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Catch up: 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 penis 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, innocent, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable appetite to receive muscle worship. Casey's simplicity, and his ever-growing need to receive equal doses of both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. Links to previous 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 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 13: After the Match Casey lay on the wrestling mat, completely spent. His eye was swollen – he’d have a nice shiner tomorrow. His huge, tired muscles gleamed oily red with sweat and scratch and pressure marks from the match. Casey dripped with splotches of oil mixed with muscle cum. Lakes of cum oozed into the oil, painting his raw, vascular physique a creamy, drippy, white, gathering in little lakes in the deep cobblestones of his abs, rolling in thick tides down his lats and onto the mat. “What the fuck?” he asked plaintively. “What kinda place IS this?” He sniffed the air. Cum. Everything smelled of cum. Around and above him the men were zipping up, putting their cocks away, retrieving sweaty, torn clothing. Karim Abdul, the vanquished muscle monster, lay to his left. Enraged, cum-coated, growling. “I’ll get you, kid,” he threatened. He stood, rivulets of cum flowing down from his face onto his massive traps. He started off. He stopped when he got to Blankenship. Blankenship grinned toothily. It didn’t last long. POW!!! Blankenship flew about 20 feet into the air from the force of Abdul’s uppercut punch, his feet never touching the ground. A tooth, suddenly without a home, landed beside him. Out cold. “Where you going, Corporal?” Moster demanded, stuffing his massive, dripping cock back into his pants and zipping up with some difficulty over the bulge. Abdul ignored him, stalking out the room. "Come on, Pedro," he barked to the pretty little kitchen boy, who scampered eagerly after him. “Someone get Blankenship and put him to bed.” Moster sighed, knowing that the muscleman would demand a match of his own the next day. And on it would go, until he was forced once again into public bare-butt spankings to keep them in line. Funny how they’d deck one another but submit meekly to hard paddling on their razor sharp glutes. The men stared a little – though all had seen Moster’s cock before – in fact, all the men had at various points sucked it dry, and had their own faces coated with the steady, unrelenting stream of ropey gism that shot from his deep piss slit. But no one could remember a group scene quite like what had just occurred. Abdul stalked off to the showers, Schumacher and Obatu bent to pick up a groggy, moaning Blankenship. Moster took his clipboard to a desk in the corner of the wrestling room and lowered his rockhard muscle butt into the swivel chair, which sagged and groaned under his mass. Corporal Alvarez and Private Lang, who had called Casey a motherfucker, but somehow managed to make it sound good, turned to check out the new muscle kid last time as they passed through the door back to their quarters, where they planned to fuck butt all night. They knew Moster wouldn’t be paying attention. Not tonight. Casey caught their look, and they nodded briefly at him. Lang gave him a half smile. Then he winked. And then they were both gone. Schumacher didn’t leave right away, though. He handed Blankenship over to LeFevre and stood back, watching like a hawk as the others filed out. Then he walked boldly right up to Casey. He looked up at him. “Sergeant Moster has another little honorary initiation ritual on that I think you may find both interesting and rewarding.” He smiled. “We’d like the opportunity to take you through it tomorrow.” “I - I’ll be honored to be a part of it.” “Yes, you will.” “Get out of here, Schumacher,” said Moster with good-natured gruffness. Schumacher looked blankly at Moster, who hadn’t even looked up from his notes. “And it won’t be tomorrow. It won’t be any time soon.” He looked up. “For Casey, that is. However, I’d be happy to accommodate you at any time.” His hand twitched and Schumacher instinctively shot a hand down to protect his glutes. “Yes, sir.” Schumacher left the lab. “Sorry about that, Casey,” said Moster, as soon as he was gone. “Corporal Schumacher gets a bit riled over anything having to do with Private Tiffany. They all have their quirks. You’ll adjust. Those last two men? They were Private Robert Lang and Corporal Julio Alvarez. Those two specimens were brought into the facility only a year ago. Others have come, but not everyone makes it through, and if they fail, then Zaftig releases them back into the general population. In fact, only 1 in 50 make it as far as you have. Now, drop your posers. It’s time I inspected your penis more closely.” Casey slightly rolled his eyes. “Again, sir?” “I’m not going to say it twice.” Casey nodded, resigned. He understood. It was about his penis, after all. Not his muscles. His dong. His wang. His rod. His cock. His huge motherfucking penis. It was always about his huge motherfucking penis. Moster was watching him steadily, his eyes narrowing. “Is there a problem, cadet?” he asked quietly, after a moment. “No problem, at all, sir.” He slipped his fingers into the elastic band of his torn, micro posing trunks and pulled it out from his body, and slid it down over his quads. Pop….. Smack! His giant penis poured out and slapped down onto his quads just above his knees. Immediately it stiffened slightly. The bell-like cock head bobbed forward once or twice, and the pulsing veins in the shaft began to throb a little more rapidly. Casey was breathing hard now. He was beet red with embarrassment. Moster never stopped looking him in the eye. He strode forward and grabbed hold of his thick penis in his left hand, squeezing the shaft lightly. Casey’s eyes widened in profound surprise. It grew hard in the palm of his hand. His palm glided up and down the warm steely rod 2, 3 times, very slowly. It grew under his hand. “Impressive. How big is this machine of yours?” He stroked it with his fingers. “I see you didn’t cum during the match." He began to rub his heavy hands with practiced movements up and down the boy’s thick shaft. “I – I don’t know, sir.” Casey had begun to sweat. Moster remained cool. “No, I didn’t shoot.” He shuffled from side to side, and his penis slipped out of Moster’s palm. Moster looked up. He took hold of the cock firmly once again. “You seem agitated. You badly need some additional training. Part of what marks this troop is their ability to restrain their emotional responses. And it seems to me your cock is responding emotionally.” Moster continued to stroke Casey’s machine vigorously. “So since we’re going in that general direction, let’s take a few additional measurements. Private Tiffany!” he suddenly called out towards the open corridor door. No response, but Casey made out a figure in the darkened shadows of the corridor. “Private Joe Tiffany. I know you’re out there. Step in here now, Private.” Tiffany appeared in the doorway. The young bodybuilder had removed his t-shirt and stood stripped to the waist. His ripped muscles gleamed in the fluorescent light. He entered the lab and walked bow-legged, a coiled cobra, towards the two musclemen in the center of the room. “Take some additional measurements, Tiffany. You know what I am referring to.” Tiffany smiled. “Yes, sir, I know.” He approached Casey. Looking him squarely in the eyes, he knelt with business-like efficiency before him. When his eyes were level with Casey’s member, he looked squarely at it. “What is the diameter, Private Tiffany?” Moster reached again for the clipboard, all business. Tiffany opened his smiling mouth wide and moved towards Casey’s cock. Casey nearly jumped out of his skin. “What’s he doing?!” “Private Tiffany has an unusual talent. It’s like having perfect pitch. He can take exact measurements with his mouth. He’s never off by more than 1/64th of an inch. Go for it, Private. Enjoy yourself, Casey.” “Flex for me, dude,” cajoled Tiffany sweetly, his mouth hovering just above the head of Casey’s enormous penis. “Come on, man, let’s see those big rocky peaks.” He flicked his tongue out and lightly touched the corona. “Sir…” Casey started to say. “Cadet Rockland, Project Herculaneum soldiers do as they’re told. Private Tiffany will now suck your cock. If you have a problem with this, speak up now. We administer regular oral-stimulation sessions here at Valhalla Labs.” “But ….it’s so gay, sir.” Tiffany snickered. “You’re standing there covered with oil and cum and you’re complaining about this being gay?” Moster stepped forward and spoke evenly. “That’s enough, Tiffany,” Tiffany immediately shut up. Moster turned to Casey. “Muscle is its own sex. Some have posited over the years that sex is bad for bodybuilders. We know better here. Cocksucking is not only pleasurable, it stimulates the psyche. It clears out problems with the prostate. Done regularly and properly it enhances semen production. It sharpens the animal instincts, to say nothing of increasing testosterone production. It also serves to further bond the men.” “You mean everyone sucks dick here.” “Everyone who wants to remain in The Project get their cocks sucked. Not only that, they are expected to suck cocks themselves. Regularly. Is there an issue? Are you frightened?” “No….I…..what if he bites me?” Tiffany gave him a lopsided smile, which he meant to be charming. “I never bite too hard,” he said. “I assure you Private Tiffany knows what he is doing. Proceed, Private.” “Okay…..” said Casey, bewildered. “Let’s see those guns, cadet,” said Tiffany. Slowly, as if hypnotized, Casey raised his arms up into front double biceps. Joe Tiffany smiled like a little boy in a candy store. He flicked a little river of cum that followed a thick vein from the cannonball right biceps to the tri’s. Then he squatted on his handsome haunches. He glanced at the mammoth machine that hung before him, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “This looks like a real jaw-breaker, sir.” “You’ve worked with mine. It’s far bigger. Get to work,” Sergeant Moster commanded, clipboard ready. “Yes, sir. Anything for the good old USA, sir.” Tiffany fingered his Adam’s apple. “Gotta limber up.” He opened his mouth as wide as he could, yawning it four or five times, retracting his teeth behind his lips. He pressed his palm to his jaw and tilted his head, then raised his hands and gently pried his own mouth open to its fullest expanse. He licked his lips until they dripped with spit. Casey watched him intently, still flexing his biceps. His brain was burning. Tiffany approached Casey’s fully erect manhood, gently guided it up to his mouth, parted his lips slightly, and tenderly extended his tongue to lightly flick the big cock head. Flick. Flick. Flick. Casey blinked. Tiffany ran his tongue along the piss slit and probed a little inside. He looked up again. “What’s your preliminary estimate, Private?” “I’d say it looks to be between 14 and 14 -1/2 inches in length, sir.” “Very good. Girth? “9 inches at least.” “Confirm it, please.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany leaned in and oh so softly glided his lips smoothly over the head of Casey’s penis. He closed his mouth and gently held firm. He closed his eyes, as if concentrating. Inside his mouth, his tongue methodically caressed the cock head. Casey was blown away. He stared down at the cocky short muscleman whose mouth was now enveloping the head of his penis. No one had ever sucked his cock before, let alone a man, let alone a muscleman. He gulped. Shit, Casey thought. Shit. I’m gonna cum. “Sir, I’m gonna cum, sir!” he blurted out. “Not yet you’re not. No man in my outfit cums in 5 seconds. Control yourself, cadet. Tiffany, what’s your first assessment? How big is this cadet’s cock?” Tiffany, his mouth full of cockhead, tried to respond. He couldn’t. Even he was surprised at the girth of Casey’s member. “MMgghblrb,” he said. “Gaaggg…mmmmhyrpphhhglub……aaaaackk…” “I can’t understand you when you mumble, damn it. Speak plainly, Private.” Tiffany pulled back for a moment, giving the head a final appreciative lick as it popped out of his mouth. “Yes, sir!” He reported, “The corona, I’d say, has a circumference of 10 and 3/8s inches. That sound about right to you, boy?” he asked wickedly. “I…I dunno…” Casey was baffled. What's a corona? Did he mean his cock head? One thing was sure: he was gonna get this guy. He wants to suck my cock, does he? Okay, then. “Now for the shaft.” He smiled again and whispered up to Casey. “This is the fun part,” he said. “Go for it, faggot.” Casey muttered. Tiffany raised an amused eyebrow, then winked at him and plunged forward, his mouth taking in all of Casey’s massive organ. His lips slid easily over the thick shaft, and somehow – by an instinctive rearrangement of tonsils? and a replacement of his soft palate? his mouth glided smoothly down the full length of the erect penis. When he reached the base, once again he stopped. Inside his mouth his tongue stroked the thick, pulsing cock veins. The penis grew stiffer and began to throb insistently inside Tiffany’s mouth. Tiffany sucked Casey’s cock. Back and forth, up and down, tip to base, his lips glided smoothly over the engorged shaft. Threads of thick glistening saliva appeared along the pulsing veins with each plunge. After 10 deep sucks, 5 very appreciative full-length licks, and a little tongue-and-balls-dancing, he pulled back again a moment, and, his eyes dancing merrily up at Casey, he coated the heavy, hairy testicles three or four final times. “Very nice,” he whispered. “Too bad you’ll have to shave these babies.” Okay, thought Casey. Maybe this guy was an asshole, but he was beginning to enjoy this. Something came alive inside him for the first time in his life. Hey, he thought, I really like this. This feels really good. “How do you like it, cadet?” asked Moster, clearly amused. “I like it fine, sir.” Casey managed to get out. “Private Tiffany, resume sucking.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany went back to work. He sucked deeply five more times, and then pulled back for what he thought was a final time. As Casey’s penis rolled out of his mouth, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He turned to Moster, ready to report. “The shaft circumference is unusually thick. I’d put at just over 9 inches. Length of the erect penis, 14 -1/4 inches from base to tip. Weight, maybe 7 pounds, a few ounces? Give or take.” “Your overall assessment?” Casey was staring, excited beyond words, and getting mad as hell. Why had he stopped? This was just getting good. His erect member lobbed back and forth in the air, protesting, next to Tiffany’s left ear, who had turned to face Moster. Tiffany felt the wind of it as it passed, and studied ignored the whooshing sounds. “Definitely a superior organ. I sense he has not used it much in sport yet, aside from masturbating, but I’d also guess he has to masturbate 4 or 5 times a day. Maybe more. There’s a lot of blood pumping here, and it throbs steadily throughout the sucking process. I’d guess this cock hasn’t been sucked very often before, if ever.” “That’s all you know,” said Casey. “Seems unlikely that such a big muscleboy hasn’t found suitable candidates eager to give him regular blowjobs. There’s lots of men out there who like to suck bodybuilder cock. I suppose women, too. Still, Zaftig said this boy is different. All right, then. You’re done for now. Dismissed. Back to your quarters.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany got up and winked at Casey, wiping his mouth. “See you later,” he said smugly, and sauntered out of the room. Casey stood trembling. “Do you need to shoot, Cadet?” asked Moster, all business. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I do, sir.” “Get to it, then.” Moster walked casually over to the main table of the lab, put down the clipboard, and surreptitiously picked up a 2-quart beaker. He approached Casey. Casey grabbed his engorged cock with both hands. His body shuddered. He was about to let loose with a mighty blast of gism. Moster was prepared. He strode forward and grabbed Casey’s cock, and in the moment he exploded, he had the beaker ready. He calmly forced the beaker over the cockhead. Casey was stunned, but couldn’t stop his semen from bursting into the jar. “UUUUNNNNGHHH!” he shouted, and his cum flowed heavily out of his shooting dick and began to fill the container with its milky white thick fluid. “UUUUUUUUNNNNNGGGGHHHHHHHHH!! uuunnnggHHHGGHH!!! YEAH! OH GOD YEAH MAN!” As Casey’s huge body shuddered with spurt after spurt, the cum level climbed, half filling the jar. “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhUNHHH ARRRRGGGGGG hhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhh……” Three minutes later, with a last huge shrug, he was done. As he shuddered to a finish, Moster corked the beaker and held it aloft. He swirled the thick liquid in each and smiled. “Not bad, cadet,” he said calmly. “Close to a pint. Pretty good for a first shot. You’ll do better later.” Casey was meek and baffled and embarrassed. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Dismissed. We’ll see you at the gym tomorrow at 0700 hours. Get some sleep, Casey. Good night.” He turned and marched out of the room. Casey wiped his dripping dick with the back of his hand. He picked up his clothes and dressed quickly, forcing his still-hard cock into his shorts. But he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. “Shit,” he said. He stood alone in the center of the room, his ripped posing trunks stretched around his ankles, the pole of his mammoth cock weaving out of control in the air. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. He was going to shoot again. He grabbed his cock with both hands, and fired towards the ceiling. “UUUUNNNNNGGGGHHHH!” he shouted, and, as ropes of semen began once again to fly into the air, hitting the ceiling, painting the walls, and splashing onto the ground. As his cum shot out of his enormous cock head, he was thinking feverishly. He remembered the cum on Abdul’s handsome Arab face. And he had been accepted into The Nineteen. Would they now be known as The Twenty? Casey knew it to be true. He could now be considered one of the world’s finest bodybuilders, if Project Herculaneum wasn’t so top-secret, and he wasn’t even 20 years old yet. He was powerful. He had a future. He had promised. He was in the elite. The last of his cum geyser shot into the air, arced, and splashed heavily on the sopping marley floor beneath him. His shoulders slumped and he dropped his hands to his sides. So why was he still bothered by something he couldn’t quite figure out? And how come that evil little muscle boy Joe Tiffany looked so familiar to him. Who was he? And why couldn’t he put his finger on it? Casey bent to put what was left of his ripped and shredded posing trunks back on. They barely covered his cock, but he didn’t notice. He waddled to the door of the wrestling room to head back to his quarters for the night. Tomorrow he would move into his new room. He had a lot to think about. He’d have to think about it all.
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... Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets Chapter 22: Field Trips for Worship Part 1 December 5th, 2021 “And explain to me why again, Sergeant Moster, just precisely why this so-called “research” trip to Los Angeles is so necessary?” Moster and Zaftig were in his office. Dr. Zaftig sighed with studied patience, as if for the fiftieth time. It was part of the little act he put on every time Sergeant Rod Moster demanded a special (and highly expensive) worship excursion for the army of musclemen. And with the launch of each new off-campus foray, Zaftig always had Moster on the carpet in his lavish office, though he knew nothing he could ever say would cancel the trip, change the plan, or unnerve the massive muscle monster. Still, Zaftig tried. Damn, it wasn't even good science. “Once again, privately scheduled sessions with our client supporters is good for business, and for the men, it’s good for – “ “I know, it’s all for their morale…. .” Another sigh. “Sir,” said Moster, trying a recently discovered new tactic. “I don’t have your kind of money,” Zaftig nodded. It was a reasonable argument. “None of the men do. And the men need to earn some heavy lucre as well during their good years. Private worship sessions are…” “Yes, yes, so you have said. And I know that for you, rather than seeing these men as fighting machines, or heralds of an eternal fountain of youth, you see them as sexual receptacles, monsters of muscle and able to confer fantastic favors. I know, I know.” Another sigh. “In any event, they have decades of good years yet to come. I’ve seen to that. My work has seen to that. And yeah, yeah, I know, I know. It’s all good for fucking morale. Frankly, I don’t see it.” Moster raised an eyebrow. Such language was unheard of for Zaftig. These trips – and the inevitable costly clean-up aftermath – must be getting to him. He changed his tone accordingly. “The men require outside worship sessions, sir, and more frequently than you allow. As and as for the money…” “Fine. FINE. FINE. Take them to LA but be back in 48 hours.” “72 hours.” “FINE.” A pause. “How much do they make?” “Sir?” “Come on. Money. How much are they paid? Per ‘appearance’, if you want to put it that way. What’s the going rate?” Moster coughed a little. “They average about $6,000 each per ‘appearance’ as it were.” Zaftig whistled. “Wow. I assume that’s the for the whole group?” “No.” Moster paused.”Per man.” Zaftig reflected.”Per man….” Zaftig took it in, his attitude changed. He nodded reflectively. “And how much time per…. . performance?” “About one hour each.” “$6,000 an hour?” “Sir, the men will do anything they are requested to do.” He paused. “Anything. With anyone. As long as their muscles are being admired. As long as they’re being worshipped. Touched. Stroked. Praised. Longed for…” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it.” Sergeant Moster was silent. “You do realize that you’re prostituting them. Right? Yes? You know this?” Moster said nothing. “Your silence tells me that you do understand exactly that. Where are you going this time?” “Brentwood. Then the Hollywood Hills.” “Oh, Christ. Movie people?” “Some. The money is best there.” “Is Dr. Shaft coming with you?” Moster paused. He hadn’t wanted this. “Yes, of course, if you insist.” “I would prefer it, yes. And try to stay out of the papers this time.” Moster smiled. “You mean try to stay off TMZ. Off Facebook. Instagram, SnapChat and YouTube?” Zaftig snickered, in spite of himself. “Yes, thank you for reminding me that I’m antediluvian. I know. You make your point. Yes. Whatever. Stay off the radar. Whatever the radar is these days, and whatever that may mean. Low profile. That means no unexpected hospitalizations, either.” "The men won't require medical care.” "I'm not talking about the men, I'm taking about the poor saps who are paying thousands of dollars per man who get the shit beat out of them. Jaws broken, eyes blackened, smashed noses, all in the way of ‘worship. ’ “It’s not that violent, sir.” “Bullshit. Who are you taking? The new boy, Casey?” “Yes. I am guessing I may be able to get $15,000 for Casey. $8,000 in his pocket. Perhaps more. It will be his first time, and he’s eager. And – we suspect he has extraordinary inner desires of his own which may increase the quality of the experience.” "Who else?" "Alvarez, Lang, Hension, Waring, Schumacher, Washington, Abdul, Obatu, and Gunst.” "Right. Ten of them.” “Yes.” “What's that thing that Alvarez and Lang do together. . . ?" "Pose and approve, sir.” "Yes.” Zaftig chucked. “Pose and approve. That's good. No Blankenship? I though he was one of your hottest boys. Missing gap teeth, knocked out by Abdul, all that.” “He wants to stay behind and work on his pecs. He’s dissatisfied. And we’re replacing those missing teeth.” Zaftig nodded. He knew. $10,000 for caps. He sighed again. “His pecs are perfect now.” “He wouldn’t agree. I assume, sir, we have your permission to go?” “Ten of them. Eleven, with you. I assume you’re part of the display?” Moster smiled. “I get $12,000.” “God. Of course you do. Yes, yes, go, go. GO. Take a driver who will stay sober and off drugs. Take Ferdinand. He doesn’t care, for crissakes. And take a reserve of White Caps, and take $18,000 in petty cash. Get it from Rose in the outer office. Try not to spend it in one place. Be back by Sunday night. “Yes, sir.” “And check in with Dr. Irving before you go. Take him with you for the private sessions.” Moster started out. “I want video! Good video. And make sure you meet up with Dr. Shaft. I want him to observe.” Moster stopped in the doorway and smiled grimly. “Oh, he’ll like that.” “Yes, he will. Try not to beat the crap out of him this time, Sergeant.” “I hardly “beat” him up….” “Last time you saw him personally, he wound up with two black eyes, a broken nose, and couldn’t sit down for a month without a sitz pillow.” “He enjoyed it all, sir.” “I know he did. All the same, I need to keep him alive.” He smiled a little. “However, you may spank him if you must. I know you like that.” “I look forward to it, sir.” Zaftig sighed, frustrated as always that his chief research fellow, the talented Dr. Shaft, was so crazily in need to worship his muscular lab rats. “I need his latest research on the effects of P21a, the new serum we’re working on, to promote healthier vascularity. I don’t want my men to start collapsing of heart attacks when they’re 55. Or have my chief researcher get beaten to death, however pleasurably and however much he asks for it. ‘Observing’ – I know, it’s bullshit…” Moster smiled once again at Zaftig’s unusual terminology. “Your language, sir…” “Fuck you.” “Yes, sir.” “Not that I want to.” Moster nodded, again inwardly respectful. Zaftig was, at heart, pure, with no sexual needs or inner longer for his mountainous boys. Moster couldn’t say the same of himself, with his own ever-present, barely cloaked need to spank their rocky, perfect glutes and have them all worship at the fountain of his own gigantic cock. And, for the few who could manage it, get his own mountainous butt deeply fucked. And somehow, he felt this made Zaftig slightly the stronger of the two. Zaftig was still talking about Dr. Shaft. “Just don’t hurt him this time. Don’t sit on his face for an hour. Last January your ass broke his collarbone, and after he complained to me, you saw him again, and once again, he couldn’t sit down for a month. I need him with the Join Chiefs in February. Hopefully unbandaged, and able to sit.” “You got it, chief.” “Don’t call me chief.” “Sorry, Dr. Zaftig. Anything else?” “Yes. Keep an eye on the new boy.” “Rockland?” “Yes. This is his first of your worship tours, right?” “Yep. Yes, sir. It is indeed.” “He’s used to…. the games you put the men through…. by now?” Zaftig spoke with resigned distaste. “He took right to it, sir.” “I might have known. But then, the source was Miles Donovan’s gym, after all.” “I don’t believe he was active there.” “No, that’s right, he wasn’t, I remember now. All right. That boy shows promise. Don’t ruin him.” “I haven’t ruined any of the men yet, sir.” “You’ve injected them all with the psychological need to pose naked in front of strangers who then proceed to beg them for outlandish sexual favors. I am not sure of the long term effects of this.” Moster regarded him evenly for a moment. “I am,” he said. “I am sure.” And turned to go. ****** Slightly before dawn the next morning the Valhalla bus – a $250,000 custom job, replete with comfortable plush seating, overwide aisles, juice bar, high speed Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and a small snack counter - left the compound. Nine selected men, plus Sergeant Moster, Dr Irving, and the slightly disgusted if certainly envious, non-muscle worshipping bus driver Ferdinand were off to LA to make the select client rounds. Dr. Shaft had been alerted and was proceeding directly to LA in his own private car. Three appointments, in Brentwood, Beverly Hills, and in the Hollywood Hills, had been discreetly confirmed by Rose. The Hollywood Hills stop was to be the first of the evening – and was the biggest. The total cash earnings for the weekend of muscle worship in three locations might exceed $200,000. Barring any unusual cleanup expenses (furniture damage, walls replaced, carpet torn up and relaid, plumbing bills, broken windows, and so forth), hospitalizations or lawyer fees, the net gain could exceed $160,000. And after the appointments, the men were also to be allowed some free time after the obligatory scheduled visits. Each man was given a tablet and a private burner phone to make their own private client appointments. An hour into the drive, the men were finally calm, quiet, settled in, and busy. They all wore oversized, roomy grey sweats, Valhalla logos blazened across massive chests. Workout that morning had been scheduled for 4 AM, with another afternoon workout planned at Gold’s in Venice, which had been privately booked for the occasion, at a cost of $30,000. Biceps had been blasted to the explosion point, pecs worked past all expectations. Extra doses of P21 had been supplied and the already damaged muscles were well on their way to repair, ready for an afternoon blasting. In addition, the men had been cautioned in no uncertain terms by Moster neither to “play” nor cum for the 24-hour period before departure. Punishment for infringement would be a very public and very painful raw glutes paddling in the Gold’s Venice parking lot. None of the men wanted this, although the prospect of such attention in private was always appealing. And so, for more than a day not a man in the group had shot his load. Moster anticipated cumulative cumblasts would reach the multi-gallon point by weekend finish. Many a wealthy patron could look forward to a thorough facial of rich, thick cumshots following some vicious customer throat plowing and thorough client asshole destroying by the weekend wrap. It didn’t really matter, though. The men were looking forward to the worship sessions as much as, truth be told, was Moster, who relished the thought of a little flexing and posing on his own. Moster gave them all a little pep talk after they boarded. “Men, we’re on our way to LA. I know we have all been looking forward to this trip. Haven’t we, Casey?” The handsome young musclebuck was alone in his rear row seat, across the aisle from Hension, who was bent over in his seat, busily texting. Casey colored and glanced down into his lap, where he could see his massive tool twitching impatiently beneath yards of sweatsuit crotch fabric. He’d followed the directum even more than the most and not masturbated for three days. He thought he very well might die, so that morning he had blasted his biceps in the pre-dawn workout way past the agony point, with 30 minutes devoted to single arm curls at 250 pounds apiece. Nor had he sucked a cock for 3 days. Cocksucking was something new for him, and he now had an almost insatiable taste for it, preferring quietly to visit the unthreatening, pint-sized, pretty young kitchen boy Pedro for mutual blowjobs. Discreetly grabbed after hours 69 sessions that left them both breathless and elated. Pedro, unbelieving that so much beautiful muscle cock could be gently presented to his eager lips. Casey, awed that he actually preferred the pretty, undersized body of boytoy Pedro, with his perfect, normal-sized dick and average cumload. Inwardly Casey felt some satisfaction that he shared Pedro with Karim Abdul, who was unaware of sharing Casey’s preference for good-looking teens who weighed almost 200 pounds less than he did. Karim might get physically nasty if he knew Casey was also getting oral satisfaction from Pedro, and moreover was giving it back, something that had never occurred to Karim. And while Casey relished the idea of pummeling the Arab’s face black and blue for 15 or 20 minutes – which he knew he could do now, because he was probably stronger than any of them – nevertheless, he didn’t want Karim to take revenge on the defenseless, handsome little Puerto Rican. So he kept it all a secret. Besides, it was less about pure worship and more about bonding with another guy. He liked Pedro’s exceptionally pretty 7” cock. Not as big as the other men’s organs, true, but just as tasty, and on the slight, lean brown-skinned little Pedro, 7” went a long, long way. As for Pedro, now in the heaven era of his days on the planet, with all the discreet muscle action he was getting (he was also seeing Blankenship, Obatu and Gunst on the side, and had more big muscle cock to suck that he’d ever dreamed of), he was content to bypass worship sessions with Casey just to get down to the business of good teenboy cocksucking. And, best of all, Casey was nice. And surprisingly gentle. And surprisingly hungry. Casey glanced across the aisle. “What’re you doing?” Casey asked Hension. “Takin' care of business. I know what I want.” He scrubbed through his phone lists and speed dialed. “Hello, baby?” he asked. “Yeah, it’s me. Chris Hension. The muscledude. YEAH! That's ME. I’m comin’! I'm on the bus to LA now!! We can finally meet…. . tonight?? Awesome! Yeah, I’m ready for you, momma!. . . I got these big dirty muscles, see, and I’m gonna flex 'em all big time for ya, show you what I got, and then show you my package, and you’re gonna punish me for it all, right?? Slap my face good and hard? And then I can fuck you? And then you can fuck ME? And slap me some more??” He listened a moment, then shouted. “YEAH!” The bulge in his fly began to grow and he bounced eagerly in his seat. "Hey, baby, I kin hardly wait. . .” “Lower your voice, asshole,” Gunst groaned. “Sorry!” Hension continued his crooning conversation in a cackling lower voice. “Yeah, my pictures are real. Yeah, I’m really that handsome. And the muscles are real, too! Wanna picture now? Okay!” He positioned the phone and snapped a quick selfie, flexing his free biceps. Casey was amazed with what speed and dexterity Hension attached the image and sent it off. “He’s not that much smarter than I am…” Casey pondered. “How come he can do this so fast….?” “That’s me! Get it yet? Yeah??! That’s ME, baby! Why would I lie to you babe? We just gotta do some private worship appointments first…. worship…. you know, rich dudes admiring our muscles and then goin’ down on us….” He giggled….” Oh, yeah, I’m a bad boy, a real bad boy, I need some real punishment at the hands of a really sharp and pretty lady who knows what she’s doin’…” Lang, sitting with Alvarez in the row ahead, turned around in his seat and tapped Casey lightly on his superwide shoulder. “You been worshipped before, dude?” Casey was surprised that the normally watchful Lang was actually speaking to him. He paused, smiled weakly, remembered his cadet buddies, thought briefly of Pedro, remembered the cadets in his room, and nodded shyly. “Yeah, I guess. Yeah.” “It come to anything?” “Well….” “You like it?” Casey thought a little. He smiled weakly. “Yeah. I liked it. I liked it a lot.” "Thought so.” Alvarez, window seat, turned and looked back as well. “Done it professionally?” he asked. “Um. No. Professionally?" "Get paid for it?" "No. Not yet.” Alvarez nodded and turned back to the window. “You’ll dig it!” said Lang enthusiastically. “It’s awesome. Dudes with money who can’t get enough of our muscles!! Flex for a few minutes and they give you all they got.” He turned back in his seat, texting. “Who we seein’?” Casey heard Lang ask. “We got some good ones…lotsa scratch. . . . we'll all make out.” He turned back to Casey. "You got privates, you call them now.” “Privates?” Casey thought they were referring to his junk. “Yeah. Privates. You know. Schmoes.” “What are schmoes?” “Dude, you know nothing.” “He hasn’t had time, dummy,” said Alvarez. He turned back to Casey and spoke not unkindly. “You’ll do fine on the worship circuit once you get out there. Make some connections.” He turned back to his phone, and Casey couldn’t hear anything else. Privates. No, no privates. How could he have privates if he never was paid before? Casey thought about all this. And dreamed. He settled his bulk back in his plush seat and gazed at the landscape roaring by, unseeing, beyond the tinted windows. He had no one to text to arrange a private yet. He didn’t know anybody, really. But maybe that would come later. Because . . . . . . . he longed to revisit his muscle planet, the one he’d first glimpsed in darkness when his buddies had gathered around him in his old dorm room. Where, led by smirking, smiling, but approving Cadet Banks, his buddies had started to stroke and touch and caress his muscles, murmuring their obeisance. And he’d gone to the moon. And further. He remembered. It was just Casey in the galaxy. Flexing his muscles. His huge ripped vascular ungodly magnificent muscles. It wasn’t the same when the other men of The Twenty were with him, after all. EVERYONE was huge, after all. He may be a little bigger, a little better, a little younger, a little more hung – but it was a close call for this group of unfucking godly superhero X-Men, or whatever they all were supposed to be. His veins may be like rivers, but so were Schumacher’s. His biceps may peak at 25 or 26 inches, but so did Gunst’s. And his dick might be 12 or 14 inches or whatever it was, but Moster’s was a fucking cannon that could probably shoot unfucking godly amounts of cumspray, he didn’t know, since the man didn’t choose to empty his load on him yet – or anyone. Casey pondered a bit. How exactly did Moster get off, anyway? He put it out of his head. He was gonna visit his muscle planet tonight. That much he knew. Soon he was asleep. He drifted off and thought about flexing his muscles for a sea of admiring multitudes, high on a magic mountain, far, far away. **** Four hours later, they arrived in Santa Monica. The men, having made their appointments, had fitfully slept through most of the trip in their individual over-sized seats. After checking into a discreet private hotel – Dr. Irving with his clipboard in the lobby, making sure to lose no one to wandering among the canals of Venice – it was a quiet side-street hotel filled with oversized rooms, well set back from the boardwalk - they were off to the gym. The men trained quickly and discreetly, fully covered, at Gold’s Gym Venice Beach, privately booked by Valhalla, and paid for in cash. Quickly exploding every muscle group, the men spread out and pumped up, finally blasting a few quick deep 600 pound squats, 300 pound curls, bench presses, delt raises, and working glutes, glutes, glutes. Afterwards, Moster treated them all to a fast high-protein and high-animal fat meal at The Fire House, where the muscle monsters dominated the terrace, ignoring the crowd stares. “Who the fuck are those dudes?” wondered one unusually stupid huge national competitor from a nearby table. “I don’t know,” answered his muscle john, an elderly queen taking his big boy out to lunch. “I never been onstage with them before. Hey, where ya goin’?” “I just wanted to…” “You stay with me, baby. You lookin’ for a knuckle sandwich? I’m the dude you’re payin’ to get big. You go over there, you messing with me.” “Okay, okay…” “You wanna keep all your teeth, dude,” he warned, but looked enviously over at the huge men, sitting at four tables stacked together. Who are those guys? he wondered. Shit. Look at the size of them. Shit. Other muscle schmoes gazed longingly at the tables filled with the huge musclemen, bulging out of their clothes, none of them known, none of them ever having competed before on the national stages, and wondered, and dreamed. One muscle daddy competitor thought he recognized Moster from years back, but promptly dismissed it. Couldn’t be. That black fucker there looks about 30. Rod Moster would be near to 50 by now. Impossible. Impossible. The Fire House fell into unaccustomed silence as the eleven muscle strangers ate. Casey was aware of all the covert attention, but toed the company line, looking at no one and saying nothing. Still, he ached inwardly to be seen, to be admired, to be looked at, gazed at, touched, stroked, wondered over, worshipped. Alvarez, munching his 4th ostrich burger, gazed around the room. Lotsa possibilities here. He glanced at Lang, chowing down on a steak, unaware of anything but his food and his burning muscles. Hension winked at a beautiful fitness girl at a nearby table, who smiled back. “Wanna slap me?” he mouthed silently to her, pointing to one of his scruffy cheeks as he happily chewed his buffalo burger. She looked back at him puzzled. “What?” she mouthed back. “Slap my face?” he mouthed again. “What did he say?” asked her friend. “I’m not sure but I think he wants me to slap him.” “Whatever. I’d do it,” said her girlfriend. She glanced over. Then stared. “Fuck me, is he gorgeous,” she added. “That’s about the prettiest face I have ever seen on a man.” Hension smiled and rapidly beat his tongue against his teeth, grinning hugely, pointing to both cheeks, gestured ‘call me’. The girls just stared. “Is he dumb or something?” one of them wondered. Moster barked at him. “Hension, pay attention to your meal.” Hension returned his gaze to his plate. Jeez, he thought. Pretty girls everywhere. How can I meet one? Still, he had high hopes for his online mistress. After paying up ($1,050 for lunch for 12) they returned to their hotel resting for forty minutes. They had strict orders not to play. Or cum. Or else. “Departure at 8:30 PM,” barked Moster as they got off the bus. “Dress in regulation tan slacks and t-shirts. Super-support double mesh posing trunks underneath. Clean yourselves thoroughly. Personal cleaning. I will be checking. Then get some rest. White caps at 8:15. You men have a long night ahead.” ****** The bus pulled up the drive at 9 PM. It was a large cliffside home high in the Hollywood Hills, lavish and dark, with a glimmering pool in the back and fountains quietly spraying gallons of illegal water. Beyond, the glittering lights of LA shone in the far distance. The first stop of the evening. Zaftig’s longtime off campus associate, the puny weasel Dr. Shaft, was waiting inside, in attendance with a group of 9 investors, all quite anxious to see the young gods in action. The men filed off the bus. “Golly, who lives here?” asked Hension, awestruck by the size of the place. “Some movie producer,” murmured Lang. Casey barely noticed. He was headed off soon to his private muscle planet, and was all ready to flex. 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 cliffside glass house and, single file, marched into the brightly lit living room. Inside now. 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 were all smashed. And ready. “Fucking finally! Bring on the talent!” one of them 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. The musclemen were themselves stunned into a moment silence by the lavishness of the room that spread out 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. Dr. Shaft rose from a white sofa. On one side of him sat three overweight, bespectacled jowly men, and on the other, a young twenty-something nerd with a pretty face, scruffy hair, in an Iggy Pop t-shirt and too tight ripped jeans. Next to him was another squirrely looking guy, equally skinny and pale. “Good evening, Sergeant Moster. Good evening, men.” “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 men. “May I introduce you to your hosts?” asked Dr. Shaft. And the lineup of musclemen turned to their seated, agog clients. Their 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. “Fuck, man. They’re fucking huge,” said the skinny nerd. 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 one hour.” He turned to the men. “Men, you may go to work.”