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