straining posers. Obatu glanced up. “Trust fund kid,” Miles explained. “Oh.” He looked back down again and flexed his biceps again, a little more respectfully. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself.” Tyrone moaned passionately and sucked vigorously. After a moment, Miles spoke. “Looks like fun. Mind if I join you?” “Oh, if you’re gonna make a party of it, be my guest,” said Obatu, stepping aside. Miles, still dressed, stepped in and unzipped his pants. His big cock poured out. In an instant Tyrone had both bodybuilders’ cocks in his mouth. “Flex for him. He likes it,” said Obatu. Miles flexed his powerful silver daddy 23-inch biceps. A slight tearing sound was heard. “Damn. Another shirt.” He decided to take it out on Tyrone. He plucked the cock from his mouth and slapped his handsome smooth young cheeks vigorously with the now hard-as-steel shaft. “Nice move,” said Obatu. “Let me try that. Hey, asswipe. Over here.” And he smacked Tyrone’s face with his black cock. Soon Tyrone’s head was whipping from side to side, his face buffeted by heavy cock blows. "Take us both, boy. One after the other," ordered Miles. Tyrone went into a frenzy, sucking Obatu's cock, then twisting his head and sucking Miles' cock, back and forth. "Yeah, good boy," said Miles. A few minutes later the musclemen both shot, coating Tyrone's face with heavy layers of thick, creamy cum. Tyrone moaned as thick spurt after thick spurt emerged from each man's pisshole, painting his face, covering him with cum. “That was fun,” said Obatu. “Yeah, let’s do it again some time,” said Miles, walking away. "Clean that up, boy," he ordered as he strode away, squatting slightly as a zipped up, putting his heavy cock away. Obatu resumed his workout, Miles went back to his office. Tyrone lay on a bench, ecstatically spent. Casey took to lifting weights immediately. He had a genius for developing his own start-up training program, and he poured over the muscle magazines he could find. During computer hours he browed the net for muscle information, training routines, and reading all about the muscle stars. He was going to be one, one day, himself. He was determined. Then they’d see. But, gosh, it was hard work. Lifting hurt. It was painful. It was slow. It took time. He was stunned at the beginning at just how much work it was. One afternoon after he'd been lifting only a few weeks, he was sitting dejected in the locker room. Alone. Miles, coming through with towels, saw him. He understood. He put the towels away, and came over and sat with him on the bench awhile. They were silent together a few minutes. "It hurts." Casey finally said. "Yes, it does." "And it's hard." "Yes, it is. Not everyone can do it." "I didn't know it would be this hard." Miles smiled, and put a paternal arm around Casey's shoulders, patting him with a giant paw. "If it were easy, everyone would be big. It is not magic. You can't take a pill and get bigger. People who think so are crazy and wrong. There's no growth serum. I repeat Casey, there's no magic. It doesn't exist. You can't eat a magic cookie, and just get huge. And people who think so are fools. And dreamers." "But I'm a dreamer....." Casey said sadly. "Yes, you are a dreamer, too, but you're not foolish. You know what work is. Hard work. It's growth with effort. Growth without effort doesn't exist. It's an empty dream, a useless fantasy. There are no super heroes, Casey. There's only hard work. Years and years and years of it. But I'll tell you a secret......" he leaned in. Casey looked up. "If you keep doing it? every day, you'll get a little closer to your dream." A light began to shine in Casey's eyes. A tear formed. He looked up at Donovan, now standing over him. "You mean that?" "I do. And Casey? You'll achieve your dream. If you keep working." He paused and stepped back, hitching his thumbs in his belt. "You had a good workout today. You're pushing the limits. But now you need to rest. G'wan back to the home and eat some chicken. Rest tomorrow. No, rest two days. Don't want to see you back here until Saturday." He smiled. "But on Saturday? I'll train with you. And we're gonna fucking murder those weights." Casey's face shone like the sun. He nodded, eagerly, unable to speak a moment. "Sure, Miles! I'll go back and eat chicken and sleep and see you Saturday!!" He got up and began packing his bag. "Work on those abs. You can do crunches tomorrow as long as you don't use weight," he said as he left the locker room. ****** As Casey trained at Raw Weight it was soon apparent that as he gained strength and grew, he needed more than three times as much food. Sister Anne in the kitchen, sympathetic to the big, sweet, dumb, exceptionally handsome kid, supplied him with the extra portions of meat whenever she could get away with it, unaware that the Home’s director, Sister Marietta, had deliberately turned a blind eye. She was even guilty of making sure there were plenty of steaks and chicken breasts on hand. Four years passed. Casey trained like a maniac. He would have been there every day, all day, but Miles forbad it, making him aware of the need for rest days. "Your body won't grow muscles unless you rest. You want to get big?" "Yes, sir! I want to be huge!" "Then you stay away 3 days a week. Eat a lot of protein. Do your ab exercises every night. But no weights. You wanna grow and get big you gotta give your body a rest." Casey, deeply in love, filled with awe, was all the same a little frightened of Miles, and shied away from him for a long time. Miles, understanding the nature of hero worship, gave the handsome kid a wide berth, encouraging him in a business-like way as he made muscle gains. Sensing even more talent, after Casey had been at Raw Weights about 2 years, he introduced him one afternoon to Ramon Ramon, a stern, grizzled, totally ripped, if slightly punch drunk old Puerto Rican extreme cage fighter who always seemed to be at Miles’ gym, as if he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Soon Casey was taking boxing and kickboxing lessons from Ramon Ramon. He began running, jumping rope, lifting the huge truck tires in the corner of the 1st floor, and working out with a punching bag. Ramon was also into wrestling. He bought Casey his first singlet. For hours after Casey's workouts they grappled on Raw Weight’s stained old wrestling mats, bathed in sweat. Ramon was old and grey but had solidly ripped, strong muscles, and Casey loved the feel of the old iron warrior’s abs against his abs as rolled around together on the floor. When Ramon locked his legs around young Casey’s neck and squeezed, Casey always got what the boys in the home called ‘a boner.’ Big and hard, it poled up in the singlet and would have embarrassed him had Ramon not been so cool about it. “Big tool. Get you a bigger singlet next time. You need a scoche more room in the crotch.” Ramon’s legs were clamped onto 16-year old Casey’s 22-inch neck. He howled. He had never been happier. His erection pointed high to the ceiling. “Go ahead and take care of it,” said Ramon. “Be good for ya. Young guys gotta cum.” He let go of Casey’s left arm. Casey shouted and stroked with his freed hand and his cum shot to the ceiling and plopped onto his abs and the wrestling mat. He was never embarrassed around Ramon. “Think you got the biggest cock I ever did see,” said the old wrestler, his iron vice grip holding Casey in a headlock now. The cum continued to shoot. “It’s healthy. Like to see it.” And Casey groaned happily with pain as Ramon squeezed harder. They wrestled in a pool of cum, soon made even greater as Ramon shot all over his steely abs. “Thought I’d join you,” he said. "Be sure to clean that up before you hit the showers." "Yes, sir!" said Casey, happily spent. For two more years Casey followed a strict regimen of quiet hard-core muscle building. He grew and grew. Miles was taking notice. By the time he was 17, it was clear that he had extraordinary bodybuilding gifts. His dedication to lifting was unquestioned, his genetics nothing less than astonishing. One afternoon at the gym during one of his workouts, Miles Donovan glanced out of office window at the big, muscular young teen in the middle of the workout floor. Casey stood alone on the workout floor, his red t-shirt dripping with sweat. He was insanely propelling himself through a 5th set of unduly punishing biceps curls, curling 125 pounds. His face was crimson, his eyes bulged, his teeth were gritted like a madman, thick cords of veins pounded in his neck. His meaty young biceps were being punished into new growth levels. Miles watched the 16-year old boy through the window closely. “Guess it’s time,” he said to himself. He speed-dialed Dr. Anton Zaftig at Valhalla Labs on his mobile. It was time. He hardly knew nor cared what who Zaftig was, or what this “research” was about. All Donovan knew is that he was supposed to be on the lookout for ‘special’ muscle - from the young men who showed unusual potential, to the older, more weather-beaten gym rats who were so far past feeling any pain that all they could do was pack on more and more beef – as long as they were able to keep a balance with their abs, that is. And – as long as they had other talents as well, including square jaws, clean skin, clear eyes, and redoubtable priapic gifts. Zaftig had been quietly paying Donovan for years to spot potential talent. And the size and regularity of Zaftig’s checks were profoundly motivating. “Zaftig?” A mumbled affirmative. “There’s a kid who’s been training here a few years who I think you might want to check out….. No, he’s only 17, but he’s huge. Yes. Really huge. Yes, he’s good, very good, and I think he could be great. I’ve been watching him quite awhile now. Hmmm? Two years. No, three. Regularly. Yeah.” Donovan paced a little and glanced out his window to the gym floor. Casey was putting himself through his 6th set of curls. 15 reps per set. Now at 160 lbs. “Weight? He’s 220. At age 17. Yes, really. 220. Height? Get this: he’s 6’4”. And I don’t think he’s done growing. Yes, superb symmetry. What?" He sighed at Zaftig's question. "Yeah, he's hung, too. Biggest goddam tool I ever saw." Another mumbled question. "What? Okay. I’ll call you back. Ten minutes.” He hung up. He got up from his chair and walked out onto the floor up to the muscleboy. “Awesome. Awesome young muscle. Congratulations,” he said breezily. Casey was in heaven. “Gee thanks, Mr. Donovan!” he said. Casey was always excited when the handsome muscleman praised him. “Let’s see those guns,” said Miles. Casey was only too happy to comply, eagerly flexing his powerful young biceps. Miles stroked them appreciatively, and then casually flexed his own right arm. Casey stared. “Wow,” he breathed. He reached forward to touch it. “Go ahead,” said Miles. “Stroke it.” As Casey approached respectfully and softly ran his fingers over Miles’ thick biceps, the older man glanced down. And was startled. The bulge in Casey’s gym shorts was poled out about a foot from his hips. He didn’t seem to notice, transfixed as he was stroking Miles’ biceps. Miles flexed a few more times for him, and with great self-control, walked away. He called Zaftig back. “Yeah, he gets hard when he touches muscles. Okay. No, I don’t think he does drink. Or smoke. One thing, though. I don’t think he’s the brightest light in the billboard. Does it matter? No? Okay. Yes. I will. I’ll keep you posted.” It was that afternoon that Donovan smilingly informed Casey that his membership to Raw Weight would be free of charge for the foreseeable future. He clapped him breezily on his powerful young shoulders, and was slightly astonished at the hardness of the muscle beneath his palm. For his part, Casey was overjoyed. He didn’t stop to examine why such good fortune might have his way, and what might be expected of him in exchange in the future. He continued to pump enthusiastically, and pack on the muscle. The kid’s not bad, thought Donovan, watching Casey joyfully burn through a grueling set of 20 reps of 400-pound deadlifts. ******* Just a few days later that Casey Rockland finally decided to do something about the gang who had been pummeling him in the dorm shower room for years. Already it was taking more and more of the boys in the gang to hold him down during his beatings, which were growing far less frequent as he got bigger and bigger. One day they stopped completely, but the boy’s hostility still festered in the air. Casey was getting ready for payback. Ramon had showed him how, too. “You got a fearsome punch, kid,” he said one afternoon, flat on his back in the ring where Casey had just knocked him, his eye blackened. “Lead with the left. You got it.” One night after lights out, a few of the boys circled his bed. He looked up at them, bleary-eyed and half asleep. “What?” he asked. “Pull his shorts down!“ “You do it! It’s gay!” “I wanna see!” came a pipsqueak voice. Casey felt a dozen hands pin him down in the half-light, and his shorts were yanked to his knees. His adolescent penis, tumescent in the steamy night, was exposed. He was humiliated. And mad. “Goddamn!” one boy yelled. “It’s huge!” “It’s like a monster!” “Hey, Banana Man!” “See, I told ya!” “He’s a freak!” “Casey the Freak!” the boys chanted, and began to pummel him. Casey curled into a ball on his mattress, gritted his teeth, and took it tearfully. “Next time,” he said himself as the boys rained his body with their weak punches. "Next time, they get it." On what turned out to be his last day in the San Jose Boys’ Home, a gang of 18 biggest boys circled him during morning showers, laughing and pointing at his monster penis for the last time. "Okay," he said. "You turds have laughed at me for the last time. He swung a fist, very deliberately, and caught the ringleader square on the jaw. A tooth flew out and the boy hit the wall of the shower. Methodically Casey began to punch his way through the crowd of now-terrified boys. He was surprised at how easy it was. When the steam cleared, all 18 lay on the ground with an array of blackened eyes, broken noses, fractured jaws, and missing teeth. Casey sported a huge shiner himself. It was worth it. That afternoon 5 ambulances pulled up to the front gates and took the boys away for bandaging in the San Juan ER. Four boys were required to stay overnight for observation. Sister Marietta called him into her office to reprimand him. As she always did with the bad boys, she bent him over her lap and spanked his firm young butt with a ruler. She broke three of them before she finally gave up, perplexed at how hard the young man’s behind had become. Afterwards, rubbing his stinging bottom, Casey ran back to his room and cried. No one loves me, he cried. That night he ran away forever from the San Jose Boy’s Home. He went to the gym, and still sniffling, emptied out his locker. Donovan watched him from the window in his office as Casey, in tears tucked his favorite do-rag in his back jeans pocket and slumped out into the night. Casey figured he had to leave town, although he had no idea where exactly he was going to go. Miles picked up his mobile phone. He figured the time had come. A hour later, Dr. Zaftig found Casey sitting alone and dejectedly in the San Jose bus station. Dr. Zoloft was in transit from the city to the lab facility in the countryside outside town when Donovan had called him hurriedly. He did a fast detour in his minivan, walked swiftly into the bus station, and took a good look at the huge kid bursting out of his t-shirt, sitting alone on a bench in the corner. He knew right away he had another promising specimen for Project Herculaneum. Miles Donovan was never wrong. Zaftig walked unhesitatingly up to Casey and introduced himself. He talked about a bright, golden future for the young bodybuilder. Innocent Casey stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few minutes. Then he smiled through his tears. In the end, he went with the doctor with the funny name. He never questioned anything. He was just grateful. Casey moved into the cadet facility at the base of the mountain leading up to the main compound that night. The next morning, Dr. Irving appeared in Sister Marietta’s office and signed for his release. He flashed some government identification for her, muttered some Federal mumbo jumbo, announced that Valhalla Labs had invested in Casey’s training for four years, and petitioned the court for the right to take Casey into custody. Sister Marietta held up her hand to cut him off, offering no objections. “Take him. He’s too big for us now. We can’t afford to feed him anymore, and the other boys are now terrified of him. Besides, four of his classmates are still in the hospital. It would be best for all if he left.” As she signed the papers offered by Dr. Irving, she added, “But please take good care of him. Casey is a sweet and simple young man. He needs love.” No other paperwork seemed necessary, and though it was far from being anything like a formal adoption, it was enough for the Good Sister. She was relieved to see the boy go – he now always seemed to be hungry, and she had been forced to replace Sister Anne in the kitchen because the boy’s appetite was breaking the food budget. She was glad he could go somewhere where, hopefully, he would get his required 6 square meals a day. Beyond that, she wouldn’t worry. Casey had always been a good boy – well, until the day before. She knew he’d make the right decisions for himself. Or not. Once in the program, Zaftig fast-tracked Casey’s growth. Under Zaftig’s watchful eye and the encouragement of the cadet trainers, he worked harder than anyone he had yet encountered. And the food? He couldn’t believe it – six full meals a day! Two days a week he was required to remain near his quarters and relax. The other five days of the week were taken up with schooling, enhanced nutrition, supervised meditation, running drills, bicycling, swimming, gymnastics practice, small arms training, and nightly injections of Protein 21b, Zaftig’s laboratory serum developed under the most rigorous of testing. Within two months, he was a full cadet in the program, and in less than 2 years he was approaching the threshold of muscular perfection. Most of the time for those years, he was alone with Zaftig, Dr. Irving, his trainers, and some of the Project cadets. He had been restrained from meeting the other 19 men, who trained and socialized on their own in the main building of the facility. He didn’t notice it just at first, but during the next two years he couldn’t help but wonder at the increasing volume of his emissions. He had no inkling that Protein 21b might be causing his sperm production to gradually increase exponentially. Still, during the two years he came to understand that there might be some link between the clear liquid in the daily injections and the increasingly generous volume of semen that spurted out of his cock nightly. He was also amazed that his cock itself appeared to be getting even bigger. He had always been hugely hung, but – this was crazy. At first it required little more than a washrag to clean up after himself, but in time, larger and larger bath towels were required to mop up the flow after cumming. His sheets were badly always badly stained in the morning, and – strangely – every night he found they had been replaced by crisp, new sheets. He never knew who might be doing this for him, and over time his initial embarrassment about his sticky sheets faded away into the generally dark, accumulating volume of unanswered questions. After he passed his high school graduation equivalency exams, Zaftig decided he was ready to take it to the next level. It was time to formally present the boy to the 19. Casey was 18 years old and in the best condition of his young life to date. Still, he was lonely. At night he lay alone in his little room, gazed out the window at the moon and the stars, and beat his humongous meat off fiercely. He dreamed of being the biggest, strongest man in the world. Everyone would love him. And he would protect everyone. It was the sweetest dream in the world, and it was always enough to charge him to a satisfying climax. Then he’d roll over and fall into a deep sleep, hopeful for better days.
  6. 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 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend Chapter 20 Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 February 10th, 2022 2050 Hours Alvarez, already shirtless and oiling himself up, answered the knock on his door. Naturally, it was Lang. “Right on time. Come on in,” he said. Lang came in, babbling with his usual over-the-top excitement that preceded every Pose and Approve session. “So what do you think the brass thought?” he asked eagerly as he pulled off his t-shirt. Alvarez tossed a bottle of heated mineral oil to his buddy, who uncapped it and began to smear oil onto his muscles as well. “Did you see that old Admiral Whatsisname? Jesus, he looked awesomely p i s s e d o f f, man! And what about all those other dudes? Didja hear them? Didja hear them groaning?? Dude! D’ya think they all creamed their pants?” “Of course they did. They always do. It’s the guaranteed effect.” Alvarez sighed, oiling his triceps, shaking his head. "It's why we're here, man. It's the only reason." Lang laughed excitedly, working the oil into his muscles. “Man, those dudes ain’t never seen muscle like ours before, right? Right?” He flexed powerful biceps and nodded into one of the room’s full-length mirrors with a frowning sneer. “Asshole dudes never seen guns like these, right? pow! bam!!” “Oh, shut the fuck up,” muttered Alvarez. Lang stared. He was suddenly quiet. Alvarez continued to oil himself up. He looked worried. “What’d I say, dude?” Lang asked plaintively, his arms outstretched. Alvarez walked over to him and stood nose to nose before him, the bulges in Alvarez’s jeans and Lang’s posers just touching. He reached around Lang to the back of his head and, guiding his face close, planted a deep kiss onto his perfect lips. He worked his tongue into Lang’s mouth, who responded deeply. Then he pulled back and gazed long and hard into Lang’s deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry. Forget them,” he said reassuringly. “Let’s pose.” “Yeah! Pose and approve!” shouted Lang, and then giggled apologetically, clamping his hand over his mouth in response to Alvarez’s stern look. “Shut up. We don’t want everyone in here.” “Sorry, dude.” “Tonight is just us.” “Sorry, dude! Let’s rock!” Both turned and looked at their reflection in Alvarez’s three-paneled mirror. Excepting Alvarez’s mustache, the two powerful musclemen were almost exact duplicates of one another: tall, dark, and handsome, with deep brown eyes, taut cheekbones and shiny black hair. Their ripped, 285-pound physiques were perfect symphonies of bulging muscle. Lang nodded and forgot all about the brass. He did a crab crunch into the mirror. “Freakkkkyyy…” he muttered. “Swole. So swole.” His veins exploded with throbbing power. Alvarez was undoing his belt, unzipping his zipper, working his tight jeans gradually down his ripped quads. “Pose and approve time, man,” he said to Lang. “Pose and approve.” He picked up a remote and lowered the room’s lights, bringing up the glare of the overhead spotlight focused on the 15' posing dais in front of the mirrors. “Yeah, man, let’s get to it!” Lang ripped off his clothes and stepped up onto the dais as Alvarez kicked away his jeans. Both men were now only barely covered with skimpy royal blue competition posing trunks with hundreds of bright spangles sewn onto the extra-large pouches. The spangles caught the light and glistened like small sapphires. Alvarez stood before him. “You go first.” For an instant, Lang was honored to be going first, as the unspoken law between them during their nightly mutual muscle worship sessions was that Alvarez always got to pose before he did. Tonight was apparently different; even so, Lang was instantly caught up in the sheer joy of his own reflection of muscular near-perfection, and he forgot it right away. The muscleman stood quietly, his heavy arms around his back, his hands clasped. He waited. His ripped abs seemed to extend forever, cobbled fatless bricks laced with thick veins. His cock poled out in his posers. But still he waited. Alvarez was always in charge of Pose and Approve. “Go.” “I’m fucking ….. awesummmmm…..” Lang moaned, loving himself. He slowly curled his huge body into a side biceps pose and turned his head to cockily grin at his reflection. Then he glanced uncertainly at Alvarez in the mirror. “Talk to me,” he demanded, but Alvarez knew he was really begging. “Tell me I’m huge.” Alvarez was not about to let him down. “Yeah, you’re huge, man,” whispered Alvarez with warm smoothness, and he shifted his weight, smoothing the small pools of oil onto his delts. “Those guns of yours look to be about 23 inches. Check out your fist. Motherfucking huge. You could seriously do some serious bare knuckle damage with a fist like that.” His muscles were now gleaming with oil. Lang laughed joyfully. “I have, man! I’ve cleared a few barrooms in my day!” “Punching out ba-a-a-d dudes with those fists?” “Yeah, punching out the bad dudes! Check out these veins, man! They’re like super highways, man! Pumping, buddy. Pumpin’ it up for ya, man.” Lang pumped and flexed. Alvarez capped the bottle, set it down, and turned back, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, yeah, man. That’s good. Nice. Big old motherfucking biceps. Flex those guns for me, man.” “I’m flexing these guns for ya, bro. BOOM. Big muscle in the house,” he cried out joyfully. “Yeah, I see you, man. Nice. Nice big muscles. Biggest muscleman on earth, man.” “’Cept for you, bro. You’re bigger,” said Lang. Alvarez stepped onto the dais under the spotlight, and standing between Lang and the mirror, smoothed hot oil onto Lang’s glistening pecs, stroking his muscles appreciatively. They stood nose-to-nose, not six inches apart. Lang flexed powerful biceps. “Don’t know about that.” Alvarez smoothly applied oil to the granite softballs of Lang’s peaks. Lang stared at himself, transfixed. In his posing trunks his heavy cock was already pointing straight ahead. Alvarez clapped Lang’s huge biceps in his palms. “Like fucking rocks.” “Yeah, man, like fucking boulders, I know. Feel ‘em, man. Feel my muscles.” His eyes took in the mirror reflection of Alvarez’s awesome glutes. “I’m there, man, doing your muscles for you, man.” Alvarez licked his pecs, kissed each bulging biceps, and lightly bit Lang’s nipples. Then he knelt, leaned in and whispered again, his face now level to Lang’s bulging crotch. His breath softly exploded onto Lang’s stiffening cockshaft appearing as his posing trunks poled heavily outward. “You’re big, man. Real big.” “I’m big, hunh?” asked Lang. Now that Alvarez was on his knees and not blocking his upper body reflection, he was gazing at himself with hypnotic eagerness. “Motherfucking huge muscleman, dude.” Lang could feel Alvarez’s breath lightly exploding onto his junk. Still, he never looked away from his own reflection. “So reward me, man. Reward me for my muscles. Reward me for this pose.” “You got it, man. Here comes your reward.” “Thanks, bro,” purred Lang, gazing now in rapture at the pointing peaks of his biceps, his tongue slightly hanging out. His buddy approved. He was in heaven. He’d taken first place in the show running in his head. He and his buddy. “Just keep posing, man.” Alvarez gently opened his mouth and tenderly began to suck Lang’s big cock through his posing trunks. Lang glided into his next pose, a side-chest. And then a front lat spread. His pelvis pushed forward. His poser straining with cock. The pose and approve ritual always began with each man wearing his posing trunks for as long as he could manage to keep them on. They mentally pictured themselves on a competition stage, posing for overwhelmed judges and an audience of thousands of screaming fans, while under the lights, they were really posing only for each other, taking turns kneeling and occasionally bending and sucking each other’s erect cocks through their trunks. They fantasized no one else would be allowed to touch them. They’d turn and punch the lights out of anyone who dared. But the reality was that anyone who wanted to suck their cocks could do so. With just a little begging. After all, big musclemen deserve to get their cocks sucked. Now Alvarez was licking the bobbing cockhead through the straining cloth, running his tongue up and down Lang’s piss slit. Then he deep-throated him, holding the giant cock tenderly in his warm mouth. He held it for 30 seconds. Above him, Lang gulped and continued to pose. Then Alvarez slowly slid his lips off the big dick. The bulging fabric of the bursting poser was wet with saliva. He looked up and winked at the grateful Lang. “Big musclemen like you work hard,” he said with a quiet smile. “You pump those awesome muscles into unbelievable size. When you flex those muscles, it’s mind-blowing. You deserve a reward for all that hard work. You deserve to get your big cock sucked.” “Thanks, man.” “Don’t mention it, bro.” Alvarez ran his hands smoothly up and down Lang’s obliques, smacking his firm sides. He nodded, then looked up. “You got a lat spread you want to show me, man?” He licked his buddy’s abs and waited. “Comin’ up, “Lang breathed, and with a small explosion of breath, he grabbed the straps of his posers, pulled them taut, planted his fists into his obliques, and pumped his rocky pecs into their full mass. He spread his legs wide, the pouch of his posing trunks bulging forward with his fully erect 10-inch penis. Alvarez, still licking the washboard abs, stroked the cock with his thick fingers, glanced up and nodded. “Good lat spread. Great pecs. Lemme see you bounce ‘em. Show me, now.” “Okay.” Lang began to bounce his flexing pecs back and forth in dance of perfect machine gun muscle rhythm. “Yeah, man. Doin’ some serious pec dancing for you now. Boom. Boom. Boom. Watch ‘em, now. Watch these pecs of mine do their thing.” “Do that pec dance thing for me, baby,” said Alvarez. He watched Lang’s bouncing pecs for a full minute. Then he leaned in and licked the cockhead, again through the posers. “I approve. Here’s your reward.” Alvarez once again opened his mouth wide, and with a quick fleck of his tongue against his lips, took the bulging pouch of Lang’s posers full down his throat. Lang, his pecs still dancing, began to slowly pump his hips, fucking face. Bursts of warm precum began to stain the poser fabric, blooming into a widening pool of moisture. Alvarez could see the giant slit of Lang’s big penis head, and licked respectfully. After a minute, he released another small explosion of breath to signify to the bodybuilder kneeling before him that he was going to change his pose again. “Front double biceps,” he announced, and swung his arms up into mighty peaks. Alvarez pulled back slightly, licked the cockhead again, and rocked back on his heels. In his own posing trunks his cock was now full 11 inches erect and poling above the waistband, slap tight against his abs. “Lookin’ good. Now hold that for two minutes. No, three. Hold that pose solid without moving for three minutes. Then you’ll get your reward.” It was agony. Lang loved it. He fiercely held the mountainous peaks of his 23-inch biceps for three full minutes. Sweat began pouring down his face. “Flexing for ya, man!” He bared his lips and gritted his teeth into a grimace. His veins exploded down his neck. The veins in his forearms were like cables of steel wire. He raised one biceps, then the other, again dancing them back and forth. The baseball peaks of his guns gleamed in the spotlight. On his knees before him, Alvarez gazed up worshipfully, pumping his own cock right out of his posing trunks, but not touching Lang. “It’s been more than three minutes,” Lang finally said through his gritted teeth. “So reward me, man! Suck my cock, man!” “Think you deserve a reward?” Alvarez teased, now stroking Lang’s cock tenderly with his tongue. “For these guns? You bet, baby. Take that big cock of mine down your throat now!” “You got it, man.” Alvarez fell forward onto his knees again, his mouth wide open, and landed bulls-eye onto the giant pole bursting in Lang’s posing trunks, taking it all into his mouth. For three minutes, he sucked cock, up and down, licking, spitting, back and forth, deep sucking. Lang gazed down at him, relaxed his biceps a few seconds, and then resumed the pose. He was rock hard. “Dig these guns, man, and suck my cock. Suck your approval. Pose and approve me. Pose and approve.” “Yeah, you like it when I suck your cock while you’re posing?” breathed Alvarez. He licked the mammoth bulge in Lang’s posing trunks. “I can see you onstage, man. Flexing for all those asshole judges. Blowing them all away. Never seen biceps as big as yours. Never seen a cock as big as yours. Poling out in your posing trunks. Big old heavy bulge. Big cocks need to get sucked.” “Yeah? Well, man, I like it when you suck my cock. I like it when you suck my cock while I’m posing for those assholes.” Greedily, Alvarez licked the cloth covering Lang’s heavy testicles. “Lickin’ your balls now, man, licking your balls.” “Put ‘em in your mouth, man. Put my balls in your mouth.” Still flexing, he looked down and eyed Alvarez’s cock hungrily. Alvarez was pumping it now with both hands. It looked like a firehose. Suddenly Lang wanted to suck it. But he didn’t want Alvarez to stop. He dropped to his knees. Alvarez lowered with him, knowing what he wanted. As he watched, Lang flexed his right biceps one more time; Alvarez nodded approval; then Lang leaned in to Alvarez’s cock. He pulled the posing trunks over the cockhead onto Alvarez’s balls, and brought it into his mouth. Alvarez kept sucking. Together the two bodybuilders slowly lowered their huge bodies onto the posing dais under the spotlight and began to service each other with a full-body 69 grapple. Their arm muscles rippled against each other as each man gripped the other’s hard glutes, thick fingers gripping slabs of butt muscle. Each man ecstatically sucked his muscle buddy’s gigantic rod, their balls both still barely covered by their straining posing trunks. After 18 minutes of violent 69 sucking, their posing trunks finally tore from the strain. Rrr-i-i-i-i-pp! Their bullish balls burst free in unison, and each man eagerly licked the other’s heavy testicles passionately. “Next time, you pose first,” whispered Lang, and Alvarez looked over at him, grinned, and flexed a biceps. Lang nodded seriously. “I approve,” he said, “now here’s your reward,” and he bent in, sucking cock. The slurping, moaning, sucking sounds echoed down the corridor. In his room, Private Chris Hension, lying naked in bed, covered with sweat, his pole rising stiffly towards the ceiling, finally couldn’t take it any more. He jumped out of bed, grabbed a robe and a pair of purple spangly posers, stepped into them, fitting his huge member into the pouch with some difficulty, and tore out of his room. He ran down the hallway, his half-tumescent, half-sheathed cock waggling in the breeze, and stopped at Alvarez’s door. He waited an instant – and was about to knock – but, what the hell. He banged on the door, threw it open, and walked in. He knew it would be unlocked. Somehow instinctively he knew they were waiting for him. And so they were. The two musclemen lay on the dais, sucking each other’s cocks, their mammoth physiques coated with a glistening layer of sweat. Without removing dick from mouth, each man slowed for a moment and gazed up at Hension questioningly. “Were we making too much noise?” asked Alvarez, his speech garbled by Lang’s cock. “Yeah. I’d say,” said Hension. He threw his robe to the floor and stood before them in his favorite posing strap, his own erection poling straight ahead. He slammed the door behind him and stepped forward, whipping his arms up into a front double biceps. “Check me out,” he commanded, but there was a note of hopefulness in his voice. Of desperation, Alvarez quietly noted to himself. Good, good, all to the good. “Damn. He’s a pretty little muscleboy, ain’t he?” said Alvarez, momentarily releasing Lang’s cock. “He sure is,” said Lang, doing the same. “You see me every day, guys. I ain’t so little,” said Hension, flexing. “Maybe we’ve never noticed you before.” “Fuck you both.” “Oh, sorry. Maybe you should leave?” “NO! I wanna play too!” Hension flexed feverishly. “Okay. We’ll think about it.” Alvarez licked Lang’s dick a few times and lolled his head back towards Hension. Lang, however, appeared to take no more interest, turning his full attention to sucking his buddy’s dick. He bent in and deep-throated Alvarez’s stiff penis a few times, gagging slightly, and then resumed his gentle, steady sucking and licking. “You sure are pretty. Big biceps. Big. Good quads. Turn around.” Hension turned around, did a rear lat spread, pointing his shapely round glutes to the ceiling. “Nice. Awesome hams. Lang, you see those hams?” …..Suck suck suck suck suck…. “No? Hmmm. Guess he’s busy. Come on over here and flex for us while we suck some cock.” And Alvarez turned back to Lang’s quivering member, appearing indifferent. “I’ll show you guys,” muttered Hension, stepping onto the dais. He was ready. He’d been waiting a long time for this. And he’d been kidded, slapped, punched, and pushed around too long to not grab the moment. His moment. “I’m gonna flex now, and you’re gonna watch me!” he shouted. From the floor of the dais, Alvarez and Lang turned and looked up at him. There was a pause. “So go ahead,” said Alvarez. “Let’s see what you got.” He paused. “Boy,” he added.
  7. Previous chapters: "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 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 Precis: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable appetite to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his ever-growing need to receive equal doses of both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. Chapter 9: Good for Morale, Continued Oral was hardly uncommon in the compound. In fact, Moster encouraged it. And Zaftig was fascinated by the men’s hunger for it, though he never took part. Not long after starting a P21 protocol, each man had developed insatiable an insatiable need to suck and be sucked. Cocksucking was therefore more than just a healthy release for the men: it was now mandatory. And though none of them would acknowledge themselves to be 100% gay, part of their acceptance into the program relied on each man’s private original tendencies towards pansexuality, boosted as they were by the behavioral blockers of P21. Over the years, each of the bodybuilders in Project Herculaneum had at one time or another sucked every other bodybuilder’s cock to full release many dozens of times. Often it happened in the showers after training, but sometimes it was after meals, as well. And as all were superlatively endowed with astonishing penises of uncommon weight, size, length, beauty and girth, no one was disappointed. Even Abdul Karim took part, much to the surprise of everyone. Though he never talked about it, even appearing bored, the more observant men noted a gleam in his eye each time he bent to service Gunst. Oral was against the rules on rest days. By the time training days came around again, the musclemen were already laughing, slapping each other on the backs during meals, and smacking their lips in anticipation. Fucking was another matter. All the men had been vaccinated against the virulent STDs that had long ravaged the world, and were now immune to any infection, their antibodies remorselessly attacking any invader. Butt fucking was an art. The soldiers were all equipped with powerful machines, all endowed with superb glutes, and all highly in touch with the pure waves of pleasure broadcast by their sensitive prostates. Good muscle butt fucking was serious stuff. As all the men were huge, heavy, and powerfully strong, it was like heavy lifting crossed with pure animal pleasure: one bull fucking another bull. Vigorously. Group fucks of spirited, high-energy muscle daisy chains were a once-a-month event, seriously organized and generally preserved on video for the records. Wearing full black leather masks in order to remain as anonymous as possible, and with deep black satin robes covering their individually distinctive bodies, the men gathered in the dimmed mess hall and connected their dicks to the next asshole in a line-up deliberately arranged by Moster. Muscle worship was not part of the evening. The point was prostate manipulation and bonding. Still, private fucking was not discouraged. A few of the men had distinct preferences for one another as fuck buddy, even as the cocksucking was group-wide and free-for-all. Of course, Schumacher had been fucking them all for years – except for Karim, of course. Apart from the daisy-chain sessions, no one dared to even approach Killer Karim from the rear - if he valued his teeth, that is. But so far, as far as he knew, no one man in particular had privately fucked Joe Tiffany – apart from the scheduled group daisy-chain fucks, where Moster was careful to make sure that the connections varied from session to session. Schumacher had fucked him just once in a group session, although as always as always he was masked and gowned. He could see through Tiffany’s mask that his eyes were rolling back in his head in pleasure, and Schumacher wasn’t sure Tiffany knew who he was. He knew it was Joe Tiffany’s muscular rear he was fucking, however, sliding up and down his supercharged big cock. That butt was pure, beautiful gold, a magically shaped combination of soft skin and raw, ripped power that was mind-boggling in its balance and tireless in its energy. Tiffany had taken charge of the fucking, as he gave it to the taller muscleman in the chain ahead of him, powerfully blasting forward into the glutes ahead of him, and, in perfect timing, also pumping his animal butt up and down on Schumacher’s cock with furiously blind energy. For his part, Tiffany knew full well whose cock had impaled his perfect butt that night. He didn’t share this information. From that night, he had a plan. Another plan, that is. In reality, all of the men were deeply aware of whose butts they were servicing, and who was manfully plugging his own from behind. The men had spent too many hours together in the rec room, on the workout floor, in classes and in the showers, not to be able to instantly recognize and distinguish each of his buddies. The wearing of the robes was nothing but a farce, but still they conceded, secretly further aroused by the spectacle of the volumes of black fabric draped with alluring mystery over each man’s rippling physique. Still, from that night on, Joe Tiffany knew that Herman Schumacher was just the man to regularly plow his supple, needy, bodybuilder-cupcakes behind. All he had to do was train him just a little bit over the following few months to ensure that he was captive, obedient, and would always be on call whenever Tiffany was of a mind to be mindlessly fucked. In the mean time, at night in his quarters his oversized dildo was getting the workout he bought it to do during one of his rare trips to town. He would energetically shove it deep into his butthole, rear his head back, close his eyes, and dream of Schumacher’s likely powerful thrusts. And, as Moster always said to Dr. Zaftig, who wasn’t entirely comfortable with the ritual behind the group fucks, “They need more sex than ordinary men. A lot more sex. Their metabolisms demand it. Besides – “ And Zaftig would say with him, in unison, “It’s good for morale.” Waring was screaming in Gunst’s face. Steve Waring “Come on, asshole! What’s the matter, pansy ass? Can’t you do it? You’ve only done 12 so far, butthead. What’s the problem, 200 pounds too heavy for you to curl, baby boy?” Gunst’s face was screwed into a mask of lip-curling, teeth-crunching pain as he vainly tried to complete the 13th rep. His biceps were exploding. The veins in his neck stood out like steel cables. His face bloomed deep crimson. He screamed. He couldn’t do it. He strained and squeezed and tried again, and his arms froze mid-rep, unmoving, the biceps bulging with 23 inches of shattering power. Suddenly he threw the weight to the floor, where it crashed resoundingly, echoing throughout the compound. Waring jumped back a little to avoid getting hit by the bar. The other men never stopped work, nor did they look up. Moster strode over to them. “What’s the problem here, Private Gunst?” “I – I couldn’t do it, sir,” said Gunst, backing away and mopping his face with his huge hand. Ashamed, he lowered his head. Fountains of his sweat splashed onto the floor. Moster turned to Waring. “What set was he on?” “Sir, he had completed five sets of 15 reps each, sir.” “Successfully?” “Yes, sir.” Gunst glanced nervously down at Sergeant Moster’s twitching palm. Moster hadn’t punished anyone yet tonight for slacking, and he knew it was about time he’d want to show his authority over the men. He needn’t have worried. Moster smiled kindly. “That’s actually pretty damn good, Private Gunst,” said Sergeant Moster. “Waring, take care of this man, and then let’s see him try again.” “Yes, sir,” said Waring. The young bodybuilder quickly got to his knees, lifted Gunst’s pulsing cock out of his barely restraining jockstrap, brought it tenderly up to his lips, and began to suck it deeply. Gunst closed his eyes and reared his head back thankfully. Immediately his cock was at full erection, throbbing and pulsing in Waring’s mouth. On white cap nights, cocksucking was permitted on the workout floor only if approved by Moster. “Use your lips, Private,” directed Moster, “the way we’ve discussed. You know the way Private Gunst likes it.” Waring nodded eagerly and mouthed the young man’s giant throbbing organ. “Pump your hips, Gunst.” Gunst began manfully plowing Waring’s good-looking, All-American face. “Harder.” Gunst pumped harder, and the satisfying sucking sounds grew louder, adding to the din. Waring thoroughly licked the cock up and down its full length, and rubbed it against the two-day old beard stubble of his cheeks. “Scratchy,” moaned Gunst with pleasure, his eyes closed. He plunged in again. Tiffany nudged his darkly handsome training partner Private Lang, who was just finishing a set of pull-downs. “Check ‘em out,” he murmured, winking and pointing. Lang turned and smiled broadly at the dreamily cocksucking Waring. “Waring always was a good cocksucker,” he said, just a shade too loudly. “You have a problem, Private Lang?” Moster’s voice boomed through the room. Tiffany ducked his head towards the pull down machine. Lang went white. “No, sir,” he stammered. “I think you do. Get over here.” Here it comes, chuckled Gunst to himself, watching the intimidated Lang stumble forward meekly as Waring, below, hungrily sucked his throbbing big cock. “Go get your punishment, man,” whispered a grinning, sweating Corporal Lefevre, punching the shame-faced Lang on the shoulder as he passed. Alvarez watched expressionlessly. “Take it like a man,” he murmured Alvarez as Lang passed him. He flashed a hard look at Tiffany. He knew what he was doing, getting Lang on the hot seat. He’d pay. Later. The hot seat. Indeed. 5’-11”, 280-pound Lang, streamlined with ripped, striated muscle and dripping with sweat, approached Moster and stood at rigid attention before him. He saluted. Sighing, acting as though he were resigned to the inevitable task of discipline before him, the giant Sergeant Moster sat heavily on one of the benches. By now the men were all looking away in a mix of nervousness, embarrassment, eagerness and excitement. Lang stood motionless, staring straight ahead in perfect attention, dreading the humiliation about to befall him. “Was something funny, Lang?” “No, sir.” “You don’t find Private Waring funny?” Lang glanced nervously at Waring, who greedily sucked cock. “No, sir.” “What are the rules, Private?” “We are respectful of the need for regular oral stimulation, sir.” “And why are we?” “It’s good for morale, sir.” “Was your comment good for morale, Lang?” Lang was ashamed. “No, sir.” “No. Let’s get to it, Private.” “Yes, sir.” Lang relaxed his attention, gulped, and quickly slipped out of his sopping t-shirt. He squeezed large droplets of sweat out on the marley surface of the gym floor and tossed it resignedly in the growing puddle. Standing before Moster a little pathetically, he was a muscle giant about to be chastised by an even larger muscle giant. Silently, submissively, he bent over Sergeant Moster’s powerful quads and lay prone on his lap. Moster, his fingers twitching, raised his palm. He paused a moment. “How long has it been, Private?” “Since when, sir?” Through Moster’s sweatsuit Lang could feel the man’s enormous penis, relaxed across the top of the sergeant’s right thigh, press against his abs. “Since I had to discipline you in front of the men, Private?” “About two months, sir.” Moster glanced down appraisingly at the beautiful, trembling glutes that lay gleaming over his knee. He paused, his hand held aloft, inspecting with internal approval. “You were training legs tonight, weren’t you, Private?” he asked. The suspense was killing Lang. “Yes, sir, I was, sir.” “Squatting deep?” “Yes, sir.” “Keeping good form?” “I think so, sir.” “Good, Private. This will supplement your workout tonight. Heat helps muscles grow.” With calloused, powerful palms, his thick fingers spread wide for maximum sting, Sergeant Moster sharply spanked the muscleman’s rocky glutes with carefully applied, deeply resonant butt smacks. Lang twisted and turned on his lap. After a few sharp spanks he cried out. “Sir, it stings, sir!” Tears spouted from his eyes. “Goddamn right it stings.” Moster turned to Gunst, watching from a few feet away with wide eyes, his large cock sliding deeply in and out of Waring’s mouth. “Fuck face, Private,” he commanded. “Yes sir!” shouted Gunst. He placed his hands on the back of Waring’s head and pumped his hips rhythmically as Waring, his mouth full of cock, moaned with deep satisfaction. The rest of the squad was watching. Moster could see all were now getting visibly excited. Their jocks were starting to bulge fearsomely, and two or three massive penis heads had popped out of their restraining pouches. “Get back to work!” Moster commanded, and without hesitation, the men turned back to their weights and began to lift again with renewed zeal. Gunst’s huge body shuddered, and a river of thick cum began spurting out of Waring’s mouth and down his chin. “UUUUNNNNNGGGGHHHHH!” he roared. Waring was moaning deeply as the desperately swallowed the pint of semen pouring down his throat. By the time he was finished shooting his load, Moster was steadily applying the 25th blow to Lang’s shiny red, twitching musclebutt. Moster issued his next order. “See that you finish that set properly, Gunst, or you’re next on the hot seat.” “Yes, sir!” he shouted, stuffing his dripping, still hard cock back into his stained jock as best he could as Waring, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, scrambled to his feet. “Spot me,” Gunst said to Waring, and, grabbing the weight, he peeled off 15 perfect-form, agonizingly correct curls. Waring, doing his best to ignore both his own achingly enlarged cock and the yet looming bulge in Gunst’s jockstrap, and with the splotches of cum still dripping down his face, spotted him with as much concentration as he could muster. “1! 2! 3!” Waring counted the reps, filled with admiration as Gunst’s mountainous biceps exploded with power. As Waring shouted the count, Moster applied another heavy smack for each rep to the quivering, deeply scarlet, muscular bottom of Private Lang, who, over his knees, groaned deeply with a blend of humiliation, excitement and pain. As he spanked, Moster called out loudly to the men. “Attention! Men!” “7! 8! 9! 10!” Spank! The man snapped into attention from wherever they stood around the workout floor. “Tonight you will be meeting our newest recruit in Project Herculaneum.” Spank! Spank! “From this evening on, we will now be known as The Twenty.” Spank! Spank! Spank! The men stood at rigid attention. “Yes, sir!” they shouted. “And remember, men,” said Moster, grinning down at handsome Private Lang stretched over his knees, who had tears in his eyes and whose face was almost – but not quite – as beet red as the handprints on his perfect butt, “being spanked by me is a badge of honor. Never be ashamed when I call you forward to the hot seat have your butts whipped. I do not pay such honorific attentions to anyone outside the squad.” Spank! Spank! “18! 19! 20! 21!” “Yes, sir!” Spank! Spank! Tiffany grinned. He had often spotted the quiet, shy, legendary young muscle giant Casey Rockland in the mess, and heard all about his fearsome physique. He was looking forward to meeting him. He paid no attention to the unwavering, hostile gaze of Corporal Alvarez. Corporal Schumacher strode over to him. He glanced over at Alvarez threateningly, who immediately shifted his gaze and went back to work. “You better watch it. You don’t want to piss off that guy,” he muttered to Tiffany. “Who the fuck cares?” shrugged Tiffany. Thirty feet across the room, Moster continued to apply his stern, masterful spanking to Lang’s squirming, rock-hard musclebutt. Lang’s face was now contorted in an ongoing blissful combination of pain and pleasure, his mouth forming a smiling O….. “…oooooooooo….” Alvarez was watching closely from the corner. Even at more than 40 feet, Tiffany could see the Alvarez’s jock was now poling straight out from his body, strained to the bursting point. “I can’t always cover your ass when you misbehave. These men are my buddies. You’re still new here.” Tiffany smiled cockily. His fresh young musculature glowed with youth and health. He knew that since the last daisy chain that his sunny handsomeness and bad boy intentions had become irresistible to the old horndog Schumacher. It was all going beautifully. “I can take care of myself,” he said. He gestured with his thumb to the blank-faced, completely erect Alvarez, who was by now busy with his next set of deep squats. “Besides, he looks like he doesn’t mind.” The mute Private Meyer was now gleefully bent over before Alvarez, holding his ankles and laughing silently, dancing and twitching that magical butt of his just a few feet in front of the man’s protruding jockstrap. Alvarez had to grin. Then he turned back to the squat bar. “See?” Schumacher grunted. “Yeah, I know you can take care of yourself.” Schumacher moved in close and breathed into Tiffany’s face. “ I want to see you later on.” “You do, hunh?” “Yeah, I do, hunh. After the detail meets Casey Rockland, you come to my quarters. Tonight. That’s an order.” “Finish up, men!” commanded Moster, still spanking the twitching Lang’s bright-red glutes. Spank! “Ouch!” Lang cried. “You’re not my CO.” Tiffany lifted a bar off a squat rack and began doing slow military presses. He smiled indifferently at Schumacher and said no more. Schumacher grunted angrily and moved to the cable rack, where he finished off his chest workout with a final set of intense cable flyes. He now had Corporal Herman Schumacher wrapped around his little finger, and he knew it. He wrapped up his set of presses, now purposefully ignoring him, and grabbed his towel. He wiped himself off and smiled beatifically across at Moster. Moster, never pausing in his discipline of Lang, was amused. He winked at Tiffany. He knew he’d get the Private’s butt to himself – in time – but he generously allowed that Schumacher would get to it first. And that was part of his plan. Casey Rockland was the other part. The workout was finally over. “To the showers, men,” Moster called out. The men collected their workout bags and empty water jugs, and filed eagerly off the floor, clambering over one another like puppies, heading towards their no-holds barred shower room games. Even the normally disgruntled Karim had a special light in his eyes. He was looking forward to Gunst’s piss. As they raced out, Moster looked down at Lang, still stretched pitiably over his knee. “How many was that, Private?” he asked calmly. “59, sir.” “Good. I assume you enjoyed it?” “Yes, sir,” he said with meek truthfulness. “Actually, I loved it.” “Then here’s one more for good luck.” He raised his black hand and applied the last, 60th searing red-hot butt smack. WHACK! “Ow! That was good, sir!” Lang scrambled to his feet, saluted, and tenderly rubbing the scarlet handprints on his delectable bodybuilder butt. “May I join the others now?” “Off with you.” “Thank you, sir!” Lang scooped up his discarded clothes and plastic bottle with one hand, flinging his gear over his broad shoulders, standing still for a moment pouring what was left of the cool water over his shoulder onto his stinging glutes. He grinned at Moster. "Thank you again, sir, for the discipline. My butt needed it." Moster waved him off. Then, kneading his iron-hard, hand-print reddened butt cheeks with the fingers of both hands, the handsome private scampered happily, if somewhat bow-leggedly, away to join his sweaty, horny muscle buddies in the locker room. Chapter 10: The Showers Inside, they had already slipped out of their drenched t-shirts, boots and jockstraps, slipped on striped flipflops, and had headed quickly to the showers, and down to extreme business. Lang was eager to rejoin the men. After all, there was just enough time for one more round of group cocksucking, butt fucking, and stress-reducing water sports before they all had to gather in the lab upstairs to meet the new recruit. Naked in the steamy group shower, he found his way to his muscle buddy Alvarez. He fell to his knees as Alvarez turned, strode forward to meet him, flexed his mammoth biceps, and shoved his meaty erect cock into Lang’s gratefully receiving mouth. Behind Lang, Private Gunst thoughtfully soothed his stinging, reddened glutes with a powerful jet stream coating of clear, clean piss. His mouth full of cock, Lang nodded gratefully up at Gunst, who returned his nod with a “Hey, it’s okay.” Lang arched his butt to receive the coating of piss all the better. He glanced over at Schumacher, who was now violently plowing Tiffany’s wide-open mouth with his own swollen firehose man meat. Schumacher hadn’t said a word. He had walked directly up to Tiffany, who swiftly went to his knees and carefully guided his lips over the shaft of the Corporal’s 11-inch penis. Schumacher was facefucking him as mercilessly as he could manage, but the young Private seemed serenely in control. As usual, he never gagged. Which made Corporal Herman Schumacher plow harder and deeper. Which prompted a satisfied smile on Tiffany’s calm, appreciative lips as he sucked with cool detachment the muscle daddy Schumacher’s violently throat-pounding large cock. After Gunst finished painting Lang’s glutes with thoughtfully applied streams of hot piss, he turned to Waring, fondled the handsome young muscleman’s leathery testicles, got down on his knees and allowed him to glide his own achingly engorged member down his eager throat. “MMMMmmmmm, it’s good!” he moaned, satisfied. “Even big boys like to suck cock,” he winked up at Waring. He smacked his lips. “If it’s big enough.” “Is mine big enough?” asked Waring as he rubbed his scalp in the streaming hot shower. “Yup,” answered Gunst, dipping in for another full-throated suck. “Sure is.” All the other musclemen were similarly at work, soaping up, sucking cock, washing armpits, lathering crotches, laughing, shouting, grunting, flexing their muscles, getting their oversized cocks sucked, or with their faces buried deeply in their buddies’ spectacular glutes. In the center of the shower, Corporal Alvarez and Private Lang were going through “Pose and Approve.” Alvarez was gliding through his finest posing routine, while below him and kneeling on the tile floor Lang licked and sucked his huge, stiff cock with hungry appreciation. “Front double bi’s,” said Alvarez. “Pow.” Meyer was dead center in the large shower room, standing on one hand on the tile floor, holding his powerful body aloft, his legs spread wide, one fist supporting his full bodyweight. He arched his butt high and smiled happily as, through the steam and roar of the water, one after another of his training buddies bent over and applied luscious, deep licks into his succulent butthole. He grinned, pumping his stiff cock with his free hand as they licked, kissed, and smacked his firm buttcheeks. Jin and Washington were now each chewing ferociously on Bogarde’s perfect, brown nipples. He roared with pleasure, and pumped himself into a mighty front lat spread. Straps of pec muscle bloomed powerfully. He turned from side to side, proudly thrusting forward each pec. His buddies chewed, licked and bit. Meanwhile, the handsome Blankenship, who had a preference for big black cock, was fiercely lathering up Washington’s enormous pole. He covered it waves of soapsuds, pumping it up and down as it rose to full girth. He glanced up at Washington, now biting Bogarde’s nipples. “Yeah, you got one big black motherfucker muscle cock!” he shouted. “You like big black cock?” roared Washington, waggling it in Blankenship’s face. “Love it!” he shouted, and washing the soap off, took it all in his mouth. “Watch him suck my cock!” Washington whooped. Obatu, soaping his armpits, laughed. He strode over to the group. “Room for another brother?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, shoved his meat into Blankenship’s face. Blankenship smiled rapturously, and as Obatu continued to soap up, he took his cock into his mouth as well. “Most muscular,” said Obatu. “Pow. Check out dis crab.” Black veins exploded. His fists pumped together. He pushed his hips forward. His cock surged straight ahead. The two black cocks plunged in and out of Blankenship’s mouth, his tongue tracing over their shiny thick veins. The enormous Washington, the biggest man of the group of five, put his arms around Bogarde’s and Obatu’s shoulders, while on the tile beneath them Blankenship moved from cock to swaying cock, from Washington to Bogarde to Jin to Obatu and back to Washington again. Surrounded by the bodybuilders’ cocks, Blankenship sucked each erect penis deeply. He gazed at the network of veins that criss-crossed the hip muscles of each of his buddies. Their huge cocks were like jewels set in the finest of settings: lean, fat-free muscles. When he got to the handsome Asian Private Jin, he marveled once again about how a Chink could have such a huge dick. He sucked it lovingly as the other men stood closely above him, their cocks looming in his face, dripping with water and pre-cum, awaiting their turn. When he finished with Jin, he moved on to Bogarde, whose nipples were being avidly chewed with care above him by Jin and Washington. Bogarde’s cock was, of course, in great need of immediate service. No problem. It was, after all, a world of huge, looming bodybuilder cocks. And Blankenship’s favorite sport – after bodybuilding – was cocksucking Next to him knelt the dimwit Hension, his handsome face now buried deeply into the posing Corporal Alvarez’s glutes. Lang was now on his feet and posing with him, as the dark Arab Corporal Karim, behind him, licked and kissed his mighty ass as well. He caught Hension’s eyes, and, in unison, the two men buried their faces into the posing partners’ glutes. “Hey, careful, there,” said Lang. His butt still stung, and Moster’s handprints were still glowing bright red on his taut asscheeks. “Sorry, man,” said Karim. He gently licked the red hand welts, and could taste Gunst’s piss. He knew the man’s special sweet taste. Gunst had often pissed deeply into his mouth. Chad and LeFevre, soaping up themselves, moved over to Hension, whose beautiful face was deeply buried in Alvarez’s butt. “Hey, McIntyre,” called Chad, “get over here and take over for Hension!” “Don’t bother me,” said Hension. “Sure thing,” answered McIntyre, licking Meyer’s butthole. “Be there in a sec!” “What are you doing, guys?” asked Hension plaintively as Chad and LeFevre lifted him bodily from Alvarez’s glutes, carrying him into a corner of the shower. Alvarez stopped posing for a minute and looked back at them. “Hey, where you taking him?” he asked. Lang looked up. “To the rescue,” said McIntyre, now on his knees and pressing his face into Alvarez’s butt. “Oh, okay.” Alvarez turned back to Lang and continued posing. Karim had never stopped licking Lang’s ass. Chad and LeFevre were now sharing Hension’s pretty tool. “Figure you have it coming,” said LeFevre,” licking away the last remnants of the chili powder. “You guys,” said Hension, and began to wash his hair as the men cleaned his cock with their tongues and lips. Moster leaned in at the shower door. “Good work tonight, men.” He turned and headed toward the locker room door. “Thank you, sir!” the men shouted after him. Moster called back to them as he left the locker room. “No fucking tonight. No time.” “Shit!” Moans of general disappointment. “Sorry. Expect you all upstairs in the lab in 10 minutes.” “Yes, sir!” Once again, in unison. On the workout floor, alone and silent as always, the meek Dr. Irving slipped back into the room and to shut down the lights for the night. From the locker room, he could hear the splashing of the showers and the groans, moans, roars, whoops and shouts of the satisfied men as they each let loose volleys of thick, spurting cum high into the steaming air, arcing and splashing onto each other’s superbly muscled bodies. Thick cascades of semen plopped onto the tile and began flowing slowly past the men’s browned feet towards the shower’s drains. Irving walked over to the garbage pail. He glanced inside. Yep. There they were. He could see them in the half-light. He reached in amidst the wet rags of paper and extracted 18 empty aluminum capsule wrappers. Moster had probably ordered the enhancements from Zaftig particularly for tonight’s workout. He knew that by now each bodybuilder probably had already cum three or four times. By 2150 hours, they would all, to a man, be drained. Except, of course, for Sergeant Moster. He picked up the receiver of the staff phone on the wall, and pushed a button. “Facilities,” he requested. In the distance now, the men were all roaring as one. No doubt they were all spurting in unison by now. Pints and quarts of cum. “Facilities? Yeah. Irving. Right. Better put the plumber on notice. The shower drains in the main workout locker room will be clogged again tonight. They need to be cleared by 1800 hours tomorrow.” He hung up without bothering to listen to the response, turned, and walked out of the room. In the showers, the roaring was dying down to satisfied explosions of breath and more laughs, whoops and hollers. The water was turned off, and locker doors began to open. The room grew quiet as the men dressed, all thoughtful now. All thinking about the new recruit they were about to meet. Casey Rockland. In the showers, thick rivulets of cum dripped from the ceiling, walls, spigots and faucet handles, clogging the drains. It cost Zaftig thousands each month to simply to maintain the system’s burgeoning septic tanks. “It’s just one more thing I didn’t really plan for,” he would sigh to Moster, who would nod, straight-faced. "It's always something," Moster would reply, absently scratching his bulge.
  8. "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "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 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed Chapter 3: White Cap Training At the beginning, Zaftig had believed that the perfect man was Rod Moster. Now, 18 other enhanced candidates approached the successful muscular development levels Moster had already achieved. Moster’s edge was waning. On training days, the men could eat whatever they wished, as long as their diets included 5,000 daily grams of pure animal protein. After a “light” morning workout, a day of classes and small arms training, and between regularly scheduled sessions of long distance swimming, bicycling, sparring, wrestling, karate, tae kwon do, yoga, kickboxing, and extreme fighting technique skills, the men were set loose in the gym at 1730 hours. By then, of course, they were wild to lift heavy and lift hard. On muscle recovery days, the men were commanded to remain in or near their private quarters and barred from stressful activities. Maintaining proper diet in all six daily meals remained in effect, socializing was strictly limited, and long hours of meditation were advised. It was understood that their finely honed mechanisms required fresh air, a little light running, a mile-long swim or two, and long, stress-free, leisurely walks along the many compound park trails. Lights out on muscle recovery days was 2000 hours. The rest day protocols were strictly enforced. These rest days were always the dullest days imaginable for the energized squad of musclemen. Early morning the day after rest, they were filled once again with blinding zeal and unfettered ambition for the hours of brutal, strictly regimented workouts. Lately Sergeant Moster was even more vigilant than usual, making sure that the men stayed on point throughout the session. Once every few weeks, the men eagerly anticipated a ‘White Cap’ training session. White Cap Nights meant one thing - no holds barred. They were scheduled generally as an incentive following of long periods of recorded ‘good team behavior.’ The men ached for them. White Caps contained traces of concentrated undiluted P21 granules, blended carefully with powerfully lab-enhanced homeopathic supplements and pure, powdered oxygen. It was like muscle heroin, mainstreamed. Zaftig’s researchers had found that this compound powder form of P21, when taken orally, produced short-term jolts of strength stamina, and unrestrained energy that were, unlike the injectable form, only temporarily enjoyed. The workouts performed after a white cap had been consumed boasted over-the-top performance levels, which always resulted in new personal bests. The gains the men made on these nights, whether lifting, swimming, running, or fighting, provided benchmarks for future optimal training. There was a drawback. The few remaining social restraints the men still had from their former lives had all but faded to nothingness. Just as the men were moved to achieve new highs on the workout floor, the few remaining inhibitors they did still maintain all but vanished. While scheduling White Cap nights was becoming an increasing necessity in order to keep the men focused on pure muscle growth, Dr. Zaftig had become highly concerned that as the team continued to surpass previously-considered “impossible” training goals, the squad’s standards of good behavior, or even basic societal standards of decency, were becoming increasingly rare. And while Zaftig continued to allow Moster control the group, he was aware of his probable own long-term foolishness in this decision. For under Moster’s direction, the squad was separating itself little by little from standards of common social boundaries. To say nothing of military discipline. How could Zaftig hope to impress the brass if his muscle monsters, for all of their nearly inhuman development, were out of control? And how could Project Herculaneum continue if the military removed its nearly decade-long support? Moreover, a Joint Chiefs review was scheduled for November. Zaftig was worried. In effect, his chief inmate was now running the asylum. It made for fantastic achievements in muscle size, strength, and accomplishment. It did little or nothing to contain the burgeoning sexual psyches of musclemen who craved to exhibit, show-off, pose, tease, and flex with abandon. Three years before, when the Nineteen were still the Twelve, a White Cap night had been introduced as a lab experiment. The men ended up in such a muscles-entangled in a spectacularly muscle-flexing, cum-spurting locker room orgy after the workout that the program was almost abandoned. Sheepish and humiliated the next day, the Twelve went back to the gym to set new benchmarks in strength, endurance, and lifting. With some persuasion, Moster argued to Zaftig that occasional white cap nights, strongly regulated and following firm procedures might inspire the men further to new heights. Distributed in the wrong hands, White Caps could be dangerous, and perhaps lethal. They were highly stimulating drugs, and the enlarged pupils, deep breathing, increased body heat and volumes of sweat they produced required careful monitoring. For the Project Herculaneum men, white caps were like crack. Zaftig had been against them from the start, until over time it became apparent that no organic harm had ever resulted, nor certifiable addiction issues. Moreover, the men remained inspired by White Cap workouts in the months to come. And they understood that for them to be most effective, these nights could come only 4 or 5 times a year. Zaftig reluctantly agreed, on the condition that the nights were videotaped by no less than six cameras. The tapes would be closely reviewed for infractions and sexually aggressive behavior. In exchange, Moster bargained that during shower time, they men could indulge as they wished. Zaftig, sincerely hoping no long-term hospitalizations would result, gave the go-ahead for periodic white cap nights. And so they began. On these nights, for two hours, it was only Moster’s grim domination of the men that prevent them from brutally fucking each other right there on the workout floor. That would wait, as he faithfully promised them all, for the shower room afterwards, when, fuck each other, they did, and with relish. Of late, however, not a little of the sexual acting out had made its way to the gym floor. One by one, the video cameras were shut down and put away, leaving no record. And the men grew more unrestrained. October 19th had been a required rest and muscle recovery day, for October 20th‘s workout was scheduled as a White Cap Night. After all, later that night in the mess, the men were scheduled to meet the so-called young ‘muscle genius’ Casey Rockland for the first time. Another recruit from Miles Donovan’s San Jose hardcore gym Raw Weight. Just a kid, really. Only 18. But with real promise, or so it seemed. Moster determined to think about Casey Rockland a little later. He couldn’t afford to have split attention when the men were on the floor and under the influence of the pure, undiluted stuff. And it was too late to turn back now. As long as P21 continued to produce almost miraculous results, and the men grew exponentially large and become stronger beyond all projected imagining, and Project Herculaneum approached its 10-year anniversary, Zaftig had finally been forced to turn a blind eye to both the benefits of White Cap Nights, and the now-nightly after-hours sexual behavior. Moster distributed the capsules personally to the men as they filed onto the floor. The bodybuilders gobbled them down immediately, already chuckling and winking at one another. Then Moster stood back and allowed their raging hormones their full force. Watchful and ever ready to impose his strict discipline as needed, he nevertheless understood the basic benefits of weight-room bonding. He let them go. He did not take one himself. He stood watchfully to one side. He was dressed, as he generally was, in his spotless oversized white sweats. He had completed his own workout privately an hour before while his squad was going through their abs training in the enclosed hot room just next to the workout floor. It was generally unnecessary for him to display his physical superiority to his squad of muscle freaks, except privately, and only when warranted. And tonight in particular, he chose to remain fully covered as if to encourage the men to pay attention to their own bodies. Upon occasion, however, he would strip down to his jock and join the men in their training to maintain bonding, and supply ongoing inspiration, however he determined it might be needed. Those nights had become increasingly rare, however, as the complicated, competitive reactions of the men to Moster’s detailed muscularity had begun to inhibit the workflow. From the sidelines, watching his squad’s training with laser focus, he made sure his men strictly maintained dead-on correct form with each grueling lift. Moster made careful notes in the margins of the evening training session report filled out in advance for him daily by meek, balding little Dr. Irving, Zaftig’s nearly silent civilian lab assistant. Never disappointed at either their stamina or their passion during normal workouts, the results achieved on white cap nights amazed even him. The effects always began gradually. Divided into their usual smaller training teams of 2 and 3 men each, the soldier-bodybuilders of Project Herculaneum took turns spotting one another and blasting alternate muscle groups. Tonight, teams one and two were working back and lats, teams three and four delts, traps and triceps, teams five and six legs, team seven chest and biceps. An hour of punishing abdominal work preceded the heavy lifting. The men grimaced, grunted, spat, cursed, shouted and groaned with ecstatic agony as, all around the room, each man pumped his super-sized, vein-exploding muscles to their greatest potential. Their dirty army regulation wife-beater t-shirts were grimy with dirt and drenched with water and sweat. Beneath the t-shirts, each man displayed blinding, awesomely ripped physiques, packed with dense, intricate, vascular cables of tendons, ligaments, river-thick veins and mountainously large, round, popping muscle bellies. Abs rippled with cobblestone washboard 8-packs on waistlines that grew no larger than 32 inches. Lats flared. Pecs pumped. Biceps bulged ferociously as the men aggressively lifted and posed for one another in between sets, each man confident that he was bigger than his training partner. Some of the men kept their bodies shaved. Others let their body hair grow. Moster demanded shaved physiques only once a month for company inspection, and over time he had come to respect the fact that some of the furrier musclemen were proud of their sprouting masses of thick, healthy chest, asshole, and pubic hair. Short, regulation haircuts were required, though some of the older men were allowed beards and mustaches. After all, personal vanity, as long as it didn’t supplant regulations, was to be encouraged. It also kept the men unique from one another. While they were all extraordinarily developed bodybuilders, Moster knew the value of each man maintaining his own identity and special tastes. It was all part of his plan. Moster's vision, if you will. After all, later on, new cadet Casey would be presented to the group. For it appeared that Casey Rockland might possess the rare organic gifts that were even more sympathetic. Moster wanted the men to be aching with rage and pain from their blazingly cruel workout when they first encountered Muscle Cadet Casey Rockland at precisely 2200 hours. He wished he could also prevent the men from the usual hardcore White Cap Night after-workout showers free-for-all, but he knew that was impossible. Then again, P21 worked in mysterious ways. Maybe the men would be feeling replenished and reloaded? White Cap Night workouts were tougher, true, but the floor activity and the post-show group release in the showers meant the men would be drained. So maybe not quite as spot-on impassioned (envious? turned on?) at their first meeting of the impressively swole 18-year muscle monster. In any event, Moster would enforce no-touch rules on Casey for the first few weeks. At least. Zaftig had recently confided in Moster that Rockland might indeed be that long-sought P21 perfect recipient. The men already sensed that Rockland was different. For almost two years, they’d all glimpsed the fully-covered teenage cadet Rockland periodically training with the program’s other young cadets in their own, smaller gym in an auxiliary building in the compound. He was unaccountably huge, and the cadets were increasingly intimidated by his size and strength. It was way past time to move him up into the ranks. Most of the cadets still lived off-campus in discreetly rented apartments in nearby San Jose. Vans picked them up early each morning and returned them to their front doors each early evening. There was no socializing with The Nineteen. A few of the more promising cadets were assigned cadet housing in the facility’s dormitory. And Rockland had been moved into the dorm at the outset. And from what the men could tell from a distance, he was mammoth beyond imaging for a teenager. Rockland was said to be a genetic marvel, even amongst these men, though none of them had yet had the occasion to closely inspect the young man’s physique. Zaftig had made sure of that. Even Sergeant Moster had not yet interviewed the young man. He was amused (if just a little irritated) that Zaftig had purposefully held back on presenting Rockland to him, instead encouraging Rockland to bond with the other cadets in their own comparatively unsupervised weight training. The point was to see what the teen cadets would do on their own recognizance. Junior to Moster, but reporting only to Zaftig, Casey’s handlers were required to keep their notes confidential – that is to say, away from Moster. So far, Rockland had little inkling of the plans that were in place for his future. In time, Moster had come to accept the set up. In the 10 years since he first began to assemble the men of Project Herculaneum, Zaftig had always been successful in presenting a finely honed candidate worthy of the grueling responsibilities of membership. He had an eye for talent, Moster had to acknowledge, finding gold in a man he himself might have passed on. Moster assumed, correctly as it happened, that at this very moment in another part of the compound, Zaftig was preparing young Casey Rockland for his first presentation to The Nineteen. For it was only after long-term study of the effects on a so-called control “perfect specimen” that the kinks of the formula could finally be identified, and eliminated. After that, it would be ready for general release to the public – and ready to earn billions for Zaftig. For even in the true believer Zaftig, at the end of the day, it was still all about the money. What Moster didn’t know was that Zaftig, sure of Rockland’s gifts and unparalleled fast-track progress, had been injecting him from day one as a cadet with P21. It was possible that young Casey Rockland was the man that Zaftig had long been searching for. He’d been on the protocol for two years now, ever since that night Zaftig found him, lonely and alone, and prompted by a hurried call from Miles Donovan, in the San Jose Greyhound bus station. Chapter 4: A Brief History of Casey Rockland 2002-2021 Even as a baby, he was unusually large and healthy. He had appeared one night in Fall, 2002, delivered anonymously just inside chilly porticoes of City Hall. He was carefully tucked in a battered little crib, which had been wheeled and abandoned in the shadows of the Rockland Avenue entrance. Snugly covered with a warm blanket, the baby had a bottle that he sucked on pensively. A note pinned to the cradle read: Take care of our boy. He is a good boy even if he is big. We just cant feed him no more. PS His birthday is April 23. He is six months old today. We call him Casey. Goodbye and thank u and God bless u. No one knew who his parents were. And now he was no more than just another foundling in the city system. City social services responded quickly. Baby Casey’s birth certificate being untraceable, his social worker hurriedly gave him the surname ‘Rockland’, and the smiling, big-eyed, big-bodied baby went directly into foster care. Passed from home to home, prospective parents seemed to give up very quickly. At first charmed by his beauty, sweetness, clear eyes and blond hair, all gave up rather promptly after discovering just how much baby Casey ate. In time he was transferred into the San Jose Catholic Boys’ Home. There he was looked after by a small platoon of the devoted nuns of the Benedictine Order. Something about him touched the normally cold-hearted sisters, and in short order, they began to feed him as much as he required. Which was a lot. Baby Casey was growing before their eyes. Casey didn’t start to talk until he was nearly 3 years old. His vocabulary consisted of “Yes”, “No”, “Okay”, “Please”, “I’m hungry”, and “I’m still hungry.” By the time he was 4, the sisters sadly noted that Casey was slower than the other boys his age, if much bigger, and generally in need of twice as much food. By age 5, he was already as big and strong as a 10-year old, which required some special clothing and a certain amount of care that he didn’t accidently break things. Even so, Casey was shy and sweet natured, if withdrawn. He always tried to do the right thing and not worry the nuns. The boy had an uncommonly beautiful face, with long, thick lustrous blond hair, and deep set violet eyes with heavy black eyebrows and eyelashes. The kind-hearted Sisters told him quietly about what a handsome man he was going to be when he grew up. “Just be patient,” said Sister Mary Christopher. “Your day will come.” His day hadn’t come yet. The other boys didn’t like him. By the time Casey was 11, his blend of dopey sweetness and a rapidly maturing pre-adolescent body forced unwanted attention onto him. Still the favorite of the sisters, he got the biggest dinners and seemed to receive the most privileges. Even his relative slowness in class didn’t daunt the Sisters’ devotion. He never asked for any special treatment. It just came to him. His size added to his troubles. He knew he could hurt the other boys without meaning to, unless he was very careful, and soon enough, the older, meaner gangs in the home learned that in spite of his size and superior strength, he wouldn’t fight back. The sisters, after all, told him not to. It was more blessed to turn the other cheek. In fact, as Casey grew, it became apparent that he had four cheeks that he could turn. Four of the bigger boys loved to pin him down and administer bare-bottom spankings. And Casey’s supple little butt was nice and ripe for such punishment. In fact, he could take any punishment, feeling somehow that it was his due. And he never told tales. In spite of his increasing size and strength, he was open season for bullies. Over the years, he became a punching bag, a repository for the other boys’ fears and anger. The years passed. Casey went into puberty early. He grew exponentially fast, and the other boys became more wary of him. His strength was already an issue, and often the nuns would catch him testing his strength by lifting tables and bending the iron bars that lined the dank little playground. A bigger problem, however, developed out of the group showers in gym class. Casey’s penis was growing fast, even faster than his strong body. His pants never seemed to fit any more, and it grew harder to hide the developing bulge. To make matters worse, when he was 9 he had started having erections and wet dreams, and sometimes would get excited in class or on the playground or at mess hall. The other boys stared at the growing bulge in his pants, whispered, and pointed, secretly unsure and intimidated. Casey was always baffled by their snickering, half-heard, never-understood jokes. One day one of the older boys had an inspiration on the playground. Staring at Casey’s looming young fly, he called out. “Hey. Banana Man! You getting’ another hard-on?” The other boys roared nastily. “Seems you’re always gittin’ hard-ons, Banana Man! You queer or somethin’?” The name stuck. That was the worst. Casey was now ashamed of his penis. Ashamed and embarrassed. He was always getting hard at the wrong times. He was always being called out by the other boys. It was too big. He couldn’t hide it. And he certainly couldn’t discuss this with the nuns. “Banana Man, Banana Man!” Casey knew they were mocking him, mocking his embarrassingly oversized manhood. He was ashamed and tried to hide himself. And that made the boys laugh even more. When Casey was 12, he had had enough. He was too big, too pretty, ungainly, awkward, lonely, slow-witted and alone. Although he never let the other boys see it, he cried a lot, usually under his bed sheets late at night, stifling his sobs so that the other boys in the dorm room wouldn’t hear him. One night he thumbed through a community free handout magazine he picked up at the corner market to see if he could find – well, anything. The sisters never let the boys use the office computers for mere webs surfing, but he was desperate, and he knew there had to be a place – somewhere – where he could go to vent his frustrations, anxiety, and deep loneliness. He knew he was a freak, but he suspected there might be a place where there were other freaks, like him, where he could find some comfort. There it was. The ad that changed everything. The ad that changed his life. MILES DONOVAN’S RAW WEIGHT GYM HARDCORE BODYBUILDING REASONABLE RATES COME TRAIN WITH THE CHAMPIONS And there was a picture, too, an old one of bodybuilder Lee Labrada. It was enough for Casey. This is what he wanted to look like. This was what he wanted to be. The next morning he begged Sister Mary Alice for extra yard work duty so that he could earn the money to join Raw Weight Gym. He worked all fall late into the evening washing dishes, sweeping floors, emptying the teeming garbage pails in the kitchen. The sisters saw to it that he was paid $125 weekly for his work. “He’s learning responsibility,” said Sister Mary Alice. “He’s preparing to jump the wall,” said Sister Agatha. “Freak….teacher’s pet…..queer,” said the boys. And on day in the spring of 2016, after classes were over for the day at precisely 2:30 PM, he took a bus downtown to join Raw Weight Gym, the hardcore gym owned by the 50-year old retired pro bodybuilder legend Miles Donovan. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. The nuns knew he was venturing out, however. They trusted that wherever Casey was bound to go, as long as he was quiet, stuck to his chores, was well behaved and responsible, and was back at the rectory in time for dinner, they were not about to get involved. He would be on his own in a few years anyway, the sisters reasoned. Better he began to learn the world now. And secretly, he remained the favorite of all in the order. Chapter 5: Raw Weight Gym Once upon a time, retired pro bodybuilder Miles Donovan might have qualified as one of The Nineteen. But at 55 years of age, with almost 40 years spent in the ranks of competitive bodybuilding, Miles had seen too much the world of competitive muscle up close and personal for way too long. He was done with the competitive end of the iron game. Handsome, cleft-chinned, grey-haired and grizzled with an ever-present two-day growth of beard, and sporting the powerfully thick musculature of a superheavyweight competitor, Miles was still a national phenomenon. His big, hard body was graced with a half dozen fading 1970s-era tattoos, and at 255 pounds, the man proudly boasted the rocky 34-inch waist of a 20-year old. His veined, iron super-abs still served as impressive midsection body armor, his hard pecs still loomed with impressive cuts, and his oversized nipples still sported the brass nipple rings he’d first put on when he hung up his posing trunks for the last time, 15 years before. Better still, Miles had long since stopped shaving his body, and his hardcore daddy physique was lined with a matting of soft black body hair. Miles was stronger than all of the men at his gym, effortlessly curling 225 pounds, squatting 600 and benching 500. His bodyfat index never got much higher than 3%. No, he’d never stop lifting, never stop training as if the contest of his life was just next week. But Miles knew all about the favoritism of the judges and alpha-male insecurities of most other pro bodybuilders. He had been through the health problems, the staggering personal toll taken on most competitive bodybuilders with their litanies of failed relationships, bad business decisions, drugs and violence. A survivor of three scorched-earth divorces, Miles had long since turned his back on blissful domesticity. Now, it was all about his gym – and the private sex games his muscles could still inspire. Always a hustler, Miles had a different magic formula for his survival in the world of muscle. Why not let the muscle fans work for him, he reasoned to himself. Miles was all too familiar with the viciousness of the confidence-challenged muscle worshippers, whose mean-spirited online backstabbing masked profound, unfixable fears, physical inferiority, and personal emotional agonies. He’d seen too many talented, hapless, dog-dumb young musclemen, eager for fame and recognition in the world of competitive muscle, get their hopes and dreams dashed on the rocks of life, their fine physiques spiraling into decay as the years of being used and abused caught up with them and the despair of association with the seedier elements of bodybuilding began to take its inexorable toll. Not for him this downward spiral. And he had no inclination of spending his retirement years in a lab complex headed up by his crazy old friend, Dr. Ira Zaftig, inspiring muscle project or not. After all, he could still get the better any man on the workout floor or take him down in the free-for-all boxing ring; he was known to have a mighty punch. And below the belt he was nicely endowed with a 9-inch penis that liked to come out to play often, for he was well known to particularly enjoy the discreet worship of his teen members. There wasn’t much Miles liked better than when a handsome 18-year old muscletwink pulled down the man’s outward poling sweatpants and enveloped his always-tumescent, thick member between pouty teenage lips. Miles’ Gym, Raw Weight, was cavernous. It sprawled over three floors in a large former warehouse located at the end of an alley in downtown San Jose. Plate glass windows on floors one and two showed lines of cardio machines and stacks of weights. Raw Weight was his baby. He’d carved it out of the world and made it all his own. He had bought the building for a song 20 years before, in 1997, where it had stood, a nearly forgotten emblem to bodybuilding history for nearly 40 years. In it, some of the greats of bodybuilding had once trained at the beginning of their careers. Most had long since retired or moved on to the slick strip mall gym chains that had cropped up across the country since the early 1980s, which now catered to the legends and the weekend bodybuilding hopefuls alike. The steroided goons that had dominated the competition stages for more than three decades may have created their own little scattered fiefdoms, but all the same most who had survived returned (quietly) once or twice a year to the rarefied muscle environment that was Raw Weight Gym. For the first few years he was in business, Miles was always barely one step away from creditors, foreclosure, IRS audits. Then one afternoon, while grimly watching an annoying old gym rat hitting on an unresponsive 22-year old Mexican muscleboy, he hit on a marketing strategy that was, for inner sanctum muscle lovers, just about flawless. All were welcome at Miles’ gym – at least on the first two floors. There, at all hours of the day and night were the teens, the rock-solid gay guys, the strapping young executives, the boxers and the runners and the middle-aged and the muscle wannabes and the flabby former high school athletes and even the merely curious. The vast gym floor clanged with the sound of weights and the whirring of the treadmills, and the house music echoed resoundingly throughout its depths. The showers were always hot, the equipment was dust-free, the machines were new and shiny and well tended, and the floor mats were scrubbed and clean. From a clerestory row at the height of the 16-foot walls large, lines of faded color posters of the bodybuilding legends of the 20th and 21st centuries promised the results of years of muscle-building dedication and discipline. Few lifters on these two floors could ever hope to achieve anything like the muscle density and mass of the gods that beamed down upon them with smug superiority, but spirits were undaunted, and the air was charged with the serious endeavors of those who trained beneath the glare of the merciless fluorescent lights. And then there was the 3rd floor. It was an exclusive and private membership-only club, and it was Miles’ own world of muscle, where he was the unchallenged director and Chairman of the Board. Miles Donovan A passkey, only issued by Miles personally, was available to a very few elite members. The 3rd floor was resolutely men-only. It too was clean and scrubbed, but it was quiet, music-less, and unadorned by the posters of proudly flexing past contest winners. No more than five men trained there at any given time. There was a private entrance through an unmarked door on the street level with an elevator that went directly to 3, so the passkey members didn’t have to be bothered by the stares and curiosity of the comparative plebes found on floors 1 and 2. The rules were clear. The Men of 3, as Miles called them, were required to train, at least during business hours, in tight posing trunks. After hours, they could train naked if they chose. They were even allowed to bring in occasional training partners and visitors of their own choosing, as long as they either a) kept up with the grueling training, or, their non-training guests remained silent, respectful, discreet, observed the rules, remained dressed in a suitable sweatsuit and gym shoes, and paid appropriately. But that wasn’t all. Miles also admitted floor access to a few privately selected well-heeled subscribers. They paid dearly for the privilege. For a few thousand dollars a shot, the subscribing visitors were allowed to indulge in discreet muscle worship while the bodybuilders trained. The rules were clear here, as well. The full-time muscle members who were worshipped were required to train past their pain thresholds on a regular basis. Their progress was reported in weekly time sheets that listed current dimensions, gains, possible injuries, and reported income earned while on the floor. The money was 90% theirs to keep: Miles took the rest of his cut from the paying guests. As keys and membership could be revoked at any time, both musclemen and muscle worshippers were all conscientiously engaged in maintaining their good standing. The specs of the muscle members were clearly understood. All had to have superior muscular development for their weight – Miles did not discriminate in favor of age or the super-huge, and several of the men were either older or bantams. A few men were silver daddies well into their sixties, who looked as if they might have another decade of solid growth ahead of them. The only area where Miles had to lay down a firm law of size requirement was relative to penis length, girth, and weight. Only the well hung were admitted, and although it wasn’t spelled out per se in any charter, the Men of 3 all knew that any new member was unquestionably packing – and talented. Butt fucking was generally discouraged on the workout floor on 3, although there were no active rules against it. Butt fucking tended to be louder and distracting to the men at work, and besides, few had the inclination to offer their well-honed glutes for the pleasure of the visitors – at least, during training hours. What the men did after hours was, of course, their own business, but Miles suspected few wanted to be known as available butt buddies, and that alone kept actual fucking to a minimum. Butt worship, however, wasn’t uncommon, and once or twice a week some lucky guest might be spotted on his knees near the squat rack, his face pressed into the hardened musclebutt of a seasoned member, who might appear to a casual observer to be completely ignoring him. Once Miles was amused to see two muscle members deeply engaged in a serious conversation about quad training while, beneath them and on either side, two eager visitors had their faces deeply buried in their well-rounded glutes. The men were ignoring them. After all, they expected no less. Overall, the system worked surprisingly well. The ranks of the Men of 3 were few, but well chosen. It was also an urban legend to the scores of gay guys on 1 and 2 who might hope and dream, but did not yet have the money or tact to be considered for the occasional foray upstairs. Only the longtime muscle members themselves were allowed in the 3rd floor locker room and showers. The locker room, of course, was a different story, for there the naked musclemen were free to take their pleasure of one another as often as they liked, sucking cock, fucking butt, worshipping the muscles of their training partners, and even engaging in water sports, as long as they mopped up after themselves. Muscle members were not allowed to exchange favors with one another on the floor at any time during the gym’s open hours, but late at night after all visitors had departed for the day, muscle members could train naked if they liked, or in leather, or thongs, or wearing masks – or whatever they preferred. Generally the newer members, once initiated, made use of the free-for-all spirit of after hours, finding other like-minded newbies overwhelmed with personal pride over the honor of having been accepted. However, all the men of 3 made frequent use of the locker room. It was strictly observed that at no time were water sports acceptable on the gym floor, but it wasn’t uncommon to see a smiling, exhausted, fulfilled muscle member pissing a powerful jet stream onto the face and pecs of another satisfied muscle member kneeling before him while they showered. Miles auditioned the men of the 3rd floor himself. He rarely sucked cock – he’d had enough of all that years before, although for a particularly gifted candidate he’d loosen up his own rules, if he happened to be in the mood. His test was far more cut and dried, and, in effect, far more exclusive, even to the point of cruelty. Applicants were subjected to a simple test: Miles would put a bodybuilder through an after-hours grueling workout, and stopping it short without warning just as the man appeared about to drop from pain and exhaustion, demand he immediately drop his shorts. Miles would then measure the flaccid penis, and if it passed the dimension test, take it in his tough, calloused palm and, with a stopwatch in hand, determine the time it took the man to get fully hard. Then, he would measure again to see the full erection length, and demand an ejaculation on the spot. Only one in ten men might make it, although the candidates who displayed promising size and ability, if not able to make the full distance on the first audition, were free to come back and try again whenever they felt up to it. If the men were big enough and hung enough, Miles didn’t mind testing and retesting. If not, no further audition was available, although Miles saw to it that the flunkees were treated with respect and discretion. After all, upon occasion, a hopeful 4F might gain access as a visitor, although he would not be allowed into the ranks of the talented muscle beneficiaries. Of course, he’d also have to pay for access privileges. And the muscle hopefuls, wannabes, worshippers, trainers, pros and future pros came from all over the world just to get a shot at membership at that 3rd floor exclusive aerie of muscle and muscle lovers. And years later, it would have the added notoriety of being the gym where the legendary muscle giant Casey Rockland got his start. -- To be continued --
  9. Most recent chapter: Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped Chapter 15: Casey’s First Interview with Sergeant Moster In the main building, Gunst, dressed in regulation baggies and sweatshirt, was waiting for Casey and Moster with a set of keys. As directed. “Good morning, private,” said Moster. “Good morning, sir.” “Hey,” Gunst said to Casey, a little cool. “Hi,” said Casey. Right away he was intimidated by Gunst’s size. “Got everything?” Gunst asked him. “Wha-….yeah. I got everything.” “Take him to his quarters,” said Moster. “Casey, come to my office after you’ve moved in. 3:30. I want a few minutes with you before you meet the men this afternoon. My office is over there. Red door. I’ll see you then. And don’t be late.” He strode away, without waiting for an answer. “Yes, sir,” said Casey meekly, watching him go. Gunst gave him a hard smile. “Let’s go, then. To your new home.” He turned and walked to the end of the main hall. Casey stared, hypnotized by his thick traps, his broad batwing lat spread as he strode away, and then coming back to himself, hurried to catch up. Gunst led Casey down several long corridors. They turned right, turned left, passed about 10 doors, turned right again. Casey began to worry that he was going to get lost in this huge place. Then Gunst stopped. He unlocked a door. “Welcome. Your quarters. Enter and sign in.” He held the door open for Casey, who hesitated. “No, after you.” “Okay.” Gunst went in, and Casey followed him, his heart beating wildly. His new room was a single. Though it was not the first time in his life he’d had a room to himself, this one was big, and it was all his. The ceilings must have been 12'. All the ceilings in the Home were that high. But this was different. He was speechless. There was a main living room with two deep comfortable sofas, a wall of full-length mirrors, a large posing dais with lights, a big dinner table, a desk and four deep, cushy chairs. There was an entirely serviceable open kitchen, a broad glass door to an outside enclosed private terrace, a sizeable bedroom, and big bathroom with an extra-large shower with about 100 different nozzles and spigots, and what looked like an second, somewhat squat toilet. That, he couldn’t quite figure out. “What’s that?” he asked Gunst, pointing to it. “Your bidet.” “My wha-?.....” “Cleans your butt. You’ll need it.” “I keep clean.” Casey was offended. Did they think he was an animal? “Trust me.” The bed was a super king, broad and deep, with a mirrored ceiling so he could see his muscles as he woke up in the morning. The bright terrace continued outside the bedroom with a second entrance, and was open to the sky. The rooms were filled with light, but there was no view. No one would have been able to see in. Casey was a little disappointed. He’d hoped he could see down the mountain, and maybe even the Pacific roiling in the distance. In the corner opposite the terrace door stood the 6 8’-0” 3-paneled mirrors, in front of the dais. Overhead, spotlights were aimed at the dais. In front was a brand new video camera on a tripod. Casey regarded it a moment. “Wow. A camera.” “Yeah. We all get em. Record your progress. Tape your posing.” “This is no bullshit,” Casey breathed, stunned. “No, no bullshit. They’re serious. It’s all about muscle and getting bigger. Hop on, sport,” said Gunst., indicating the dais. He switched on the overhead lights. Cool spots of filtered white-rendered LED light shone from above. Casey stepped onto the dais and gazed at himself in the center pane of the mirror. In his reflection, his t shirt clung sweatily, his superhuman muscles rippling powerfully. He was transfixed at his reflection. “Wow,” he said, whistling. “Ain’t you seen yourself before?” “Not like this.” “Well, you’re big, dude. Real big. Big and hard. Zaftig and Moster got special plans for you.” He paused a moment while Rockland raised his arms and slowly flexed a front double biceps into the mirror. Shit, thought Gunst. His arms look bigger n’ mine. Fuck. His eyes drifted down to Casey’s perfect bubble butt, covered by his grey baggies. A deep butt crack pulled the loose fabric tightly into the shadows of his ass. “Awesome glutes.” “Thanks, man.” Casey now at work, working his way through his mandatories. He glided from pose to pose with ease. Gunst half-smiled, and took a step towards the door. He’s just a kid, he thought. A superhuman huge kid made of muscle, yeah, but just a kid. “You know how to work the camera?” “No,” said Casey, admitting it, humiliated as he always was at being so dumb. Gosh, I’m dumb, he thought. “It’s easy. Come down here.” Casey stepped off the platform and moved close to Gunst. As always he was intimidated, standing next to muscle bigger than his, but he said nothing. Gunst felt the heat wafting off the kid but studiously ignored it. He showed Casey the video cam. “Switch on here. Battery will always be charged. They’ll do that for you. Open the LED screen like this.” Gunst pushed a button and the screen flipped open, a little blue wall with menu items printed. “Then push this.” He pushed another button and the red blinking light and the REC menu appeared in the window. “Awesome.” “You following this?” “Yeah.” Actually, he was. After all, this was how he was going to record his own muscle. Of course he was following. “It’s aimed and focused to the dais and set for the proper lights. Switch off the room lights when you use it for best res.” “Okay.” “Got it?” “Yeah.” Gunst doubted it. “Okay, man, I’m gonna split now. You settle in. Be in the gym and ready to work at 1600 hours.” “Okay.” Casey studied the camera and then thoughtfully stepped back on the dais without switching it on. “That’s 4 PM.” “Okay.” “It’s noon. You got four hours before training and three and a half before you meet Sergeant Moster for debriefing in his office. Remember where his office is?" "Yeah." He didn't. Gunst smirked a little. "Go out the door, turn left, head to the main corridor, turn left again. Walk to the bulletin board past the cafeteria entrance. Turn right. Red door." "Okay." Casey was looking at himself in the mirrors. He wanted to pose some more. He thoughtfully flexed a powerful forearm, inspecting cables of veins. Gunst gave up. After all, it was his ass. "Eat and get some rest. Check out your refrigerator. They prepared some meals for you. Have a couple of steaks and a few chickens.” “Okay,” said Casey, already dreamily posing for himself. He hit another double bi. He was headed back to his distant mountain on his private planet. Gunst watched Casey as he hypnotically posed. Damn, the kid looked good. Casey slipped out of his shirt and threw it on the floor and hit a crab shot. Gunst, impressed in spite of himself, shook his head, and headed for the door. “Don’t wear yourself out, dude. Four hours. Three and a half, really.” “Okay.” "Take a shower. You stink." "Okay." Gunst started out. “Can I ask you a question?” Casey asked shyly, stopping his posing a moment. “What?” “How much you weigh?” Gunst smiled, hard faced. “375,” he said. “Shit, man.” “Yeah. You?” “310.” “So I’m bigger.” “Yeah,” said Casey. Gunst turned to go. “For now,” Casey added. Gunst looked back at him and grunted noncommittally. He left the room, closing the door, leaving Casey alone to ponder the wonders of his own physique. “Damn,” he breathed quietly to himself. That dude is huge. But then again, Casey hadn’t entirely realized that he looked this good. Good, yes. But not THIS good. As Gunst walked back up the corridor to his own room he felt a sudden impulse to run off to the gym again and spend the next hour doing punishing curls. For now?? The little asswipe actually had the balls to say this to him? But he knew it was true. It was just for now. This kid could surpass everyone. Including Moster. P21 may have been a miracle drug, but muscle recovery was still necessary, and as it was Gunst had spent a good hour just the night before curling hundreds of pounds. But damn. That kid’s biceps were sick. Sick. Unreal. He had to get his bigger. Bigger, harder, more vascular. He had to dwarf the kid’s arms when, on some inevitable future date when Moster lined them up next to each other barked out FRONT DOUBLE BICEPS to both of them, Gunst could raise his arms to the almighty skies and curl up a walloping huge double bi’s that would force the musclepuppy Casey into a shameful corner. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. Casey was just too big, too hard, too perfect – and only 18. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Gunst went to his room and stretched out on his bed, suddenly depressed. A few minutes later he got up and ate six chicken breasts. And then lay down again, resting, willing his arms to recover, to get bigger. Shit. Damn. Fuck. After about 10 minutes of posing, Casey, innocent of the turmoil he was already causing in the quad, felt both hungry and thirsty. He stepped off the platform, gave a last look at himself in the mirror, and did a side chest. Pop. Pow. Yeah. He wandered into his kitchenette. A surprisingly good-sized, double door industrial grade refrigerator (stainless steel, reflecting, naturally, so he could see himself) was center in the wall. He opened it up and was surprised to see three 5-gallon water bottles, shelves of Tupperware containers filled with cooked, cold bloody rare steaks and cooked chicken breasts, some prepared salads and tuna salad. He grabbed a whole steak and gobbled it in three bites, then drank a full quart of water. He opened the vegetable drawer. Unlike other young bodybuilders - stupid assholes - who turned their noses up at vegetables, at anything 'green', Casey craved fresh veggies. The drawer was full, he happily noted. He fished around and found some tomatoes and fresh celery stalks. He popped four whole tomatoes - "Vitamin C!" as Miles would have said - and began gnawing on a stalk. He closed the door and gazed thoughtfully at his reflection in the stainless steel. Miles. He really missed him. He hadn't seen him now for - what? - a year? More? Miles would be so proud of him. Maybe he could get out some time, go to Raw Weight, see Miles, and maybe pose a little with him? He sure hoped so. And....maybe something more, too. He belched softly and headed back into the main room to start unpacking. He raised an arm, sniffed at an armpit. Yeah, he did stink. A shower would come next. A knock came at the door. He answered it, the gallon water bottle still in his hand. It was Private Lang. He was dressed in an-all black skin-tight bicycling suit and was carrying a helmet. He dripped with sweat. “Hey,” said Casey, eyeing Lang evenly. He too was handsome, and he too had a heavy sagging cock bulge in front. Casey guessed they all wore clothing to show themselves off to their best advantage. But why did they all look like male models? Even Gunst, big and broad and homely, looked like he belonged in a magazine. Or on the movie screen. Or on TV. “Hey. Welcome. Listen, haven’t got much time. Moster will be here in a second. Want to warn you about something.” Casey was annoyed and awed for a moment by Lang’s two-day scruff and perfect hair. Damn. Fucking good looking dude. Shit, now what? What did he just say? Something else he had to worry about? “Come on in.” The heavily muscled Lang gazed briefly up and down at the shirtless Casey, lingered his gaze a moment on his bulging crotch, considered a moment, but then said, “No, thanks. Another time. Believe me.” “Sergeant Moster’s not coming. Come on in.” “No. Another time.” “Okay. So what’s up?” “You gotta watch out for Tiffany.” “Don’t I know it.” Lang fumbled in his fanny pack and pulled out a small pill bottle. He handed Casey a white capsule. “Something else, too. Take this before the workout.” Casey played dumb. “What is it? Drugs?” “Naw. Well, yeah. I guess. We all take ‘em. They’re not toxic and they’re not hallucinogens, but it’ll make you feel stronger and more confident, and they free up your…..well, natural inhibitions.” “Haven’t got any.” “Bullshit. You’re scared as hell, even Hension can see it. Hell, if I can see it, then, dude, you’re scared.” “I’m not fucking scared.” “Anxious, then. Nervous. Anyway, you should be.” “Why should I take this? What is this, anyway? You guys all trying to punk me?” “No! Trust me, dude. Take it. By the time the workout is under way you’ll be ready for anything. What do you normally single-arm curl?” “170 pounds.” “Take one and you’ll curl 220. Single arm.” Fuck! Casey grabbed for it, popped it down his mouth, and took a chug of water. Then he grinned. “Thanks! Sure you don’t want to come in a moment? We could pose together.” “Yeah…..I would…..but later. Gotta go.” He looked nervously down the corridor and scooted away. Casey closed the door. He unpacked some muscle magazines, his new jockstraps and do-rag, his iPod and laptop, and started to set up his new video camera on a tripod. He liked to record his posing practices, and with the dais and the mirrors and the new lighting he was already excited. He dropped to the floor and reeled off a fast150 push-ups. He needed to jerk off soon, but was interrupted by another knock at the door. This time it was Waring. He looked like he had just gotten out of the shower, his hair slicked back, his clothes tight and plastered against big muscles. “Whassup, dude?” he asked. “Welcome.” He extended a calloused hand. Casey leaned against the door and crossed giant arms. Another handsome dude. He didn’t shake. He blew out air, looked at him levelly, and just waited. Shit. After all, all these dudes had shot their cum all over him just 12 hours ago. Didn’t they remember? It was kinda weird they all seemed to have either forgotten, or just didn’t care. Or maybe they did it all the time to each other? Whatever. He was here to get big. There was a long pause. “Okay, I guess you’re just settling in and not ready to receive guests. I got something for you anyway. House-warming gift.” He held out a fist, opened it, revealing a capsule. Casey looked it and gazed at him, not taking the bait. “Don’t you want to know what it’s for?” “Lemme guess. My inhibitions? Give me a boost? I can curl 3,000 pounds? Protect me from Tiffany? Make me millions?” “Okay, who was here before me?” “I don’t remember his name. Good-looking guy with black hair. You’re ALL good-looking guys with black hair.” “Some are blond, some ginger, some bald. How old?” “Old. I don’t know. 27?” “Mustache?” “No.” “Bicycle clothes?” “Yeah.” “Lang.” Waring looked around. “Did he give you one already? Did you take it?” “Yes, and yes.” “Good.” He held out the capsule. “Keep it. Take it anyway. I took two once,” he added, and smiled to remember a particularly hot ‘Pose and Approve’ session with both Alvarez and Lang, after which, unfortunately, he was not invited to return. Not yet, anyway. “Sure you don’t want to come in?” Casey gestured ironically, but he wouldn’t have minded. A little double-posing practice would be a good workout. But once again, all he got was the once-over. Waring paused a little and grinned, his face turning pink, but shook his head. “No, I gotta run. Bye.” And he loped off down the corridor. Casey closed the door. Whatever. All these dudes were weird, muscle or no. He took the second White Caps, flexed a few more minutes in front of the mirror, waited for something to happen. Nothing. Suddenly he was tired, so he decided to grab a nap. He went to his room, kicked off his boots, tore off his sweatpants and jock, and sprawled naked onto the huge bed. He was instantly asleep, dreaming vaguely of his muscle planet. When he woke up, the light in the room had changed, but he didn’t notice it. All he could think of was his dick, hugely and almost painfully hard. He was ready to go, now. The caps? Maybe. He masturbated on his bed, formally initiating himself to his room. He watched his reflection in the ceiling mirror as he pumped his big shaft. Within 30 seconds he came, his cum spurting high and splashing the glass of the mirrored ceiling and plopping down onto the sheets, staining them deeply with pools of cum. “Shit,” he said. He got up went into the bathroom and closed the door. He shat heavily and pissed about 2 gallons with heavy ropes of piss splashing into the toilet. He stared suspiciously at the bidet, and then at the shower. There were the seemingly dozens of jets and spigots and controls, but after a few minutes of carefully testing, he got it to work. He showered for about 10 minutes, washing himself off carefully, loving the jets of steaming hot water that hit every angle of his physique. He stepped out and grabbed a huge towel off the rack. It was warm to the touch, as if it had just been taken out of the drier. Damn, it felt good. He draped it around himself and went back into his room. His sheets had been changed. The ceiling mirror was clean. Fuck. Who the hell had been in here while he was in the shower??? And his workout clothes were laid out on the bed. Oh well. Guess he had invisible maids, too. He changed, and went to the kitchenette to get a bite of chicken and another jug of water. On the counter there was a note: I let myself in. Hope u don’t mind. Take this pill. It will help. C U later in the gym. --- Hension Next to the note was another capsule. What the hell? He took it. He looked at his watch. 3:40 PM. “Shit! Shit!” he shouted. Late again! He tumbled into his sweatshirt, and ran off to meet Moster in his office. ******** 15 minutes later, Casey stood at attention in front of Sergeant Moster’s desk. “Well, Cadet,” said Moster. “Late again. Very late. At ease. Let’s talk awhile. Have a seat.” He gestured to a flat bench used for bench presses. Casey dutifully lowered his bulk onto the bench and leaned forward anxiously, resting his elbows on his thighs. Sweat rolled down his torso. He wiped his eyes and stared ahead of him. He wasn’t going to get punished for being so late? He had run all the way from his quarters to the office and got lost six times. He finally had to ask some Puerto Rican kitchen kid – oh, yeah, the kid who was there last night, sucking all the musclemen’s cocks while he wrestled Abdul – where the hell Moster’s office was. The kid had stared at him hungrily but Casey wasn’t about to get into it. “Down there,” he’d pointed, and Casey ran off. This time he found it. He saw none of the other men. Moster came out from around the desk and approached, looking him over. “Rockland – I mean Casey … - I’m going to get right to it. You show great potential. Big muscles, lots of strength, good flexibility, tall, young, still growing.” “And I got good bones. You and Dr….” He paused. He couldn’t recall the dude’s name. “Dr. Zaftig.” “Yeah, Dr. Zaftig, you both said so last night.” Didn’t Moster remember last night either? Fer crissakes. “Yes, and good bones, yes.” He stood in front of Casey. “Do you have questions?” Casey looked up at the Sergeant plaintively. About a million of them, actually. But he said nothing, and shook his head. His eyes roamed up and down his CO’s massive physique. Moster’s shiny black biceps exploded out of his white t-shirt, with veins thick as snakes, lining the peaks and networks of pumping blood vessels criss-crossing his forearms. His hands, resting lightly on his hips, were enormous, with thick fingers, white, trimmed fingernails and long, powerful thumbs. His neck was impossibly huge, and his traps sloped powerfully into massive deltoids. His lats flared out almost horizontally. Casey had never seen so much muscle. And in his pants, his package drooped casually from his fly down along his right thigh in his uniform trousers. The massive bulge extended nearly to his knee. Casey gulped and licked his lips a little. He could see the mountain of cockhead corona and make out the deep piss slit, even through the thick fabric. Moster’s gaze never left his eyes. “Well, Casey?” “Sergeant Moster, what is this place really about? Why are we here?” “You’ve been on campus two years. You should know. We’re Valhalla Labs.” “Yeah, I know that. But what is it? Really is it?” “Valhalla Labs is a unique training facility. Here we build and train the finest specimens of men on earth.” “But just bodybuilders.” Moster looked down into Casey’s eyes, slightly startled. “Yes, just bodybuilders,” he confirmed. “There are other kinds of men who get built. Gymnasts. Swimmers. Football players.” “Yes.” “So why just bodybuilders?” Moster paused a moment. “Son,” he said, pacing, “don’t you want to be here?” Casey fell all over himself replying. “Oh, yes, sir, I do want to be here, sir, and nowhere else!” “So….is there a problem?” “No, sir, no problem AT ALL. But….why are we here?” And he still didn’t ask, pointedly, about the wrestling and the cum job and all the craziness from the night before. Moster paused again, and spoke in a measured tone. “The Nineteen – and now, with you, The Twenty – are potentially the finest specimens of male musculature on the planet. Most bodybuilders, power lifters, weight lifters, look mighty impressive, but, you know, they have all sorts of internal problems. Bad hearts. Very bad livers and kidneys. Bad skin. Small testicles. High cholesterol. Bad blood pressure. Boils, scars. They smell bad. No endurance. And…..too often….they have very tiny cocks.” Casey had to admit it was true. “But not here. Here we build men who will last. When you, son, reach your 50th birthday, you’ll look much the way you do now. When you reach 70, God willing, you’ll look like a man of 40. Do you know how old I am?” Casey paused a moment. “28?” he ventured. “I’m 48. 49 next month.” “No shit.” “No shit. Let’s see your biceps, son. Remove your sweatshirt.” Casey complied and meekly flexed his guns. He smiled hopefully. “Are they okay?” he asked nervously, flexing, looking from arm to arm, glancing hopefully at the dancing triple peaks of each biceps. “You know they’re better than just ‘okay’. Or you should know. Good God, you’re still reticent?” “Re- ti – what?” “Still shy? Don’t you feel strong, son? Don’t you feel huge and powerful?” “Not next to you, sir.” Moster was touched in spite of himself. “Stand up, son,” he directed, peeling off his shirt and heading over to a broad expanse of mirror. “Come over here and join me.” He bent and began to unlace his boots. Casey got up and trotted over to join Moster at the mirror. Instinct told him it might not be a good idea to tell him just at present that he had recently taken three white caps. So far he hadn’t felt anything unusual. But then, he’d had a long nap, too. Maybe you weren’t supposed to take white caps and then immediately go to sleep. “Kick off those shorts. Your jock, too. Strip down.” Casey did as he was told, pulling his jock down shyly. Moster unbuckled his belt, peeled down his trousers, kicked off his boots and rose, ripping off his t-shirt. His massive muscles bloomed with gigantic power. He was wearing a powerfully knit bright red posing suit underneath his trousers that magnificently displayed his bulging tool. “All our posing suits are privately made. Otherwise, they won’t fit. See?” First he grabbed the side straps and pulled up. The pouch loomed magnificently, full of Moster’s massive penis and balls. He moved from side to side, showing the strength of the suit. “Actually there’s some steel mesh in there. You get used to it.” Then he pulled down the poser from the side straps and, one foot at a time, stepped out of it. His cannon firehose flopped out and down heavily and loudly slapped his quads. “Face the mirror, Cadet,” said Moster. Casey obeyed and turned, and together the two musclemen stood naked in front of the mirror. Wow. Casey knew he had never seen – no, nor imagined – bigger muscles, nor a bigger engine like the one Sergeant Rod Moster was sporting between the walls of each diamond-shaped quad. He stared at it, slack jawed, his mouth dangling open, amazed. From the beautiful muscle jewel-setting that was Moster’s lower rectus abdominus to the ridge of shrink-wrapped muscle from which plunged the massive, thick shaft, Moster’s massive, huge, perfect monster penis was a thing of beauty. A few moments passed, and Casey finally spoke. “You have a very big dick, sir. Begging your pardon.” “Yes, quite the tool, isn’t it?” Moster said expansively, waggling it from side to side. “It might even be the biggest in the world. Anyway, no recorded penis has been found to be bigger.” He looked down appraisingly at Casey’s organ, “Yours appears to be almost as big, I see.” “No, not, really, sir.” “Oh, yes, I think it is. Close, anyway. Let’s see you wave it back and forth. Like this.” He began to whip his penis noisily from side to side. It slapped loudly on his quads. “Go ahead. I know you can do it. I saw you do it for the boys in your room this morning.” Casey was mortified, remembering. “Try it, cadet.” “Okay.” He waved it back and forth timidly. “No, throw some energy into it. Be a man!” Moster continued to slap his cock against his quads. Casey gulped and began to whip his engine a little faster, a little harder…..and suddenly he was surprised to hear slaps as loud as Moster’s coming from his own extremities as his ample cock made contact with his muscular quads. Moster reached down and grabbed Casey’s member in a powerful fist and began to squeeze. Casey was stunned. “Sir!” “Relax, Private. I know you’re a grower. I want a demonstration.” He began to powerfully stroke the penis, and in his grip Casey immediately became erect. “Very nice indeed. 12 inches? More?” “I’m not sure….” “Zaftig sure knows how to find them.” Casey was getting dizzy. A heavy glob of precum appeared from the piss slit, ran over Moster’s fist and dripped onto the floor. “Nice,” said Moster. “Good boy. Have you masturbated yet today?” Casey was mortified. He took a step back and his thick penis popped from Moster’s enveloping fist. Moster let it go. “Yes…..” “How many times?” “Just once.” “Right.” He walked back to his desk, his penis waggling mightily as he walked, and hit a key on his laptop, which dinged. He read a message, looked up and smiled. He returned. “Yes, I see that you did, about 25 minutes ago.” “Wha-a-a-a-a- t?!!?” “The cleaning report came in.” Cleaning report?? Christ, the sheets. They file this stuff? “Are you guys spying on me?” “We’re going to monitor your activity, yes. We do this for all the men.” “Do they know?” “Yes, of course they know. Many of them relish it. The men like to be on cam. Is this going to be a problem for you?” Casey decided to change the subject. “Sir, it embarrasses me. I have to jerk off about 5 or 6 times a day.” “Seems that you’re off schedule then, if you have only masturbated once so far.” “Well, it’s been a weird day.” “Don’t let me stop you.” “I’m not gonna do it now!!!” Casey was getting more and more mortified. What was all this, anyway?? “No, of course not. You still have the societal blockers in place that prevent that. So do the men, actually, in my presence. They wouldn’t do it either while in this office. Of course, at meal times, in the gym, on the track outside, wherever or whenever they feel they have to, they whip out their dicks and go for it. You saw that last night, actually.” Finally. “Last night was really, really weird,” said Casey. “You’ll get used to it.” “I will?” “Yes, and with talent like yours, the men will be very eager for you to start joining them in priapic exercises.” Hunh? “You’ll find out. In time. Meanwhile, you should be very proud. Your penis is one of the finest specimens I have ever seen. And I have seen thousands of the best of the best. Yours is….well…..it rivals mine.” Shit, thought Casey. Really? Sudden he got a little coy. “Gee, and I have always been ashamed of my big dick.” “Really. Why?” “I can’t….hide -… it….” Casey colored deep red and looked down at himself. There it was, looming out from his body, huge and solid. “And why would you want to hide it?” “You hide yours!” Casey blurted. “Or you try to.” “That’s different. I’m in command. And the men all know now about my superior tool. If I showed it all the time, it would lead to all kinds of problems.” Moster bent and pulled up his posers and trousers, carefully wrapping his giant engine securely in the folds of pants fabric. He squatted slightly, reached into the waistband of his slacks, and positioned the shaft so that it lay, lazy and secure, against his right quad. Then he went back to his desk. “Get dressed now. But hang on.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small vial, then walked back to him and leaned in quietly. He spoke low into Casey’s ear, and raised his palm surreptitiously. In his hand was a single white capsule. “Take it,” he said. Not again. He was already feeling – well, not high, exactly, but close. He was dubious – after all, he had already taken three – but what the hell. He pretended innocence, and he made his face appear anxious. “What is it? Drugs? I’ve never done drugs.” “This is pure P21. The drug of choice. Take it.” “Will I be okay?” he asked, wanting to trust him. I hope so, Casey thought. I took three of those little suckers. “You’ll be fine,” assured Moster, and he meant it. “Frankly, yes. It is a drug. It will not hurt you - but it will do something to your perception of yourself. Take it. Now.” “Okay.” Casey nodded dumbly and bolted it down. Inside he was elated, excited, wondering if this new mystery supplement was a new kind of steroid, able to produce great surges of strength and growth. Then he looked up hopefully at Moster, now sitting back at his desk, easy in his chair, his legs wide before him, open to the world. “Meet us in the rec room after your shower for post workout eval.” “Yes, sir,” said Casey. Inadvertently his gaze lowered to the Sergeant’s lap. He stared at the bulge. Wow, he thought again. Damn. “Good. Now get to the gym and get started. Some of the men will be there. You have some serious lifting to do. I’ll join you presently.” He pushed an intercom button. “Dr. Irving?” “Yes?” came the voice on the squawk box. “Get the camera ready and head to the big gym. You'll find everything you need in the locker room. Dr. Irving is there ahead of you. He'll set you up. Get moving now.” “Yes, Sergeant Moster.” "And don't dawdle." He checked his watch. "You're already 20 minutes late. The men were expecting you at 16:00 hours. They don't like to be kept waiting." "Are they all there?" "By now, yes." "They gonna jerk off all over me again?" Moster smiled. "No, not tonight. Frankly, you have them all a little too worried about themselves to pull anything like that again so soon. Besides...." Casey waited for it. "Besides what?" Moster smiled. "Nothing. We talk again after your workout tonight. Then dinner and then bed for you. Get going now." Click click click. Moster was typing. Casey stood still, uncertain. Moster looked up. “I said get going, Casey.” Casey nodded, dumbly wordless. Gee, he types fast, he thought. He pulled on his sweatshirt and scampered out the door. After a moment he was back. “Sergeant Moster?” he asked, shy and frightened. “Yes, Cadet Rockland?” “…um..….which way IS the gym….?” Moster had to smile in spite of himself. He pushed back from the desk and rose. “Okay. We'll go together.” He approached Casey, looked him over with brief approbation, and nodded to himself. This kid was something else. Just what he had been waiting for. Just right for his plans. Just right for the big picture. The picture Zaftig wasn't aware of. Yes, everything was going smoothly. He headed on down the corridor. Casey followed him, submissively scampering a few steps behind. It was going to be his first workout as one of The Twenty. He felt both scared and powerful. And just a little pissed off, as the White Cap began to work on him. Those dudes weren't gonna jerk off on him again, any time soon. He'd see to that. He knew what he had to do. Okay. Time to go train. ********** Want to reread "The Twenty" from the beginning? Click here for "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Precis, Introduction, and Chapters 1 & 2
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