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Found 35 results

  1. 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
  2. This chapter will be very, very dark, since it does explore the mind of Cpl. De Vries, who is a well-known nuisance from earlier chapters. Chapter One is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/ Chapter Two is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6609-project-defender-–-chapter-two/ Chapter Three is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7120-project-defender-chapter-three/ DISCLAIMER The following story do contain heavy amounts of racial slur, homophobia, several forms of prejudice and mental images of violence. Please do not read this if you are offended by anything of the aforementioned. The author do not condone any of the opinions or values the character expresses. Project Defender - Chapter 4 De Vries sat on his bed, already awake, although it was several hours until reveille. When he had looked himself in the mirror before the experiment, he had seen an Aryan, just as his dad used to say. When he had looked himself in the mirror after the experiment, he had seen a perfect Aryan. He was big now. And strong. He cupped his left pec with his right hand. But he was surrounded by idiots. Idiots that held him back. There was a war raging out there, and the idiots went on about safety concerns, correct procedure, democracy, scientific method and other civilian bullshit he wasn’t interested in. He wanted to smash space squid. But first he wanted to have his revenge on the idiots. And the midgets. And the monkey boy. And Major Murphy. And the disgusting little fag. No-one should stand in his way. He had made his decision. He rose and walked through the empty corridors to the Lab. It was dark, but a LED helped him find the switch. The air in the room was strangely humid and warm, like the machines had been used several hours later than usual and not cooling down the way they normally did in night time, but he didn’t think more about it. The screens were turned on, but the screen savers were activated. Idiots. Under other conditions, this could have caused a security breech. Do they know nothing about computers? But now, this would make his revenge easier: Just what boffins leaving their computers on deserve. He watched the screens, and pushed some of the keys, first curious, then excited. They had held him back on purpose, the sanctimonious nerds. They could have pumped him full of a much larger dose of that what-it-was-called, and they could have increased those golden rays and things much more. He remembered the intense pleasure the Field and the Rays had given him, when he had bathed in that otherworldly non-burning golden fire. The hair on his forearms and his back-hair tingled pleasantly and he felt how he became hard. Yes, he had liked it, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more of it, and he wanted to be bigger than anyone else in the project. He stared at the screen. Once a test subject had absorbed the nano-bots, it was obviously possible to reprogram them further by IV, if the subject underwent a repeated treatment. He didn’t need a new dose of nano-bots, just air and an IV. He had found the display of the two anatomical charts and found the log about his present enhanced physique. He copied the green chart of his present build, and made it into a new blue chart: the starting-point for something even more amazing. He could feel how his engorged dick pulsated against the inside of his shining black, leathery uniform trousers. The engineer who designed these trousers must have been another fucking damned fag, but he had to admit that they were very comfortable, and they actually made him look aggro when he saw himself in the mirror, so it wasn’t exactly a catastrophe. He concentrated on the screen again. Ah! It was possible to click on the sketch in green lines, in order to mark which muscle to design. And then these boxes and numbers… His back-hair tingled again and he salivated. He could design exactly how he wanted to look! Every man want insane biceps. And an even bigger chest sounds good. And traps. He clicked on a number of different muscles, and changed the numbers in the boxes. A cartoonish figure drawn in green lines began to form. The ridiculously broad-shouldered man in the sketch was built something like the comics character The Hulk, but with a much more exaggerated physique. Another man, and probably all women, would have considered the sketch ugly and monstrous, but De Vries stared on it longingly: With muscles like that, no-one would be able to stop him. He wasn’t a science guy, but 1000% level of Hypertrophic Radiation sounded good - yeah: really good - and a target level of 1000 milli-sheldrake sounded like it matched the other figure. He had chosen the alternative ’auto-procedure’, so no-one else was needed to oversee the process. This amazing machine would follow his wishes and demands, and make him into what he wanted. He pressed enter. Modified settings not available under present symmetry protocol ’Deactivate symmetry protocol.’ Are you sure you want to deactivate symmetry protocol? What the bloody hell? ’Affirmative.’ Symmetry protocol deactivated That was a relief. The computer behaved just like the idiots, but it was possible to subdue it to do one’s will. Enter. Modified settings not available under present functionality protocol Rage was rising from the inside of his mind. Crawling. Erupting. ’Deactivate functionality protocol.’ Are you sure you want to deactivate functionality protocol? ’Affirmative.’ Functionality protocol deactivated It isn’t possible to reason with computers. Just give it what it wants. Enter. Modified settings not available under present safety protocol ’Deactivate safety protocol.’ Are you sure you want to deactivate safety protocol? ’Who the hell designed this bloody damn interface – Microsoft?’ Negative … The Program was designed by [Dr. Gruber] by the help from [Cyberdyne Systems] and [umbrella Corporation] He sighed, and tried to control his temper and impatience: ’I am sure, that I want to deactivate safety protocol.’ Safety protocol deactivated Enter. Something happened on the screens. He didn’t bother to read it. Shivering of anticipation, he undressed, laid the uniform – rigorously neatly folded – on a bench and stepped into the sluice. He didn’t need the neuro-helmet, and wore the breathing mask just for air. The IV was, however, necessary to pump him full of the high dose of viruses, the super-supplements, the reprogramming stuff and the super-gear-thingy. He stepped into Chamber 1. The fluid level rose. The warm, comforting fluid surrounded him. He fell into an analgetic half-dream state, only dimly aware of something happening to his bone structure. He had a list of those who deserved punishment. The Britse, who wasn’t able to speak his own language correctly, thought he was so tough with all his tattoos and all, chattering all the time like an old shrew, but De Vries was going to make him kneel and then put the thumbs in his eyes, listening to him screaming like a little girl. And then rip out his balls and tear off his willy, and ask who’s tough now? And he was going to let Monkey-boy watch. What was British armed forces thinking when they sent a black man to do a white man’s work? De Vries grandparents had moved to the Netherlands from South Africa in 1992, only to find that there were a lot of Arabs in the Netherlands. He distrusted Arabs. And Jews. De Vries had seen a star in the neck chain of Van Gelder, the other Dutch recruit. He distrusted Van Gelder. De Vries was going to torture The Britse and his monkey-boy friend before hunting the midgets down. The midgets didn’t deserve to undergo this enhancing treatment, and the turnout of events showed that one of the shrimps hadn’t been affected by The Program, but swooned like a little girl instead. Not like a real man. Not like himself, who had got brawny like a good test subject. Yeah! Really, really brawny. He wished he had been able to show his dad what he had become. His dad had been so disappointed when he slapped the neighbourhood children down as a kid. Dad used to chasten him with his belt. The same happened when he had smoked perfectly legal marijuana. And when he only came second in the swimming competition. And Fridays. De Vries had shown him what he was able of, by joining the Armed Forces, making dad proud. He was going to crush the heads of the shrimps with his heavy boots. He was going to torture Major Murphy, since he had become an inconvenience… De Vries slowly awakened from his reveries by the voluptuous feeling of growing muscle fibres. His already superhuman physique had already began to transform even further into unknown anatomical territory. He had liked how his muscles had filled out and increased in meaty firmness the last time, and the same feeling was rushing through his entire body now, even stronger than the last time. Doubling, tripling, quadrupling in intensity, like a wave of energized liquid, bubbling of raising power levels. Raw strength itself was forced into his growing, ever-hardening brawn, at a much higher power-level than the last time. He was almost unable to handle this extremely increased level, and doubted for a moment if he had chosen the right settings on the screen, but, in a mixture of voluntarily abandonment and forced surrender, he let his body and mind go into unrestrained and uninhibited transformation. Under the influence of the incredibly high doses of hypertrophic radiation the reprogrammed nano-bots, the high doses of the endocrine formula, and the now extremely modified DNA, he approached the goal desired according to the tampered Field settings. De Vries roared in pain and lust, but wasn’t aware of it any longer. The heightened levels of testosterone now stoked two primal fires in his mind – sex and aggression – and in his present state he could no longer separate one from another, leaving out all other mental activity. He felt his power to break and crush, dominate and humiliate, revel and wallow in ecstasy increase without limit. His physical form increased in heaviness and might. An ecstatic feeling of expanding in every direction, of hardness increasing beyond all restrictions, and of an energetic power level beyond all comprehension brought him to an orgasmic state lasting for hours without any relief or outlet. When he awoke he was lying in a puddle on the Lab floor, surrounded by glass splinters and a few screw nuts, unaware how he had got there. The Being looked at its hands, and noticed that the cuts were already healing, and that in an almost visible rate. The Being looked in the direction of the Chambers, and noticed how Chamber 1 had shattered. It was of no concern. The Being was hunting. Hunting such targets as midgets, a monkey boy, a faggot, the tattooed one and the one with many signs on its clothes. The hunt wouldn’t end until the prey had been crushed and destroyed.
  3. In chapter three, I take a closer look at one of the former minor characters. As usual, I hope that you will tolerate my unintentional linguistic errors. Chapter One is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/ Chapter Two is here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6609-project-defender-–-chapter-two/ DISCLAIMER This story do contain an element of internalised homophobia, at least in the beginning. If you are offended by this, please read no further. Project Defender - Chapter 3 He always wanted to be huge. But he wasn’t. Kowalski had grown up in a small municipality just outside Warsaw. He had been bullied in primary school, but when he entered secondary school he joined a gym, and although his results were modest, his newfound muscles kept the bullies away. His parents – especially his mother – were devout Catholics, and he joined them, when they attended Mass on Sundays. He felt like having two minds when it came to physical exercise. On the one hand, it felt amazing in the end of each training session, when his body released all those relaxing substances, and blood pumped into all his newly trained muscles, causing him to feel hard in a very good way. On the other hand, he felt uncomfortable that he often became horny after workout. He had tried to mention it to his vicar during confession once, but Father Wójcik had reacted in horror: ’You are having dirty thoughts, young man. Do you hear: Dirty! The only normal thing to feel aroused by is your future wife. I hope you will find a suitable girl sometime during Technikum. Now avoid to think dirty thoughts again. I absolve you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’ He hadn’t dared to mention the topic again. During his studies at Technikum, he had to go by bus to Warsaw each day, and he joined a bigger and more well-equipped gym inside Warsaw. He must have been eighteen when he found out that one of the adult guys at the gym was a British Jesuit, teaching in the capacity of Guest Professor in astrophysics at the university for a time. Father O’Kelly seemed to enjoy exercise himself, although he mainly used the treadmill and the step-up-machine, so Kowalski dared to take up his embarrassing worries. O’Kelly laughed somewhat, and had a much more relaxed view on Kowalski’s perceived problem: ’Listen, son. Now and then in the history of the Church, a few people have – mistakenly – believed that the human body is something bad. It isn’t. Evil is only able to harm things. Evil is not able to create and nurture life. Some saints were wrong about some issues, and a few of them were anorectics or neurotics. We do good if we try to do the same sort of good deeds those saints achieved, but we ought not to follow their mistaken personal opinions or quirks. The human body is an amazing thing: Our brain and our hands cooperate in a way that made engineering and art possible. The human body functions the way God intended – perhaps not perfectly, since we have a free will, but the basic processes are there, because it is for the best. St. Paul writes that the human body is a temple for the Holy Spirit. That isn’t something bad or evil, is it? Men like you try to make their temple as fitting and embellished as possible, and there is nothing wrong with that, at least if you don’t become obsessive about it, and forget the needs of persons around you. Excessive vanity would make the life complicated for you, but in the right amount it is just confidence, and confidence is good to have. Human sexuality is a strong feeling, that sometimes blur peoples judgment. Those consequences of a blurred judgment are sometimes evil, but not sexuality itself. God created it. I would advice you to exercise more, not less, since exercise helps to diminish exaggerated arousal, but I would also advice you to thank God for your ability to feel good. In the future you will probably find a cute girl. If sex had been something intrinsically bad, matrimony wouldn’t have been regarded a sacrament, would it?’ After his discussion with Father O’Kelly, Kowalski felt much better. He continued to work out at the gym, and achieved a lean and very hard physique, but he wasn’t able to become big and burly the way professional bodybuilders looked. During Technikum, some of the girls had found the combination of his short stature, ripped physique and cream coloured downy hair irresistible, and he had snogged a number of young women, but nothing serious. Since his early childhood, his favourite saint was St. Michael the archangel. The church his mother attended had several smaller adjacent altars, and his favourite one was dedicated to St. Michael. A broad shouldered statue of St. Michael was there, his enormous wings outstretched protectively, and his big chest decked with chainmail, a sword in his muscular arm, trampling the devil underfoot. It was an icon of masculine heroism, and Kowalski wanted to be a hero. To protect people, and defend them. When he graduated from Technikum, he first applied to the fire brigade, but his application was rejected since he didn’t fulfill the regulated minimum height. He then applied to the Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland, and was accepted. He scored very high on endurance tests, and he managed to lift heavier backpacks than men his own size usually did. He was very good at diving. He was extremely good at parachute jumps, but one part of his test results differed significantly from the rest: He scored low when it came to the ability to lift really heavy equipment, and he felt frustrated over this. Now and then, he shyly asked himself if he possibly could be gay. The Church’s position on the issue was clear, and that made him uncomfortable: He liked attending Mass now and then, and he appreciated to slip into an almost empty cathedral in the middle of the afternoon, experiencing the soothing silence and stillness. The Army officially maintained a non-discriminatory policy when it came to sexual orientation, and had always did, but the personal opinions among some of the senior officers and some of the other squaddies was another thing. As far as he knew, no-one had suspected anything. He knew that he often became horny when he read magazines about bodybuilding or watched action films with muscular heroes, but he wasn’t sure if that was a desire for the men themselves, or if it was rather a lust for becoming just as huge and ripped as them, excelling in masculinity. Gays are not masculine, are they? When TV news reported about Gay Pride parades in Warsaw, he didn’t feel anything for the men who walked by on the television screen: Trannies trying to look like women. Soft and wimpy men with rainbow pennants, some of them with glitter on their faces. They looked happy. He wished them luck with their everyday lives, but he didn’t feel attracted to them in any way. They seemed uninteresting. He had nothing in common to them. So he couldn’t be gay, could he? He had nothing against gays, as long as they didn’t hit on him. The Army became like a second home for him. He liked being challenged to achieve feats beyond his former limits. A couple of years went by. Then the Space Attack occurred. His family was evacuated from the Warsaw area to the countryside. He was sent to the Pan-European Military Research Facility, since he had been deemed suitable for experimentation. He had felt excited when he became aware of the purpose of The Program. De Vries had been a pain in the ass, but most of the international guys had been pleasant enough to work with. Among the scientists he felt most comfortable with the Norwegian one they called ’Viking Guy’, who had been friendly and polite. Coach was so well-trained, that he made Kowalski feel small in comparison, and there was something with the tiny Englishman, Smith, that made Kowalski feel awkward. He didn’t know what. He missed Soares. They had met the first day at the Facility, in the gym, and found a common bond in how much they liked workout and their disappointment with being hardgainers. Soares had a good sense of humour. Under cheering sounds from the other squaddies, they had sometimes wrestled at the living quarters, pitting each other’s strengths against each other. They had shared stories about their home countries and their worries for their families. Soares was also Catholic, so Kowalski had given him his St. Michael pendant as a gift of brotherhood. Soares had a good heart and kind eyes the colour of hazel nuts. And now he was comatose, because of an experiment gone wrong. Kowalski had sat beside Soares sick bed at Infirmary every evening since the accident happened. He felt angry at the scientists, but he also felt a bad conscience for his anger, since Viking Guy had told him that they worked on a treatment. He couldn’t sleep. He clothed himself, and tied his boots. The Infirmary lay in darkness, with the exception of a single lamp at the desk. To his surprise, neither Johansson’s nor Soares’ bed were there. After the initial surprise, he found Fischer, the night working nurse, tied to a chair. ’The recruits! They wheeled the patients away to the Lab.’ As soon he had freed Fischer from the chair, Kowalski jogged to the Lab, walking silently in suspicions the last distance. He peeked carefully into the Lab. Jones was there: He was a funny one, with a good sense of humour, at least when Kowalski could manage to understand his dialect. And Varga! Varga had behaved as an elder brother to Kowalski and Soares. Why had they of all persons disobeyed orders? If they actually had disobeyed orders. Weren’t they programmed to behave as perfect soldiers now? And who was the tall and muscular uniformed man typing at a screen? No! It couldn’t be… Doctor Smith? It’s impossible! He was so tiny, bespectacled and plump yesterday. This is like magic. He’s even bigger than Varga. And Boffin! And Viking Guy! And… O saint Mary in heaven: Coach was humongous now! What were they doing? Kowalski noticed the movable sickbeds. Empty. And the Chambers were activated. It dawned to him that Soares and Johansson were inside the Chambers, so it seemed that they tried to cure them from their comatose states. Cautiously, he stepped inside the lab. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED][AND RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Cpl. Soares Weight: 56 kilo grammes Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Height: 168 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Chest: 91 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Waist: 70 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Arm: 34 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] Thighs: 56 centimetres Now:[iNCREASING] [AWAITING DATA] ’Brain activity detected and intensifying.’ ’Pulse, breathing and temperature stable.’ Soares had grown inside the chamber. Muscles bulged and protruded from him. He was far from the size of the men in the Lab, but it was obvious that he was still growing in the golden shimmer. ’Kowalski? What are you doing here?’ Viking Guy had noticed his presence. The other large men looked in his direction. He felt uncomfortable. ’I was worried for Soares. Why did you tie Fischer?’ ’Did you tie Fischer, Jones? Why?’ ’Ah dinna thought mooch abuht ed. Ah wanted ’im to be outovva way. The Program kicked in.’ ’But why in the world would Fischer want to hinder us from curing the patients? Although it is in the middle of the night? Which is – ahem – unconventional.’ A short and confused discussion took place, but the safety for the patients soon redirected the focus of all present to the Chambers and the persons therein. Fischer peeked inside the room, but, although some of the men probably noticed him with their enhanced military senses, they all focused on the patients. Since Fischer didn’t have any patients to guard any longer, he sat down on a stool. ’Good to have you here, Kowalski.’, Doctor Green said. ’I know that you have sat beside Soares’ bed several nights. He knows you well. You are friends. He would listen to you.’ ’Yes?’, Kowalski asked. ’There is no damage to his brain. Whatever may have damaged himself before is perfectly healed by Morphogenetic Fields by now. I suspect that a psychological factor would help him to awake, under the condition that he remain in the Field during awakening. Human contact. You were scheduled for The Procedure the day after tomorrow, I believe. Would it disappoint you very much, if we rescheduled your treatment till tonight, instead?’ ’You mean. To become like you? Now?’ ’I understand that it comes of a sudden, but I really think that Soares would benefit from you talking to him, while you both go through The Program together.’ It came so suddenly. Kowalski felt confused. ’He is very close to awakening, but something delays it, and I believe there is a human factor to this. Your voice and your presence would hopefully lead him back to consciousness, but since that would expose you to The Program, you need to go through it all, with nano-inhalation, nutrition-IV and everything.’ Although it was buzz cut, Kowalski felt the hair on the back of his skull raise. He felt a pleasant shiver at his back. A lump emerged in his throat, and his mouth became dry. He silently observed the absurdly titanic men in the Lab – even the scientists looked like imaginary super-soldiers by now. He watched the growing Soares and Johansson in the Chambers. He should join their ranks tonight already. Everything felt unreal, like it was one of his silly teenage fantasies coming true. Absentmindedly, he answered: ’Yes. Of course I accept a reschedule. I want to help Soares. And it is – ehrm – actually quite exciting.’ He blushed somewhat, and untied his boots. The T-shirt fell on the bench. The trousers as well. Socks. Pants. It still felt unreal when Green applied the IV and the neuro-helmet. ’May I have a glass of water before I enter?’ Varga handed over a large plastic mug filled with drinking water. Kowalski devoured it. Green tied the breathing mask over Kowalski’s face. ’There is a microphone in the mask. If you feel strange, you may tell us. Most of the guys who have went through this Process have felt very well. Thank you for helping us to awaken Soares, and good luck inside.’ [CONNECTING] [ACCESSING DATA] [AWAITING SPECIMEN] Cpl. Kowalski Weight: 57 kilo grammes Height: 169 centimetres Chest: 91 centimetres Waist: 69 centimetres Arm: [AWAITING DATA] Thighs: [AWAITING DATA] CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] [CONCOMITANTLY TO] [PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][MULTI-THREADING] When the inner sluice opened, his entire body was struck by a violent wave. It caused all his bodily consciousness to tingle and buzz, in a way that was impossible to describe. He stepped inside the chamber, and the feeling became more intense. For a while it shut out all his other impressions. He tumbled into an intense vision of golden flashes and flares, in which his physical body ceased to exist. In its place he consisted entirely by raw, primordial power. Buzzing. Crackling. Emitting bolts. Devouring bolts. A voice which was not his own was saying something inside his mind. He didn’t actually hear it, since it was in his mind. He couldn’t hear clearly: It was not audible. It was more like a thought – an implanted thought. The intensity of the implanted thought increased: Do you accept The Program? He was rather strong minded. He couldn’t be forced to accept. Do you accept The Program? But it was because of The Program he was here. This reminded him of something a drill officer had said during basic training: ’I will break you down, in order to rebuild you!’. This was something similar. Do you accept The Program? Far, far away, he was vaguely aware that his physical body was involuntarily mumbling and grunting random words, but he didn’t pay attention to it: He was deeply immersed in his inner experience of integration into The Program. Do you accept The Program? He would become like the unbelievably huge titans outside the chamber. He shivered unintentionally in delight. Do you accept the Program? And he was here to help Soares. But what would happen if he tried to refuse The Program? You will accept The Program Fear arose. His instincts told him, that, if he accepted, he would no longer be entirely the same. From a certain point, he would no longer be himself. The instincts of fear became stronger. You will accept The Program You will accept The Program Damn it! It was his duty to endure this process, in order to help mankind. It was his duty to become… Becoming Defender Yes. To defend his fellow men against the invasion, and to defend his brothers-in-arms in danger. Becoming Protector Yes. To protect the weak and innocent… You will accept The Program Yes. To become a part of the same Program as the other optimised lads. United. Together as the first generation space marines. United… in… the… same… Program. You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will ac ’SIR! YES, SIR!’ CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING NEURO-REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] [CONCOMITANTLY TO] [PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][MULTI-THREADING] A small part of him knew, that the experience he re-lived wasn’t his own, but borrowed from someone else, like the one just before, and the one just before, but it felt so real, and it felt so much a part of his own experience… It was like he had been through this for years, by now: Years of painstaking exercise to perfect his ability to… …triumph in close combat… …swiftly and effectively handle weapons of innumerable types… …make tactical decisions… …defuse explosives… …hack into computer technology… It went on and on. He re-lived the lives of countless experts in their fields, and all were implanted and coalesced in him. Becoming consummate individual unit His confidence exploded and went off the scale. Nothing would ever make him feel awkward or uncomfortable any longer. Neuro-Reprogramming Protocol aim achieved Neuro-Reprogramming Protocol accomplished Closing according to Program Running: Physical Reprogramming Protocol [undivided] … [both specimen] [according to same matrix] Enhancing He was awake. He was present in a cylinder with another man. O, yes! The Chamber. The Process. Soares. His friend Soares. It felt good to be close to Soares. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED BY 2 SPECIMEN][AND RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL][iNTENSIFYING] The fluid around him was crackling with power discharges, and it caused his entire body to tingle in an incredible way. The power was crackling around Soares too, and he had grown amazingly big and well-defined, still pulsating of growth. Now, the same power surged through Kowalski, making him grunt with uncontrollable pleasure. An ugly sound of bones breaking and reforging was transmitted through the fluid. Kowalski was dimly aware of pain, and for a while his consciousness drifted away into darkness. When he awoke, he felt different and elongated in a strange way. The power emissions buzzed: in the fluid, on the surface of his skin, and through the essence of his entire body. He concentrated, and managed to speak. ’Soares. Wake up. It’s me, Kowalski. Please, Soares.’ And Soares opened his eyes. ’Kowalski? Oh. It feels… Mmmm.’ ’You are awake!’ ’So they continued to… Mmmm. …physical phase anyhow? Oh, this is good… Uh!’ Soares shivered in delight. He contracted his arms and tensed his abs. His dick awoke. Soares shivered again, and closed his eyelids again. His grunts revealed that he hadn’t drifted back to unconsciousness. Kowalski was so relieved that Soares had awakened, that he let his dogged determination go. His awareness tumbled into the flashing, buzzing, bubbling experience of bodily change, of transformation. The irresistible power surge… The Field… The radiation… He felt himself pack on meat in an incredible speed. His back broadened, became more massive, and his shoulders too, filling out, full, round, meaty powerful globes of human flesh. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but why would he want to do that? He was programmed to do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. To enhance himself. To augment himself. And Soares. His legs felt like they were able to support incredible amounts, tree trunks widening, pillars of uncrushable steel, voluptuously huge calves. It was like pump, but intensified, and instead of just feeling like they grew, his muscles actually became larger, harder, more defined. His traps and pecs contracted in a deliriously delightful way, while they swelled up into uncrushable ridges and mounds, and he revelled in the feeling of his hyper-charged biceps and triceps, and of the vein covered steel cords, which once had been his forearms. His abs and iliac furrow burnt intensely while they became more and more well-defined, but the feeling gradually changed into the same buzzing and brimming feeling of power which filled the rest of his body. His firm gluteus had filled out into diamond hard orbs. [ACCESSING] [sPECIMEN DATA] Cpl. Kowalski Weight: 220 kilo grammes [AND INCREASING] Height: 215 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Chest: 228 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Waist: 114 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Arm: 100 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Thighs: 120 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Cpl. Soares Weight: 220 kilo grammes [AND INCREASING] Height: 215 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Chest: 228 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Waist: 114 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Arm: 100 centimetres [AND INCREASING] Thighs: 120 centimetres [AND INCREASING] [iNTENSIFYING] [according to same matrix] He didn’t become what he had ever dreamed of: He became something beyond the limits of his wildest imagination, and he diverted himself in the mindless roar of anabolic ecstasy. When he closed his eyes he heard the rushing sound of his pulse and of his blood stream transporting growth enhancing substances to every fibre of his pleasantly convulsing body. He grew in a way beyond what he could comprehend. He was a living battery, charged with the power current from a high voltage line. The power of vitality itself filled him limitlessly. Nuclear bombs exploded inside his body and inside his mind. The ineffable powerblaze stormed in every atom. He brimmed of unlimited and unconquerable might. Suddenly, he could feel Soares' hand on his left pec. It felt good. Soares’ hand had grown in size, but so had Kowalski’s pecs. Soares’ grip had increased, and a man of softer build would have been crushed by this, but Kowalski was no ordinary man. His pec resisted steel-hard the squeeze of Soares'. It felt good. Actually, it did feel amazing, since the empowering current of force, which made him grow, now streamed through him with redoubled intensity. It was like the power current streamed through him twice, and he could hear from Soares’ roar that the effect worked in both directions. He grabbed Soares’ incredible pulsating shoulders with both of his hands. His touch gave Soares a start, and for a couple of seconds Soares upper body went rigid. Then he relaxed – as far as the convulsing and pulsating state his muscles found themselves in could be called relaxed. Soares let his right hand move to Kowalski’s left bum, and the left hand soon followed. The hypertrophic power current now streamed through them again, again and again, in a heightened state of intensity. The Chamber bubbled of liquid. Thunderbolts of morphogenetic power struck their inner cores. The breathing masks hindered them from kissing each other, but both opened their eyes. Staring deeply into each others eyes, Kowalski’s ice blue eyes into Soares’ hazelnut brown ones, they could see how the heightened energy state began to affect their tissue. Golden power sparks arose in Soares’ eyes, and Kowalski could feel a strange, but pleasant, buzz arise in his own eyes. Then their eyes became interconnected to each other by two sparkling power currents of golden fire. Something happened at their groins, and the pulsating steel rods between their legs suddenly became interconnected by a similar crackling power current. Their muscular fibres became more and more unyielding. Their bodies became ever more covered in uncrushable brawn. They shook in pleasure. When Kowalski thought it couldn’t become better, more pleasurable, more ecstatic, the feeling intensified further. They both became monstrously titanic behemoths of ultra-masculine perfection. They roared. They raged. They bellowed, and hugged each other in steel hard embraces, but when the transformation process of The Program reached its climactic optimum, they both fell into velvet black unconsciousness. When Kowalski awoke, he found himself lying in a hospital bed at the Infirmary. Soares was lying in another one, and, since he was reading an e-book, any suspicions about a relapse into coma were dispelled. Two weeks ago, they had been the smallest of the recruits at the Facility. Now they both looked enormous. The story continues in https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7121-project-defender-chapter-four/
  4. For you who like army experiments and science-fiction techno-lingo just as much as I do (but as far as I can remember, there is not yet any need to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow). This continuation could probably need more proof-reading, but here goes. Dr. Skrefsrud, the timid Norwegian, is still the narrator. That may change in following chapters. Chapter One is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/ DISCLAIMER The following story do contain a small amount of racial slur and homophobia, a small amount of violence and sexual innuendo. Please do not read further if you are offended by anything of the aforementioned. The author does not sympathize with what the antagonist in the story may do or say. Project Defender – Chapter Two We kept Jones and Bjarnarsson for observation at Infirmary overnight, and Green agreed to take the night watch. Their results in the Gym had been impressing. They lifted amounts of weight probably no other living man on the planet was able to lift. Restoring a barbell to its stand, Jones looked at Smith and László part cockily, part beaming. Bjarnarsson lumbered around after the exercises with a smile, but was able to restrain his reaction to a larger extent than Jones. All samples looked more than perfect, so we let them eat breakfast at the Mess with the others. Jones and Bjarnarsson were greeted by cheers in the Mess, and during the following meals, I found the atmosphere less hostile against our scientific team. The nicknames used by Jones began to spread among the crew, which probably was a sign of acceptance. Some of the men stared at Jones and Bjarnarsson. ’Nice of y’u ter let us leave de ozzy. Ah feel ready ter hit the iron at the gym aftah brekkie.’, Jones informed us. ’Hey, Viking Guy!’, shouted Varga – a 33 year old Hungarian test subject – ’Can you assure us, that your experiment will not shrink our balls? I want to keep mine intact!’ The men at Varga’s table laughed. ’It is rather Gospodinov’s area of expertise, but as far as I understand, the formula doesn’t replace your own production of hormones, but increases it. Why don’t you ask Jones or Bjarnarsson, if you dare?’ I smiled. Varga’s table roared with laughter. I put down my tray besides the nice Poles, Zielinski and Kowalski, and sat down. Kowalski stared impressed on Jones and Bjarnarsson. Zielinski and Kowalski were eating their egg white omelette with spinach. I had a bowl of porridge. I chatted with the friendly and polite Poles until, suddenly, a loud quarrel disrupted our concentration. It was De Vries, one of the Dutchmen, and Taylor, the Caribbean-British test-subject, who quarrelled. By the look of it, it seemed that De Vries had bumped into Taylor. The latter’s breakfast lay at the floor. ’Watch where you’re going, monkeyboy! I thought this was a project for Europeans? Who let the apes out of the cage? My granddad didn’t leave South Africa for the Old Country for this, I can assure you.’ The initially calm Taylor froze rigidly, and his gaze changed into a burning mode. The Dutchman stared arrogantly on him with his green eyes, but suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. ’That’s not acceptable, corporal.’, Major Murphy said. He had swiftly left the table of honour, when he became aware of the situation. ’This is a warning. Never behave like that again. Is that understood?’ De Vries looked down in the floor, with a surly expression. ’Is that understood, corporal?’, Major Murphy roared. ’SIR! YES, SIR!’, De Vries answered. The other Dutchman, Van Gelder, approached Taylor with a concerned expression: ’I’m so sorry. Most of us from The Netherlands are not like him.’ ’I know.’, Taylor answered, ’It’s not your fault.’ The breakfast-eating men returned to their meal. Van Gelder invited Taylor to his table. De Vries had left the Mess Hall in a hurry. As usual, morning hours were full of scheduled interviews and medical examinations, and when the research team returned to The Lab after lunch, I looked at the list with disappointment. ’O no!’ Smith, Lamarck and Gospodinov looked up, surprised. ’What is it?’, Smith asked. ’Look at the list of test-subjects scheduled for this afternoon. De Vries! The man who behaved so badly in the Mess at breakfast, and was a nuisance at the gym some days ago.’ When the event happened, Lamarck and Gospodinov had already left the Mess, so I and Smith told them what had happened. Gruber lurked unseen behind the screen in the corner at the neuro-programmer, as usual. László returned from the gym, still sweating. ’The Schedule was determined long before this happened. He has to be processed sooner or later, anyhow.’, Gospodinov said. A few minutes later, Green checked the waiting room. Corporal De Vries and Sergeant Varga sat there, waiting. ’Ah. A fellow countryman! Hungarian brawn!’, László joked with Varga. The joking manner in which it was said, aside, it was very true. Like László himself, the thirty-three year old Varga seemed to be very interested in physical exercise, and genetically blessed, at that. A hint of envy could be seen in De Vries’ eyes, when he looked at Varga. We repeated the process which Jones and Bjarnarsson had endured, with only slightly enhanced settings. Gruber attentively studied the brainwave patterns of the test subjects. ’Oh! Um. Um. Um… nagy, nagy,! Ummm. Igen. Nagy. Mmmm… …Jól! Oh, um… kiváló… Mmmm… Ungh, ungh… nagyobb! Oh, oh, oh! Több. Több, több, több: IGEN! … Uh, nagyobb! NAGYOBB! Ough, oh, um, nnn, erősebb! Umngh… hatalmas, umngh… roppant, umngh… erőtejlesnek, umngh… óriásiabb, umnnngh, óriásiabb, umnnngh, óriásiabb, óriásiabb, óriásiabb, ÓRIÁSIABB! ÓRIÁSIABB!!! AH! UNGH! AAARGH!!!’, Vargas mumbled and shouted in his mask-mic, unaware of his surroundings. Under the pressure of The Program, both test subjects had mainly reverted to their native languages, and had given in to the overwhelming transformation experience. A very, very strange sound emerged from the speakers, like someone tried to stuff a leather sofa with raw meat. ’Ah! Um, keihard! Uh, uh, uhmm… onbreek…mmm, nnnn… Aan- OH! -genaam… Ja! Meer! Meer! Veel meer! VEEL MEE… UNGH! Ungh, ungh, ungh, goed, zo goed… umngh! Uhn! Heel goed!!! Umnh, uh, unnn… …ben ijzer sterk! Ungh, zal… uh, uh, tegenstand… vernietigen… Nnng… Ja! Ja! Unnnh! Allemaal… umngh, breken… EINDELOOS!!!’ De Vries had been the smaller of them when he stepped into the Chamber, but when Green had released them from their IV’s, and Gruber released them from their neuro-helmets, De Vries and Varga were of the same size, about two metres and with chests around 190 centimetres or so. Both had grown somewhat in height, but above all they had developed large amounts of well-defined and well-proportioned muscle mass. If Varga had been well built before the process, he now resembled an ancient statue of Hercules, although clean-shaven and with a buzz cut. Gospodinov and Green were preoccupied with the upcoming blood-tests, and Lamarck and Gruber watched the naked men in the same cool, objective way they would have watched a piece of cold meat for dissection on a slab. I felt awkward and somewhat threatened by the presence of the huge naked men, and I was not alone among the younger scientists to be shaken in my professional calm. A small suggestion of envy could be seen in the glance of László, and Smith’s ears were blossoming in red. With a delighted countenance, Vargas squeezed his chest muscles and biceps. Despite their maturely masculine features, both László and Varga broke up in boyfully delighted smiles, and their friendly warm brown eyes lit up in joyful mischief. They began to discuss in their own language: ’… nagyobb mint Vörös Zoltán, Molnar Peter…’ I didn’t understand a word, but they seemed enthusiastic. If the Hungarians’ eyes were filled with delight, the green eyes of De Vries were filled by something much more unsettling, in a mix of smugness and disdain. ’Don’t like what you see, Doctor Smith?’, De Vries said with a malicious smile, ’Or perhaps that is exactly what you do, don’t you?’ De Vries took a step forward, and ripped the white lab coat open from the embarrassed Smith’s tiny frame. Smith’s crotch bulged inside the fly. ’I will not allow a small fat faggot ogle me.’, the enraged De Vries said, and gripped Smith’s throat in an incredibly fast movement. De Vries lifted his other arm, and aimed for a stroke. ’I will not allow any pervert ogle me.’ Smith was suffocating. In the same moment a powerful hand grabbed De Vries’ lifted arm. It was Sergeant Varga. With the crook of his other arm, he grabbed De Vries’ neck, and tried to wrestle De Vries to the floor. The men struggled, and, since they were of the same size, the fight was even. Gospodinov and Lamarck hid in Gruber’s corner. László looked like he was considering joining the fight. Smith sat on the floor, dizzy. Jones and Bjarnarsson had taken up the habit to help the nurses with the amniotic fluid, which was heavy to carry. They now stepped inside the lab door, carrying large plastic containers, and observed the situation for a second. The next second Varga, Jones and Bjarnarsson had achieved a lay-out, and led the delinquent to Major Murphy. Jones had stayed behind while Varga and Bjarnarsson left, carrying De Vries between them. ’’ang on a mo’! Glad we could ’elp yuh, Doc. That gobshite divvy of a Dutchman ’ad ed coming. ’e be’aved like a tosser ter Taylor a’ breakfast, and, truth be said, ’as be’aved like a whopper all week, waiting tuh be marmalised. ’e orta calm down, otherwise ’e will receive a good thrashing by the entire Company. Yuh may be a posh twat, Doc, even a little bit of a pooftah, but yer our pooftah, zapping us all with yer magic machine over there, so for me it is more important tha’ yuh are a good scientist, than wha’ever makes yuh ’orny. Yuh do yer part in the war against the space squid by turning me and me crew into fuckin’ unbelievable fighting machines, an’ tha’s great. Yuh duhn't deserve ter be treated the way tha’ Dutch feller treated yuh. Ah suppose ed is flattering in a sense, tha’ yuh consider me an’ others in d’crew tuh be real bruisers. Just try ter avoid staring tuh much on me, so am Ah boss with ed.’ ’I never intended to embarrass you or De Vries or anyone else. I am, rather, embarrassed myself.’, Smith answered. ’No worries, Doc. I consider yuh a mucker nuw. Cotton me right: Ah will not deny two perfectly straight lads ter ’ave fun with each uvver, after surviving an air attack. Such things ’appen. D’thing Ah not like is ponceyness. Anyhuw, if the divvy cause up any shute again, duhn’t hesitate to tell me.’ He patted Smith carefully on the shoulder, and went. The next day Corporal Janssens, one of the Belgians, and Corporal Radu, one of the Romanians, went through the Procedure, and reacted just as well as Jones and Bjarnarsson did. Gruber decided to take brainwave samples of all specimens who reacted well to the treatment, in the hope to soon awake Soares and Johansson from their comatose state. With six successful cases, the mood in the Mess Hall had definitely improved. ’You are welcome to sit at our table if you want, Viking Guy.’, Kowalski told me at the queue with a serious expression. When we sat, eating, he asked: ’Do you think you will be able to awake Corporal Soares soon? And Corporal Johansson, of course.’ While Zielinski and two of the Czech test subjects listened silently, I explained our hopes as comprehensible as possible. ’Oi! Doc! You can’t let Jones have this advantage on me. How soon will you put me in the magic box?’ ’By the look of it, Radu’s wife will be overwhelmed of joy when he comes home. Hey there, Boffin! Can you assure all of us the same marital happiness?’ Roars of laughter. Radu throwing a roll on the man who spoke. A proud Janssens shouted: ’Anyone who want to watch when Coach measure how much I lift by now?’ When I went to bed at Hall 3-6-3, it was with the feeling of relief and optimism. From now on, everything would probably go better, without any unscheduled hiccups or accidents. I didn’t know how wrong I was. *** I awoke by a sound. Subdued noises came from the neighbouring room and the passage. I was sleepy and confused. Barefoot and only wearing a pair of pyjamas, I peeked out in the passage. It was Gruber and Varga. ’You will end this stupid joke immediately’, Gruber said in a harsh voice. ’Negative.’, Varga answered: ’You are not a part of The Program.’ ’I demand that you obey orders, soldier!’, Gruber said heatedly. ’I am programmed to obey The Program, Doctor. You are not a part of The Program.’ ’I am scientifically responsible for this Programme, soldier. Now obey my orders!’, Gruber shouted. ’Negative. You are not a part of The Program. Stay back, civilian. You are not part of this Program.’ Varga carefully pushed Gruber aside, and, oblivious of the Professor’s rage, strode away, and found me there, listening. He observed me unimpassionately for a second, and then said: ’You are not a part of The Program. You have been found attuneable to The Program. You will be integrated into The Program.’ When we entered the main corridor, I found Jones waiting there with an almost naked László, who had been pinioned with skipping-ropes from the Gym, and silenced with a towel. Something was strange with Varga’s and Jones’ eyes, like they were drugged, hypnotised or not really there. They bound a towel over my mouth. Without any comment, they led me and László to the Lab, and without further ado, they started the equipment the way they had seen us do it a couple of times. László, who was only dressed in a pair of jockstrap pants, and looked like a drowsy but angry commercial for nutritional supplements, tugged in his ropes, and was red in his face by his attempts to release himself. He was unable to speak, but his gaze viewed Jones and Varga with defiance. ’You will be integrated into The Program, Doctor Skrefsrud.’ ’This is ridiculous. Is this a joke? I am not a soldier, but a scientist. Will you now please release me and Doctor László.’ ’Incorrect. You will be integrated into The Program.’ Somewhat of Jones own personality broke through: ’Honestly, Viking Guy. With tha’ starving greyhound build of yours, ed would be bright ter pack onna few pounds o’muscle.’ I was unable to stop Jones and Varga from carrying out their insane plan. Their large and strong hands undressed me and threw my pair of pyjamas on a bench. They swabbed my skin at the spot where my subcutaneous implant was, and administered the IV. Electrodes monitoring my heart were placed at the ordinary places, the neurohelmet over my head, and the breathing mask over my face. I felt the strong warm hands of Varga helping me into the sluice. The doors behind me shut and the doors to the chamber opened. The humming increased in volume. CHAMBER ONE IS [NOT OCCUPIED] AND [WARMING UP] [Preparing for] Specimen: Dr. Skrefsrud Weight: 68 kilogrammes Height: 179 centimetres Chest: 96 centimetres Waist: 71 centimetres Arm: 35 centimetres Thighs: 55 centimetres Theoretically, I knew what to expect, when the machine began to hum softly, but to be present inside the claustrophobic cylinder during the procedure was something entirely different, than to impartially observe and document the process. Weakly, I pounded in panic against the steel and glass walls of the cylinder. But the entrapment was neither the only reason, nor the foremost reason for my fear. I knew, that soon the machine would expose my mind and my body to a Program built for highly trained soldiers, and highly trained soldiers prophylactically prepared in days and weeks before, at that. God knows what would happen if an unprepared civilian underwent the treatment. I knew my duty in this war: To use my scientific knowledge in order to help The Boys achieve their highest standard of performance, but not become a useless civilian test subject. It went against all reason – tactically and otherwise. With a gurgling sound the liquid began to pour and stream into the chamber, but the sound quickly changed into a resounding noise reminiscent of a faucet filling a tub, or a small fall streaming into a brook. The level rose quickly. My useless attempts to break free from the cylinder were soon swallowed by the near-oblivious state caused by the analgesic and tranquillising components of the IV-formula devised by Gospodinov and Lamarck. I wasn't fully aware about it, but my body was infused with the genetic modifiers, the hormonal stimulants and the highly concentrated nutrients necessary. My body braced itself, and was primed for the upcoming transformation. When I regained consciousness, I was floating weightlessly in the comfortably warm liquid, and one second of panic over the risk of drowning was quickly driven away by the reassuring hissing from the comfortably tight-fitting breathing mask. Everything was shimmering in a beautiful blue colour, and the inside of the cylinder had become almost mirror-like, only vaguely hinting about the human shapes moving or standing outside. I had been worried before. Why had I been worried before? Everything was warm, pleasant and blue-shimmering now, and very still and calm. With a whirring sound the helmet’s eyeshield lowered itself before my eyes. A black display with brightly coloured text and graphics filled my range of vision, and shut the view of the Chamber out. I saw the digital graphic charts of my present physique and the settings of the Morphogenetic Fields. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [iNITIATING] [NEURO-PROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Suddenly, something began to hammer relentlessly against my mind. No! I don't want to... No! No! No, no, no, no, oh no, oh, oh. Oh, oh, oh, uh, uh, uh, uh, ungh, ungh, ngh, nng, nng, nng, mnng, mnng, mnng, mnng, uh: Sir! Yes, Sir! Yes! O, yes! 101 0000… … 101 0010 100 1111 100 1010 100 0101100 0011 101 0100 010 0000 100 0100 100 0101 100 0110 100 0101 100 1110 100 0100 100 0101 101 0010… I integrated into The Program, and merged perfectly into the Project, becoming one of the test subjects, and evolving into another specimen of the new breed of super soldiers. Correction: Becoming one of us, and evolving into a part of the unit. This individual unit will obey the direction to protect the military unit and all civilians. This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. No-one will be permitted to abolish or limit the aim of The Program. This individual unit is now attuning perfectly. This individual unit of The Program is now becoming enhanced. This individual unit is now becoming augmented according to plan. Words does not suffice to describe what happened in a matter of seconds: Instantaneously I became an expert on hundreds of weapon technologies, and my ability to make fast and correct tactical decisions in a situation was intensified in an incredible way. Close combat skills I never had were now deeply ingrained in my primal instincts, and I didn't feel fear: At least not the sort of fear which paralysed in a situation. I was still equipped with the ability to recognise and assess danger. The mental and emotional turmoil of the reprogramming was fading into focused serenity again. The liquid was warm against my skin, and my body felt warm and comfortable. I opened my eyes, and saw the display still folded down before them. The outline of my present physique stood out against the black background, sketched in blue lines, and the outline of the Morphogenetic Fields was drawn in green as usual. Suddenly, someone outside the cylinder was obviously editing the standard settings, in contradiction to the usual protocol. The cursor clicked on the traps, delts, pecs, lats and every other muscle of the anatomical drawing glowing in green, and made the skeleton taller and more broad shouldered. For a second, I reacted alarmed by the changes: Someone was compromising the safety of The Program, and the green anatomical drawing was now depicting a brutally built titanic individual. The next second I relaxed: This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program. Another change of settings almost escaped my attention, since the display now folded upwards: Hypertrophic radiation 300%. I could now see my blue-shimmering surroundings again. The next moment liquid blue was turned into flaming gold. I had always been absent minded. When sitting at a desk, my thoughts were always preoccupied by the studies and reports I read, not of my physical environment, my bodily posture, or my own breathing. When my legs walked through corridors at hospital or university, my thoughts and my self always wandered somewhere else. Actually, I had never been really and fully aware of my own bodily presence. It was different now. I felt my heartbeat resound in all my blood vessels, and my lungs greedily drank the oxygen-mixture hissing into my mouth from the breathing mask. And I felt how my personal awareness entirely filled up my body: my hardening torso, my broadening back, my now powerful thighs, my calves. And my arms! O, my arms! A hard, warm feeling filled my triceps’, bicep’s, the vein-covered fore-arms, and there was no part of my body, not fingers, nor toes, which was not entirely and perfectly a part of my intense, conscious, bodily presence. For the first time in my life I was aware. Present. Embodied. Physical. Me. That was just the beginning. Lightning struck. Power streamed into my being. Energy surged into my core. The flaming gold changed me, transformed my shape, enhanced my physique, transmuted the ore of my existing muscles into the steel-hard, pulsating cords and bulges of unyielding, raw, ultra-masculine brawn. I was oblivious of my surroundings now, ecstatically and deliriously consumed by The Program’s anabolic bliss. Then, this individual unit was optimised and maximised according to The Program. Strange stretch… But so pleasant. Pain. Excitement. O yeah! Height soaring. So tall, now. Lava heat in lats, broadening. Pump-like, entirely. Oh, oh, oh, uh! The feeling! Massive thighs, and fucking incredible calves. Cannonball glutes. Dense, hard, ripped, rocky, burning abs! So hard, mmmnnngh, so indestructible. Warm, heavy and insane arms. Unbreakable arms. Mountains! Pecs like armour! Titanic delts. Ridge of granite traps! Uh! Uh! This individual unit fluctuated between being entirely controlled by The Program and being aware of individuality. The desire to grow muscular may have existed in the deep recesses of the unit even before, or it may not, but anyway it now burned with this one focus: To optimise. To maximise. To be a useful instrument of this military unit. My one mission at the moment was, for my brothers’ sake, to increase my ability to run, haul, tug, lift, tear, throw, punch… The change! The powerblaze change! Growing. Hardening. Defining. Don’t stop it! Don’t end it! Raw power charging every atom! More! Unit want more! Optimise me! Maximise me! Increasing fire! Increasing power charge! Yeah! O yeah! Fucking yeah! So amazing! Pervading power… Yes! More! Unit will comply. Unit will protect. Unit powerful. Unit… mmmnnngh! Will use enhanced… Yes! Yes! … to defend… Yes! …mmmnnngh! I was losing control entirely, and wasn’t aware of which words or sounds I emitted. I dived, oblivious of the outer world, in a sea of radiant energy. I only knew that I craved to be even bigger. The separation between what was my bodily frame and the surrounding sea of energy began to blur. It felt like the entire ocean of power gushed into me. The power ocean filled me. I was the power ocean. O God! Uh, uh, grow, uh, uh, uh, unstoppable, uh, uh, uh, big, uh, uh, uh, hard, uh, uh, unh, unh, unh, power, unh, unh, charged, unh, crackling, unh, loaded, ungh, ungh, brimming, ungh, buzzing, ungh, umngh, umngh, umngh, mmmm, ah! Mmmm, ah! Mmmm, AH! MMMM AH! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! AH! AH! I AM INVINCIBLE! …! I had become a living weapon. When this individual unit regained consciousness, the liquid was fading, and the surface of the liquid was at my waist. The liquid no longer kept me floating in weightlessness, and I had to stand on my feet. My large feet felt vaguely unusual for me, but anyhow I knew that I was perfectly able to use them in close combat. The receding solution revealed to me the feeling of this heavyweight body and the faces of my team-members outside the hypertrophic chamber: Worried but awe-struck (László), embarrassed but excited (Smith) and triumphant (Jones and Varga). When only a negligible amount of remaining liquid was whirling at the bottom of the glass cylinder, it opened, and Smith relieved me from the breathing mask and the neuro-helmet. ’I don’t know what to say’, Smith murmured. I eyed one of the screens, which still reported my new statistic data in light blue letters: CHAMBER ONE IS [NOT OCCUPIED] AND [iN STANDBY MODE] Specimen [leaving chamber]: Dr. Skrefsrud Weight: 197 kilogrammes Height: 205 centimetres Chest: 203 centimetres Waist: 109 centimetres Arm: 79 centimetres Thighs: 101 centimetres ’The insurgence of the test subjects is unnerving, and their insane idea to meddle with the settings made me worry for your and Green’s lives, but it doesn’t seem to be that dangerous. Quite contrary, as it seems. Do you feel alright?’ ’Green?’, I asked. ’Yes. As soon as they had placed you in Chamber 1, they put Green in Chamber 2. Do you feel alright?’ Outside the cylinder I began to notice the full consequences of the process. I was looking down on Smith who eyed my abs before he reached up to remove the IV tube. My vivid memory of once being a hardgainer now seemed as a bad joke. My broad shoulders were melons of marble, and my chest consisted of well-defined steel-hard pecs, separated by a deep valley continuing downwards between the cobblestone abs. My upper body had achieved a perfect V-shape. I felt confident, energised and content. ’I haven’t felt better in my entire life. Trust me. This is incredible, truly incredible.’ Smith swallowed. ’You look indescribably well, Skrefsrud, although I feel a little bit intimidated by you. Will you please help me to release Green from Chamber 2, so we can discuss the problem of the test subjects.’ ’The problem?’, I asked. ’Which problem?’ ’O come on, Skrefsrud. I mean the insurgence. They can’t use the lab against our permission, and experiment on persons who are not even test-subjects. We have to awake Major Murphy or Captain Melnyk.’ ’I see no problem. You are attunable to The Program. This individual unit will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of himself and of The Program.’ ’O God! It can’t be true? You have become one of them!’ ’I am a part of The Program. You will become a part of The Program. Do not worry, citizen. You will become an enhanced and augmented unit. Jones enjoyed the procedure. Varga enjoyed the procedure. I enjoyed the procedure. You will enjoy the procedure.’ Jones and Varga observed with equal amounts of sense of duty, glee and compassion, when I began to undress Smith, who looked like a trapped animal. Intense fear shone from his eyes, when I put the neurohelmet on his head, and fastened the breathing mask over his nose and mouth. The experience of standing naked, surrounded by three insanely muscular men, of which one was stark naked and two were uniformed, seemed to involuntarily cause conflicting emotions in Smith. He sported an obvious hard-on. I pressed my powerful hand to his tiny shoulder, in order to steady him when I placed the IV tube in his subcutaneous membrane. He panicked, but his voice became inaudible when I closed the doors of the hypertrophic chamber. Next, we released Green from Chamber 2. He had reacted well to The Program, and followed it as dutifully as expected, but, by unknown reasons, he hadn’t grown entirely as much as myself. Jones, Varga, Green and myself were one in purpose when we turned around, and looked at László. During the struggle before my transformation, László had maintained a cocky and defiant attitude towards Jones and Varga, but now he sat bound to his chair with his shoulders sloped in a resigned expression. Jones let me free László from the ropes, and in silence László began unprompted to undress, and stepped into Chamber 2. His resigned expression was mixed with something else, and when I administered the IV-tube, he looked on me with an eager smile. Anticipation shone from his warm brown puppy eyes. ’I have worked out my entire life, Skrefsrud. If this is my destined way to achieve my dreams, so be it. I very much doubt, that I will resist the treatment the way you and Green tried. Bring it on, soldier! All you have, and then some. Fiddle with the settings if you believe it will benefit The Project. See you on the other side.’ Jones closed the doors, and Green activated Gospodunov’s anabolic formula. In order to alleviate Smith’s fear, the tranquillisers and analgesics were administered in a somewhat higher dose. We looked at the screen: CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] Specimen: Dr. Smith Weight: 85 kilo grammes Height: 170 centimetres Chest: 106 centimetres Waist: 96 centimetres Arm: 30 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres CHAMBER TWO IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PREPARATORY PROTOCOL] Specimen: Dr. László Weight: 92 kilo grammes Height: 176 centimetres Chest: 121 centimetres Waist: 81 centimetres Arm: 48 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres ’Which settings do we prefer?’, I asked Jones and Varga. They thought for a few seconds. ’Let’s experiment. You don’t know the outer limits of the procedure yet, do you?’ The four of us looked at the screen. After some thought, Green adjusted the balance of the nutrients slightly. Jones asked about the levels of hypertrophic radiation, and, after a discussion between myself and Green, we combined a 350% level with an increased saturation of nano-particles. We modified the morphogenetic field even further than during the processing of me and Green. Thirty minutes later, Lászlo roared in excitement. ’Make me into one of them! Make me… Yes! Make me into one of you! Yes! Yes! Make me into one of… Uh, uh, uh, into one of us! Yes, yes, YES! Sir, yes sir!’ His speech faded into guttural noise, when the proficiency and behavioural patterns were implanted into him. He hadn’t resisted The Program. We turned our attention to Smith’s Chamber. He was awakening for the reprogramming. ’Don’t meddle with the settings! Let me out! Are you still out there? The walls are like blue mirrors now. I can’t see you. Hello? Are you there? Don’t put the machine on. Ouch! I’m burning! Ah! Ah!’ We were able to see Smith from the outside of the Chamber. The translucent cylinder revealed his small, pale and portly body floating weightlessly in the blue solution like a dark-haired pallid pear. ’No! I will not! I will certainly not! Will… Mmmm. No. Not! Mmmm… No! I refuse! I… Mmmm… We will… I… Mmmm… Oh! The Program! Mmmm… We… Uh, uh, uh, ah, ah… Mmmm… SIR! YES, SIR!’ His body stiffened and arched a moment, but then relaxed. The reprogramming took over, and Smith’s pulse slowed down from the dangerous rate Green had monitored cautiously. After a while the usual humming sound began and increased in volume, until the golden lightning bombarded László’s and Smith’s defenceless bodies. Through the golden red flares the outlines of our new recruits were only dimly seen, but it was obvious that they grew in height and muscle mass. Body fat swiftly burned away from Smith under the pressure of the energy-consuming process, and hints of an emerging six pack could be faintly traced. The screen reported their changes better, than an observation of the actual chambers did, since the light from the bolts and surges was nearly blinding in the beginning of the process. The anatomic charts in blue lines were gradually moving closer to the surrounding charts in green lines. Inside the chambers László and Smith murmured, grunted and groaned without coherent sentences, lost in their intense experiences, in a manner not unknown for anyone who belonged to The Project himself. Smith’s voice had deepened into a pleasant bass. From the fragments of their moaning, it seemed like they were able to see their own reflections in the inside surface of the chambers. From the speakers connected to László’s mask we heard: ’Oh. Ah. Oh. Mmmm. Ah. Fucking pump! Nnnn. Uh. So awesome! Oh, yes. Oh, yes! Oh, my abs! Mmmm. Ah. Fucking Lesukov pecs! Coleman back! Love this feeling. Uh. Ah. Oh! Better than exp… Oh! Yes! More! Ripped! Mmmm, ah! Look at these! Mmmm. I’m so… oh! Uh. Yes! Brutal! Beyond! Nnnn! Nnng! Will defeat… Uhnnn!’ From Smith’s mask-mic we heard: ’Yes. Yes, yes. Attuned… Nnnn. Enhanced… Nnnn. Um. Augmented… Nnnm. Resist every… Nnnm. Mmmm. Immense! Mmmm. Herculean! Mmmm. Powerboast! Oh! Gigantic! Titanic! Oh! Oh! OH! This unit… mnnn… defend … Oh. Ah. Oh! So full, tight, hard, oh, uh, uh. Mmnngh, massive, mmnngh, brutal, fucking, oh, nnnh, ah. So… uhnn, uhnn.’ Through the raging glow of the hypertrophic radiation we saw László and Smith change. László had been in very good shape already, but even he was changing. He was taller now, and more broad shouldered than before. His shoulders were like volley balls, and were still growing. His twitching pecs were like basket balls pulsating of their own life. His abs were like tightening tennis balls cast of some strange uncrushable metal. In the case of Smith, the ongoing transformation was even more sensational. His once fragile and unhealthy appearance had lost all traces of bodyfat, and now loomed inside the Chamber, like some tall, overwhelming muscular living monument, purposely designed to instil wariness, respect and awe in the beholder. He was built by unbelievably powerful, still growing, muscles contracting and pulsating in the glow of the empowering emissions of buzzing hypertrophic bolts. His enormous bull-neck and insanely defined abs, obliques and serratus made it hard to believe it was the same man. His chin had grown larger and was now indented by a little dimple. He had been well-shaven at the moment he had been forced into the Chamber, but now his chin and cheeks were covered in short, dark stubble. The transformation process just went on and on, for a longer duration and with more extreme results, beyond what we had thought possible. Jones and Varga looked fixedly on the men in the chambers. The golden light from the rays illumined their facial expressions of obedience to The Program, pride over their new recruits, and awe before the intimidating and insanely bulging behemoths of bronzed steel inside the cylinders, radiating confidence, superiority, ultra-masculinity and strength. Green checked the screen. CHAMBER ONE IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Dr. Smith Weight: [213 kilo grammes] [AND INCREASING] Height: [209 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Chest: [210 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Waist: [118 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Arm: [82 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Thighs: [110 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] CHAMBER TWO IS [OCCUPIED] AND [RUNNING PHYSICAL REPROGRAMMING PROTOCOL] Dr. László Weight: [215 kilo grammes] [AND INCREASING] Height: [211 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Chest: [212 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Waist: [120 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Arm: [85 centimetres] [AND INCREASING] Thighs: [109 centimetres [AND INCREASING] The charts in blue lines almost conformed to the charts in green lines, and the difference between the charts diminished every second. The grunts and moans from the recruits changed into bellowing roars of excitement. ’Big! Big! Big, big, big, big, big, oh fucking ah!’ ’Process intense! Uh, uh, uhngh! Affirmative!’ ’These… Oh, yeah! And these… O my God!’ ’Oh, in-du-ration … of … mnnngh! Ah, oh, uh! Achieving!’ ’Uhnn, uhnn, uhnn, ah, oh, ah, ah. AH! AH! AH! Yes! Yes! YES! YE… AAH! AAAH!!! THE POWER! …!’ ’Optimising! MAXIMISING! Nnngh, mnnngh, AAH! AAAH NGH!!!’ The humming sound from the chambers subsided, the thunderstorm in gold abated, and the fluid flushed into the draining gutter. When the chambers had become free from the liquid, the test subjects stepped outside. *** For me and Green it was obvious that we now had enough useful data about a healthy way to execute the Procedure. ’Lieutenant Jones. The data needed for reawakening of Corporal Soares and Corporal Johansson are most probably gathered by now. The Program demand their integration and reinstallment.’ ’Yes, it does, Doctor Skrefsrud. This will be undertaken.’ While Jones and László went to Infirmary, the now uniformed Smith looked at his goggles on the desk: ’I have no use for these anymore. My sight is perfect after the morphogenetic treatment – a positive side-effect we hadn’t considered.’ He grabbed his spectacles with his huge hand, and crushed them into pieces, throwing the remains in the recycling boxes for glass and metal. A few minutes later, the thuggishly built Jones held Soares’ fragile and defenceless body in his powerful arms, with a concerned and protective expression. He cradled Soares’ unconscious body carefully, and gave me the impression of an alpha male wolf protecting a wounded cub. Similarly, but even taller, and with his brutal build, László loomed at the far end of the Lab with – the already slightly transformed – Johansson. Only a man built like László could have been able to carry Johansson on his own. The synthetic amniotic fluid in the chambers was replaced by a cleaning chemical and emptied. The machines were already warming up for another step for The Program and some of its recruits. Several hours remained of the most eventful night of the experiment. The story continues in https://muscle-growth.org/topic/7120-project-defender-chapter-three/
  5. The Testosterone Effect Part III: Intensity Blake reflected on the events of the past few days as he walked across campus to meet Sampson at the lab. First it was the huge display of manly masturbation he put on at the lab. He reflected on how he felt during that time... it was as if some force had come over him and taken over his mind, making him unable and unwilling to do anything other than furiously beat his dick off in a sexual frenzy. And it was the same way with Matt, too, except that something else had happened to make Matt full of lust and desire. It was like Matt saw him sitting there, naked and erect, and was so overcome with sexual desire that he couldn't resist Blake. But ordinarily, Blake thought he would have rejected Matt's advances - they were roommates, and friends, and didn't want things to be weird between the two of them. But when Matt came over to Blake, that force again took over. It was weird; Blake thought hyper-testosterone would make him aggressive and want to fuck Matt, not the other way around. But in a way, he DID feel hyper-aggressive; it was just that his aggression was turned towards being fucked. All of the thoughts made Blake's cock twitch and tighten during his walk to the lab, and he struggled to hide his boner as he made his way across the quad. "Yikes, this is so ridiculous and embarrassing," he thought, but was turned on at the same time by the prospect of doing more kinky sexual experiments with Sampson. He arrived at the lab and was directed to Sampson's office. Sampson further elaborated on his theory about Blake's condition: "You see... the average adult male's testicles produce testosterone at a base line level, all the time. During times of arousal and sex - or masturbation, they start producing more testosterone, to a level about 10x the base rate. However, during your test, we measured a base testosterone of 5x higher than that... if you've done the math, your base production is 50x that of the average man. We weren't able to measure production while you were masturbating, but..." his voice trailed off. "But it was probably insanely off the charts," Blake replied. "Yes. Your body is producing testosterone at a tremendous rate. And judging by your reply to my e-mail... it has an interesting effect on other men as well. We are extremely interested in studying this and I'm sure you are, too. If that's the case, we should set up a schedule for more experiments." Blake agreed. "This is all sorta overwhelming... but I have to admit, it's really hot, and I can't imagine the regret I'll feel later if I don't take this opportunity." The two men talked over a schedule and plan. "We'll be doing more tests to measure your testosterone output and how it affects your body," Sampson reasoned. "We can start today, with a test not unlike the first one we did. Only we'll be using more intense stimulation." Blake agreed and was eager to get started, so Sampson escorted him out of his office and downstairs to the examination room. "We've made some upgrades in anticipation of finding subjects of interest," Sampson told Blake. "This time, you won't need to wear any leads; we've got state of the art biosensors in the panels of the walls now, which should give us even more data and interfere a lot less." Blake entered the pure white room and sat on the hard plastic bench in the middle of it, as Sampson retreated upstairs to the control room. His voice filled the room via intercom. "Alright, Blake, we're ready to get started. Go ahead and disrobe, completely." Blake got naked, throwing his clothes into a corner of the room. Several thousand white lights twinkled on the walls around him: the biosensors flared to life. "Hold still," Sampson ordered, "we're doing some base calibrations with the sensors, now." The sensors blinked for a while, and about a minute later, faded from the wall. "Alright, we're ready to begin in earnest, now. A few things to note: for this test, we won't be able to give you privacy, I'm afraid. We'll be recording what goes on and saving it on a server in the lab, so we can review it. The server is internal and not connected to any external networks, so it'll be totally secure and private, only accessible by our research group. We'll also be showing you some porn on the screen as before... any preferences?" "Sure," Blake laughed. "How about some muscular jocks? I've got kind of a sports fetish lately..." "Coming up," Sampson said. Four videos flicked on to the wall, each covering up a quarter of its surface: first were two men sitting in jockstraps in a locker room, next came three guys playing football shirtless, third came two guys nearly naked in a weight room, and finally, a group of guys participating in a wrestling tournament. Blake recognized a few of the videos (he was a horny college kid and average porn watcher, after all), and became a little turned on already. "We've also got something to stimulate you a little more than just the videos..." Sampson said. A panel in the rear wall of the room opened up, and a machine moved out from the wall and towards the back of the bench. Attached to the machine was a large dildo mounted on a motorized rod. A bottle of lube sat next to the machine. "Is... is that ok?" Sampson asked. "Fuck yeah," Blake commented, staring down the sex toy with lust. The experiments really were kinky. He couldn't wait, so he grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto the toy, coating it in a thick layer, and fingered himself to prepare for the huge dong. He sat hands and knees on the bench, staring straight ahead at the front porn wall, and spread his ass cheeks apart as the dildo moved into position. The thick 7-incher pressed up against Blake's ass, slowly inching forward, uncaringly pushing into Blake's hole. "Fuck!" Blake screamed. The large dong moved further and further into Blake, causing him to wriggle and writhe in a mix of pleasure and pain. After it was fully inserted, the toy began to vibrate and pulse, and slowly fucked Blake. His cries devolved into grunts, his voice deepening as his body's extreme hormone production began to take over. He felt his muscles tighten and thicken slightly. Next, he felt his mind slip away as the primal feelings of sex took over. Blake began to sweat profusely, and although he couldn't notice it, the room was filled with a thick musky smell, intoxicating to anyone who encountered it, as glands in his pits and crotch worked overtime to pump out pheromones into the air. Blake noticed a few hairs begin to appear on his chest; the testosterone was tightening its control over his body. The images of muscular hunks on the screen in front of him were pleasing, but a huge wave of lust took over his emotions. The dildo in his ass, fucking him hard and fast, now, wasn't enough. Just a few minutes ago even the slow pace of the machine was nearly too much for Blake to take, but the hormones now controlling his body craved even more. His cock was fully erect, 6.5" inches of thick meat pulsing and trying to grow larger. From the control room, Sampson watched Blake's body stressfully trying to grow. It was apparent that Blake's body was pushing itself to the limit, trying to produce muscle and tissue to grow bigger as his balls churned and worked overtime to produce more and more testosterone, and cum. "He seems to want even more," an intern commented, looking up from a computer screen collecting and collating all of the biosensor data into a summarized chart in real-time. "We're already at the highest speed and intensity," Sampson commented. He turned toward the internet, a 5'7" guy with light brown hair. "We'll leave him at this setting for a while, and in the meantime, we'll need to figure out something else to stimulate him even more for the next experiment. Max, can you start making plans?" Max the intern nodded. He was a pretty athletic guy himself, although he paled in comparison to Blake even before sex with Matt grew his muscles. Max was curious about how much more stimulated Blake could be, and what the results would be. The stud downstairs was already a primal sex beast, craving more and more- wait. Max grinned and had an idea. "Sir, if we're leaving the subject on this stimulation level, can I step out for a moment? The computer will collect the data automatically." "Yes, go ahead." Max nodded and exited the control room, bringing his universal access key card with him. As he hurried downstairs and into the hallway, his heart rate soared and his cock twitched at the idea of what he was about to do. Max approached the door of exam room, which was sealed tightly and had a red "IN USE" light angrily forbidding access. Max gulped and inserted his key card into the door, then typed the four-digit override code. Blake's bestial screams were muffled by the door, but Max heard the grunting and howling and became very turned on. The door shutter quickly rose to admit him access, then slammed behind him loudly. Blake screamed, "FUCK YEAH, I NEED MORE!" at the top of his lungs, as he intently glared forward at the porn projected on the screen as the huge dildo was relentlessly pounding his ass. Max took a deep breath, and at the instant Blake turned over and saw him standing at the door, he inhaled a massive dose of pheromones. "Holy fuck," Max muttered, instantly intoxicated by the smell. It was like a drug... the feeling of it was so intense, he was overcome with a desire, not just to enjoy more of the smell, but to get to the source of it and completely immerse himself in the masculinity it represented. Max instantly ripped off his shirt and pants. His 5" cock was fully erect, pitching a tent in his tight briefs. Blake moaned and howled, crawling away from the dildo machine. He stood upright, his cock now swollen to 7.5" and muscles nearly double their size when the test began. Blake ran over to him, and the two began making out, their cocks pressed up against each other. From the control room, Sampson slammed on his desk in rage. "HOW DID HE GET IN THERE! I told you I wanted the door locked and un-overrideable!" "S-sir... it's a safety precaution. We can't fully shut ourselves out from the exam rooms," stammered another intern. "Fuck! We weren't ready for testing with another man yet!" Back in the exam room, Blake was now lying on the table, the dildo machine pushed away, its purpose fulfilled. Max was on his hands and knees above Blake, his muscles and cock thickening and growing slightly, now 5.5", dangling over Blake's face. His own face rested in Blake's crotch as he sniffed and inhaled straight from the source of Blake's musky scent. Max ran his tongue up and down Blake's huge shaft and across his balls, slurping up sweat and precum. After some teasing, he wrapped his head around the tip of Blake's cock, slowly sucking on the huge meat, unable to take even half of it into his throat without gagging. At the other end of the table, Blake was sucking Max's cock furiously, deepthroating its entire length, feeling it grow and lengthen in his mouth. The two men were obsessed with each other, unable to stop having sex even if their lives depended on it. After some time spent 69'ing, Max stood up and grabbed the bottle of lube, which had been knocked to the floor in the commotion. He furiously lubed up his ass and Blake's cock, then squatted down and pushed as much of it into his ass as he could. The men fucked for a while, Max impaling himself with Blake's massive member, riding the dick with abandon. All the while, their bodies were producing more and more testosterone, resulting in a huge increase in muscle size. Max, who looked pretty strong, but nothing too out of the ordinary, now looked like a huge stud, definitely the strongest guy at any average gym. And Blake, who previously was a huge guy, was now resembling more of a giant muscle god, 7' tall and over 275 lbs of pure muscle. Finally, Max and Blake couldn't take any more, their bodies begged for release. Before getting up off of Blake's cock, Max unleashed a massive load all over Blake's chest, squirt after squirt of hot seed coating Blake's pecs, abs, shoulders, and face with white cream. It pooled up in the crevices between Blake's muscles and looked incredible. Blake lifted Max up off his dick, commanding him to kneel on the floor. The smaller man complied, and Blake unleashed an even larger torrent of his jizz all over Max, the force of which was almost enough to send him recoiling. The cum hit him with the force of a super soaker, spraying everywhere and pooling up on the floor. Blake screamed and yelled as load after load came gushing from his massive cock. Max, who got a little taste of cum from one of the earlier blasts, was positioning himself to be hit and covered with the most cum possible, and after Blake's orgasm had subsided, he was greedily licking his body, the floor, and Blake himself for every last drop of cum. There was far too much for him to finish, so he resorted to lying down on the floor, covering himself in it. Blake laid there with him, embracing his partner and kissing him intensely. The two men's muscles slowly shrunk, but settled on a resting point still quite a bit larger than they had begun the day with. Blake's cock, before softening, was around 8" long, having begun the day at only 6.5". Sampson surveyed the room from the control area. "Jesus Christ," he commented. "This is much more intense than we could have imagined." He commanded the interns to cycle the room's air several times before entering, incase of any lingering hormones, then to collect the now unconscious men and separate them into two different recovery rooms. "We have a lot of work to do," he concluded. Author's note: Dang, this was a hot part to write. The next part of the story will turn its attention to Matt, who's been changed in more than a few ways since his experience with Blake. Continued here! https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6435-the-testosterone-effect-part-iv/
  6. Back to the first part of this chapter.... "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match Finally, another chapter.....a group of the boys are heading off for muscle worship in LA! Part 1. Sorry it has taken me so long to continue. ENJOY! Comments welcome... Updated 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 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 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 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match Casey and Abdul shook hands and almost immediately crashed into each other like sumo wrestlers. Moving with confident skill, Abdul wrapped his arms around Casey’s chest and slid them up underneath his armpits. He gained leverage, letting out a massive grunt as he heaved the big muscleboy up off his feet. Casey moaned as Abdul slammed him down to the mat. “Awesome,” breathed Lang. “That was fast,” said Waring. “He’s not done yet,” said Alvarez. The men leaned in to watch closer. The wrestlers’ gigantic muscles rippled with pumping, vascular power on the mat. Casey managed to break free for a second, but found himself in Abdul’s guard. Abdul was already going for a triangle choke. Casey was slippery enough to wiggle free for a moment, but Abdul climbed onto his back and sunk in a chokehold, rocking Casey backwards as he tried to shove his hands underneath his rippling forearm. It was no use. Superior experience took the moment from Casey. Abdul reached behind him and grabbed Casey’s asscheeks. “Let’s keep it clean, keep it clean,” said Moster, circling. “Think you’re tough, punk?” Abdul snarled into Casey’s ear. “I know I am,” said Casey. He struggled to wriggle himself free. Sweat began to pour down his body, further drenching the mat. Abdul stretched him out as the other guys watched. They slid in the growing pool of oil and sweat. As he dug his hands in, he caught Casey’s posers with his heel. Casey could feel them sliding down his quads the harder he squeezed. The elastic band stretched until is slipped under the pouch. For a flash, Casey felt humiliated and helpless, almost half naked and groaning as Abdul dominated him. Then he retaliated. Snapping one hand onto Abdul’s pecs, he managed to push him back and deliver a powerful backhand blow across Abdul’s face. Abdul’s face whipped to one side. “Fuck Turkish rules. Keep the posers on,” Casey snarled. Moster said nothing. Mouths dropped open. Abdul released the posers, smiled back, as Casey pulled them back into place. Casey looked back at him, and Abdul smiled - and returned a powerful backhand blow of his own across Casey’s face. Casey’s head whipped to the right. He looked back slowly and nodded. “We’re even.” Welts began to appear on the faces of both men. All of sudden, Abdul shot out, gutwrenching Casey’s face into his lap. “No. Now we’re even.” He tried to shoot a takedown, but Casey suddenly sprawled flat, flipped him, and got a tight front headlock on Abdul. He went down on one knee and flipped him over with a fireman’s carry. Before Abdul knew what hit him, he was on his back. Casey felt his arm between his legs as he attempted a cradle. He was close to scoring. Abdul, his face now puffing up, struggled in the sweaty pool of muscle. Casey locked up his hands and rocked him back. The tide of battle changed. Somehow Abdul got to his feet, grabbing hold of Casey’s hips and now shooting for a second takedown, bending over him now and reaching down his broad back. Casey, surprised, tried to sprawl but Abdul guided his hands up again toward the straps of his posers and made him almost sit on his hands. Casey tried to bridge, but Abdul clamped onto him. Saliva sprayed from his mouth and onto the back of Casey’s neck. Abdul flipped him, crashed onto him with his full body weight. It was no use. Casey gave up and collapsed. Sweat poured off Abdul’s face right into Casey’s eyes. Casey slapped the mat to make it stop and Abdul let him go. Body odor wafted from sweaty armpits as the men applauded Abdul’s round one victory over Casey. “Want to go again?” Abdul asked. He was breathing hard. In spite of his win, the kid had been a lot tougher than he anticipated. His eye was swelling shut and his mouth was bleeding a little. “I can take it,” said Casey. His thin skin was red with mat burns, head was throbbing. Was this really him? It was as if he couldn’t control the truth coming out of his mouth. It all felt right. He could take it. He loved the pain, in fact. Loved it. But didn't really want to think about it for the moment. Abdul nodded, stepped back, retired to the corner of the ring. Pedro was there, pouring more oil. “Don’t need that. Massage my shoulders.” Pedro looked at him a little helplessly, his light kitchen fingers not nearly meaty enough to knead the dense muscle mass that was Abdul’s traps, but he tried. After a few seconds, Abdul brushed him away, irritated. “Never mind,” he barked. Pedro’s eyes flashed hurt, and Abdul brought himself up to smile at him slightly. “You tried.” He patted the handsome boy’s face heavily with thick oily fingers, leaving a gleaming handprint on Pedro’s cheek. Pedro beamed ecstatically. He so hoped he could suck his god’s cock later, but didn’t dare to ask. Abdul turned back into the ring. He called to Schumacher. "Get your ass over here and massage my shoulders," Schumacher grunted and went to work on him, kneading the bunched masses with his thick, powerful fingers. Casey was still center, dancing from foot to foot, not caring that his massive tool was bobbing out of his posers. “Lookin’ good, Case,” yelled Obatu from the sidelines. He turned to Washington, sitting next to him. “Know him from Raw Weight.” “Yeah, Miles’ place. Gotta get there again soon.” “Good workouts.” He winked. “A little cash to be made, too.” “Yeah? Doin’ what?” “You know. Trainin’. Getting’ big. Growing. Flexing. Getting your dick sucked. You know.” “Oh, yeah.” Casey didn't know. But he forgot about it in a moment. The whistle blew. “Round two!” announced Moster. Casey and Abdul stepped towards each other, circled, each more wary. On the sidelines, Alvarez glanced over at Lang. Lang’s pants were open, his zipper down, his cock tumbling out of his khakis. He happily worked his long, extra-thick shaft. He glanced up at Alvarez and shrugged. “It’s hot,” he said. Alvarez had to acknowledge it was. “So why not?” Alvarez nodded agreement, opened his fly, with some difficulty pulled out his own already-stiff, mammoth member, and began to chug up and down the shaft with practiced, heavily calloused fingers. Lang looked down, grinned, licked his lips, winked at Alvarez. “Pose and approve later?” “We’ll see.” Lang knew there would be. This was too hot not to follow up with a long pose and approve session and some good butt fucking. But for now, both musclemen turned back to the match and standing side by side, together worked their cocks in silent unison. Their fists plunging up and down. A moment later, Waring, Duncan, and McIntyre had joined them. “Oh, yeah,” said McIntyre. squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish And a moment after that, Hension, Chad, Meyer and Gunst had pulled their heavy cocks from their khakis and were applying basic spank the monkey techniques. squish squish squish squish squish squish squish squish Moster heard the squishing sounds of numerous big cocks being worked by powerful, pumping fists, looked up, glancing askance at the group. “Begging your pardon sir!” yelled out Hension. “We’re masturbating, sir!” “And why not?” said Moster, but he kept his cock in his pants. Still, out it poled. “Bring it, bitch!” yelled Casey as the two faced off in the center of the mat. “C’mon dude, we wrestlin’ or dancin’? Take a shot!” Abdul taunted. Both men seemed either oblivious to or uninterested in the fact that all around them, every man on the muscle squad was now actively jerking off. Casey shot out a lightning fast single leg. Abdul hopped over it and tried to pivot as Casey dove in, wrapped meaty arms around Abdul’s waist, and brought him violently down to the mat. Somehow Abdul flipped to his belly and Casey applied a painful hammerlock with one hand as he grabbed the back of his head with the other and rubbed his face in the mat. “How’s that mat taste?” Casey asked as Abdul grunted, struggling to turn his head to the side. On the sidelines, Pedro was frantic, seeing his big man suddenly so disgraced, however momentarily. Abdul tried to get off his stomach, but Casey slid his bulging quads down inside Abdul’s and drove his arm underneath his chin. Casey rolled onto his side and poured on the pressure. “Arrgghhhh!” Abdul groaned as Casey stretched him out. Pedro looked on, helpless with worry. “Ya like that, tough guy? Want some more?” Casey murmured between clenched teeth said as he pulled up harder on his chin, Casey totally wrapped around him. Abdul was completely immobilized. He groaned. “C’mon Abdul, you can take this!” Schumacher yelled. He too was now playing with himself freely. Lang, firing away on his stiff-as-iron cock, was laughing. “Put him on his back, Case! Finish him off.” Casey’s posers crept deep into his ass crack as he locked his legs around Abdul’s left leg. His rock hard glutes squeezed together as he wore the huge Turk down. Abdul tried to get free of Casey’s chin lock, but it was no use. He panted and groaned as Casey pulled his head down. “Got some lube?” asked Chad from the second row. The source was surprising. “Here,” said Schumacher, passing around tubes of the prime VALHALLA LABS signature cock-pumping oil. “Gift from the house.” “When did we start making this stuff?” asked Hension, looking down at the tube as he squeezed the warm lubricant onto his thick cockshaft. “Shut the fuck up,” said Lefevre, but he grinned good-naturedly, clapping Hension lightly on the back of the head. On the mat, Abdul suddenly switched it all out. He pried Casey’s hands from the chin lock and sank his arm around Casey’s neck, pulling him down to the mat and now choking him out. His drove his ankles down deep into Casey’s quads and he began to constrict his hold around his neck. Sweat poured off both men. The strong smells of perspiration, olive oil and butt wafted up into the overhead lights. It was now Casey’s turn again to groan in pain. Abdul’s powerful forearm was wrapped around his thick neck. Moster jumped into the ring, sticking his head into his face and asked Casey if he was ready to give up. Casey was grunting and struggling to breathe. Casey was unable to say the words I give. “Too soon,” he breathed out from under Abdul’s body mass. “Loosen up, man,” Moster said to Abdul, who nodded. Abdul loosened the hold so Casey could breathe, but he wasn’t done. Casey tried to get up, but Abdul still was controlling him. Then Abdul reached down and once again slid his hand down into Casey’s now-ripped posers. Casey looked angered as Abdul grabbed onto his thick cock. He handed off the poser to his foot, and peeled Casey’s poser down revealing the muscleboy’s huge penis. “In Turkish oil wrestling rules, the match is now over,” muttered Gunst from the sidelines, watching the mass of slippery muscle tumble on the mats. He rubbed the bulge in his pants, and glanced down. Straight up and out, past the belt line, up into his t-shirt, poling up above his belly. He unzipped and released his mass. “We done?” breathed Abdul. “No!” yelled Casey, now naked. “Naw, it’s way better than Turkish wrestling,” whispered Blankenship, now fondling his own stiff penis, still sheathed in khaki. Gunst looked him quizzically. “I like how it feels in my pants.” “Oh. Oh, yeah. Me too. Sometimes.” Gunst began pumping. “But not now.” Around the ring, all cocks were pumped a little more fiercely as the match intensified. “Okay then. We go for a pin.” Abdul moved his hand up to Casey’s head, rubbing it in his hair to get some sweat for lubricant. Then he came back rubbing Casey’s cock until it was rock solid. Out it poled, 12 inches and more. “Whatcha gonna do about it this time?” he sneered. The 17 bodybuilders were now all leaning in and pumping hard cocks, watching the sweaty jumble of muscle on the mat. Even Schumacher was now pumping furiously. As was Tiffany. For once the self-possessed little muscleboy let his guard down. He worked his cock ferociously, watching the dark match. “They’re pretty even,” said Warning. “Yeah,” said Chad. Next to him on the left, Obatu and Washington looked as if they were about to get up. A light flickered in Lang’s eye. Hension looked wildly around him. He was going to cum soon. Moster directed them all warningly, knowing where they were likely to go next. “Stay where you are, gents. No cumming. Men can hold it.” General moans. The men did as they were told. The wrestling room was silent except for the grunts of Casey and Abdul, the near-silent whirring of Dr. Irving’s video cam, the blue-balled moans and groans of the fleet of masturbating muscle giants, with the squeaky wet regular tattoo of lubricated palms working big cocks. Squish squish squish GRUNT GROANNNN squish squish squish squish squish squish “I SAID, DO NOT CUM!” Moster shouted suddenly. All jumped in their seats. “A man can withstand it!” All sat. 17 monster muscle cocks with nowhere to go but into calloused palms. For now. Up and down. Up and down. “Hey, Chad!” whispered Bogarde loudly. “Squeeze my nips!” Chad reached over to his right with his free hand (the other feverishly pumping his cock) and began violently tweaking Bogarde’s huge, downward-pointing think nipples. “Yeah, make me hurt, man!” Bogarde pleaded, working his cock. “You got it, man.” Squish squish squish UGH GROANNNN UGH UGH GROAN…. squish squish squish squish squish squish UGH UGH UGH GROAN…. Suddenly Abdul flipped, keeping his hold on Casey, who squirmed below. Casey was on his back now with Abdul on top, now in the north-south position. All Casey could see was Abdul’s bulging balls and the red singlet outline of his rigid cockshaft. Abdul lowered his balls onto Casey’s face and caught his head in between his legs. But Casey somehow spread his legs and reclamped behind Abdul’s neck. The two muscle monsters squeezed each other tight, rubbing crotches in each other’s face. Casey’s enormous penis brushed Abdul’s scratchy beard. “Ouch!” Casey cried. Finally Abdul broke the hold and swung around to face Casey, getting him in one of his killer headlocks. Once again, Casey was in trouble. But he managed to dig an elbow into Abdul’s groin. Abdul shouted and Casey pried himself free, stood, and turned. He lunged full weight at Abdul. Abdul was ready for him, grabbing his shoulders and shoving Casey’s face right into his and applying a submission hold. For a moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. Then Abdul drove Casey’s shoulders into the mat. “Ughhhh,” Casey moaned. Abdul had mounted him and was driving his elbow into his head. It was momentary. Casey flopped in his own sweat a moment, and then, with surprising swiftness, changed course, wrapping his hands behind Abdul’s neck and pulling him in toward his chest. He wrapped his legs tight around Abdul’s body and grunted as he started to gain control. Abdul and Casey slid around the mat, slipping out of each other holds as they tried desperately to get a submission out of each other. Suddenly, Casey managed to climb on Abdul’s back and slip his arm under his chin. His stiff cock slapped against his abs. “Shit!” Abdul yelled as Casey secured the choke. Casey squeezed harder. Suddenly Abdul was struggling to breathe. His face was beet red. And suddenly, it was over. Abdul slapped the mat furiously and Casey released his grip. He let out a whoop. He grabbed Abdul by the hair and lifted his head up, using his other arm to flex his biceps. Fast as a flash, Abdul grabbed his hand and twisted his wrist, ensuring Casey’s victory was a brief one – but it was too late. The image had been captured in the men’s brains. “Aweesummmm,” breathed Hension, once again, and to no one in particular. “Wait till I call it!” yelled Moster. “Fuck you,” said Abdul. He hunched back on his knees and locked Casey up in a kneeling position, pressing his slippery forehead into his and looking into his eyes. They panted for breath. Once again, as if alerted by a bugle charge, both suddenly sprang once again into action. Abdul managed to get a headlock on Casey and threw him to the mat. His cock slapped against his leg as Casey tried to turn to avoid getting pinned. Both were so sweaty and slick with the now hot oil that neither could get a good hold. The mat was an ocean of steaming sweat and oil, both men sliding in the mass of liquid. In the circle of chairs around the wrestling ring, the bodybuilders pumped their blood-engorged cocks feverishly. On the mat, Casey freed a hand and ripped Abdul’s singlet wide open. The Turk was enraged. His cock spilled onto the mat. Pedro leaned forward now openly licking his lips. “Please let us cum, sir!” pleaded Hension. “Okay…..guess I’ll play, too,” said Moster, studiedly lazily. He advanced into the center of the ring where the two muscle monsters lay, locked in sinew, sweat, and bronzed oil, their huge cocks flailing openly. “Men, why don’t you join me?” Moster smiled. He only had to ask once. In a heartbeat the 17 bodybuilders bolted from the chairs, clambering over one another and the rings to get to the center of the ring. Still, they waited breathlessly, cocks in hand, no one daring to make a further move. Abdul shot a look of helpless rage up to Moster, but Casey was holding him firm. Neither man could budge. squish squish squish squish GOOSH squish squish UGH UGH UGH GROAN…. And Moster unzipped. The largest black cock in the world poured out of his pants, flopping down to his knees. FLOPppp… In a second it was poled high, reaching nipple level. Moster grabbed it with his fist and slid his hands down it just three times. squish squish squish squish GOOSH squish squish UGH UGH UGH GROAN…. “I’m ready,” he said quietly. The bodybuilders circled the wrestlers, side by side. Casey stared at the huge, pendulous looming cocks above him, heavy dew drops of precum beginning to drip, oozing into the mass of mat liquid in which the two musclemen lolled in their struggles. It was as if it was the first time he had even noticed what the men were up to. “What are they doing??” he cried out to Moster. “What’s it look like, punk?” growled Abdul in his ear. Moster ignored him. “Pedro,” Moster invited graciously, “why don’t you get over here and join us?” Pedro didn’t have to be asked twice. He scampered gleefully into the circle, a little beautiful brown spot of handsome teenhood amidst a turbulent ocean of masturbating musclemen. He pulled out his own pretty little cock and began to pump fiercely, gleefully, staring hungrily at the huge muscle and looming penises all around him. After only a moment, he couldn’t stand being surrounded by the sea of cock without getting to his knees and starting to suck his way around the circle, feverishly. He started with Gunst, his pretty little mouth enveloping the massive organ. From the sidelines Dr. Irving began to walk rapidly behind the circle of men, panning his cam across the landscape of their solid glutes, huge, hard and round, squeezing and relaxing in tense, pumping cannonballs of butt muscle as they pumped their cocks feverishly. Backs of heads. Batwing lat spreads of knitted boulders of muscle. Delts touching. Hamstrings pounding with thick rivers of veins. Butts pumping. Irving got it all on cam. Someday he knew this video would be worth thousands….hundreds of thousands. He captured it all. From the mat below, Casey gazed up, exhausted and confused, bewildered and amazed at a sea of musclecock held high above him. Abdul merely growled. In a few seconds the waterfalls of cum would begin. He couldn’t admit to himself that he had wanted something like this to happen. “What’re they gonna do?” asked Casey, fearfully, muffled. Hmmmm, thought Moster as he pumped his organ. The white cap is wearing off. Probably from the match. If it was still in him, he’d have no problem. Still, it didn’t stop anything. The bodybuilders were groaning loudly now, pumping and flexing, rocking ball-toe-heel, their magnificently bodies undulating rhythmically. “Let ‘er rip!” Moster, now pumping furiously, looked to Dr. Irving, who had never stopped the video, nor moved. “You getting it all?” “Of course,” said Irving, irritated, shocked, perplexed and baffled as always - but never daring to shut down the cam. He could never understand what all this had to do with science, but never mind. He was well paid. “Muthafucker!” Hension screamed. “You boys about ready to shoot?” Moster asked. “Hang on. They ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Abdul. He squeezed Casey’s head as hard as he could. It wasn’t too long before Casey wriggled out of it and was on his hands and knees facing him. He came in at Abdul and tried to push him over onto his back, but the muscle Turk reached behind him and sunk his fingers right into Casey’s exposed anus. “WHAT THE FUCK!” Casey cried as Abdul used his rectum as a handle to flip him over. He slammed on his back on the mat. An ocean spray of sweat and oil sloshed into the air. And around them the squishing sounds of muscle jerking grew more frantic. “Oh, maaaaa—aaaan,” said Hension. “Hold off, men!” shouted Moster. "Santa mierda de Dios,” breathed Pedro, now frantically licking Obatu’s cock up and down its 12-inch length. Obatu’s pumping fist was punching him repeatedly in the nose. He didn’t care. He held the cock between his lips and sucked hard. Precum began to spurt down his throat. Squish squish squish UGH GROANNNN UGH UGH GROAN…. GOOOsh squish squish GOOOsh groannnn Ugh unnnghh squish squish squish squish squish squish UGH UGH UGH GROAN…. Casey and Abdul were in a mad final scramble now. Both knew the match was coming to an end. Abdul was enraged he somehow didn’t have the conditioning to go a full hour with Casey; it had only been 12 to 15 minutes in the ring, and no more – and he was wiped out. For his part, Casey was panting deeply and hot as a furnace, pushed to the max. And yet. And yet. Abdul knew Casey could outlast him. Casey, however much he might be forever on the bottom tonight, yet had a couple of hours of strength to go. It was only that he lacked the fighting technique Abdul had hard earned over the years. And this enraged the Turk. Abdul got behind Casey and sunk his arms between his legs, locking onto his other arm and driving his biceps into Casey’s balls. Abdul’s forearm pressed painfully against his thick penis. Casey couldn’t take it. He had to move, giving him enough space to maneuver. Dirty Turkish wrestling. Casey managed to get a “Fuck you”, but he was outclassed, totally helpless and defeated. “I gotta suck cock!” Lang shouted, and dove down in front of Alvarez. In a flash Alvarez’s meat was in his mouth, sluicing juicily down his throat. “Me too,” muttered Hension, who dropped down in front of Gunst. He bobbed and weaved with the mighty strokes Gunst was applying to his huge cock, ducking his head, trying to get his mouth around it. “Shit,” said Gunst. With his right hand he backhandedly smacked Hension’s face hard, grabbed the back of his head, clenched a handful of hair; with his left hand he clutched his cock and rammed it down Hension’s throat. Hension began to violently suck muscle giant’s firehouse cock while working his own and never taking his eyes off the grappling musclemen on the mat. Abdul had Casey’s legs now, lifting him up so Casey was upside down, sliding down Abdul’s back till his head hit the mat and he was facing his ass. His nose went right into Abdul’s exposed ass crack for a minute while the Turk kept tilting his head back to put pressure on Casey’s balls. But Casey rallied. Groaning, straining, working hard, he trapped Abdul’s head in a figure 4, squeezing his face right into his balls as he pinned him. “Yer so eager to see my cock, so get an eyeful of it now,” he hissed. Abdul tried to snarl back, but he could only groan. He was getting tired. And the muscleboy had hours of energy ahead of him. He could feel it. Moster had a hard time seeing if the Turk was pinned or not, the men were so wrapped up in an oily mass of muscled quads, rippling traps, batwing lats, boulder biceps, brick-like abs, pounding glutes, pounding feet, pounding fists, and bulging balls. But it wasn’t looking so good for the Turk. UGH UGH UGH GROAN…. The squad, now in deep sex frenzy, was by now beyond observing the details of combat. Blankenship and Waring had each dropped to their knees, sucking the heavy, veiny cocks of Chad and Washington. Schumacher grabbed Meyer, flipped him around, pulled down his khakis, and plunged his cock mercilessly into his welcoming butthole as the handsome deaf mute played gleefully with his engorged manhood. He began to fuck him with deep and powerful strokes. Meyer smiling ecstatically and waved his mighty butt under the cock blows. He reached back and pried his buttcheeks wide. His asshole was as open as he could get it. He spread his legs. Schumacher’s thick cock was in action, driving, pounding, fucking. Squish squish squish fuckfuckfuck UGH GROANNNN UGH UGH GROAN…. Moster could see where it was headed on the mat. Abdul had taken the first two pins. But Casey was just getting started. He was mad now. The effect of the white caps was weaving in and out, true, and Casey was responding as if he was on mushrooms. But his huge muscles were gleaming with power. Every vein was bursting. Sweat was pouring off both men. And Abdul was breathing hard. But he still had the upper hand. Still, Moster pumped harder. He had to admit: this was pretty hot. Pedro looked at him adoringly, moved to take Moster’s cock in his mouth. Moster pushed him back roughly. “Get away, son,” he barked. Pedro looked frightened and abashed. Moster smiled slightly, an eyebrow arched. “You being a bad boy? Might have to tan your hide later,” he murmured. Pedro looked hopeful but the fear still glistened slightly. He glanced down at Moster’s powerful fist, now stroking his massive meat up and down, up and down. “Your hand could kill my butt!” he squeaked. “Not your butt, little boy. Not yours. Now get out of my way. Go suck Private Duncan’s cock.” Moster tossed a glance at Duncan, who was busily working his dick. Pedro scampered away, ran to Duncan, and knelt before him. “The C.O. says I have to suck your cock,” he cried out, and gathered the mighty pole into his mouth. Duncan was startled. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t mind.” Pedro knelt and went right to work on Duncan’s massive tool. He was particularly excited by the latticework of heavy veins surrounding the muscleman’s member. He began to trace his finger along the thick rivers of vascularity as he sucked. Duncan spread his legs wide. He grabbed Pedro’s black hair in his fist and began to steadily pump his hips into the boy’s face. On the mat, more spent than he wanted to admit, Casey stared up at the circle of musclemen above and around him. Four of the musclemen were sucking musclecock now. The little Mexican teenager was scampering about sucking musclecocks as they were freed up. Schumacher was fucking the cute little muscleguy’s awesome glutes. The other 7 musclemen were straddling the mat edges now, massive quads akimbo, pumping serious cock. And the CO Sergeant Moster had his cock out, too. It was the biggest penis Casey had ever seen in his life. Even bigger than his own. Which was huge. As he stared, he lost focus. And in a flash, Abdul had flipped him again and was straddling his pecs with his own huge body and pressing for an advantage. Casey couldn’t move. The sounds of musclesex filled the wrestling room. On the sidelines, Dr. Irving was capturing it all on video. GOOOsh squish slurp suck suck slurp squish GOOOsh groannnn SUCKSUCK LICK SLURP fuckkkk Casey grunted. A surge of energy hit him. He tried a duck under, but Abdul kept the upper hand. As he went down to his knees on the mat, Casey kept his left arm welded to the Turk’s shoulder, pulling out to his side and anchoring his right hand deep in his anus. “Turkish rules, right?” Casey snarled into Abdul’s ear, beginning to chew on the lobe. He was back in control again. The Turk let out a short gasp as he felt Casey’s index finger work up into his asshole, a big grin on his face. Abdul wanted to smash those perfect teeth in, but he was too busy trying to pry the muscle giant kid’s finger out of his butthole. With a sudden rush of White Cap adrenaline, Casey moved his right arm around Abdul’s waist, mounted him and broke him down so his belly was flat on the mat. He managed a gut wrench and turned him over once, but he was too tough and was able to counter Casey’s leverage with his strength. Moster knew he had to step in. He couldn’t afford to have Abdul so badly defeated. Not yet. Not at the outset of Casey’s career. Sure, Casey Rockland was a muscle outlier. There may never have been a muscleman like him before, and there may not be another again. But it was too soon for the legend to emerge. For the good of the program, Casey had to lose tonight. And it didn’t look as if he was going to. So Moster did the one thing he could do, to save Abdul’s neck. Moster blew the whistle and reached in. He grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks and powerfully brought them up to their knees. Casey was stunned, dizzy, swirling with confusion and excitement and pain and frenzy all at once. Abdul’s rage was huge but not huge enough to allow his own massive tool to go limp. Both muscle monsters were sporting huge erections. And the men around them were pumping and sucking and fucking furiously. Ugh unnnghh groan moan slurp suck squish squish squish slurp suck suck squish squish squish AH AHH AHHHHHH yeah yeah yeah UNNNGHHHH AAAAHHHHHH!!!! Moster stepped forward, grabbed his mighty cock, knelt down next to the knotted figures of muscle, and began to shoot cum in the Turk’s face. SPURT! BLAST!! AAAHHH YEAH!!! Gallons of gobs of white creamy cum shot maniacally from his deeply creased piss slit. And the biggest cock in the world, on the biggest bodybuilder in the world, began to throb and spurt hot liquid rivers of jism onto the Turk’s face. “FUCKING HELL!” roared Abdul. ‘GODDAMN YOU MOSTER!!!” And the cum spilled, coating his roaring face, filling his mouth and nostrils, dripping down his chin. Moster was aiming it, like a firehose. “On the Turk, men!” he shouted. And with that…all hell let loose.
  7. Hello, all...here is the long-awaited Wrestling Chapter......to catch up where you were before, I highly recommend you look at the other chapters first..... 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 / A Brief History of Casey Rockland / Miles Donovan's Gym "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 6 - Casey is Discovered at Miles Donovan's Gym "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Pt. 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale, Continued / The Men Hit the Showers "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11 - Casey Meets the Muscle Squad 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 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. 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. Chapter 12: Part 1 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match Five minutes later, Karim Abdul was striding down the corridor, pecs bouncing, headed for the wrestling room. Still carrying his clothes from Casey’s presentation, he was now dressed only in his red Lycra wrestling singlet. His step was deliberate, his gait powerful. As he walked he grumbled to himself, ignoring the low clamor of the rest of muscle squad, who followed eagerly behind. His cock, loose in the singlet, swayed heavily from side to side as he walked, his balls pushed forward. “Asswipe kid.” The rest of his thoughts were a little too vague for words. Thoughtlessly he grabbed his cock and got it momentarily out of the way of his quads, pumping as he walked. Most of the squad was keeping a good 20 yards of distance between themselves and Karim Abdul. No one wanted to be on the receiving end of a wild Abdul punch at this moment. Even Schumacher, McIntyre, and Duncan, men who could well defend themselves and were used to Abdul’s occasional wild swings, were keeping themselves at a cautious distance. Karim knew he had to mark his territory. Now, tonight, and fast. No questions asked. Leaving nothing to second-guessing. After all, even he had to admit it - this kid was fucking unbelievable. He was huge, he was cut, he was raw, he was handsome, he was young, he was unbelievably hung. And at only 18 years of age, he was still growing. Karim wouldn’t rest until he’d smashed the kid’s handsome face into the mat. And maybe pissed in his mouth, too. Something. Something like that. Yeah. Show him who was in charge. But - it was all – well, a little unformed. Even to him. He passed the door leading to the back of the kitchen. He bashed the door open with his fist, smashing the frame and cracking the thick glass. Inside, Pedro, Abdul’s handsome little kitchen cocksucking buttboy, was sweeping up. “Your ass in the wrestling room. Bring that 10-pound canister of olive oil. MOVE!!! NOW!” commanded Abdul. Pedro jumped a mile. Then Abdul was gone, continuing on down the corridor. Pedro immediately put the broom away, washed his hands - his musclegod demanded clean fingernails - climbed up a little ladder to one of the shelf larders, and grabbed a 10 gallon jug of olive oil. Carrying it with some difficulty, he nevertheless darted out the door and ran excitedly after Abdul. "Wait for me!" the eager boy squeaked. He was about to get an awesome muscle show. Maybe suck some massive cock. Wow! Further ahead, Abdul was a man on a mission. And coming up behind him and running by was Private Tiffany. Abdul didn’t like that asswipe, either. Great glutes, though. Perfect glutes. Big, hard, striated boulders. Yeah. Fuckable. Most inviting. He’d fuck the little asswipe’s butt one day and then push his face in the toilet. Yeah. He continued on, paying little notice, though he did allow himself a quick, cool glance at the muscleboy’s rolling, muscular boybutt as he scampered by. From the corridor somewhere behind Abdul, Schumacher was shouting to Tiffany. “Where you going?” he demanded to know. “Getting Dr. Irving!” “Who?” Tiffany turned back, running backwards, explaining patiently as if to a child. “The dude with the camera. Ever notice him? Probably not…” He waved Schumacher off with easy, grinning contempt, turned back and scooted happily up the corridor towards Dr. Irving’s office. Schumacher swore to himself. He had to acknowledge he had no idea who Tiffany was talking about. He rarely noticed the lab workers or other doctors, barely paying attention to even Dr. Zaftig himself. He returned his gaze to Karim, striding purposefully up the hall ahead of him. Karim Abdul’s rocky man glutes rumbled darkly as he walked, and Schumacher gazed into the impenetrable deep butt crack outlined in the red Lycra. Excepting only the cloaked, anonymous butt fucking nights, no one other than powerfucker Schumacher had yet penetrated Karim’s magnificent asshole. Ever. “At least I have that much,” Schumacher muttered. By now he was passing the open office door. Tiffany, his back to the corridor, was hurriedly explaining to some geeky lab coat doctor who Schumacher had never noticed before, saying something about Get the camera out, asshole, and Come with me now…. Schumacher paused for a moment in the office doorway to admire Tiffany’s butt sweep in his tight regulation khakis. His full, hard, rounded glutes were a most enticing display in his slacks, the rear pockets rounded with the curvature of pure muscle, promising the pleasures that lay beneath. Joe Tiffany Now there was a butt to fuck. He grunted and continued down the corridor, following Karim. In truth he didn’t know why he was heading off with the others to the wrestling ring, and especially at this hour. He should be headed off to bed, a quick JO instant replay of the group shower suck / group butt lick he’d enjoyed just 40 minutes earlier, and then plenty of shuteye for another brutal workout tomorrow. That was the life. And another day to plan on getting into Tiffany’s butt. Another day to strategize some deep cock / muscleboybutt frottage sessions. Another day to – “Hey, Schumacher.” It was McIntyre. “Where you going? This way.” He’d walked right past the wrestling room door. “Oh.” He retraced his steps. As he came back, a little sheepishly, Alvarez and Lang were in the doorway. Lang’s tongue was practically lolling out of his head in anticipation, and even cool customer Alvarez had an excited gleam in his eye. “What do you assholes think is gonna happen?” snarled Schumacher as he strode by, pushing past them into the wrestling room. Alvarez put his hands up in mock defensiveness. “Oh, nothing, nothing. We just thought we might want to watch.” “Yeah, we wanna watch nothing happen,” smirked Lang. Both men mockingly bowed as Schumacher went by, Alvarez of course taking the lead, with puppydog Lang following suit. Schumacher glanced down at their packed flies bulging out of their khakis as he strode by. “You both sure got big enough hard-ons, just to watch nothing happen.” Lang looked defensive. Alvarez just laughed, and gently patted Lang’s growing bulge. “Yeah, guess we do.” He nodded and winked, and went inside the wrestling room. Lang followed, and even had the temerity to wink at Schumacher as he went by. Alvarez threw his arm around Lang and playfully squeezed his ass. Faggots, thought Schumacher. His own cock roared to life in his pants and was soon poling straight out and upward. He glanced back down the corridor. Moster and Casey were rounding the corner. Moster had changed out of his sweats, and was now in the regulation Valhalla Labs green t-shirt and tight khakis. Casey still had only his micro posing trunks on. Behind them scurried Dr. Irving, carrying Casey’s sweats and his video equipment. He was babbling on his cellphone. Probably talking to the insane dude who ran the place. Zaftig. Moster noted the ruined kitchen door and sighed. “Another door,” he grumbled. These dudes, when they got pissed off. It’s not like Valhalla Labs was a bottomless money source. Close, but not bottomless. He nodded at Schumacher and gestured briefly for him to go into the wrestling room ahead of them. Schumacher scowled, but did as he was directed. “Dr. Irving?” “Yes, Sergeant Moster?” Irving scurried to catch up to them. “Do you have a white cap on you?” “Why…yes….” Moster knew he would. The little doctor had long since learned that anything could happen when the men gathered, and he made it a point to carry extra medication with him at all times. And there was no sense in irritating Moster with a “Why, no.” He wouldn’t put it past the giant black muscle monster to deck him with one mighty punch in the nose if displeased, which would no doubt kill him. He scrambled and produced a small medication bottle. Moster turned to Casey, struggling a little to keep up, halfway between a walk and a run, his black shiny micro poser barely covering his steadily bobbing cock as he ran. “Here,” said Moster. “Take this.” “Hunh?” Casey stopped full. “Take it. Don’t ask questions.” “What—what is it?” “Extra confidence.” “Drugs?” Casey was momentarily stumped. He remembered that the boys in the Home were always experimenting. It made them silly and weak. He wanted no part of it. “I don’t do drugs.” Moster motioned to Irving. “Go on and set up, we’ll meet you there.” He turned to Casey. “It’s not a drug. Not like you think.” “I don’t do no steroids, neither.” “Not a ‘roid. There is no man in this facility on the juice. We have to do something about your grammar, by the way.” “Then how –“ “Shut up and take it. I will explain later. You will be fine.” Casey gulped, put his faith in Moster, and did as he was told. He popped the pill in his mouth, and smiled with weak subservience at Moster. “Okay, sir.” “What was that?” “I..I mean, Yes, Sir!” “That’s better.” Moster turned and continued down the corridor, Casey scampering after him. Good thing the men still do what I tell them to do, thought Moster. And how long is that gonna last with this boy? Once he finds his power? Moster tucked that thought away. “Let’s go watch you wrestle. You do wrestle, you said?” “Yeah, but I’m scared…” “No need to be.” “…no..…scared I’ll hurt him. I always do….” Except, of course, Ramon Ramon, the much smaller wrestler at Raw Weight Gym who never failed to thoroughly pin the muscleboy. But of course, that was a long time ago. Inside the wrestling room Karim had already snapped on the overhead lights and was doing deep knee bends in the middle of the 20 sq foot wrestling ring, which dominated the center of the room. The thick blue mat of the ring gleamed in the overhead lights, with the VALHALLA LABS logo in the center. Around the ring on two raised platforms were about 40 folding chairs, all affording perfect, elevated views of any wrestling action. Pedro stood eagerly on the side, now holding towels and a water bottle. “Getting limbered up to better meet the kid?” called out Blankenship. He had already grabbed his ringside seat, he too adjusting his crotch as he sat. “Shut the fuck up,” said Karim, squatting. To Pedro he shot out, “Where the fuck is the oil? Get the oil.” Pedro shot off into a storage room and returned with a 5-gallon jug of olive oil. “Goin’ for Turkish wrestling, hunh, Karim?” Chad was grabbing a seat ringside. He nudged Waring. “This is gonna be good.” No answer from Karim. “The kid’s got an iron grip, I’m told,” called out Waring, nudging Eli Meyer’s ribs as he took a seat next to him. Meyer’s mouth hung open in a perennial smile. He pointed to his mouth so Meyer could read his lips. “I said, Casey Rockland’s got an iron grip.” “I heard you.” Obatu was next, leaning against the ropes. “And those quads be killers. He gets you in a lock hold, you gonna be dead in the water. What’re ya gonna do about that, Mr. Abdul, sir?” Karim didn’t answer, regarding them all stonily. Obatu lazily returned his gaze, smiling, unintimidated. Blankenship had started this. But Blankenship had easily dodged the intended receiving end of a few near-miss wild roundhouse punches in the past. He was too fast and too alert to be caught unawares, and Karim Abdul had learned not to waste his energy on him. So Karim suffered the men’s ready comments stoically. “This kid got veins like this?” he asked, flexing his 25-inch biceps, showing off half-inch thick rivers of veins, pulsing with power. “Yeah, I think, actually, he does,” said Blankenship with a smile. “Here he is now. Let’s see. Kid, you got veins like his?” Moster and Casey had appeared at the opposite door, the darkened end of the wrestling room. Both giants approached, in black silhouette against the framed light from the corridor, getting larger as they quietly walked toward the ring. Casey looked up quizzically at the question. “Flex your biceps,” whispered Moster. “Hunh?” “Flex, man. Don’t ask stupid questions. Flex it up. Now.” “ ’kay.” Casey stopped and hammered out a front double bi. 25 inches of his own, in response to Abdul. As always, he felt compelled to go on, adding side chest, front lats, quads, and sent a hand probingly down rippled, hardrock abs. “That good?” “Good, good,” muttered Moster. “You catch on fast. You ever compete, kid?” “Uh…..no……should I? Other guys are so much bigger than me….” Moster smiled. They all think that, at the beginning. “Get over here, plebe,” Abdul called out from the center of the ring. Pedro was standing on a stool, pouring the olive oil over his massive physique, worshipfully slathering him up. Casey in Silhouette Casey stared. “What’s all that….?” he stammered. Moster noted that the white cap hadn’t taken effect yet, but then it had only been a few minutes. “Now, Karim,” said Moster patiently, coming into the light as they approached the ring. “You know Casey is not a plebe.” Abdul started to speak. “Nor is he a cadet. He is now one of you. He makes us The Twenty. You need to accept this,” he continued, walking and speaking easily now as he pulled up the ropes and stepped into the wrestling ring. He approached the angry giant muscle Arab. “And he isn’t threatening you. Casey isn’t going to pull your power away from you.” “That’s not what this is about.” “Bullshit,” one of the men yelled. The others laughed. Abdul glared at them and went on. “Whatever you say, Sergeant Moster, sir,” said Abdul. “I just want to make sure he’s going to be worth my time to train with.” He smiled easily. “That’s all.” The oil was dripping off him onto the mat. Moster said nothing. Casey was now visibly nervous. Still outside the ropes, he leaned in to Moster. “They gonna reject me?” he whispered loudly. “I mean, now?” “No one’s rejecting you,” said Moster loudly. He then turned to the waiting group of musclemen. “Are you, boys?” Something about that ‘boys’ rankled Abdul even further, though Alvarez and Gunst just smiled. The others looked perplexed. “Since when are we boys?” squealed Hension. “Shut up, Hension,” said Chad. “You ever wrestle, boy?” Abdul called out. “His name is Casey. Or Private Rockland.” “I asked you a question, boy. Ever wrestled? Get your butt into the ring.” “You really want all this oil?” sighed Moster. “We’re gonna wrestle Turkish style.” “It’s messy.” “I’ll clean it up, sir!” squeaked Pedro. “Bet your ass you will.” “Yeah, you don’t want a spanking, now, do you?” yelled Lang. He adjusted in his chair, his glutes still smarting from the paddling he’d received earlier that evening. Moster’s cock twitched a little at the suggestion of paddling handsome young Pedro’s hard, receiving little boybutt, a pleasure he had not yet allowed himself, although the teenage boy’s firm little butt cheeks had always been particularly inviting in his kitchen whites. He ignored it for now, however. Later, he thought. Casey shot a look at Moster. “What’s this about spankings?” he asked. Moster ignored the question. “Get in there.” “Yes, sir.” Casey climbed obediently into the ring. Moster watched him closely. The white cap should be taking effect in a moment…. “Oil him up,” commanded Abdul. Pedro ran over to him with the stool and the olive oil, climbed up, and began to pour it all over Casey’s massive physique. The sheer size and beauty of his muscles was overwhelming to the little Mexican, and his own powerful little cock began to bulge in his pants. After a moment, Casey was drenched in the shiny, thick liquid. The two musclemen stood face to face, Abdul in his tight singlet, fearsome muscles gleaming in the light, looming with threatening power. Casey was still in his micro, bulging posers, wet now with slick oil, the top 6 inches of his massive, meaty cockshaft fully exposed, blond tendrils of pubic hair curling with thick radiance. He was embarrassed, humiliated that his huge penis was twitching outwards in anticipation of what-was-coming-next. But then he noticed – Abdul’s oily, pylon-thick tool was also clearly coming to life in the thin singlet. “Good. Now, you got some mighty fancy muscles. But that doesn’t mean much here. We all got fancy muscles.” “You’re not being very polite, Corporal Abdul, “ said Moster, moving to the sidelines. “I think the men ought to introduce themselves before we get into any personal demonstrations of our manhood. Don’t you agree?” Even the ever-present log in lying against Moster’s pants leg was firmly outlined and appeared to be twitching a little, and the thin khaki fabric of his slacks covering it was now smooth and tight. Slowly the 17 others bodybuilders rose from their seats around the ring, one by one. 38 pairs of eyes stared at Casey intently. He glanced at the cocky little Joe Tiffany, and then over at Corporal Schumacher, who was now looking at him expectantly. “Okay, now, boy. This is Turkish wrestling. There are clear rules, but they’re different from American collegiate.” “Hang on,” said Moster. “We’ll get to the Turkish rules of wrestling in a moment. He stepped into the ring and approached Casey, now thick and dripping with oil. The men were now gathered on two sides of the ring, leaning on the ropes, leaning in to see what was coming next. For any other cadet introduced into the ranks, Sergeant Moster would have generally proceeded to paddle Casey’s hard young butt as the formal ritual of initiation. Last had been Private Tiffany receiving the red-hot butt cheek welcome, which he had borne stoically and proudly, displaying the twin globes of burnt-cherry perfection under the paddling. And after all, they had all gone through it, excepting Abdul, of course. Even Schumacher had known the firm, unrelenting hand of Moster on his butt. Hazing was hazing. But tonight, that didn’t seem to be happening. Abdul’s interesting wrestling challenge has precluded that. All were watchful. “Men, introduce yourselves. I was going to do this tomorrow, at Casey’s first workout, but now seems as good a time as any.” He turned to Casey and smiled. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to remember all their names just yet,” he added. “That’s good. I’m not very good with names.” “You’ll know them all, in time.” One by one, each man introduced himself. “My name is Private Leo Jin,” said the Asian man. “I’m 25 and from San Diego. I have been in the Project 8 years. My best bodypart is my forearms.” To prove it, the handsome Asian brought his beefy, fetchingly oversized forearms, walloping with solid muscle and veins, and squeezed the muscles hard. “I’m Private Dan Gunst, and until today, I had the biggest biceps here – except for Sergeant Moster’s.” Gunst flexed his mighty guns and then gave Casey a half-cocked smile. “Guess yours are bigger,” he proffered, respectfully. “I saw that this afternoon.” Moster glanced at him questioningly. “Oh, yeah,” he added. “I’m from Milwaukee, I’m 27, and I have been in the program 3 years. Hi, Casey. Welcome again.” “Hi, Dan!” Gunst sat back down. Moster eyed Casey carefully, wondering when the little capsule might take effect. Casey seemed cheerful and happy. Around the circle they went, each muscleman getting to his feet, politely introducing himself, offering basic information, and then showing him his best bodypart. “I’m Steve Waring, and my best bodypart is my traps.” Bulge. Flex. Steve Waring “I’m Rene LeFevre, and my best bodypart are my pecs.” Surge. Bloom. Bulge. “I’m David Duncan, and my best bodypart are my triceps.” Rip. Bulge. Bloom. Flex. “I’m Schumacher.” He said nothing else but grudgingly offered a front lat spread. Casey nodded without expression. This guy was not to be messed with. Eli Meyer signed with ASL. Casey nodded, showing some intelligence. Moster was pleased. Then Meyer turned around, bent over, grabbed his ankles, and showed off his hams, bulging through the khakis. He turned back and Casey gave him the OK and thumbs up sign. “I’m Chris Hension, and my best bodypart – “ “Is my FACE!” shouted Corporal LeFevre. “I’m a refugee from a lost episode of ’21 Jump Street’!” “Smack me around a little and I’ll follow you forever!” added Chad. “He’s our little boyband musclepup,” explained Blankenship. “Shut up,” yelled Hension, visibly embarrassed once again to be labeled the squad pretty boy. All the men were laughing now. “My best body part is my quads.” He started to rotate them. “And my baby blue eyes,” shouted LeFevre again. Hension was confused and humiliated but continued to show his quads, blooming in his tight khakis. “I think it’s his butt!” said Waring. “It’s okay, Chris,” said Casey. “Your quads are awesome.” Hension looked up, hopefully, and Casey felt compelled to go on. “And I think you’re very handsome indeed.” Hension smiled hugely at Casey, his heart beating a little faster. Gee, he thought. Wow. He gazed at Casey, who was now turning his attention to Private Waring. “I’m Private Ryan Waring, and my best bodypart are my delts.” He extended a powerful arm and began to rotate it. Suddenly Hension spoke up again. “I’m 22,” he blurted out, “and I’m from Toledo!” The men laughed again, and Hension hung his head a little and stuck out his lower lip. Next to him, Chad patted his thigh comfortingly. Casey saw him wink at Hension, who straightened up a little and smiled weakly. Casey’s head was spinning. He was inspired past all understanding by the mind-boggling panorama of muscle before him. And he was part of it. About then, he noticed that the room seemed to be getting a little brighter and a little hotter. He was staring again at Moster’s leg log. “Private Lang,” said Lang. “I’m 28, I’m from Lansing, Michigan, and….” He looked a little helplessly at Alvarez, sitting next to him. “My best body part is……um….” “Your back. Your lats are your best body part,” said Alvarez with quiet encouragement. “Yeah, I guess it’s my lats.” He turned and flared his lats wide. Alvarez clapped him approvingly on his butt. Lang smiled and sat, and Alvarez got up. “I’m Corporal Julio Alvarez, I’m 32, I’m from El Paso, and my best bodypart are my biceps.” He flexed. “Gunst’s are bigger but mine have sick peaks.” He popped them back and forth. “See?” Casey was indeed impressed. “Nice. Sick.” Gunst yelled in good-humored protest and flexed his own guns. Casey looked between Alvarez and Lang. Alvarez glanced over at Lang. “No, we’re not related,” he said. “They’re just joined at the wrist and ankles,” called out Gunst. “More like mouth and cock,” muttered Blankenship loudly, winking at Casey. It was Private Tiffany’s turn. “Casey and I will be meeting privately soon,” he boasted, and made a show of wiping the corner of his lips with his index finger. The men laughed knowingly – all but Corporal Schumacher, who looked down into his lap and seethed a little. Moster watched him intently. Something has to be done about Tiffany. But he didn’t worry. Though Tiffany didn’t know it yet, something was already happening. Casey felt a touch flushed, but his head was suddenly amazingly clear. Suddenly he spoke. “And what’s your best bodypart?” he asked. The stammer was gone, but only Moster noticed it. “What do you think?” Joe Tiffany turned around, bent over and grabbed his ankles. He pulled his gym shorts tight at the crack of his butt and proudly displayed his magnificent bodybuilder glutes. “Cupcakes!” said Gunst gleefully. The men howled. Schumacher made a show of laughing, but all he could do was glare. “Wow,” said Casey calmly. “Very pretty.” Tiffany's Butt after Squats Moster smiled inwardly. Good. He’s responded. And this boy responds well to White Caps, he thought. “No one’s had it yet,” said Tiffany confidingly as he straightened up and turned around, tucking his t-shirt back into his shorts. Then he winked. “Except in group.” “Group?” Casey was obviously perplexed. The men shouted with laughter, which died down sheepishly as, looking around the room, each man eventually shrugged and acknowledged it was probably true. None of them had had Tiffany yet. “I haven’t, anyway,” grumbled Schumacher, and the men laughed again. Tiffany sat back down and ignored Schumacher’s look. “Too bad,” said Casey. “Shame to waste such a pretty little behind.” The laughter died down and the men stared at Casey. No one knew what to say. “What’s ‘group’?” repeated Casey. Silence. On the sidelines, Alvarez raised his head a little. He exchanged looks with Moster. White cap? he mouthed. Moster looked away. Alvarez smiled and leaned in. He nudged Lang in the ribs. “Ow,” said Lang. “This is gonna be good,” said Alvarez in a low voice. “And I’m Karim Abdul. My best bodypart? My whole fucking physique is my best bodypart. As you are about to find out.” He flexed, whipping through pose after pose, his heavy cock bulge, dripping with oil, whipping left to right in his wrestling singlet. Snap. Snap. Snap. Casey could hear it slapping against his thighs through the man’s singlet. “All very impressive,” said Casey, looking pointedly at it. Moster smiled again. The cap had taken effect. “Okay. Turkish wrestling. Rules. One: there are few rules.” Abdul ticked off the rules on his fingers. “Submission: the “crush.” A fighter can get his opponent onto his stomach and then trap him by sprawling on top. If I can keep you down with your face, I can then turn you on a half-nelson for a pin.” “What if you can’t do it?” asked Casey bluntly. “If I can’t crush you, the referee has to begin us again from a standing position.” He ticked off another finger and looked Casey right in the eye. “I am not restricted from placing my hands inside my opponent’s kispet…” “Hunh?” “Your poser. I can also use the waistband to hold you in place. If I yank your poser so far below your hips that you are exposed, I win. Okay. If I can lift you entirely off the ground … “Fat fucking chance.” “Whoa,” breathed Hension. The temperature in the room seemed to raise 15º. Abdul paused, tense, and continued. “…and carry you five paces in any direction, that is a “carrying” pin. Got it?” “Yep.” “Okay.” Abdul looked at Casey. “You wanna go?” “What are we waiting for?” “Let’s wrestle,” said Abdul. He clapped his hands together and strode into the center of the ring. Ever since the mention of ‘group’, Abdul had been a touch shaky – or so Moster thought. Still can’t acknowledge how much he likes musclebutt. To say nothing of getting pissed on,” thought Moster. “Sure thing,” Casey answered, slick with oil and now quietly confident. Pedro scampered to the side of the ring and squatted eagerly to watch. Abdul began to bounce around, heel-toe, heel-toe, flexing his fingers, stretching his arms behind his head, limbering up. “Let’s go, man.” “You got it, man.” Casey hunkered down. “Center of the ring, gents,” said Moster. The men began to circle one another. “You wrestle till one of you gets a pin,” Moster instructed, now in the ring and getting between them. Casey flexed his biceps. “Big peaks, man. Like ‘em?” “Seen bigger,” said Abdul. He crunched forward, did a most muscular, his veins popping like railroad tracks. “How ‘bout you? Like what you see, faggot?” he asked. Casey just smiled, hunkered lower. Abdul palmed the crotch of his singlet. Casey smiled and refused to look down. He grabbed his own crotch, pendulously looming in his bulging posers. “Big handful, man.” “Watch it, boys,” said Moster. “This is a friendly get-to-know-you match.” “I already know him,” said Abdul. Moster snapped his fingers to Dr. Irving, now on the unpopulated side of the mat and with his ever-present video camera whirring. He dug in the pocket of his white lab jacket, wordlessly tossing him a whistle. Casey and Abdul met each other in the center of the mat and stared one another down. Their noses touched. Abdul grinned, ear to ear. Casey followed suit. Both began to gleam with anticipatory sweat. “Wow…..” breathed Hension. His hand shot down into his pants and he began massaging his stiffening tool. Moster pushed the two apart and blew his whistle to start the match. “And……wrestle!!” CLICK HERE FOR PART 2!
  8. The Teaser for this story is found here: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/5008-teaser-for-the-new-story-project-defender/ DEDICATION I dedicate this story, which is my first, in gratefulness to all the persons who have given me advice: Scriptboy and Alexdrake who assisted with the translations in Chapter 2; Jocaflo, who taught me about Portuguese name customs; Arpeejay who gave me advice on stats (although I only followed most, and not all, of them); gecko888 who declined to let the French become main protagonists, but taught me a few thing about the French Armed Forces; and T. and W. who proofread (you know who you are). All quirks and oddities are the author’s own. Since English isn't my native language, please send me a message, if I am incomprehensible. Some things may have become corrupted in translation. DISCLAIMER The following Chapter do contain descriptions of verbal abuse, nakedness and sexually aroused men, a military-industrial environment, speciesism, a library scene with religious and atheist books, jokes about national stereotypes, a smaller amount of uncouth speech, together with a lot of Northern European irony and sci-fi references probably best understood by the age range born 1960-1990. If you may take offence of anything aforementioned, you are hereby strongly reckommended to not read further. Please, go away. You have been warned. DON'T PANIC Oh, and another thing: If the complicated background (which is two thirds of Chapter One) tire you out, you can jump right to 'It was afternoon again. Lamarck and Gospodinov had beeen unusually...' after three stars ***, in order to come to the growth bit, but you wouldn't understand the sci-fi-scientific lingo then. Project Defender – Chapter 1 My heart sank in my breast, and I felt a feeling of foreboding coldness in my belly, when the army jeep entered the slope leading down into the subterranean tunnel. On our way there, I had watched the skies nervously for any vessels, but the Pseudo-Crustacean Extra-Terrestrial Organisms had seemingly chosen to attack another part of the European mainland that day, so we arrived unharmed. When we had passed through the Outer Perimeter a few minutes earlier, I had heard conversations in Finnish, English (with an Irish accent) and a handful of languages I didn’t recognise among the rugged, camouflage-painted snipers around the smoking wood-fires. Several days later I was briefed, that Finland, Northern Ireland, Croatia, Bosnia, Serbia and Ukraine had volunteered to man the Outer Perimeter. I didn’t envy them, but sent them my thoughts of gratitude, since it was their dangerous duty outside, which made my assiduous work inside possible and undisturbed. The jeep continued on its way downward in the asphalt-coated meandering tunnel. On two consecutive levels we had to await the opening of armoured steel gates painted in black and yellow. Outside the first gate, the air was moist, and smelled of gasoline and rubber, but inside the gate, the jeep switched into electric mode. Silently purring without any fumes, the vehicle took us to our destination. I wasn’t surprised to find out, that my phone-watch didn’t work under the surface. The Inner Gate at the end of the Parking Hall (a natural cavern, enlarged and carved into rectangular shape by human hand) was connected to a keypad lock with microphone and speaker. ’Doctor Skrefsrud reporting for duty.’ I hoped that I used Army Speak correctly. University research teams were not environments, which trained for dealing with servicemen. ’Welcome, Doctor Skrefsrud.’, answered the metallic voice of the speaker. The gate opened for me and the driver, revealing a man-sized concrete passageway leading into Research Facility B. It was at this facility we had been ordered to assist in the defence against the Extra-Terrestrials (or PCETOs), by ’improving the performance of military human resources’, as the classified report preferred to express the purpose. All of it wasn’t classified actually. Certain parts of the scientific tools had been reported in newspapers, and an early undefined Pan-European plan about ’space marines’ had been debated in public several years ago, but nothing had happened then. And now a space invasion occurred. If the Project had been led by the European Union, several states, such as Iceland, Norway, Albania or Ukraine would have been unable to participate, and Switzerland, the Republic of Ireland and Sweden would have refused to participate if the initiative had been taken by NATO, but since the Project was now launched by an entirely different international European body, they all agreed to do their part. The member countries had reacted in very different ways. France enthusiastically backed the project financially, and sent us their two required test subjects according to the letter of the agreement, together with a chef. UK told us, they should ’explore other means beside this laudable initiative’, but sent us lots of medical supply, two officers with a past in the SAS, a physicist and a sports medicine physician. The German negotiators obliged to take the major part of the financial burden for the Project, but informed us, that they declined to send any men at all, due to domestic political concerns. The Italian negotiator – a former Prime Minister – assured that Italy was willing to support the Project financially in many small amounts of money delivered according to a long-term plan, and tried to convince the coordinators, that a much larger share of Italian test subjects would be reasonable, ’since Italian men are more masculine than other Europeans’. I later heard a rumour, that the Spanish and Greek representatives tried to leave the negociations in an angry hurry at that moment, but our coordinators (Norwegian and Swiss diplomats, together with military officers from Ireland and Ukraine respectively) politely declined the offer: The Italians had to send just their agreed number of two men, and the placated Spanish and Greek representatives remained at the meeting until it closed. We had no fuzz with the smaller countries, but were somewhat surprised, when Liechtenstein, Andorra, San Marino and Monaco sent two test subjects each. Iceland have no army in the ordinary sense, but sent two coast guards instead. Vatican City informed us, that we ’served in a just war, if we defended the innocent’, but, due to a treaty, Vatican City was hindered to send any participants itself. Switzerland was constitutionally hindered to send any combatants on its own behalf, but sent us two Swiss Guards on the behalf of the Vatican instead. None of us on medical staff complained: The healthy, weapon-trained twenty-five year olds, sent by the Swiss, were probably more attuneable to the Project, than a pudgy, middle-aged, non-combatant, retired Ethics professor, a clerical office boy, or whatever the Vatican otherwise had been able to spare. I was met at the entrance of my new environment by Doctor Smith, an acquaintance from an international research conference. I didn’t know him very well, but, a couple of years ago, he had presented an interesting paper about Morphogenetic Fields. ’Nice to see you again, Doctor Skrefsrud. Let us skip Army Speak, while we are among fellow scientists. You will see, that the Research Facility keep us in three different areas: Military personnel at Hall 3-6-1, administration and nurses at 3-6-2 and us clever ones at 3-6-3.’ I followed Smith through the corridors carved into the stone. Research Facility B was a very vast complex of cavernous halls, coldly lit by old-fashioned fluorescent tubes. We passed an office hall with desks, computers and folders, staffed by the coordinators, Hansen and Müller, Novák, the Amanuensis and Andersson, the Registrar. ’Initially, Sweden and the Czech Republic – who had been given responsibility for the bureaucracy – wished to send women as office staff, due to equality concerns, but the European level decided against it – being worried about the risk of harassment, I suppose. Actually, several countries wished to send one male and one female soldier, but that was vetoed by Gospodinov, our endocrinologist. It was something about oestrogen balance and bad experiences from female shot-putters, back in the days. I didn’t listen attentively, I’m afraid, since endocrinology is not my field. We are only men here, now. An unusual environment, compared to my usual Oxford lab team, but I do not complain.’ Then we entered the mess hall. ’Since the Project is such a small unit, hastily gathered together in an emergency situation, there is no reason to uphold the difference between several different mess halls. I suppose the presence of us civilians has contributed to upset the ordinary structures somewhat. They didn’t know how to organise us, really.’, Smith said. ’But Major Murphy and Captain Melnyk usually sit at the short table close to that wall – reminds me of Refectory back at St. Cynhelm’s, actually – and the entire scientific department is allowed to sit there, if we wish. We have been given some slack, and we are allowed to eat together with the office staff or the test subjects if we wish. I don’t expect the grunts to read Einstein, Hawking or Vera Rubin, though.’ Smith pointed out the corridor leading to the test subjects’ living quarters, the corridor leading to the officers’ and office staff’s living quarter, the laundry, the gym, the showers, Inventory, Infirmary, meditation room, and the corridor leading to the research area. ’We have eighty-four test subjects at our disposal, organised into eleven smaller squads. Even if the result wouldn’t be optimal at the first trials, it wouldn’t take too long until we understand how to facilitate the procedure to maximum extent, or so I hope, anyhow.’ Smith was of slightly short stature, and, despite the years still left until his fortieth birthday, a somewhat rotund belly had began to grow at his mid-section. I was a few years younger than him, and had achieved my doctoral degree at the age of 31, some years before. When he brought me to the scientists’ living quarters, I found out that Smith, Green (the British sports medicine physician) and László (the hunky Hungarian nutritionist and trainer) and myself were scientists in our 30’s, and that the remaining three scientists all had passed their 60th birthday. We were assisted by four male nurses in their late twenties. We arrived at the living quarters for scientific personnel. I put my belongings in a locker, washed my face, and brought a handful of files with me to the lab. *** The following day I was focussed on directing the engineers while they unpacked most of our scientific equipment, but – to the consolation for all of us – the Dark Matter cyclotron had arrived and been installed long before my own arrival. I was therefore not fully aware that the corridors began to echo of arriving recruits, the youngest of them recently promoted to the rank of corporal at the instance they accepted the assignment to this very specialised company – the first of its kind. The briefing took place in the evening. Each of us had been instructed to give extremely short lectures in laymen’s terms – not necessarily an easy objective for a bunch of persons so accustomed to University. Major Murphy ordered silence, and in very few words presented The Program, and Captain Melnyk presented himself for the sake of the late arrivals, who hadn’t met him yet. They then assigned the scientific team to present the different aspects of The Program. ’Gentlemen. I am Professor Gruber. My area is brain physiology. My field of expertise is an entirely new way of imprinting new knowledge and new habits into the brains of persons, and enhance the speed of such things as reflexes and tactical decisions. I look forward to work together with you.’ The gaunt and bald Austrian neurological expert in his very strict grey suit, looked out over the audience with his penetrating ice-blue eyes, and ended his short speech. Gruber’s dry, aloof and abrupt style of addressing non-academicians only served to enhance László’s more relaxed and humorous style, when the latter spoke to the soldiers the same way he was accustomed to address footballers, weightlifters and bodybuilders, when he coached them: ’Hi. I’m Doctor László, but you may call me Csaba. The politician and the footballers are no relatives of mine, if you wonder.’ He chuckled. Only the two Hungarian test-subjects laughed. Under his lab coat László was dressed in a sweatshirt, tracksuit pants and sneakers. A stopwatch hanged around his neck, and he wore a heart rate reading device around his wrist. ’I am sorry that your meals will be measured with precision, and you will not be allowed to eat more than what I and my colleague here, Doctor Green, will allow. The meals will follow a planned and calculated pattern, with larger servings some days, and smaller servings some days. I assure you, that this is not at random. Theoretically, the pattern of your nutritional intake will cooperate with the other augmentation factors of The Program, to make you the best of the best. Every morning the nurses will take blood samples, urine samples and check your blood pressure. I will give you a training programme for physical exercise, and – as those of you who arrived early already have found out – we have an excellent gym at the Facility. Each one of you will see me and Doctor Green at least every eight day during the project, and the training programme will soon become individually tailored. The good news are, that servings at the meals will become larger for those who have undergone the procedure, and that it was decided that France and Italy would be responsible for sending chefs to The Program.’ Cheering from the Italians and the French. No-one else seemed to disagree, however. I looked out over a crowd of men of almost every European nationality. All of them had finished at least basic military training and served a few years, but, beyond that, their years in service ranged considerably. The youngest were 21 years old, while the most experienced of them were in their mid-30’s like László, Smith and myself. They had been sent here, not because of their age, not because of their years in service, or their military rank, but because of their performance ratings. A slender, clean shaven and rather tall man past his sixtieth year, dressed in the latest fashion suit under his lab coat, took the microphone. A moderately short carpet of dark grey frizzled hair covered his head elegantly, and a scent of a luxurious after shave was unavoidable to notice. His dark, sad and thoughtful eyes looked out over the audience. His pronunciation of English words was humming with the slightest French accent. ’ I am Doctor Lamarck. I research in genetics. The biological genetic makeup of each individual is a factor which determines the way he looks, many of his abilities and the way he reacts. Some diseases are not contagious but hereditary. In our research to cure hereditary diseases, we have discovered mechanisms, which could potentially be used to enhance physical prowess in healthy individuals. The limits of how fast, strong, enduring and quick thinking an individual is are determined by genetic factors, but we now believe that we are able to remove these limits. ’Most of you have heard about viruses, like that which cause the common cold. Besides bad viruses, which causes diseases, there are useful viruses. There are also neutral viruses – as it were – which neither cause good or bad effects on us. Modern genetic studies use such neutral viruses as a sort of vehicles or carriers of the sort of modified human DNA we hope will cure a patient. The patients’ immune systems will remove the viruses after a couple of days, but the modified DNA will stay and multiply. This method may also be used in order to enhance speed, endurance, strength or quick thinking. ’A more recent method use something called nano particles. The patient inhale the particles, which are programmed to rebuild the genetics of the patient. This is still on an experimental stage, but my team has researched for a long time, by now, how to use viral treatment and nano treatment in tandem. I have read that all of you are very good soldiers. I will rebuild you into perfect soldiers.’ The audience was murmuring excitedly for a few seconds. The sight of the men confirmed the impression I had gathered by reading their files: They were all very fit, but that common characteristic didn’t mean that they all looked the same. Far from it. Many seemed to enjoy frequent time at the gym, but without any considerable interest in fat loss or competitions. Some slim and lean (but very hard, sinewy and defined) soldiers, like the little Portuguese and his Polish friend, had very good ratings when it came to endurance tests and extremely long marches with lighter backpacks, and looked like what sprinters or fitness competitors would have looked, if they had developed more functional physiques. More than a handful of the test subjects were into bodybuilding. One of the Icelanders had competed in Strongman competitions, and had an entirely different type of physique. Some of the test subjects were under average height, but most of them were slightly above average. A handful of them were very tall – among them the Icelander and my fellow Norwegians, I proudly noticed. Doctor Gospodinov was a Bulgarian endocrinologist, close to retirement age. His hair was a formless tufty mass of grey and white, trying to escape in every direction. He was a broad shouldered man with dark brown eyes, somewhat under middle length and with a pot belly. He had unusually large cheeks, looked tired (which wasn’t surprising, since all of us had worked hard with the engineers to make the prototype chambers working), and was puffy under his eyes. He was dressed elegantly in a timeless three-piece suit under the white lab coat, and, while the rest of us had left watches and phones behind us years ago for contemporary phone-watches of different brands, he had an old-fashioned pocket watch in his waistcoat. He gave the impression to dislike the public speech situation, especially since the audience wasn’t composed of medical students. ’I am Doctor Gospodinov. I teach medicine, and I have researched on athletes my entire life. I will not bore you with giving you a full lecture in medicine. The reason that you were all surgically given a subcutaneous implant before arriving here – and as a matter of fact all of us were, although by different reasons – was to ensure easy access into your venous systems. The viral treatment by Doctor Lamarck and the hormone treatment by me will be administered through the membrane under the skin of your chest. If you want to enhance the performance of a man, it will not do to just tinker with one of the hormones, and it may even be counterproductive. A heightened dose of one performance-enhancing chemical may lower the dose of another useful and beneficial chemical. You need to take all biochemical substances naturally produced and used by the human body, and make them all interact in the right direction, in a concerted effort. If you believe that my job in this Project is to inject you with any new super-steroid, you are wrong. The negative side-effects of such a substance, if it existed, would outdo any positive effects – I suppose some of you may have heard about the bad complications of overuse of cortisone against inflammations? My job in this Project is to stimulate your own bodies to permanently produce the optimal balance of all the body’s own performance enhancing substances. After the initial treatment with this new stimulating formula – the exact composition of which is actually classified – you will not need any ongoing medication, and the effect will come from within yourselves, not from any injections or pills. The effect will remain the rest of your lives. Doktor Skrefsrud?’ Gospodinov had misjudged how much medical knowledge the recruits possessed, and he had lost most of them, despite his attempt to dumb down the subject. The awake and intelligent glimmer in the eyes of a lean and small Pole and his wiry and slim little Portuguese buddy did, however, show that not the entire class was asleep. It was my turn to speak now. I cleared my throat, and felt intimidated by standing before this sort of audience. A Dutch test subject had a very arrogant body language, and looked intently on me and the other scientists in an unnerving way with his green eyes. I cleared my throat. ’My name is Doctor Skrefsrud, and I am a physicist, just like Doctor Smith here. I will not go into any boring details, but I guess, that you will feel easier about what’s going on, if I explain the basic idea about what you will endure. You have all read about the Big Bang in Science Class at school, I suppose. The Universe expands at unfathomable speed. All visible material things are composed by a sort of matter we call ’baryonic matter’, since it is built by particles called ’baryons’: We can easily observe it, weigh it, measure it. What is less known, is that the Universe behaves in such a way, as there ought to exist another sort of matter: not easily observed, not easily measured. The expansion of the universe would render asunder the galaxies, if this other matter didn’t exist. We call it ”dark matter”, but please do not attach any importance to the word ”dark”. It is just a figure of speech.’ I had become accustomed to be perfectly clear on this account, when I educated undergraduates. The most silly and unfounded ideas could be spawned by the randomly chosen word ’dark’. It doesn’t mean ”bad”. ’There also exist ”dark energy”. For many decades, dark matter and dark energy were only hypothesised by the means of mathematics. Then, quite recently – in the early 2020’s – dark matter particles were observed by revolutionarily new means of observation. If you read science-fiction stories or comics in childhood, you know stories where the heroes get strange powers by radioactivity. In real life it doesn’t work that way: Too high amounts of radioactivity would give you cancer, not super-powers.’ The audience chuckled in a low voice. ’But dark energy radiation is not the same thing as radioactivity, since it is not baryonic.’ The audience abruptly fell silent. ’My mentor’s team has researched in several years on the probably beneficent effects of certain dark matter particles and radiation frequencies, in the hope to apply it medically. We are already in the early stages of successfully curing muscular dystrophy. In the future, we hope to help people who’ve lost a limb to grow a new limb. I know it sounds like science-fiction to you, and we haven’t reached our goal yet, but we have reason to believe, that we have the means to make Earth’s defenders against the PCETOs much better soldiers: More fit, more physically persistent, more powerful. I call this technology ’Hypertrophic Radiation’. Doctor Smith will now tell you more about how physics may help us in the war.’ Hair colours of all sorts gleamed in the artificial light, short-cut in different fashions: Buzz cuts, flattops, jarheads, short mohawks or shaved entirely. Ash-blond and fair brown seemed to be the most common hair colour among European men. Neither ’black’ nor ’blond’ are very good words to describe the variety of other actual hair colours: The glossy ’black’ of the Portuguese lads was something different from the velvet ’black’ of the two hunky Hungarians. Although you may have called the rye and golden hues of some Scandinavian test subjects ’blond’, these were actually two different colours, and these two colours also differed from the cream-coloured or almost white ’blondness’ of the two Estonians, one of the Ukrainians, one of the Finns and one of the Poles. Three of the test subjects were ginger: One of the Norwegians, one of the Britons (who stood there side by side to his Caribbean-British colleague) and one of the Irishmen. One of the men sent by France looked like he was of Polynesian-French descent. Since performance trumped everything, they didn’t share exactly the same background. Some of them were recruited from Special Units of several sorts, some from frogman units, paratroop units or marines, also depending on the various ways armed forces were organised in different European countries. ’Besides the discovery of hypertrophic radiation, which Doctor Skrefsrud just mentioned, the breakthrough in Dark-Matter-research, after a while, also confirmed the existence of Morphogenetic Fields, or Sheldrake-fields, as they also are known. Rupert Sheldrake had hypothesised about Morphogenetic Fields back in the 20th century, but very few scientists took his hypothesis seriously. That changed when Dark-Matter-research grew out of its initial phase. Now you ask: What is a Morphogenetic Field? We already knew the importance of the biological genetical makeup of each individual, as Doctor Lamarck already has described. Secondly, potential personal traits and abilities may blossom or lay dormant, dependent on outward factors such as education, physical exercise or food. But besides these two groups of factors, we now know a third group of factors: Morphogenetic Fields influence our physical development. It also seems like Morphogenetic Fields would contain and guide Hypertrophic Radiation to stimulate brain tissue, skeletal and muscular growth in certain ways. It seems like we are now able to control in which ways the Morphogenetic Fields form an organism. Each of the factors we work with in this scientific team would, on its own, enhance and augment your capacity, but the combined effect of all these factors together is so much greater. If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to ask me after this briefing.’ *** The interviews began the following day. At the end of the day, I was exhausted by interviewing twenty-four of the men, and so were all my colleagues, with the notable exception of the inexhaustible Professor Gruber. It took us four days to interview them all. By then, László and Green had given them their individualised training programmes. The individualised meal-plans would reach the Mess Hall Kitchen next morning. Although the Project was officially meant to be performed in English, French and German simultaneously, it didn’t took long time, until we found out that it would be more practical to use English as main spoken language (although notes were written down in all the three languages). The Polish and Czech test subjects spoke German much more fluently than I did myself, but anyhow seemed reluctant to speak German. I tried to be polite, when I interviewed the Belgian, Swiss, Luxembourger, Andorran and Monegasque test subjects, and so using French, but they seemed to enjoy an opportunity to practice their English, especially one of the Belgians (who spoke Flemish at home) and the Swiss, the native tongues of whom happened to be Arpitan and Romansh. The French test subjects listened very amused to my stumbling pronunciation of the French vocabulary, and then proposed that the interview ’should continue in English, perhaps?’ The Liechtensteiners and Austrians (including Professor Gruber) would have preferred German to anything else, but since everyone else spoke English, they quickly adapted. It made the work much easier, not only for me, but also for Andersson, the Registrar from Sweden, who – although he read both languages – was reluctant to speak German or French. When I interviewed the two test subjects from UK, Jones and Taylor, I found out that they, too, were relieved when the trilingual rule was softened: None of them spoke anything else than English, and they had initially felt sheepish when they had been addressed in French or German. We worked much longer working days, than the usual eight hours, since time was essential, and a swift breakthrough in our experiment could mean life or death for so many persons. The four nurses were initially scheduled with extra recreation, since we knew that they had to be rested when night hours at Infirmary began. We needed, however, some sleep and recreation in order to think clearly, in order to not put the test subjects at risk. I found out, that our elder colleagues kept together in our free time, and seemed like fish out of water at the Facility. It took less than three days, until Gruber, Gospodinov and Lamarck began to keep together outside working hours. Most of the time they sat in the living quarters at 3-6-3, but sometimes they gathered in the Lab, since Gospodinov had a habit of smoking his cigars under the fume hood. The alternative for the four of us younger researchers, was to spend free time together, or together with some of the test subjects or office workers, either at Mess or at the Gym. *** Green and László had mainly worked together with athletes during their professional careers, and both maintained an overall healthy life style even privately. It was easy for them to befriend those among the test subjects who were interested in weight training (although that was far from all). Despite my resultless experience of weight training, I had nothing against following Green and László to the gym during lunch hour. ’Have we heard anything more from the Yankees or the Russians?’, Green asked László on our way into the gym. ’No. It seems like the transatlantic cable broke and several satellites went down quite early in the attack from the Space Squid. Kiev lost telephone- and web-connection with Moscow and Beijing. We don’t know what happens elsewhere. It is up to us now. This experiment got to work correctly, and that soon.’ László changed subject, and eyed me professionally: ’Have you worked out before, Skrefsrud? I see that your body fat is low?’ ’Actually, I worked out at a gym during my graduate studies, in order to give it a try,but since I didn’t achieve any visible results, and continued to be scrawny, I quit the gym, but continued jogging. Is the word ”hardgainer” a current one? Some of my fellow students used that word about me.’ ’Oh yes. It is a rather common situation. Some people have to eat incredible amounts in order to achieve any muscle gain. Perhaps you followed the meal plan of dieters or a baseline one. It is useless for ectomorphs.’ The scent of steel, subtly corroding of salty sweat, filled the gym, but was mixed by whiffs of talcum powder, rubber carpets and cheap anti-perspirants like Lynx. The clang and clink of weight-plates hitting each other or steel bars hitting power rack stands echoed among the stone walls, only slightly subdued by the rubber carpets. Some of the recruits had made themselves at home in the gym from Day 1. László stopped at a leg curl machine, used at the moment by two British SAS-officers: The ginger Lieutenant Jones and the Jamaican-British Lieutenant Taylor – the latter with the good looks of a young Cassius Clay. I listened absent-mindedly for a few seconds, but thought it a good idea to say hello to the men at the nearest bench. It happened to be the rather tall Polish frogman Sergeant Zielinski, his compatriot, the short paratrooper Corporal Kowalski, and the short Portuguese, Corporal Soares. Soares was lifting a bar of probably his own weight. Many of the test subjects were rather clamorous and boastful individuals, but the 21 year old Kowalski was unusually silent and reserved. Almost shy. He had a lean physical constitution, witnessing an ability to persevere and endure in extreme conditions. I had noticed that he worked out very seriously at the gym, but, despite this, he hadn’t achieved any typical bodybuilder-physique. The downy stubble on his scalp was cream-coloured and almost white. A silver pendant hung around his neck in a rather heavy chain, but I wasn’t able to see what it depicted. Corporal Soares was of the same age and same body-type as Corporal Kowalski. When he had restored the bar to the stand, he observed his surroundings with an alert and humorous gaze. ’Two other hardgainers.’, I thought for myself, and felt sympathy for them. I had finished my scheduled exercise for the day, and was on my way to the showers with László and Green, when we heard shouts from the calf raise machine in the corner. ’Who the hell brought the small fry to this project? How do you think you could meet the Space Squid in battle, or be useful subjects for these tests? Midgets!’ It was Corporal De Vries, one of the Dutchmen, who stood leaning over Kowalski and Soares. Kowalski answered less noisily, and I couldn’t hear what was said. De Vries gripped Kowalski’s t-shirt and lifted him up in the air, saying things I couldn’t hear from this distance. László was already on his way to the corner, followed by Taylor. I couldn’t hear what was said, but Taylor gripped De Vries by the shoulder. De Vries put Kowalski down, and László said something heatedly to De Vries, of which I could only hear: ’My gym. My rules.’ When Kowalski and Soares left with Taylor and László, De Vries gave them the finger behind their backs with an angry expression on his face. *** When I arrived to the Lab after lunch, Smith and Gruber were discussing their fields of research, respectively. ’Is the breakthrough of your’s recent, Professor Gruber? I’m not sure that I have heard anything about it before.’ ’The first breakthrough was with mice in 2014. We cured them from depression, by stimulating their hippocampus and reward centre simultaneously. By developing the neuro-helmet a few years later, it became possible to stimulate various parts of the brain without any cranial surgery.’ ’But what will happen now, when the same technology is applied militarily?’ ’I have scanned the brain-wave patterns of a great number of expert soldiers, and brought them together in a standardised high achieving pattern. In layman’s terms, you could say that I will implant memories or habits into the specimens, by using recordings, as it were, from other individuals.’ ’Are there any dangers to it, Professor Gruber?’ ’Not any I am aware of. Nowadays we even have equipment to translate mildly hypnotic verbal suggestions into brain wave patterns, by the help of an AI, and it has worked very well to treat insomnia and stress disorders in individual civilians. A military application is something new, and will probably need some milder adaptions and adjustments before working optimally.’ ’So it is the first time you apply it for a military purpose?’ ’Yes, and it is the first time I try to use it in this scale. How does your own part of The Program work, Dr. Smith?’ ’Initially, we had to program every detail of the Emmeffs from scratch, and in the process we blew up a lot of fruit flies and some mice, I’m afraid.’ ’Emmeffs?’ ’Oh, sorry for that. Morphogenetic Fields. It takes so long to say, so, within the team, we call them Emmeffs. After a while the mice were lucky and survived. Anyhow, later on, the computer engineering department assisted us in simplifying the programming of the fields. We had a grotesquely large prototype programming device, which determined how a standard mouse should look. We put a poor little fellow in the Chamber – he suffered from muscle dystrophy – and, voilá! – he was cured. And he didn’t explode. Later on, the engineers were able to slim down the size of the Programmer – which was a great relief, since the Black Matter Cyclotron was space consuming as it was, without the Programmer competing for space. From then on, the experiments behaved a little more – eh – standardised, I would say. One of my colleagues performed a series of experiments on a dystrophic hamster, and later turned it into a birthday present to her nephew, who called it ’Hulk Hamster’. As you see on this display, we have a sketch of a man here…’ He pressed a button. A drawing of an average man, sketched in blue lines against the black background, glow on the screen. The drawing was anatomical, and each muscle was marked in fine detail. With another button Smith could display the inner layers of those muscles who consisted of several layers. ’which is the starting point of The Process, and then…’ He pressed a third button. Another line drawing lit up on the screen – this one in green lines. It was only slightly larger than the blue drawing, and looked like it was projected outside and around the first man, enclosing him. ’…this one, which is the desired goal. It is possible to grow the green chart proportionally…’ He pressed another key, and the green man became taller and wider, but retained his average physique. ’… but it is also possible to click on each muscle, and redesign the way he looks.’ Smith moved the cursor, clicked on a number of individual muscles, and clicked some boxes. ’Ooops. This combination of changes would make him deformed. It is important to maintain symmetry and functionality. We have some templates approved and authorised by the Command. Let’s see…’ Smith’s fingers danced at the keyboard, and a green anatomical chart popped up on the screen. The depicted man was huge and looked dangerous. If anyone looked like that, he would probably have good chances to win a weight-lifting competition, or perhaps bodybuilding. Smith shut the machine down. ’I would prefer if we begin with the Neuro-Reprogramming Phase. If he becomes physically enhanced but without self-control, we could have a situation here. We don’t want to endanger The Project, would we?’, Gruber suggested. ’Who’s the first one in the pipeline?’ It happened to be Corporal Soares. The fit little Portuguese was briefed about the process, and told that his physical conversion wouldn’t occur, until we were sure the Neuro-Reprogramming worked correctly. He left his boots, cargo trousers and T-shirt on a bench, and took somewhat shyly off his socks and pants. On the top of the pile he put a silver pendant in a heavy chain. I noticed that the pendant depicted St. Michael the Archangel. Gruber put the neuro-helmet on his head and the breathing mask over his nose and mouth. ’Good luck! And just relax!’, László said, when Soares stepped into the sluice, and reached the cylindric chamber, built of glass and steel. ’Synthetic amniotic fluid activated’, Lamarck said, while the light blue liquid began to fill Chamber 1. ’Body temperature 37,4 Centigrades’, Green reported from the body scanner. I still feel worried and disappointed about what happened the following hour. A few minutes after Gruber had activated the Neuro-Reprogrammer, Soares screamed in agony and fear. His pulse and body temperature were abnormally high, and we had to abort the process. When Chamber 1 had become sufficiently emptied of liquid, László and Nurse Dubois entered the sluice and carried the unconscious Soares out of the Chamber, and put him on a paper-covered medical bunk, before moving him to a moveable hospital bed. László and I were shaken, but luckily Green kept his mind cold, and gave Soares a physical exam. He consulted with Gruber, but the diagnosis was outside my own field of expertise. Somehow, the reprogramming had caused Soares a comatose state, but his life wasn’t endangered. Green connected him to IV-nutrition, and Dubois wheeled the hospital bed away to Infirmary. The following day came. Morning was scheduled for interviews and medical tests as usual, but I felt worried over the afternoon experiment. Would that go wrong as well? This time it was one of the Swedes, Corporal Johansson, who sat waiting in the waiting room. Johansson was somewhat over medium height and robustly built, although not conspicuously so. His golden hair was cropped, his nose slightly upturned and his eyes sky blue. ’We will not lie to you: The Program is still in a prototype phase, and may be dangerous, although not lethal. It would be unethical to keep this information away from you.’, Green said. A worried expression came and went in Johansson’s eyes, but he answered: ’Give it a try. I was aware that the Project was experimental when I agreed to go here. Do your best. It is my duty to give you a chance to develop The Program, isn’t it?’ He left his clothes on the bench. The neuro-helmet, the IV and the breathing mask were placed where they should be, and the experiment began. The Preparation Phase for reprogramming took almost forty-five minutes. Tranquillising and analgesic formulas devised by Gospodinov and Lamarck circulated in Johansson’s blood vessels, and Gruber had modified some settings in the Neuro-Reprogrammer. This time we would try to change both the mind and the body of the test subject. ’Do you hear me, Corporal Johansson?’, Green asked into a microphone. ’Mmmm, yes… So sleepy…’, came the answer from the microphone in Johansson’s breathing mask. ’Do you feel okay?’ ’Oh, yes. Go ahead.’ ’Initiating Neuro-Reprogramming.’, Gruber reported from his corner. A low humming sound was heard in the Lab. ’Pulse increasing’, Green reported from the body scanner. We could hear how Johansson’s breathing becoming faster. ’No. No, no, no. NO!’, he shouted into the microphone. I felt uneasy. ’No, it… no, um. Umngh.’, the protests subsided and changed gradually into moaning or grunting sounds, until a sudden change in mood seemed to have occurred: ’Yes. YES! I will comply! All orders will be executed! Becoming integrated into The Program!’ ’Pulse decreasing’, Green reported. The breathing was still faster than normal. Now and then Johansson mumbled. ’Brain activity as expected’, Gruber said. Fifteen minutes later, it seemed that the neuro-reprogramming had went well this time. ’Initiating Physical Reprogramming’, Lamarck reported. ’Endocrinal stimuli working’, Gospodinov answered. ’Viral activity increasing. Nano saturation increasing’, Lamarck echoed. ’Twenty millisheldrake, and increasing.’, Smith reported from his screen. ’Hypertrophic Radiation 110% and increasing’, I answered from the screen in my part of the Lab. The hypertrophic radiation (although invisible when projected in gas, vacuum and most liquids) became visible when it was projected into the specially devised synthetic amniotic fluid together with the Morphogenetic Fields. Slowly we increased the stimuli. After a while it was obvious for the naked eye that Johansson had become visibly more muscular, but suddenly something went wrong: ’No! This is not my body! Where has my body gone? I can’t move my legs! I can’t feel my arms!’ The frightened screams increased, then suddenly fell silent. Gruber reported that the specimen had become comatose. The events from yesterday repeated themselves, and the setbacks took their toll in most of us. Their upbringing helped Smith and Lamarck to keep up a polite and neutral facade, but unlike the unperturbed Gruber, they seemed anyhow to feel concern for Soares and Johansson. The rest of us were unable to hide our feelings of worry, concern and guilt. I had honestly believed that the safety level of The Program’s each component was higher than this. What had we done to these young men? The next morning, it was impossible to keep what had happened a secret. Major Murphy told the recruits during breakfast that Soares and Johansson were unconscious in Infirmary. Someone called Gruber ’Doctor Frankenstein’, and someone threw a paper cup in the back of Smith’s head. László was avoided by his training buddies at the gym. Corporal Kowalski stared accusingly on me without a word. The mood at the Facility deteriorated. The ginger haired Lieutenant Jones complained over how László had planned the meals: ’Yuh’ll be kidding me! No bloody jipper ter the veggies?’ We cancelled any scheduled afternoon experiments, and went through all readings and notes again and again.Gruber asked all of us in the scientific team to record our brainwave patterns, in the presumption that we all had ’healthy brainwave patterns’, whatever that meant. *** I went to bed early, but couldn’t sleep, since Lamarck and Gospodinov were drinking wine in the neighbouring room. I drifted into the Lab again. It must have been after midnight, but Gruber worked late. I heard him talk into a microphone in a way which reminded me of relaxation sound files a friend of mine had used: ’You will be in perfect control of your body. You will be in perfect control of the abilities you have achieved by integrating into The Program, regardless of how much your physical form changes. You feel calm and relaxed. Your physical performance will be enhanced. It feels good to enhance your physical performance. You are in perfect control. You are perfectly present in your body. Everything will be fine. You will obey The Program. You will integrate everyone attuneable into The Program. You will obey the direction to protect the military unit and all civilians. You will do everything necessary to optimise and maximise the performance of yourself and of The Program. No-one will be permitted to abolish or limit the aim of The Program. You will attune perfectly. You will become enhanced. You will become augmented according to plan.’ Gruber pressed a button. A metallic voice answered: Vocal instruction translation into brainwaives initiated executed and accomplished The recording translated from speech into a brainwave pattern visible at one of the screens. Gruber pressed some other keys on the keyboard. A pattern labeled ’Smith’ flashed on the screen and was mixed with the first pattern. A pattern labeled ’László’ was glimpsed for a moment, until Gruber mixed it with the other two. I left the Lab, since I wanted to be alone. Somehow, I drifted into the Infirmary. It was Nurse Dubois who served at nightshift. A single lamp was lit close to Soares’ bed, in the light of which a silver pendant glinted on the bedside table. A plastic bag with nutrition hang from a stand, connected to Soares’ IV with a thin plastic tube. He wasn’t alone. Kowalski sat on a chair, looking sadly on Soares. I felt my bad conscience return, and I left the Infirmary silently. Since I was an Agnostic and a non-practicing member of Church of NorwayI hadn’t felt any reason to peek into the Meditation Room before, but I did it now. First, it lay in complete darkness, but a dim point, turning out to be a LED, guided me to the graded switch. At 50%, the grey ovoid concrete room rested in a soft and calming illumination. The floor consisted of polished stone. No images were to be seen. No chairs, but concrete benches fixed to the wall and surrounding a moderately large open space. Right. Le Corbusier meets IKEA. Ceiling-high cabinets were folded into the wall at some places, alternating with the grey concrete. In one part of the room, close to the entrance, the cabinet doors were made in dark oak, but gave place to several shades of gradually lighter brown woods in the middle, and with fir panels at the opposite end. ’Obvious committee work’, I thought. ’The British and the Greek had probably voted for oak, and the Norwegians and Swedes voted for fir. But the architect solved the problem tastefully. Probably someone from France or Switzerland.’ I continued to explore the room. In one cabinet I found bookshelves: The Christian Bible in thirty languages. Three books with the title ’Chumash’, which turned out to be the Hebrew Bible with translations into English, German and French. Six translations of the Koran in several languages. A highly decorated book in Greek, which I couldn’t read, and two similar ones in two eastern European languages I couldn’t identify. A German book called ’Gotteslob’. A number of booklets with latin text and several vernaculars in parallel columns. A handful of small A6-booklets in bright colours announcing: A Common Eucharist and Evening Prayer: As agreed upon by the member churches of the Porvoo Communion 2019. A handful of similar booklets in duller – or perhaps more serious – colours with the title: Gottesdienst in Kriegszeiten. Ein Leuenberger Agenda für EKD, SEK, FEPS und GEKE 2021. Bhagavadgita in English, German and French. A slightly damp-damaged booklet with the title Sandhya Vandanam. Samyutta Nikaya – what on earth is that? Oh – Buddhism in English translation. The Lotus sutra. Platform sutra. Guru Granth Sahib – hmm… Oh – Sikhism! Dawkins: The God delusion with a sticker: ’Donated by the National Secular Society’. Russell: Wisdom of the West. Oh, there seem to be something for everyone here! Someone has been thinking. We didn’t have any permanently stationed chaplain at the Research Facility, since the stay was – hopefully – expected to be short, but preparations had been made to facilitate devotions according to several religious beliefs or non-beliefs. I riffled absentmindedly through the pages of Bhagvadgita. I wasn’t Hindu, and only knew it by name: ’Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ Not uplifting, but hadn’t I heard these words before? Read somewhere… No. I couldn’t remember. Another cabinet contained a number of prayer shawls, two types of chalices for Eucharist, and a number of foldable carpets. As a matter of fact, a few of the uppermost carpets were folded slightly more carelessly than the lower ones, so probably they had been used more recently. A timer. A Byzantine icon of Christ folded in protective velvet, and a copy of Our Lady of Czestochowa, similarly contained. An electric fake candle. A lighter. Batteries. A crock filled with sand. A cylindric aluminium box marked ’Spaghetti’. Spaghetti? I opened the box, and a scent of sweet wood of some sort greeted my nose: It contained incense sticks, which reminded me of the habits of a former girlfriend. Most of the space in that cabinet was, however, consumed by small foldable meditation benches in different sizes. When I observed the polished stone floor, I became aware of a very subdued mosaïque, which informed the directions of East, Mecca, and North. Why North? I was puzzled. Both the southern wall and the northern were equipped with handles in waist height, which made me curious, but it turned out to be two foldable altars. Why two? Whatever belief anyone had – or not – the room was soothing, at least when the cabinets were closed and the altars folded back to the walls. I sat there in the stillness for more than twenty minutes, until I returned to my bed. *** It was afternoon again. Lamarck and Gospodinov had been unusually silent and gloomy in the morning, and didn’t melt until lunch, when they had consumed unusually large amounts of mineral water and buttered bread. Smith and Green absent-mindedly looked through their notes again, and László emitted whiffs of Lynx. ’Nice Einstein hair-do, Gospodinov!’, was the first words, when Lieutenant Jones entered the Lab. Jones, it had come out during the interview almost a week earlier, had a long time background in SAS, and was divorced. During childhood he had moved around frequently with his divorced mother between several places in the north: Liverpool, Manchester, Blackpool, Wigan, Bradford, Newcastle… – a litany of place names. His head was covered in a red haired buzzcut, and his ears were more protruding than in an average person. He was of pink composure, and built like a human version of a pitbull terrier. His military tattoos made him look perilous, but towards the scientific team he behaved protectively and irreverently in a humorous and good-natured way. It seemed that László and Jones had bonded well at the Gym already, and that helped to make Jones cooperative, despite of the sour mood in the Mess Hall. ’Ah dinna thought tha’ the avvy would come so suuhn. After wha’ ’appened ter Soares and Johansson, we all feel a li’l bi’ worried abuht the effects, out there. Wharryl ’appen ter us inside the Magic Boxes?’ Smith and Green seemed to understand Jones’ argot well enough to answer him, but for me, who was only familiar with schoolbook English and TV-programmes from BBC sent by Norwegian broadcasters, Jones was incomprehensible. The elderly scientists also seemed to be confused by Jones’ version of English. Smith explained: ’The Program is still in a prototype stage, but we believe that we may have fixed the bug now. If you two react well, and we have reasons to believe you will, the readings from your transformations will probably help us wake Soares and Johansson from their unconscious states.’ Corporal Bjarnarsson had stood silent near the doorway from the waiting room, looming. He was a twenty-seven year old giant of a man, with a past in strongman-contests. ’Ah. Corporal Bjarnarsson! For you the Procedure will probably cause less strain. The change will be lesser in extent, since you are in such a good shape already.’ For a millisecond Jones eyed Bjarnarsson somewhat enviously, but then changed back to his usual irreverent humorous chattiness. László took their measures, as befitted their coach. Curious, I peeked over László’s shoulder in order to see the Pad connected to The Program: Ltn. Jones: Weight: 95 kilogrammes Height: 186 centimetres Chest: 115 centimetres Waist: 91 centimetres Arm: 40 centimetres Thighs: 66 centimetres Cpl. Bjarnarsson: Weight: 156 kilogrammes Height: 199 centimetres Chest: 160 centimetres Waist: 104 centimetres Arm: 60 centimetres Thighs: [AWAITING DATA] ’When Ah was rather nuw in the Service, abuht fifteen years ago, or thereabuht, me an’ me mates went ter cinema an’ watched th’film ”Captain America”. ’s like being in the middle uvv something similar ’ere, innit. Please duhnt knock me uuht like yuh did ter Corporal Soares an’ Corporal Johansson.’ Jones continued to talk while the IV, the neuro-helmet and the mask were placed on him and Bjarnarsson. Bjarnarsson was reticently silent. Then they moved into the sluices and the Chambers. ’Tranquillisers and analgesics distributed.’, said Gospodinov, looking at a monitor governing the IV. ’Forty millisheldrake, and increasing.’, Smith reported from his screen. ’Hypertrophic Radiation 125%, and increasing’, I reported. ’Endorphins activated. Myostatine blockers activated. Testosterone production rising. Oestrogen moderated. Adrenalin moderated. Kortisol moderated. Somatropin level rising.’, Gospodinov said. ’Viro-treatment active. Saturation level of nano-particles increasing’, Lamarck echoed. Something looking like ghostly flames in a strange golden hue flared and filled the entire cylinders, surrounding Bjarnarsson and Jones. Something looking like electric bolts (although we knew they didn’t have anything to do with electrons) hit the defenceless bodies of the two test subjects. Gruber attended their Neuro-Reprogramming. It went well this time, but it was too soon to triumph and feel relief. Soon both bellowed lustfully their acceptance of, and obedience to, The Program, and the Competence Programming was encoded into their brains. Meanwhile, the analgesics, the endocrine treatment and the DNA-altering formulas circulated in their bodies, preparing the way for the upcoming Physical Reprogramming Phase. They fell into oblivion for a while, when their bone tissue adapted with an ugly scraping sound. They regained consciousness. Their breathing became heavier. They clenched their fists. Their shoulders and legs tensed. Their manhoods awakened. An eerie pulse of force caused their muscles to tense and relax, tense and relax… A change occurred in Bjarnarsson. The already very huge man didn’t become taller, but his body composition went from big-bellied to what my student-day gym-buddies would have called ’ripped’. Any unnecessary body fat was burned away by the altered metabolism induced by The Program, and Bjarnarsson’s already well-developed muscled swelled. The changes of Jones were much more tremendous. When he entered the Chamber, he was padded of tight but undefined muscles like an overstuffed Chesterfield, but now his brawn was growing, and when body fat burned away, his muscles became visible like protruding spheres and bicones of terrifying strength. ’Uh, uh! Ah! Oh, it’s so fuckin’ unbelievable! It’s so friggin’ brilliant, innit! Duh yuh hear me ouht there? … Oh yes! Really ace! All hard flesh… meatier… Am beefing up! … the feeling! It’s… oh, OH! Am connected to this amazing power surge, nnnn, mmmm, aah! Charging me! Powerload! Powercharge! POWERHOUSE! Um! Nnng! Ah! Yes, yes! Yes! Um! Nnngh, nnngh, AH!’ We lost verbal communication from Jones, since his words devolved into incomprehensible excited moans and grunts. His body was not easy to see by now, since the golden shimmer from the rays enfolded him, but, from what could be visibly observed and from the growing blue digital chart of his body, his physique quickly adapted to the extreme ideal of the green digital chart of the Field. In the other Chamber, Bjarnarsson emitted similar noises as Jones. A pulsating pump raged in every muscle of Jones’, but, unlike pump at the gym, this actually increased his muscle tissue here and now. His back muscles contracted, relaxed, hardened and swelled. Incredible back muscles protruded increasingly, forming a map of valleys and ridges. His lats broadened. His glutes formed into globes, and then globes indented, forming ’C:s’ patterned like spruces. His shoulders became boulders. His neck filled out into steel wires plaited into cords, forming an uncrushable bull neck. His calves became insane rugby balls of rock, defined by a valley into twin ridges. Both the front and the back of his thighs swelled into jaw-dropping vein-ridden monuments of masculine might. Deeply defined abs formed an unconquerable brick-wall of warm flesh, and his chest was composed of two expanding shields of engorged bulbous brawn, radiating of vigour. Under the influence of the treatment his vein-patterned triceps, biceps and forearms, fortified by hypertrophic power, were ever hardening, bulging and toughening. When The Program reached its culmination both test subjects shouted in hypertrophic bliss, bellowed in anabolic ecstasy, and roared in testosterone-fuelled power-craze. Green noticed that both specimens ejaculated. He looked at Gospodinov, who answered: ’Probably a side effect of the extremely heightened testosterone-production. The nurses have to clean the Chambers before next experiment.’ Nurse Fischer looked up from his notes with a disgusted expression. For a few seconds both test subjects passed out, and for a while we were all very worried that our failures would repeat, but Jones and Bjarnarsson soon regained consciousness, while the fluid receded. As soon as possible, László and Nurse Fischer opened the sluice doors and helped the subjects out. They actually could walk by themselves, but seemed elated and dizzy-headed. While they used their towels, we could notice that they transpired a lot of sweat. Worried, Smith asked: ’How do you feel?’ ’Ah feel really boss, nuw. Gobsmacked, really. Yuh duhn’t have ter worry abuht me, Doc. Am really made up. Feeling buff as hell. Wha’ stonking arms!’, and, eyeing his new complection he added: ’An’ its the first time Ah got a real bronzee, mate. At vacation in Ibiza and Lanzarote, Ah uhnly got pink, scolded and peeling. Dis’s unusual. But Ah can’t stan’ ’ere starkers all day. Yuh said something abuht a nuw sorta uniform?’ Calmly, Bjarnarsson said something about feeling fine. Green took measures of Bjarnarsson, while Smith took the measures of Jones,in order to assure that the data on the screen were correct: ’Oh by Jove!’ Ltn. Jones: Weight: 180 kilogrammes Height: 200 centimetres Chest: 188 centimetres Waist: 97 centimetres Arm: 76 centimetres Thighs: 96 centimetres While László was ransacking the Inventory for the new prototype uniform, Smith explained: ’The prototype uniform was engineered for several reasons. Since a traditional uniform would probably risk to either fray or to be a chunky inconvenience in action, something adaptable and stretchable was needed. Since the PCETOs seemingly use IR-perception as their primary sense, it was important to use a fabric which conducts excessive body heat in an unnoticeable way, while still warm enough. A new way of arranging carbon atoms has been demonstrated to hold the capacity to protect from projectiles and edged weapons. Since some of your future operations probably will take place in space, the uniform had to be easily used in combination with conventional space suits and the new prototype space armour. The same material is actually used in the tarpaulins at the Outer Perimeter, in order to camouflage the wood fires.’ László returned from the Inventory with a number of items of clothing. I hadn’t seen the new uniform myself, so I was as astonished as the recruits themselves. The stuff was black and glossy, with no hints of spun threads. Most of all it had a sort of leathery surface, but it had pliable qualities, and formed after the wearer. ’Dis pura kecks is tuh tight. Du yuh ’ave any larger pair uvvem? A’ve no’ any sparrer legs, anymore. Lewk at these ’amstrings an’ calves!’ László had a broad grin on his face, and handed over a larger pair of uniform trousers. It turned out that size 11 boots were too small, and we all waited while Jones tied the bootlaces of his size 12 army boots. When Jones and Bjarnarsson had dressed, we inspected the results. The uniforms looked painted on them, but, regardless of this, there seemed to be no risk of fraying or rips at the seams. The black, glossy and leathery material cling in a snug-fitting way to their enormous shoulders and pecs, saliently enhancing the presence of the shoulder straps with insignia and the breast pockets – the short sleeves leaving the forearms bare. The shirt buttons were designed to be non-obstructive and easy to button. The trousers were snug around the calves, but were tailored like cargo-trousers around the thighs, in order to facilitate the typically useful pockets. The trousers were reinforced over the groin, in a way bringing anti-riot equipment to mind. The belt buckle was adorned with the heraldic crest of this prototype Company. There was something vaguely intimidating to the rather high bootlegs, but, despite being advanced in ways which went over my head, the boots looked like typical military boots designed for practical usefulness rather than looks. They were smoothly polished, but with the new material the entire uniforms had the look of being polished by military standard shoe polish. The results were stunning. The uniforms didn’t hide their muscular physiques, but revealed and highlighted them. It felt somewhat unsettling to be in the presence of the uniformed and huge recruits. ’Yuh ’aven’t given ed a thought to take a trip into the Magic Boxes yerself, Doc? It luuk like yuh could ’ave use fer ed, eh? An’ yuh, Coach? Yuh would certainly like ed. Mooch be’er than slapping the monkey.’ Smith looked away with an embarrassed expression. His ears and cheeks were purple. Green interrupted: ’You will need some rest in the Infirmary. Later tonight or early tomorrow we will go to the gym and measure how your performance has increased.’ When Jones and Bjarnarsson had left for observation in Infirmary, Smith commented our conversation with Jones: ’There is something you mainland Europeans don’t understand: That UK is a kingdom divided by a common language.’ Chapter Two is found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/6609-project-defender-–-chapter-two/
  9. I haven't posted any story before. The purpose of this teaser is twofold. It will give readers a vague hint of the setting, and I will become familiar with how this forum handles text layout-wise. Please tell me if something looks funny on your computers. There are so many things that may go wrong with computers and internet. In another thread, the text I posted was perceived as white letters on white background for some readers. Thatwas not intentionally, and I hope to avoid such problems. DISCLAIMER The teaser doesn't contain anything worth warning for, with the possible exception of slightly derogative designations of citizens of the USA and the Russian Federation, but some of the chapters of the finished story will. Do not read this if you find any of the aforementioned things offensive. Project Defender – The Teaser Janssens felt an icy chill in his chest. Earth was under attack. Communication with the Yankees, the Russkies and Beijing was lost, the satellites down and the trans-atlantic cable broken. Europe was on its own now, and the Space Squids annihilated city after city. He knew his duty. He had been hand-picked by Forces Spéciales and sent to the International Pan-European Research Facility B as a test subject. But to know one's duty and to feel relaxed were two different things. The results of The Program on some of his brothers-in-arms were as remarkable as the results on some were disastrous, and The Program was still on a prototype stage. Even if Doc, Viking Guy, Boffin and Coach did their best, none of them, nor he himself, could know for sure what would happen to him in the cylindric Chamber 1. Do you accept The Program? He hadn't been able to imagine how the Neuro-Reprogramming would feel. First, he reacted in fear. Do you accept The Program? No! No, no, no! It pressed its influence against his mind, trying to control him. You will accept The Program No! The fear of losing himself, the fear of becoming something else, something machine-like, something... You will accept The Program You will accept The Program You will ... something monstrous, something without control, something... accept The Program You will accept The Program You will accept The Program ... something totally amazing, something totally obedient, something totally martial... You will accept The Program You will accept SIR, YES SIR! And when the Phase of Neuro-Reprogramming was accomplished, the Phase of Physical Reprogramming was initiated. The inividual unit formerly known as 'Janssens' would never be entirely the same as before, but humankind would have another Defender. Chapter one will be found here: https://muscle-growth.org/topic/5059-project-defender-–-chapter-one/
  10. Check out Part 1 if you need a refresher on the story: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/2496-the-facility/ Two years had passed since that day back in the city. Both of you managed to get out and found refuge in a neighboring community away from the chaos that ensued from that crazy day. Remarkably though the force that consumed the city only managed to affect a small amount of men from outside its borders and never made it to this town they made it to. Even more amazing is the fact that both you and Howard returned to your normal sizes just a few hours after entering this new community. You were both found and taken to a place that was being run by a doctor by the name of Ross Bloodstone. He was intrigued by both of your circumstances and started running very elaborate tests on both of you. After determining that you and Howard were both born with genetic gifts, the doctor decided to organize a team to go investigate the building you spoke to him about and find out exactly how this whole thing started. He recruited you to go back and search to where this force was being housed inside the facility where you and Howard both originally changed. The search team was to wear protective gear that was implanted with an oxygen tank so they could breathe clean air and not worry about some freak accident from happening. You lobbied hard to get Howard put onto the search team, but Dr. Bloodstone decided against it and sent him to go work with a research company to help develop a new type of protein supplement. The doctor had occasionally spoken to you about people he had worked with in the past that would make you think that perhaps this experimental facility was somehow put together as part of one of his studies. You decided to keep it to yourself so he wouldn’t get any indications that you might question his motives. After some last minute planning, you got the search team together and shuffled them into an armored van that was meant for tough missions like this one. The drive back to the city was about three hours away from this community. The men were also told to eat something before they left to avoid the possibility of having to expose themselves to the air. The team was made up of five guys, all of different sizes and all had different levels of expertise. The one that was assigned to stay with you at all times was Brisco, a stunningly handsome former marine with a thick powerful build. From day one at the safehouse you had resided in, this man helped you cope with the after effects of the reversion process and stayed close when your lover was not available. Howard never truly understood why this man latched on to you so quickly so he tried to stay close to you to make sure that nothing unusual would happen. It is perhaps the main reason why he was assigned to another location to avoid getting into the middle of whatever Brisco’s assignment was. The other three vary in size from the lanky type with the technological skills, Marshall, to one with medical expertise, Evers, and the other one was a monstrously huge brute with the strength to fend off whoever might have come along. His name was Hery, a South American former superheavyweight bodybuilder that at one time was going to compete for the Olympia competition before all hell broke loose in his homeland. Once you arrived back inside the city, you were shocked to see that there was a substantial amount of dead men lying everywhere. It seemed really strange that not a single man survived from this catastrophe, but that there must have been a reason for this to occur as well. The team managed to find the location of the facility and parked the van directly in front of where both you and Howard emerged from just a couple of years before. You started to get out of the vehicle until Brisco ordered you to stay put while he went inside to search. The rest of the team followed closely behind him. After they made their way inside the huge opening in the facility wall, you managed to sneak out the driver’s side door and peeked in before stepping inside. The darkness inside the testing area reminded you of what had transpired just a few years before. Nothing had changed except for several portions of the ceiling which were falling down from the lack of maintenance. You got a flashlight out from your suit pocket and looked over and noticed that Marshall was already inside the control room checking out the machinery that still remained slightly intact despite the carnage that occurred from that crazy day. Both Evers and Hery had apparently gone somewhere else inside the facility since they were nowhere to be seen. You managed to find your way over to start discussing what may or may not have led to the development of this powerful force. You were trying to formulate in your mind of whether or not he was just doing things for Dr. Bloodstone or if he really was interested in figuring out how this may have gotten started on his own free will. You eventually decided to let Marshall continue his examination of the machinery and went searching throughout other sections of the building. You could hear both Brisco and Hery discussing something in the gym area not far from the main entrance of the building as you entered the long corridor that led to the front part of the facility. It seemed as if Hery was more interested in finding out if the force was still activated in the air than ever protecting the team from anything they may have encountered. The two men argued for several minutes before Brisco finally said that he wasn’t going to be part of whatever decision Hery was going to make. He even threatened to kill him right there if he decided to take his helmet off. Before they said anything else, you quickly jumped in between them to resolve whatever conflict was going to transpire next. Brisco told you to get out the way, but you refused since you figured he wouldn’t hurt you considering how he has been with you over the last several months. The huge bodybuilder made a few more taunts before unlatching his helmet and threatened to pull it off. You pleaded with him to take a few minutes to think about what he was going to do, but it didn’t work as he immediately pulls his helmet off. He took several deep breaths inhaling the air and grunted in his low South American voice. Within seconds, both you and Brisco could hear his body reacting. His suit was inflating to its limits as his muscles were expanding at an alarming rate. The marine pushed you out of the way and started shooting at Hery numerous times hitting the growing behemoth in his chest and legs. The blood from his wounds was slowly pooling out the holes in his suit before his bloated muscles started tearing their way out of the fabric and pushed the bullets out and onto the floor. He was yelling quite loudly at Brisco as he continued to swell inside up the suit as the fabric quickly gave way to the mass that continued to grow on top of the immense muscle he had already on his bulging torso. You got back up and attempted to get the marine away from Hery, but he wouldn’t budge as he tried shooting the swelling behemoth again. The bullets barely pierced his olive flesh as the expanding muscle layers pushed them right back out. At this point, the South American’s suit completely fell to the ground. He continued to expand as he grew even taller and was about to reach the ceiling above him. You decided to high tail it out the back of the gym area and into the locker area. You peered around the corner to listen from the locker room entrance and could hear Hery’s immensely deep voice rumbling against the walls as Brisco yelled in fright. The ceiling was heard crumbling as the facility shook several times forcing you to brace yourself against the wall you were standing beside. You decided to find another way out of the locker room in case the giant decided to come looking for you. This was a part of the facility that you were not familiar with since you were immediately sent back into the test area when you originally arrived there. Perhaps there was a door in the back where you could find a way out. After a couple of minutes of searching, you did find a door and opened it. You quickly rushed inside and closed it. When you were trying to turn around, you were immediately met by Evers who attempted to try and knock you out. You avoided his blow and retaliated by punching him in the faceguard of his helmet which knocked him backwards. He started to fall over but you managed to catch him before he landed on the ground. You didn’t want his helmet to come off somehow. He tried to get back up but you ended up sitting on him to restrain him while you asked him questions about his motive and what the doctor wanted him to do at the facility. Evers refused to answer any of his questions and said that he was willing to kill himself if it was needed. You knew that you couldn’t let him off that easy by taking his helmet off so you forced him up to his feet and sat him over in a chair by a window that was located close to a door which went outside. You found some thick medical tape lying close to you and wrapped his arms up in it behind his back as well as around the bottom part of his helmet to avoid any kind of accident from possibly occurring. This room appeared to be some kind of lab area with various bottles of chemicals and gases lying everywhere. You scanned the whole area and came to the conclusion that perhaps Evers was sent back here to possibly work on getting another virus developed. You heard noises coming from behind one of the walls and went over to investigate. You could hear something powering up and quickly jumped backwards to avoid the blast that ended up coming through the wall. A huge crater appeared as Evers went flying into the wall behind him. Someone came through the crater and grabbed you by the arm before standing you up. They immediately noticed that a crack was forming on your helmet and patched it quickly before any of the air entered. As you came to your senses, you noticed that it was in fact Marshall who picked you up from the ground. He told you that they needed to get out of there to avoid being found because he realized that they were being used by the doctor and most likely other members of the search team. Still a bit groggy, you nodded in agreement as the man opened the door that led outside and felt yourself being dragged away from the facility. More sounds were heard emanating from the complex behind you as the two of you went inside a nearby building to take shelter. You collapsed into Marshall’s arms once you found a safe place inside that was secure and passed out. Need to catch up on Doctor Bloodstone?: Part 1: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/3533-introducing-the-muscle-doctor-part-1-of-2/?hl=%2Bintroducing+%2Bthe+%2Bmuscle+%2Bdoctor Part 2: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/3600-introducing-the-muscle-doctor-part-2-of-2/?hl=%2Bintroducing+%2Bthe+%2Bmuscle+%2Bdoctor
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