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  1. Close Encounters with Joshua Banks - Chapter I He was my neighbor, had been since I was a little boy and his family moved to our city but we have never really been friends because we were pretty much opposites. I was your typical video game addicted, friendless nerd, while he was the jock superstar of our high school. The fact that we were never really friends quickly changed during our last summer break before we went off to college. Both our parents were gone, we were home alone and thanks to some miracle, we became very acquainted with each other. It was a fateful summer afternoon when I decided to leave my natural habitat, my basement, and go to the balcony. I didn't leave because I wanted to get some fresh air or maybe a tan in the beautiful sun, but because I wanted to marvel at the beautiful view. And, wow what I view I had from the balcony. I could stare straight into Joshua's garden and watch him in all his 200 pound glory as he sat on a lounge chair, eyes closed and enjoying the warm sun. His muscles heaved, massive balloon like pecs moving up and down with every breath, veins snaking all the way from his massive neck over his huge guns to his thick forearms and tree trunk legs which could barely be contained by shorts that were about two sizes too small. I sat there for what must have been an hour, just staring at him, admiring every single part of his glorious body. But then after some time I could not take it anymore, my dick was begging to be released and so I did. I took it out and began jerking off, keeping my eyes on Joshua the whole time. Suddenly his eyes flashed open and looked directly at me. I was startled, frozen, unsure of what to do. My heart stopped for a second, fearing what would happen next but then flashed a killer smile and ran his hand through his brown hair, flexing his massive bicep. That was more than I could take and I blew my load right then and there. Ashamed and confused, I ran back inside, into the shower and just sat there, trying to figure out whether I had just imagined that smile and he was actually plotting a way to kill me or not. The thought of his massive biceps bulging out as he choked the life out of me actually aroused me again which triggered me to start another jerk off session. After showering I decided to go to the living room and watch some Netflix in order to get rid of all thoughts related to Joshua. That became nearly impossible when I heard a knock at the door. I took a deep breath, braced myself and opened the door. Joshua stood there, now with a shirt that did little to hide his hulking physique, but to my surprise he wasn't here to kill me. Instead he had a friendly smile on his face. "Hey, sorry to impose but I just lost my measuring tape so could I maybe borrow yours," he asked, acting as if he hadn't seen my jerking off to him earlier. "I-I-erm-sure," I stuttered back. "J-just wait a second." I rushed into the kitchen and fetched it for him. "Here you are," I said, trying to force a smile. He grabbed it and gave me a very strong handshake with his massive hand as a thank you. He turned around to leave and I was about to close the door, before he turned back around. "Actually, could I ask you for one more favor?" he began. "I need the tape to measure my biceps but it's a kind of hard to do that on your own. If it's not too much trouble, I'd really appreciate it if you came over and helped me measure them." I don't think that I have ever agreed to anything as fast in my life as to that. We walked over to his house, where he led me the home gym in his basement. My hands were visibly shaking, as he flexed his right arm. It just looked so marvelous as it squeezed against the fabric of his shirt. Then I put the measuring tape around it and God did his arm feel god. I only got to touch it with a few fingers for a few fleeting second but it felt so warm and hard. 17 inches was the number on the tape. "New record for this bad boy.," he smiled. "But we're gonna have to top that today. You mind waiting as I pump up these guns? It's not gonna take long. I just need you to measure one of them afterwards." That was a lie. It took long, he worked out his arms for an hour, but I was more than happy to wait and watch him. I felt like I was in heaven, watching him move weights up and down, pumping his biceps to new heights. My favorite part of his workout was when he did bicep curls. It was such a beautiful exercise to watch because you could his biceps or his thick looked as if they were about to rip out of their beat red skin. Luckily they didn't rip out of the skin but out of Joshua's tight shirt. The shirt had fought long and well but it proved no match for Joshua's arms, as it slowly ripped at the seams with each curl. After the hottest hour of my life (up until that point), Joshua asked me to lay on his back as he did push ups. "I always do a hundred or so push ups after each workout but they've become too easy so I need some extra weight." By then, my boner was unbearably hard but I didn't care and I doubt he did either. He took off his shirt and dropped to the ground, in perfect push up position. I slowly got his wide and shredded back, my boner pressing onto his hard, round ass and awkwardly holding onto him by his shoulders, because I was too shy to touch his arms. "What are you doing? You know you can hold onto my arms, right?" he said, seemingly reading my mind. So I did as I was told and if I hadn't reached heaven yet, I had now. It is a miracle that I didn't blow my third load of the day right then and there. In the entire 18 years of my existence, I had never felt anything so arousing. His biceps were like warm granite, pulsing with power and flexing and unflexing with every push up. I burrowed my fingers into his arms as they were unflexed, but they immediately pushed my fingers away once he went down and no matter what I did, once they were flexed, they were impenetrable. Finally after going up and down 200 hundred times at an unbelievable speed, I was instructed to get off him back and pull out the measuring tape. He gritted his teeth, growled and flexed his arm, somehow pumping up his already pumped to the max bicep even more, as I put the tape around his arm. I am not the most knowledgeable person when it comes to bodybuilding but I am pretty sure a two inch pump isn't normal, yet that is exactly what the tape showed. A staggering 19 inches. As I read him the number, Joshua raised his arms into a breathtaking double-bicep pose and roared: "I'M A BEAST." That was just the first of my many encounters with Joshua...
  2. Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad October 21st, 2022 2200 Hours Twenty minutes later, Casey stood in the center of the main Valhalla laboratory, stripped down to a tight shiny black micro posing suit, bulging dangerously in the pouch, and threatening to burst. His muscles glowed. He was huge, enormous, the biggest he had been yet in his young life. Lightly oiled, his youthful brown skin gleamed in the clear white LED light. Dr. Zaftig stood at his side, beaming with calm inner pride. But Casey was nervous. There he was, stripped down to bulging posers that barely covered his manhood, and ready for review. For the first time. And as always, in some place deep inside him, he was embarrassed by his hugely oversized penis. It was just too big. One by one, the 18 bodybuilders filed in silently from their post-White Cap-workout showers in the next wing, looking over the gigantic new recruit with studied casualness. For almost two years they’d grimly listened to Dr. Irving’s deliberately passive-aggressive progress reports. Casey was this, Casey had that, Casey lifted this much, Casey was however-big, Casey was the hope of the future. Etc. They were weary of it. They were angered by it. And some were threatened by it. And perhaps, just a little fearful? No: not fearful. Challenged. And in the case of Hension, Blankenship, Lang, Meyer and Waring, more inspired than anything else. “If he’s that big, I wanna be bigger,” said Hension one afternoon at lunch, to no one in particular. Chad smacked him on the back of his head, and with a short grunt, Hension came a little in his jock. “Sorry. I forgot you liked that.” “I’d like it more if you were a girl.” Hension had long since given up hiding his particular fetish. He took a big mouthful of beef and chewed, ruminating. “You wanna fuck pussy? Abdul can arrange.” From across the table, Abdul grunted and shook his head. “He don’t want pussy.” “Naw. He’s right. I don’t. Hot pussy don’t dig muscles like mine. I just wanna chick who knows how to slap my face right. Good and hard each time. Back and forth. Pow, pow. Leave hand prints. Then I wanna fuck boybutt pussy. And suck some big dick.” Hension looked at Abdul. “Yours, maybe.” Abdul nodded slightly. “Sure, you suck dick good. Any time.” He sipped his coffee. All chuckled a little, but everyone was still thinking about Casey. Over the last few weeks, a few had gone so far as to belly up secretly to the cadet gym two-way windows late at night to watch and study Casey’s lonely training late night training sessions. There the giant teen was, alone night after night in the vast half lit gym, fully clothed, muscles bulging in the yards of a completely enveloping, dripping cotton sweatsuit, insanely going through punishing reps, hurling buckets of sweat, drawing blood, banging out steaming iron reps with teeth-clenching screaming pain, grimly determined, all the while screaming and moaning to himself: Gotta get bigger Gotta get bigger Gotta get bigger….. And on it went. Night after night. The boy was insatiable, indefatigable. As if nothing could ever stop him. And now, the time had finally come. Casey watched them file into the lab. Outfitted in crisp, clean tan khakis and wearing skin tight Army regulation green t-shirts, hair still wet from their post-workout showers, they were an intimidating herd of hardcore beefmeisters. Huge, cut, and vascular to a man, their massive physiques almost aching with heavy, rippling muscle. Casey had been watching them for months, grabbing glimpses of them on campus, running, bicycling, practicing their posing, whenever he could, just as he knew they had been watching him as well in the corridors and working out in the cadet gym. He even knew a few of them by name. Private Lang and Corporal Alvarez, who were always together, Private Gunst, Private Waring, Private Jin. He had never spoken to any of them, out of shyness and awe. And he even recognized Corporal Obatu from Raw Weight Gym. He nodded bashfully to him. Obatu grinned hugely and waved with his huge paw of a hand. “Hello, Casey,” he said in his best Isaac Hayes. “Hi!” Casey said eagerly, but caught the glance from Zaftig. He resumed his blank expression, readjusted, and gazed ahead, eyes high. He squared his shoulders and stood with his pecs pointed high in full 'bodybuilder rest' pose. Of course Casey knew nothing of the cum-blasting shower orgy from which the men had just emerged. And to a man, rather feeling drained, all were primed and ready....for whatever came next. A few had their hopes, but discipline would prevail. Tonight was presentation. Only. Or so they thought. The men looked him over. “Hmmmm,” muttered Schumacher. “Damn he’s got big nipples!” someone whispered. There was the sound of that someone being smacked. In the second row of bodybuilders, an astonishingly handsome young bodybuilder stumbled and grabbed the back of the head. “Hey!” said Hension, indignant. “Shut up,” said Chad. Casey was excited. These men were seriously huge, each and every one far even bigger than Miles Donovan. Though he was almost sure he was prepared for them, even so – man alive! This was a lotta muscle. He gulped with nervousness. Sergeant Moster entered last. Casey stared, suddenly stricken. He’d never seen Moster before. Even in his clean white loose-fit baggies, he was the biggest muscleman Casey had ever seen in his life. It seemed to him he towered over the others, though truth to tell, if he’d been calmer he’d have noticed that at least 3 of the men were close to him in size and muscularity. Close. But not the equal. Not yet. “This is Staff Sergeant Rod Moster,” said Dr. Zaftig. Behind Moster, Dr. Irving scurried into the room, struggling noisily with his omnipresent video camera, lights, and clipboards. “Sergeant Moster will be supervising your training in the future.” “Yes, sir!” Casey had never been prouder. He stood straight and tall. Moster strolled over to Casey. “So this is Cadet Rockland,” he said slowly, appraising him up and down. He seemed to take over from Zaftig, who stepped back, offering no protest. Here, Moster was in charge. Moster circled Casey. He looked impressed, in spite of himself. Finally he had to give in. He turned to Zaftig. A moment passed. “He’s got great bones,” he said quietly. “Yes, great bones,” said Zaftig. “Bones like that come along once every three generations.” “He could go the limit.” “Maybe. Can’t tell yet.” What’s all this about bones? Casey wondered. He gathered it was something good, though, even great, so he stood erect, proud and tall. He fixed his clear blue eyes on the wall straight ahead and stood at attention. To a man, the 18 glanced down at the boy’s pendulously swaying posing suit pouch. The soft, thick bulge lay slack than halfway down against his right quad. Lang licked his lips. Next to him, Blankenship dug his elbow into Lang's abs, nodded, smiled, and winked. He pointed to his own mouth and with his fist simulated taking in a big organ. Moster barked out a few terse questions. “How old are you, Casey?” “18.” “What was that?” “18.” He corrected himself, and barked, “I’m 18, sir!” “That’s much better.” Moster smiled, amused. “And how much do you weigh, cadet?” “310 pounds, sir.” “Hmm. Really. Good. Good for you, son.” Casey readjusted and stood a little taller when he heard the huge black man say "son." Now the 18 were murmuring and looking him over with critical sharpness. Looking for weaknesses, looking for a lack of symmetry, looking for a spot of subcutaneous fat. And no weaknesses were to be found. One short young ginger muscleman whose name he didn’t know was smiling at him sardonically. He was uncommonly good-looking, as were they all, but something about him looked mean. He whispered to a grizzled older bodybuilder next to him, who was bigger and even meaner looking than he was. The older guy scowled. He was perhaps 40, bald, with rough deeply tanned skin, a day old beard, and a chest coating of iron-grey hair. Casey couldn’t help but notice the heavily looming bulges in the crotches of their khakis. As he tried not to stare, the pretty one who had gotten his head smacked reached down the front of his pants for some adjustment. Moster followed his gaze and smiled a little. Zaftig, as always, was clueless. "Tell him to turn around." "Casey, let the men see your back." Casey turned full around, facing the rear of the lab. He readjusted. He couldn't see the men's faces. But he could hear them. A few moaned quietly. "Jesu Christe, check out dem glutes..." Two round, rock hard butt cheek globes, glinting with light filled the room. No one could look elsewhere. Meyer, the deaf mute, stared, his mouth slightly open. He turned and nodded vigorously to Abdul, toweing over him, pulling at his belt. "Yeah, I see them," said Abdul, careful to face Meyer so he could read his lips. "Them. Er. Him. I see him." "For the record," said Zaftig airily, "Dr. Irving and I think Casey's traps and rear delts may be his best bodyparts." "Yeah, they'll do," said Alvarez. His hand went down to the front of his pants absently. His bulge was beginning to get a little bigger. "Now that's a bubble butt," said Obatu. "Sweet, sweet cupcakes. Cupcakes for a man to enjoy...." Casey was coloring deeply, glad the men couldn't see his face. "Lat spread, Casey," said Zaftig. Casey complied. Bat wings spread wide, fists plunged into his sides. His spread his legs slightly for the full effect. "And now, rear double biceps." Cannonballs shot to the ceiling. The glutes hardened slightly, veins popping, striations shining like rivers of platinum. "All right, then, turn back. Sergeant?" "Yes." Moster walked to a lab table and picked up a thick 4-foot iron bar. He tossed it at Casey, who caught it handily with one hand. It weighed about 75 pounds. “See what you can do with that, son.” Casey paused. “Sir?” “I’m not going to say it twice.” Casey nodded. He imagined the sergeant wanted him to bend the bar. He wanted to impress him, so he raised the bar high over his head, and easily bent it into a U shape. He brought the bar down and inspected it a moment, and then walked respectfully over to Sergeant Moster and handed it to him eagerly. Moster took it. “Okay, fair, fair,” he said, nodding and showing the bent bar to the group. Some of the men began to nod and chuckle. Casey returned to his spot and resumed his muscle-ready stance. Moster took the bar in his powerful hands, and bent it back to something like its original shape. He grinned, his big white teeth shining. Then he threw the bar into the air, caught it, and with a single movement powerfully snapped it in two. Casey’s jaw dropped. “Damn,” he said. “Dr. Irving, let’s hear the man’s measurements.” “We haven’t taken his measurements for a month, Sergeant.” Moster glanced down over Zaftig, his deep voice resonating. “You present a new cadet to the team, and you don’t have his recent measurements? Zaftig, you’re getting sloppy.” “I thought perhaps you might want to record the cadet’s measurements for yourself, Sergeant,” Zaftig said slyly. He wasn’t intimidated. Moster looked at Zaftig expressionlessly, then called back over his shoulder. “Private Tiffany, step forward and take the man’s measurements.” The short ginger bodybuilder stepped forward cockily. He looked younger than Casey, though Casey guessed he was really just his age. His wavy red-black hair fell in a forelock over his forehead. He had freckles. His skin was butterscotch tan, his eyes a deep, rich blue. And, like the others, he was hugely muscular, packing well over 220 pounds on his 5’6” frame. Casey noted the perfect round shape of his strong young baseball biceps, rife with rivulets of veins, and the piston-thick forearms. His heavy shoulders bulged with packed muscle. He could have moved pianos with one hand. He was bow-legged, his quads swaying gently outward as he walked. In his fly, his package appeared to be nearly as big as Casey knew his own to be, but on such a short guy it appeared twice as big. He looked as if he had to walk around his dick with each step he took. And he looked vaguely familiar. “This is Private 1st Class Joe Tiffany. I see you’re wondering about his age. Private Tiffany, get the tape measure and the clipboard from Dr. Irving. Tiffany here is 19 years old. He started with The Protocol when he was 15. I’m sure you two will be great buddies.” Casey didn’t know what to make of this. He decided that even with the kid’s big muscles, thick package and all, he didn’t want to be buddies with him. “Okay,” he said. “Hello.” Tiffany stepped forward, extending a hand as if to shake and, as Casey leaned in, walked past him, instead taking the tape measure and clipboard from Dr. Irving. Turning back, he graciously handed just the clipboard to Moster, and strolled confidently over to Casey. He looked up slyly at the baffled, tall young musclemen towering over him. “Hi, Casey,” he introduced himself breezily. “I’m Joe Tiffany. You’re very lookin’ good, man. Like the buzz cut.” Casey gazed down at Tiffany, perplexed, who grinned back at him serenely, displaying two rows of perfect white teeth. He was smart and smooth, and he grinned easily. He made Casey nervous, all the more so when, for a flash of an instant, he detected a wicked twinkle deep in Joe’s eyes. Joe winked at him. Then he wiped his face clean and looked back at Moster, all innocence. “Sir, I need some help, sir.” Moster snorted impatiently. “Corporal Schumacher, get Tiffany something he can stand on.” From the line the older guy Tiffany had been whispering to strode to the desk area and returned with a metal stool. He tossed it in the air to Tiffany, who caught it easily. While never very bright, Casey was all the same possessed of unquestionably fine animal instincts. He knew trouble when he saw it. He glanced up and down the older man Moster had addressed as Schumacher. His muscle density was impressive. His arms were thick, ripped and veiny. Two iron cross tattoos graced each forearm. His skin was calloused and rough, and his hands were huge, with bruised, knotty knuckles. He was now leaning in to Tiffany, so close to him his heavy pecs were almost touching his face. Casey could see the outlines of two heavy brown nipples in his tight Army regulation green t-shirt. Schumacher shot a dirty look up at him, and pushed his pecs into Tiffany’s’ face. “I told you before I want to see you my room. Later.” He spoke in a low tone. The muscleboy stepped back indifferently and spoke with offhand innocence. “Hey, it’s late, dude. I don’t think so tonight.” He pulled out the tape and turned to Casey. Schumacher glanced briefly up at the muscleman towering over them both and sneered a little, but Casey could spot the dash of respect in his eyes. He turned back to Tiffany. “I mean it, punk. In my room. Later.” “Leave me alone, old man. I have work to do with the young dude.” He stepped on the stool without looking again at Schumacher and stood before Casey, holding the tape measure and smiling sweetly. His words stung. Schumacher looked up at Casey and silently mouthed the words H-A-N-D-S O-F-F Casey returned the look dumbly. “Later,” Corporal Schumacher snarled to Tiffany. Moster looked up. “You have a problem, Corporal?” Schumacher turned and strode away. In the corner of the lab, Dr. Irving was recording every moment on his ever-present video cam. Standing on the stool, Joe was now a little taller than Casey. He squatted down just a little, stuck his butt out behind him for support, and brought his eyes even to Casey. He looked him up and down and whispered in his ear. “Let’s see how big you really are, buddy,” he murmured. He brought his hand down and flicked his own crotch gently with his thumb, turning his broad back for cover. Only Casey could see him do it. He looked at him out of the side of his eyes, suddenly nervous about this big little bodybuilder, who clearly had more than his share of cojones, and his dangerous muscle daddy friend, who clearly had issues. “Whenever you’re ready, Private.” “I’m ready, sir.” “Good. Get to it. Right biceps.” Casey snapped his right arm to attention and flexed the biceps full. Tiffany let out a low whistle. “Bring it on home, baby. Nice peaks. Cannonballs, even. Swole. Nice.” “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Casey, flexing both biceps now, trying to be casual. “Get to it, Private,” repeated Moster. “Okay, measuring. Sir! I’m guessing 23 inches, sir!” Casey glanced contemptuously at him with one eyebrow cocked high. “Try that again,” he said levelly. Tiffany charmingly fumbled with the tape measure and double-checked. “I’m sorry, sir,” he reported. “26 inches, sir.” “That’s better.” Casey looked forward and tried to make his face serene. He was already getting pissed. What did this young asshole know? Moster made a note on his clipboard. Behind him, Schumacher was fuming. Casey imagined he could see smoke coming out of his ears. “Left arm.” Casey lowered his right and brought his left forward. Pow - Ka-boom.. .. Tiffany brushed the rocky peak with his fingertips. “No touching the goods,” Casey hissed. “26 inches, sir.” Tiffany was all smiles. “Chest.” “Let’s see, Superman, just how we’re going to do this. Turn to one side?” he inquired sweetly. Casey just looked at Tiffany. “Damn it, cadet, turn! Do as he asks.” Moster was getting impatient. Casey turned. “And expand your chest.” Casey’s giant pecs roiled and blew to their fullest size. Tiffany gently reached around Casey, and by tossing one end of the tape from one hand to the other, he coyly avoiding touching him with all but the tape and his lightly pinching fingers. “68 inches.” “Hmmm. There’s room for growth. Waistline.” Tiffany climbed down from the stool and brought the tape around Casey’s taut abs. Again he managed not to touch him. Even so, Casey felt a slight stirring from his crotch. “32 inches.” “32?? Dammit, Zaftig, what have you been feeding this boy? Chocolate cake? Twinkies?” I’m no boy, thought Casey. And I don’t eat Twinkies. His crotch twitched again. He glanced around the room and saw other crotches twitching as well. 6 or 7 of the men seemed to be sporting half erections, bulging in their khakis. No one said anything. All expressions were deadly serious. It was as if no one noticed, minded or cared that more than a half dozen of these musclemen were now sporting serious wood. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” said Zaftig. “I haven’t felt it was the time, before tonight, to put Casey under your advanced care and guidance. He wasn’t quite ready, I felt.” “Assuredly. Casey, things are going to be a little different for you after tonight. Quads.” “33 inches, sir.” “Dayumn….” muttered Hension. Then the sound of the back of his head being smacked again. “Ouch!” In back, Karim Abdul watched stonily, not reacting. He, Moster, and Dr. Zaftig were the only men in the room whose flies remained unexpanded. Even Dr. Irving was by now showing a little bulge. “Room for improvement everywhere,” said Moster. He made a note on the clipboard. “Calves?” “28 inches.” “That’s good, anyway. Feet?” “I wear 18 DD shoes,” Casey answered. “Speak when spoken to, Cadet Casey. But thank you. Inseam.” Inseam? “For the uniform.” Oh. Tiffany crouched down and placed the tape just at Casey’s ankle, and brought it up. He paused. “With or without testicles, sir?” he asked. “Without.” Moster was impatient. Tiffany was getting on his nerves, but he wasn’t about to show it. “Sorry, big boy, but you got a couple of low-hangers there. Pardon my fingers?” In a swift move that startled Casey, Tiffany, ignoring Casey’s growing tumescence, gently cupped Casey’s balls in his hand, lifted them and delicately moved them out of the way. “Shucks, dude, they’re pretty heavy,” he smirked. Casey was thoroughly humiliated. He felt like knocking this punk's block off, realizing that if he did he’d probably kill him if he even tried. He said nothing. “42 inches.” “Good. Now Zaftig, leave us alone with Casey. We all want to get to know him better.” Zaftig glanced over at Dr. Irving, who had withdrawn to the far corner of the room to be as far away from Moster as possible. He nodded towards the door. Irving cleared his throat and buttoned his lab coat. Zaftig leaned in and whispered harshly to Moster. “No touching. Leave him be.” Moster nodded. "Sure, of course. We'll be nice." Zaftig and Irving left the lab together. In the corner, the video camera whirred, its red light blinking, unheeded. As soon as they were gone the other 16 men came forward. Slowly they circled Casey, Joe Tiffany, and Sergeant Moster. “That’s all, Private Tiffany. Get back in line.” Moster turned to Casey, paused, and began to speak with great deliberation. “I’m the man in charge here. Going forward, you’ll do what I say. These men have all been through it. It’s your turn now.” The bodybuilders gazed evenly at Casey, who stared back, his head slightly bowed. He had neither seen nor imagined such a landscape of muscle in his life. He was beginning to get intimidated. “The motherfucker’s huge,” murmured Private Lang appreciatively. “Yes, sir.” Casey forced a smile, and he saluted. Moster smiled back, a grim humorless smile. “It would seem that you want to please me. Is that the case, Casey?” “Yes, sir, I do, sir!” “Glad to hear it, son. You have a few more years of hardcore training ahead of you. You have great potential, boy, but you haven’t realized it all yet. Has he, men?” Mutters. We’ll get you down to the gym tomorrow and we’ll all shake it out together. Men, you’re done here tonight. Dismissed. Go to bed. Good night.” Moans of general disappointment. Schumacher and Karim Abdul remained silent. “That’s all men.” A pause. “You too, Tiffany.” “Not just yet,” said Abdul. Moster looked at him, his eyebrow raised. “Corporal?” Abdul turned full to Moster. “Not just yet. I want to see if he can take it.” Moster knew full well what he meant. “Take what, Corporal?” “Get him a singlet,” said Abdul to Lang, who eagerly turned and scampered out of the lab. “You know where to meet us,” he called after him, perhaps unnecessarily. The men could hear Lang’s running footsteps as he hightailed it gleefully down the long hall to the locker room. Moster sighed. “Do we have to go through this? Again?” He remembered that when Alvarez was admitted to the program, Abdul had demanded to meet him in the wrestling ring right off the bat. He looked around. All the men were smiling in anticipation. Casey was baffled. “A singlet? We gonna wrestle?” “Yes, son, we’re going to wrestle,” answered Abdul. “You wrestled before?” Casey remembered his brutal ring training with Ramon Ramon, who never failed to pin him, even though he was only half Casey’s size and weight. “Yes, sir.” “Good.” Abdul turned to go, slipping out of his t-shirt. Casey could see he was wearing a singlet underneath, and was surprised he’d missed it before, considering how tight the t-shirts were. Karim was walking away, going for his belt, when he turned back. “You comin’?” Casey gulped a little. “Yes, sir.” The man who stood before him was fearsome indeed, a dark, mature Arab with blackened, hairy, super dry, super vascular, magnificent superheavyweight muscles. The thick black hair of his chest was like a matted carpet, tinged with grey and curling around the heavy, downward pointing nipples. His python-thick cock unfurled heavily in the singlet crotch, heavy, soft, half-visible behind thin, quivering spandex, pulsing, veined, thrust forward between powerful hips. His waist was impossibly narrow, his abs like 8 anvils, his pecs and biceps bulging with muscle and ridic veins. He spread his legs wide. “Hey, look,” breathed Blankenship, staring. Casey looked down, a little panicky, and saw his own massive cock was now tent-poling his posers. Reinforced or no, the 5 square inches of cloth that still managed to cover his big penis head were straining, the fabric ready to tear to shreds. His veiny blond shaft was completely exposed, pointing straight up and out. Curling thick tendrils of his young blond pubic sprouted generously from the juncture of his penis and his vascular, rocky pubis mound. He colored deeply, squatted slightly, tried in vain to readjust himself, his fingers digging deeply into the side straps, trying to control the pouch, which was nowhere near equal to covering Casey's looming erection. Suddenly Casey's penis head ripped through the black cloth, an alien bursting out of a stomach. Casey looked up, utterly distressed. “Don’t worry about it, Casey,” said Moster quietly. The men turned and looked back, and for the first time, got a glimpse of Casey’s humongous penis, half exposed, throbbing behind his expanding posers, which was tearing slightly, ballooning away from his hips. Blond, thick-skinned, massive, covered with luscious veins. “I’d call that a suckable fuck machine of the 1st order,” said Blankenship. He licked his lips a little. Casey looked humiliated. “I asked you a question,” said Abdul. “Are you coming?” And Casey came. “He seems to be,” said Alvarez drily. Just a little precum, appearing at the tip of the piss slit, dribbling down the corona onto his erect shaft. But it was enough. His face turned beet red. He looked up, his eyes hopeful. "Okay?" he finally asked. The men nodded in satisfaction. Abdul ignored it. “Then let’s go, asswipe.” He turned and walked out of the room, headed for the wrestling ring in the next wing. The musclemen followed, each one turning slowly and massively, heading for the door. “Let’s go, Casey,” said Moster wearily. He threw him a towel. “Here, cover up if you’re embarrassed.” “Thank you, sir,” said Casey meekly. “Though with a machine like that you should be proud, not embarrassed. Tiffany!” Moster called out. “Get Dr. Irving back in here and tell him to move that camera down to the wrestling ring.” He smiled grimly. “I have a feeling Abdul may be a little surprised.” __________________________________________ Want to read "The Twenty" from the start? Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland  "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets
  3. Previous chapter: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster Chapter 16: Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After Casey’s first workout demonstration for The Nineteen that afternoon promised to be brutal – and awesome - as he had hoped it would be. He knew he would love every moment of it. He knew it would almost make up for the confusion and fear he had felt the night before. He would be as strong as a god, sailing through every lift, every rep, every set with strength he didn’t know he had. Almost make up for it. Not quite. But maybe afterwards, he could pose for them? Just a little? In the locker room, alone, and about to go before these crazy huge guys once again, he ruminated. He was, if he admitted it to himself, not a little leery about these guys. After all, he had a big black eye. And just about 12 hours ago, thick, creamy jets of cum had shot from18 firehose cocks and plopped down on him while he lay tangled in a sweaty muscle mass mess with Karim Abdul, both of them with swelling black eyes and bloody noses. Kind of a strange introduction to the world of supreme muscle he had been looking forward to for two years – and had been fantasizing about for far longer. “I wonder what Miles would say,” he thought to himself. He had glanced at his black eye in the mirror in the locker room. It was fully open, not bloodshot, just rimmed with black and blue. Not too bad. Actually, it looked fucking hot. He quickly did a side chest. Bam. Nips high. Rivers of striations. Yeah. Lookin good. He was hot. He knew it, too. Or, rather, was beginning to know it. He found his old sweats, thoughtfully hanging up and waiting for him in a large locker with his name on it, which he assumed was his. He noted that the lockers themselves were almost like storage units, not the shameful, small individual skinny things most gyms had. He looked up, slightly startled. Musclemen Gunst and Obatu were suddenly there at the end of the locker row, waiting for them. At first he barely noticed what they were wearing. But then he saw. “What the fuck?” “You ready?” “Uh. Yeah.” “Let’s go, then.” He stripped down fast, found his old jock in the locker, and grabbing his huge cock and balls, shoveled his heavy machine into the pouch. As always, it sagged heavily, groaning softly from the weight of his manhood. He glanced down the row. Gunst and Obatu were blankfaced. Casey threw his sweats on. “Now?” “…..yeah.” Casey slammed the door and waddled towards them, throwing a bathsheet towel over his broad shoulders. “Let’s go lift.” Gunst and Obatu brought Casey onto the workout floor. All of the musclemen in the squad were in attendance, naturally wanting to see how much weight the pretty muscle boy Casey could handle. After all, he may be huge, and all realized he was pretty fucking strong in the ring. He could move fast, and his mandatory poses last night were impressive. But could the dude lift? Could he train?? Dr. Irving stood by with the video camera, fussily taking his precise notes. And Zaftig was there, of course, hanging back, saying nothing, just watching, watching. And now, at least, Casey could remember the dude’s name. Dr. Zaftig. After all, this was the dude who was going to make him huge. He nodded shyly to him. “Good afternoon, Dr. Zaftig.” “Good afternoon, Casey. Welcome to Valhalla.” “Thank you…” “Let’s get going, Casey,” said Sergeant Moster. “You’re keeping us waiting. Again.” “I’m sorry,” Casey said. Moster frowned. No signs of reaction to all the White Caps swimming around in his bloodstream. There were, inevitably, more moments of muscle awkwardness to be had first. First off, Casey was entirely unprepared for the men’s workout gear. His usual workout clothes fully covered him, a ripped and worn outfit of dirty, sweaty baggies, a sloppy oversized sweatshirt that seemed to have been made for a man of 600 pounds, and full-length sweatpants, ragged and much the worse for wear. Even in these baggies, his bulge loomed heavily, swaying from side to side as he came onto the floor. Moster had changed into his full-dress spotlessly clean green uniform slacks, boots, and a skin-tight regulation t-shirt. His mammoth black muscles gleamed with ferocious power, and his crisp, clinging t-shirt outlined every peak, valley, cut, bulge, thick vein and crevice of his astonishing physique. Casey tried not to stare at him. He was oddly drawn to this black mountain of muscle. “I wanna be as big as you someday,” he said softly to himself. The squad, on the other hand, he nervously noted, were all dressed in White Cap Night Valhalla regulation gym gear: ripped, torn and ragged wife-beaters with muscles bulging every which way. Dripping sweat, muscles red and inflamed, their workouts over. No shorts, Army boots, heavy cable socks, and sweaty, swollen, looming Army-green mesh jocks. Bulging packages protruded, looming cocks, also swaying heavily with each muscleman movement, all around the gym floor. “This is how you guys dress to work out?” asked Casey timidly. Okay, so it was still weird. His question was ignored. There was a lot of barely sheathed bulging heavy duty muscleman dick on this gym floor. His own was more modestly covered. If just as bulging. And just as evident. And no one’s on the floor appeared to be as big as Moster’s. Once again he stared for a moment at the man’s obviously huge, looming penis, outlined clearly in his green trousers. He could see the penis corona, even the deep piss slit through the thick dark khaki fabric. Moster sure wasn’t ashamed of his cock. So maybe Casey shouldn’t be ashamed, either. And what Casey couldn’t know is that the men, just having finished their workouts, were delaying their shower sports. White Caps racing in their bloodstreams. And holding back. Not 10 minutes before Moster had sternly separated Blankenship and Lang from some foreplay, giving each man a quick spanking on their bare bottoms before all the other men. Afterward Alvarez pulled Lang back and eyed him dangerously. There would be words between them tonight. Lang was staring at the floor. Blankenship, of course, was grinning. Toothlessly. “How about starting off with some incline flyes?” said Moster. “You need a warm-up set?” “I wanna stretch first,” said Casey. Miles had always taught him the necessity of proper technique. Light warm-ups were part of that, though once he actually started lifting, what constituted a warm-up for Casey might be a final blasted set for another man. “Always smart.” The men stood watching Casey intently. “Don’t you guys wanna go workout somewhere?” he blurted out. “We’re done,” said Alvarez. “We’re waiting for you.” Abdul was staring at him with undisguised hatred. Tiffany was smiling sweetly, butter not melting in his mouth. Schumacher was blank-faced, and all the scarier for it. The others were intent, if blank-faced. Even Hension, whose thoughts were usually betrayed on his handsome face, wasn’t reacting much. He just was staring. They were all staring. Casey shuffled off to a corner of the Marley mat and began his stretch routine, arms swinging, legs kicking, gentle but firm. The men watched him. “He’s bow-legged!” whispered Hension. Loudly. “Yes, we see that,” said Alvarez, mocking the whisper. “I think that’s so hot….!” Casey heard a resounding smack! echoing through the room. “Ow!” Someone had hit Hension again. Casey, his face turned away, had to smile. Apparently the pretty boy got hit a lot. “Um. This takes 20 minutes,” Casey said. Suddenly he didn’t care what they thought. He was going to stretch. He started torso turns, his hands behind his head. Moster spoke. “Casey, we don’t have all day.” Casey turned back to him and repeated himself firmly. “This takes 20 minutes. I stretch for 20 minutes. If you don’t want to watch, don’t.” And he turned back, cupping his big hands together, continuing his torso turns. Moster smiled slightly. Good. The White Caps had obviously kicked in after all. It seems Casey required more White Caps for an effect, and the societal restrictions weren’t so easily abandoned. But the boy was asserting himself, and quite naturally. Zaftig was suddenly next to Moster. “He’s not so easily bullied,” he whispered. “Not like your other men. You won’t have your way with him so easily.” “You don’t think so?” “No, I don’t.” “Well, we’ll see, then, won’t we?” Zaftig frowned. Clearly, Moster wasn’t concerned about Casey digging in his heels at his first workout, doing it his way, defying the Sergeant. “What do you know?” Zaftig hissed at Moster. Moster, never taking his eyes off the teen muscle giant now doing rapid pushups, turned to Zaftig, laid his cards on the table. “The kid has never been worshipped before. He wants it, he needs it. He needs someone to tell him how amazing he is. And he needs musclesex. Badly. He doesn’t know how much.” “I see. It’s your musclesex thing again. Goddammit, Sergeant. This project is about youth and strength and creating the most fearsome army the planet has ever seen. It’s not about sex. It never was. It was about creating the perfect physical specimen. The most extraordinary physiques the world has ever known.” Moster smiled sardonically. “You’ve forgotten, Dr. Zaftig, or perhaps you never knew. Even when you were a young man. Were you ever young?” Zaftig smiled. “Amazing to consider, isn’t it?” Moster continued. “Everything for men is about sex. And bodybuilders? Even more so. And for these bodybuilders? All that times about 200. 500. All these guys want is to be admired. Worshipped. Sucked off. Felt up. Fuck. And, I might add, get fucked. Train, lift, eat, sleep, shit, fight, suck, get sucked, fuck, train some more, fight some more, fuck some more, suck some more, eat, shit, sleep. And,” he added sweetly, “…that’s about it.” “Fuck you, Sergeant.” But now Zaftig was smiling. He knew there was more to it. Wasn’t there? Moster sighed. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zaftig. But that’s what you’ve created here. Millions of dollars poured into fucking machines. But look at the bright side.” He leaned in. “It’s going to make you millions, as well. All of us.” “I already have millions. I don’t care.” “Well, I don’t, and I do.” “By the way, how did the boy get that black eye?” “Looks pretty hot, don’t it?” “Less than 24 hours in the compound and already someone’s slugged him.” “Don’t look too closely at Abdul or Blankenship.” Zaftig glanced over at Abdul, sporting a shiner of his own, and noted the missing teeth of the blond bomber beauty Blankenship. Zaftig groaned inwardly. Another trip to the dentist. He hated having to take the men off the mountain. But there was a dentist in San Jose who fixed up the men regularly, regular hygiene, capping, replaced teeth, crowns, implants, the works, and charged nothing, content merely with big biceps flexed in his face while he sat in the chair playing with his tiny dentist dick. Then, Moster to Casey, “You about done there, boy?” “No, sir.” “All right, then.” The men were getting restless, shifting from foot to foot, now staring at Zaftig and the ever-cool Moster. Alvarez was the only man on the squad who seemed calm and in control of himself. A fact not unnoticed by Moster. Or Casey, for that matter, now secretly watching all this play out for himself. He was beginning to catch on that there was even more to these big dudes than just training, taking this crazy drug, and spanking their monkeys. “Men, time for some biceps curls,” Moster announced. “All of you go do 15 sets of light reps. 25 reps per set per arm. No ball busting, now. Get to it. No more than 25 pounds. I mean it.” He turned back and smiled at Casey. “We’ll wait until The Boy is ready.” Okay, so he was The Boy again. Zaftig wasn’t done. “In a few months the Joint Chiefs will be here for review. I want Casey ready and I want the men at their sharpest, and no funny business. Intensify their training.” He turned away. “You leaving?” Zaftig turned back. “Hell, no” he smiled. “I want to see my latest boy wipe your men all over the floor. Maybe you’ll listen to me then.” Moster nodded. Inwardly he had to admit he respected Zaftig deeply. The man may have been a puny genius with no body, but he wasn’t dishonest, and he was clearly unafraid of Moster. He had no personal need for muscle worship, and never bothered the men. He was, at the end of the day, a partner Moster could trust, if never take advantage of. He admired that. Moreover, Zaftig had never indicated another other than scientific curiosity about Moster’s treetrunk tool. That was a plus on his side, too. Moster turned to Casey and called out. “Okay, you’re done,” he said, brooking no denial. “What’s your starting weight for inclines?” “Um…..180?” Hension, 20 feet away and now doing the ordered biceps curls, stared at Casey. “Damn!” he squeaked. He put the dumbbell down and scratched his barely covered balls. “180?? To start?” Casey looked away, trying not to notice. That boy certainly was pretty. A perfect face. Without realizing it, Casey licked his lips, staring a little at Hension, who, gawking at the muscle monster, inadvertently smiled back, absently scratching his balls. The exchange did not go unnoticed. Lang nudged Alvarez, who nodded sagely. “180 it is. Let’s see what you got.” Moster strode to the bench, grabbed two 180-pound dumbbells as if they were sacks of feathers, and handed them to Casey. Casey took them without a blink, two sacks of feathers. And so the workout began. One by one, the men re-racked their light weights, approached the bench where the giant Casey lay, ready to lift. Casey’s perfect technique was evident from the start. He smoothly lowered his huge bulk onto an incline bench. He raised his arms into position, the two dumbbells easily held aloft overhead. In no time he reeled off twenty reps of perfectly calibrated incline flyes, then peeling off into overhead presses, gently touching the dumbbells one another, then down to the tips of his big brown nipples, outlined in his oversized sweats. His chest bloomed, rivers of sweaty muscle flowed, the pumped pecs seemed to reach to the ceiling as he pumped. “Pow, pow, pow, pow,” he breathed to himself with each rep. Light stains of pec milk appeared on his sweats. “Wow….” breathed Hension. “Do you see that??” “What’s next?” “Do it again.” “Okay.” He reeled off another set. The men watched him stonily, now all gathered around the bench. More pec milk appeared. “Now?” “Do another.” “Sure.” He did another set. Finishing, he clanged the weights to the floor. “Can I work with something heavy now?” Moster smiled. The White Caps had taken effect. He shot a look over at Zaftig, who merely raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Certainly, boy. Take it to 220.” So he was still Boy. “Anyone have gloves?” “Sure, Case!” Lang reached into his bag and tossed a pair to Casey. Casey smiled a little, hearing Lang call him by the same nickname the cadets down the mountain did. “Thanks.” He caught the gloves and slipped them on. Everyone was watching now. The red light of the video cam continued to blink. Standing next to Lang, Alvarez was blank-faced, but not unapproving. In the corner, Dr. Zaftig now had his head tilted back, musing. This boy will go the limit, he thought. No matter what Moster says about what the men really want. This boy is different. He’s pure muscle, and nothing else. No, that was not right. He was muscle, cock, and butt. This boy would be worth millions. And very, very soon. An uncommon sex machine of the first power. Innocent Casey, unaware of the plans being made around him, rose, took the two 180 pound dumbbells, and re-racked them, two sacks of feathers back to the their featherbed. He strode down the line and grabbed two 220s, returned to the incline, lowered his bulk, and reeled off another set of 20 reps, grunting loudly and blowing out air with each rep. More milk flecks appeared on his shirt. He blew sweat and spit, began to groan mightily. “ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh….” When he was finished he set the dumbbells down gently on the marley floor, and looked up at Moster. Absently he wiped the milk away from his nipples with thumb and forefinger. “Nicely done, boy,” said Moster. He spoke loudly to the group. “Notice that Casey does not drop the weights.” He looked pointedly at Jin, who was famous for throwing the weights to the floor after the punishing final set of any lift he did, excepting squats – where he re-racked as noisily as possible, all while screaming. Jin looked back, defiant. “Why do you do it that way, boy?” Casey shrugged. “Way that Miles taught me, I guess. It’s harder.” “Miles?” “Miles Donovan, Raw Weight Gym.” So that was it, thought Gunst. Miles Donovan. He should have known. Donovan was a biceps freak, and hosted many others in his gym, taking their pay-offs for private posing from men who liked to blast big guns in the faces of the hapless, endlessly paying schmoes. No doubt Casey had been a major revenue stream for the notorious Donovan gym, he reasoned to himself. Of course he had to have huge guns. Miles would have seen to it. Blankenship grinned, a front tooth missing and looking all the hotter for it. “Yeah, makes sense, he came from that old horn dog Donovan’s gym. You worked out on the 3rd floor yet?” Casey looked at Blankenship a little blankly. “Um. No.” Obatu spoke up. “Casey is still too young and green for the 3rd floor. Besides, he has been training at the cadet gym down the mountain for the last several months. Haven’t you, Casey?” “Yeah, I guess. What’s next?” “You flat bench?” “Sure. How much weight?” “Let’s see what you can do.” The squad backed away a little as Casey, gripping each elbow and stretching his arms over his head, walked towards a row of flat benches. Gunst despaired a little. He was wrong. Casey wasn’t posing and being paid for it at Donovan’s. Which meant he’d built those mountainous biceps on his own. “Lose the shirt!” squawked Hension. “I want to see your nips milk!” “’Kay,” said Casey. He stopped, slipping out of his sweatshirt, folding it up carefully. Underneath he wore a baggy green t-shirt, which may probably have been at one time a pup tent. “My nipples always make a little milk when I train,” he explained. “See?” He reached under his soaked t-shirt to a nipple, gathered some white liquid, held out a finger dripping with milk droplets. “But it looks like I’m making a little more today.” In spite of himself, Moster was touched by Casey’s innocent neatness with his sweatshirt. And his explanation. “T-shirt too,” said Waring. “Not yet,” said Casey. Moster’s eyebrow raised a little. He glanced over at Zaftig, who nodded. Good. Good. It was all good. The White Caps were claiming his ego. Casey was showing signs he could stand up on his own. “Load up a starting weight of 360 pounds,” directed Moster. “You can handle 300, can’t you, Casey?” “Sure, easy.” Casey laid his bulk down on the flat bench while Waring and Lang placed eight 45-pound plates on either end of the bar. He began to suck in air in preparation. “Hey, can someone wrap my elbows?” he suddenly asked. “Sure. Washington, grab some heavy wraps for Cadet Rockland. Get to it. The man has to lift.” He lifted the bar off the bench and began to bench, pumping his enormous pecs. Now he was working his hardest. He was now more determined than ever to fit in with these huge men. He was going to show them now. The workout continued. Flat bench, declines, more flyes. All pecs stuff. More milk. Throughout the workout Hension, Lang, Jin, Bogarde, Washington, Meyer, Waring, Duncan, Chad, and Corporal Blankenship were cheerful and approving. They howled their encouragement and counted the reps. “10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!" Throw the weights, Casey!” "Okay to throw them?" Casey asked Moster, holding 600 pounds aloft, just about to bring it down to his milky nipples. He was calm. "If the men want. This time. Throw it when you're done." "Okay." He finished pumping, and instead of reracking... Clang! Casey threw the weight on the floor, sat up, grabbed the plastic bottle and chugged a half-gallon of water. Water poured from the side of his mouth onto his shirt. The men whooped and hollered. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and strode forcefully to the next weight. Immediately the men were counting again. “10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!” Clang! Wipe. “YEAHHHH….!” And on it went for 45 minutes of grueling, punishing lifting. Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, LeFevre, and Alvarez and Private McIntyre seemed more reserved. Corporal Abdul just grunted. But he was impressed, in spite of himself. The boy was training harder than he had ever seen. His muscles were blooming, seeming to grow as he watched. Gunst was quiet and watchful. Zaftig was beaming with professional pride. Moster remained aloof and keenly observant. And all the while, Dr. Irving followed every move with the video cam. The cocksure little Private Joe Tiffany cheered him on just as loudly. Casey pretended not to see the evil glint in the muscleboy’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it. He’d learned at the Home how to read signals. The Home…..hmmm. A memory appeared dimly, and, just as quickly, was gone. While resting between two punishing sets, Casey was still silently agog at the size of Moster’s muscles. Occasionally he found himself staring at the improbably large mound resting atop his CO’s left quad. The tip of the mound reached to just above the giant’s knee. He noted the other men seemed to be avoiding looking directly at Moster’s leg. Even though they all seemed to be sporting packages of similar size. Damn, their dicks are big, Casey thought. Are they real? And deep inside Casey, a little voice proudly squeaked…..”Wait until they see MINE…” Then he remembered – …..oh yeah.... They’d already seen it. And he had seen theirs, too. Sorta. Between his half-closed black eye. His hand went up, and he rubbed the black eye. Looked at Abdul, and his black eye. Adbul was smiling a little now. Not friendly, but hard - but still, a smile. Casey grinned wearily as he finally finished up with the last set of triceps pulldowns. Private Meyer, a big toothy grinning lighting up his handsome, beaming face, burst forward from the group, and pumped the newcomer’s hand. “Thanks,” said Casey. Meyer nodded enthusiastically. “He can’t hear you,” said Private Waring. Casey looked at Meyer, stricken for having forgotten that Meyer was a deaf mute. “It’s okay, he doesn’t mind.” Casey, touched, shook Meyer’s hand vigorously. Meyer shook his head cheerfully, touching his lips, and shrugged his shoulders to show that indeed he didn’t care that he couldn’t speak. Then he stepped back and proudly flexed his own powerful, round right biceps, smacking them with his left hand, and reached down to grab Casey’s wrists. He pulled his arms up encouragingly and Casey, getting the message, proudly brought his huge guns up and flexed mightily. “Mother fucker!” yelled Lang and Hension simultaneously. The men roared with laughter, and Casey colored a deep red, smiling sheepishly. Alvarez clamped that affectionate paw of his around Lang’s shoulders and hugged him close. But he looked worried. Something was on his mind. Behind them Hension eyed them both steadily, with longing. Meyer kept his hands on Casey’s obliques as if he was rotating his upper body for all to see. “It’s okay, plebe,” said Jin, laughing. “You’ll get to know us all.” While all through the devastating workout he had been stronger than he could ever remember, now he felt – well, almost frail – as if something, suddenly, was missing. “All right, men,” said Moster calmly. “Rec room in 15 minutes. Casey, shower up.” “Yes, sir.” “Men, file out. Casey, come here a moment first.” He glanced at the men, who leaned in, curious as to what Moster might be saying. “Well, Cadet Casey, it looks as if you’ve made it.” Moster spoke quietly. Casey looked up at him, and grinned wearily. “Thanks, Sergeant Moster.” The men gave him a round of applause, Casey noted that even Corporal Schumacher seemed to approve. He lowered his head, modestly grateful. Then Moster turned back to the group. They were still applauding. Casey was embarrassed, turning to go. He didn’t see Moster’s stone face shift into a slight smile. “Men, get dressed. Shower up. No play time. Get to it. I expect you all in uniform, neat and clean, in the rec room, in 10 minutes. Hop to it. Get a move on.” Then, to Casey, “Casey, use my private locker room to shower.” He pointed to a door across the floor. “You’ll find clean sweats in there. They’ll fit. Grab them after you shower. And no jerking off, boy.” Casey, embarrassed that Moster seemed to be reading his mind, nodded dumbly and headed to the door. He was worried again. He had only masturbated once today so far, and on a day like today, he needed a lot more….especially after that worship session with the cadets this morning. He was discovering….something….and his huge cock wanted to know more. But he went, dutifully, into the private locker room, showered, and changed into the clean sweats he found there. Before he left, he checked his guns and his pecs in the full length mirror. Flexing, he breathed to himself. “Damn. I’m fucking awesome.” And with the capsules still not in apparent full-force effect, dressed in baggy trunks and a clean, white light tee, he stumbled his way to the rec room. For what, he couldn’t tell. Probably more weirdness. But now, he was ready. Dr. Irving was there ahead of them all. He had set up chairs for all the bodybuilders in a semi-circle, with the inevitable video cam set up. There was a chair in the center, obviously meant for him. He glanced over at Moster, who nodded and gestured towards the chair. Casey waddled with his bodybuilder’s walk towards it slowly and sat. He looked around with anticipation. “So now what?” he asked. Zaftig took Moster aside. “This boy is gentle. We don’t want to break his spirit. He’s had a tough time and he just wants to make friends. Go easy on him.” Moster’s shoulders stiffened. The veins in his neck popped a little. He looked Zaftig dead in the eye, and said, “Being sweet to him now will kill him later. Is that what you want?” “No.” “Then let me handle it. I know what is best.” “Did you at least give him a capsule?” “Sure,” answered Moster. “He’ll be just fine.” “Doesn’t seem to have taken effect yet.” “He’s a big boy. Blood volume and all. It takes time.” “Fuck you, Moster.” Moster’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he knew not to protest. Zaftig was properly proud of his discovery. “You know fucking well that White Caps P-21 take effect immediately regardless of ‘blood volume’, if you want to put it that way.” “Dr. Zaftig, it’s my turn now.” “It’s always your turn.” Zaftig turned on his heel and left the rec room without further comment. Moster watched him go. The men were sitting impatiently. “All right, men. Let’s get to it.” He turned to Casey. “All right, Casey. Welcome. You’re one of the group now. We’re now….The Twenty.” “Yeah, baby!” “Bout fucking time.” “Tell him what that really means….” said Alvarez. “Spank him!” yelled Hension, and then, before Chad, sitting next to him, could swat him, he said, “Don’t you fucking hit me!” Chad did anyway. “Ow!” yelled Hension. Casey chuckled. “That’s gotta hurt. These dudes seem to hit you a lot.” “You will too, in time,” said Waring. “What did …he….”….um…” “Alvarez,” said Alvarez. “What did Alvarez – sorry – mean – when he said “tell him what that really means?” Silence. Casey continued. “I mean, what does it mean to be one of The Twenty?” Moster smiled. “Yes, let’s talk about that, Casey. Men, why don’t we show Casey what it’s all about?” Then he paused a moment. Casey wasn't reacting. He was just sitting quietly, albeit with great body tension. His muscles were hugely pumped, and Moster could see the fabric shifting as Casey's enormous cock began to uncoil in his sweats. Soon he would be hard. But the boy wasn't moving. Odd. Quietly, he asked, leaning in, “Casey, level with me.” He looked the teen in the eye. Casey couldn’t look away. Inwardly he was stammering. He was looking at Moster's crotch. “No, look me in the eye. Look up. Not down there. Up. How many White Caps have you taken?” “White Caps?” “The capsules. The pills. How many?” He gazed at him levelly. A pause. “Four, I think. Five?” He shrugged, weakly. "i don't remember." "Where did you get them? I gave you one...." "Uh..." Casey didn't want to indict the men on his first day. Weirdness notwithstanding. “Never mind. I can guess." Moster looked back at the group, all standing still, attentive, neatly dressed in their uniforms. And every cock seeming at attention, poling out hugely in their khakis. The men were ready to play. Past ready. Mmmmm. Not much effect on Casey, though, for 5 White Caps. A few moments of assertiveness and a powerful workout, but…..not much. "Are you feeling anything…unusual?” “Well….” Casey paused and looked away. He found himself staring at the men and their looming erections. Jesus. Here it came. Strong societal blockers, Moster thought. "Do you want to have sex? Like now?" No answer. Casey just stared at the cocks in the room. The men were deadly quiet. Then it hit Moster. Of course. “Casey, are you hypoglycemic?” Not so much to his surprise, even the dimwitted Casey knew exactly what that meant. Still staring the the men's rocket crotches, he spoke softly. “......I need oranges or candy bars sometimes.....” “They told you this when you were growing up?” “They told me in the Boys Home. My blood sugar. I have problems.” Of course. That was it. It happened sometimes. He reminded himself he had to mention it to Zaftig. It was the same for Obatu when he first checked in, and then, years later, for Eli Meyer. Since Meyer could neither speak nor hear and his sign language didn't encompass the subject of hypoglycemia, it took them a few days to realize that a cup of chocolate milk worked wonders on the tight glutes of the hot little muscle fuckee Meyer. Give the boy some cocoa and he'd take massive tool after tool up his butt for hours. He called over his shoulder. “Dr. Irving, please step into my office and get an orange. You’ll find a bowl of fruit on my conference table.” He turned back to Casey and smiled a little. “It’ll be just a moment. Then we’ll tell you what The Twenty is all about.” Irving left the room, used to being invisible except when ordered about. Moster stood up, in front of Casey. "It will only be a minute now." The men, behind him, were now pawing the floor like racehorses, ready to rock and roll. Casey, sitting, was now eye-to-crotch to Moster, in front of him. He stared openly at Moster’s enormous bulge in the fly of his uniform khakis, a thick pylon of sheathed cock snaking heavily along the edge of huge quad muscle, and gulped, looking up. Though Moster was the only man in the room without an erection, his penis yet appeared to be the biggest. “Yes, sir,” he stammered. And stared again. His heart was pounding. Moster put a hand on Casey’s beefy shoulder, kneading his fingers slightly into the thick muscle. “Hang on. It won’t be long now.” He turned to the men behind him. “Men? Drop trou.” Zippers unzipped, belts slipped out of belt loops and went to the floor, as the 18 bodybuilders – even Abdul – dropped their uniform slacks to their ankles. Pants down. Around the room. Now all the men were in micro posers. Those massive bulges were unleashed. Looming, heavy, hard, all already pointing straight out. Their cocks almost fully exposed except for the bulging, straining fabric barely covering cockheads. Some of the posers were ready to snap. Casey stared at them all. "Wow...." he breathed. "Men why don't you do some posing for Casey? You've seen his muscles. I don't think he's had the opportunity to see yours." "You, too, Sergeant," said Abdul. Moster looked at him. He paused. "All right, then." He unbuttoned his bulging dress shirt and slipped it off. Casey could almost imagine he could hear the groan of relief of the fabric, suddenly relieved of the need to stretch over the man's massive muscles. But he wasn't prepared for the massive musculature of Moster. Cocks and balls bulged forth, each man spilling half a foot of visible cock into barely sheathed pouches. Casey felt a dribble of precum shooting in his posers. “Arms behind backs!” barked Moster, clearly now the leader of the group. He turned to Casey and became one with his men. The Nineteen placed their hands behind their lower backs. “Spread legs!” All spread their legs wide, shooting their right legs out in choreographed unison. “Prepare!” Fists clenched, crammed in solid obliques. “Front double biceps!” All arms slowly rose. And 40 cannonballs of enormous power ball biceps snapped into ungodly peaks. The men faced straight ahead, all eyes high and level, as if gazing into infinity. “Jesus,” breathed Casey. He fumbled with his crotch a moment. His head was spinning. The lineup of 19 men stood before him, all flexing with massive front double biceps power. The black muscle god brought his arms down strode slowly across the room back to Casey. As he moved, his half-covered organ swayed heavily from side to side in his posing pouch. Behind him, the lineup of men continued to flex without wavering. He stood next to Casey, and impossibly, appeared to tower over even him. Dr. Irving returned with the orange. “Chow down on this, Casey,” said Moster as Irving handed it to him wordlessly. "Men, drop the biceps pose." The men relaxed. Hension snickered. "Yeah, chow down, Casey." Then, warning Chad...."Don't you hit me...." “Dr. Irving, would you get back to your camera, please?” Dr. Irving went back to the video cam, checking his clipboard, and began to tape. The men circled around Casey as he took a big bite out of the orange, and then another, and then another. A moment passed. Casey began to flush, a deep crimson red – and then, just as quickly – the flush faded. He looked up at Moster, and smiled. Broadly. “I’m fine now,” he said. “Casey,” asked Moster evenly, “have you ever sucked cock before?” “No, sir.” “Would you like to?” “Yes, sir. I think I would.” Snap! Snap! Gunst's and Blankenship's posers snapped. Their cocks bloomed free, swaying heavily, ready for service. Gunst stepped forward, but Blankenship elbowed him heavily out of the way. Gunst looked at him threateningly, raised his fist, ready to punch face. Moster stood back. "Easy, men. There's time for everyone. Who should he start with?” he asked the group. “I think he starts with ME,” said Abdul, striding forward, his hands on the straps of his bulging posers. The 14 inch shaft was fully exposed, the tendrils of Abdul's thick pubic hair shining in the rec room light. “Fine with me,” Casey said, still smiling. “How do I do this?” “Don’t worry. It’ll come naturally. Just let it happen.” Abdul took his position in front of Casey and pushed out his powerful hips. As Casey leaned in, Abdul roughly cupped the back of the teen’s head, and pulled him in close. "Get to work, boy..." Casey open his mouth. Wide. "Sorry about last night, " he said up to Abdul, who loomed over him, taking his mammoth cock out of his posers and aiming it. "Wider," said Abdul. "Can I pose for you guys later?" Casey asked. "Sure thing!" squeaked Hension. Smack!! "Ow! What did I say??" "I said OPEN WIDER," commanded Abdul. "Sure thing," said Casey. He opened his mouth wider. "Let's go." And so.... it began. **** Want to read "The Twenty" from the start? Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets
  4. Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets Chapter 17: The Presentation February 10th, 2018 2000 Hours “Rose, dim the lights, and please – please leave us alone. Lock the auditorium doors behind you when you leave so we won’t be disturbed. Does everything have everything they need? Wi-Fi connection good? And Rose….tell Dr. Irving to bring the men upstairs to the lab. We’ll be ready for them in about 30 minutes.” A crisp response in the affirmative. The auditorium lights dimmed. There was a tapping of sensible heels, and the double doors at the back of the Valhalla Laboratories Assembly Hall opened and shut quietly. The lock clicked. Dr. Ira Zaftig cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and looked out serenely at his audience. He clicked his remote. The screen lit up, the light spilling out into the chrome and concrete bunker auditorium. “Are we ready, Gentlemen? Good evening. Welcome to Valhalla Labs.” The Valhalla logo glowed on the 20’ screen. Zaftig’s calm voice echoed darkly into the far regions of the room. “Gentlemen, I know you’ve had a long day. Flying in from Washington, checking into your quarters, touring the facility grounds, and now, after that splendid dinner, I know you’re curious to see the results of our mutual contract with the United States military and the Joint Chiefs. The unveiling, in fact, of our great 15-year initiative.” The five Officers in the front row murmured quietly. Out of courtesy, one or two nodded. Admiral Walrus, the Joint Chief Chair and Committee head, was seated dead center. He said nothing. He waited. Well behind the officers in the half-light sat a row of junior officers and young aides in attendance to the brass. “We here at Valhalla Labs know that we have achieved stunning success. We’re proud to be able to share it with you tonight.” Zaftig spoke easily, confidently. He clicked the remote again, and the first slide came into view. In their swivel chairs, the five Pentagon Officers sat back and turned their attention to the image on the screen. And then they stared. “Jesus, Zaftig, what the hell is this?” demanded Admiral Walrus. “Gentlemen, I give you Prototype 1-A of Project Herculaneum, Specimen Casey: Mr. Casey Rockland.” The image of an impossibly huge, muscled behemoth of a young man was on the screen, presented in four views: front, left, right, and rear. He was squared-jawed, thick-necked, blue-eyed, and handsome, with a deeply cleft chin and full, luscious lips. His arms hung at his side, and his legs were spread confidently well apart. His gaze was centered straight ahead, his jaw set firm with business-like grimness, his head erect. His waist was impossibly slender, given the mass above and below, perhaps 29 inches. His cobblestone abs rippled insanely. His posture was that of a classic anatomy chart. Every vein, every muscle appeared to pulse right off the screen. The young man was clean-shaven. He had a short blond military crew cut, but his eyebrows were thick, dark black, and lustrous. The left brow was slightly elevated with cocky arrogance. His face set him at about 19 years, but the muscle density of his enormous physique made it difficult to precisely age him. Seated in the dark behind the officers, Ensign Sam Victor, Admiral Walrus’ coolly handsome young personal aide de camp, looked evenly up at the screen and took in the image of the young muscleman with cool calm. The muscle boy’s skin – for he was, with his angelic face, little more than a boy, at least in years - was shrink-wrapped over the most astonishing display of musculature Sam had ever seen. Every muscle group, every vein, every cut, every separation stood prominently sculpted, in separate relief from the adjacent muscle group. He wore only the briefest of posing trunks, which sagged deeply to expose the gently curving, then plummeting, upper 6 inches of his tawny-colored, vein-lined penis. His oversized ball sac bulged ferociously in the heavy pouch. The Joints Chiefs were stunned. In the front-view image on the far left, subject Casey Rockland displayed hugely rounded, shining, mountainous pectoral muscles, gleaming with powerful deep furrows of striations, punctuated with thick dark brown, 3-inch sand dollar-sized nipples, poutily pointing downward. His broad shoulders, thick powerful traps and heavy delts looked as if the boy could easily carry a 600 pound bull around a corral. His lats spread almost horizontally behind him like the outspread wings of an eagle. The mighty 3-headed biceps were triple slabs of muscle on each arm, huge beyond all reasoning, the forearms laced with networks of half and quarter-inch iron thick veins. The boy held his enormous hands at his sides, his heavy fingers and thick thumbs crooked slyly inward towards his bulging crotch. Smokestack quads rippled and burst with muscle, and he was supported by a set of calves that ballooned behind him. His feet were enormous, with large thick toes and perfectly groomed nails. His tanned skin glowed with health. Sam assumed the subject’s teeth were probably perfect, too, but for the moment his gaze was leveled just below Casey’ rippling midsection. Well, well, he thought. Let’s just look you over, now. Just who are you, buddy? Superman? Captain America? Tiny Yokum? Johnny Holmes? Naw. This was no cartoon character. No porn star. But no superfreak that Sam had ever encountered before – and he had known many – could boast the cock this boy had. Between his legs in the front view hung a monster penis, less than half covered by the straining, flimsy Spandex posing trunks. The top half of Casey’s shaft was plainly visible. The trunks loomed heavily with the outlined round bulge and piss slit of his cock head. The generals were now murmuring loudly in shocked disapproval. Admiral Walrus just sat and stared. Behind them in the darkness, most of the aides and junior officers avoided one another’s glances. A few men gazed meekly down into their laps, looking up only furtively with appreciative eyes. A few stared outright. “This specimen, gentlemen,” intoned Zaftig’s voice out of the dark, “or, if you prefer, Private 1st Class Casey Rockland, is at present only one the world’s most perfectly-developed men. There are, of course, 19 other specimens.” Sam let out a low whistle. Ensign Tyler, to his immediate left, caught it. “There are 20 of these dudes?” Sam murmured to Tyler. “There’s a challenge for you, Sam. Never known you to turn your back on a challenge.” Tyler responded. “Shut the fuck up, Tyler, or no play time later.” Tyler smiled sardonically but said no more. Sam leaned back to enjoy the view. His brought his big hands behind his head, and leaned back in his seat to contemplate. He focused on the image of Casey’s crotch and allowed himself to dream, if just a little. Casey’s testicles bulged heavy and full in the sac of white Spandex, and the top quarter of the shaft of the penis spilled out and curved visibly downward before being enmeshed in the barely restraining pouch. The cock appeared flaccid, but no matter: the thickness was like tube of a flashlight, and the cock head bulged and pointed down with insistent heaviness. Under the thin sheath of Spandex, Sam could make out the long, curling, resting shaft, the rim of the bulbous cock head, the bulging cock head itself, the inviting piss slit, and the 2-softball scrotum. Curled tufts of iron black pubic hair spilled out from beneath the poser’s tightly hemmed edges. The poser straps strained mid-hips, threatening to burst from the weight. In the left and right side views, thick horseshoe triceps rippled along the battlefield-ready arms, their huge round sweep arcing backward. His pecs bloomed mightily, those taut brown nipples still tantalizingly pointing down. Lower, brick-like washboard abdominal muscles tapered into that impossibly slender yet powerful, vascular waistline. His obliques curved up and outward with menacing power. The roundness of the hard butt and the sweep of Casey’s hamstrings jutted past the back of the line of his head. In the rear view, his deltoids upended mightily blending into mountainous traps, soaring into a thick network of back muscle. His legs were spread wide. Two tight globes of thick, oblong gluteus muscle curved below a rock-solid butt shelf of power. His rocky butt glistened with sweat and oil: a blissfully full, solid, fatless furnace of power. Each splendidly ripped butt cheek appeared to be glancing slightly to the side, barely opening the center spread. Mr. Rockland’s poser was as inadequate going as it was coming, and unable to hide the deep red cherry butthole, which glowed invitingly around the right edge of the tight thin strap that traveled and sank into deep, darkened buttcrack. Below, the exponentially huge, shaped and separated hamstrings exploded, supported by freaky split calf muscles. Get a grip, Victor, Sam thought to himself. It’s just a picture. In his loose white Navy uniform slacks, Sam felt his own cock twitch longingly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and reaching down surreptitiously beneath his regulation belt, his slipped his hand into his rapidly knotting underwear. He rearranged his package. Next to him, Tyler was doing the same thing. They caught each other’s eyes, and in spite of themselves had to suppress immediate blasts of explosive mirth. “Quiet, back there!” barked Walrus. Then: “We came here tonight to see a fucking muscleman?” he said dangerously to Zaftig. Tyler was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing, and Sam busied himself with his laptop, seemingly taking serious notes. Lucky he thought to bring it, he mused. It was covering a fierce erection, now pushing protestingly out of his tight uniform trousers. “I think you’ll find all the men interesting, Admiral Walrus. This specimen, Casey Rockland is 19 years old. He is 6’- 7” tall,” said Zaftig, now in full control. “He weighs 335 pounds. Casey was enrolled in the project formally only a few months ago, when he was just 18. Already he has made extraordinary gains.” Sam noted that the men on either side of him seemed to be breathing more heavily. His cock stirred heavily in his pants, and Tyler was still fooling around with something in his lap. He glanced down the line. Even in the half-light of auditorium he could see that all of the men were beginning to sprout fierce trouser trouts. Even the straight men. “Hmmm,” he thought to himself. “I wonder…” Zaftig continued. “Casey has 1.5% bodyfat. He’s in splendid health, his heart very slightly enlarged perhaps, but his blood pressure holds at an even 130/80. Casey’s lungs are clear. To our knowledge, he has never in his life smoked a cigarette. He can run almost 30 miles per hour for 2 to 3 hours at a stretch. He bench-presses 800 pounds, and can easily perform single arm curls at 160 pounds. He squats easily with 500 pounds, and has been known to do deadlifts of 600 pounds in a set of 25 repetitions.” Zaftig coughed modestly. “Casey is also an accomplished gymnast, and can hold an iron cross on the rings without moving for 5 minutes. His extreme flexibility enables him to land from a flying dismount into a full 180 degree split.” Baby, breathed Sam to himself. Come to daddy. He licked his lips just a little. Tyler was taking short, shallow breaths, as if he was hyperventilating. “Calm down,” Sam chuckled to Tyler, who was trying in vain to appear neutral. Tyler elbowed him sharply. “You calm down…” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. Sam smiled and ignored him. “Go, man, go!” came a breathless voice from down at the end of the row. Clearly Sam and Tyler weren’t the only men excited by what they were seeing. Zaftig clicked his remote. A new slide appeared with Casey holding a front double biceps pose. “Casey has 26 inch biceps,” Zaftig continued. “His waistline measures 30” after a heavy meal. His quadriceps are 32 inches, and his chest, when expanded, measures a rather staggering 69 inches. His calves and his forearms are, respectively, 20 inches and 25 inches.” Yes, I was going to ask about Casey’s dimensions, Sam thought wickedly. He glanced right and left and observed his colleagues were probably wondering, with various degrees of personal interest, the same thing. “He eats 8 times a day, about 15,000 calories daily, a special diet of lean meat protein, clean animal fat, and low carbs. He drinks between 5 to 8 gallons of water during the course of a normal day. He trains 4 days a week, and the other three days he is required to remain at full body rest and in meditation, so that his body may fully recover and continue the growth process. His workouts are not shade less than brutal. Still, we are very careful not to overtrain any of the men, but because of Casey’s particular passion for heavy bodybuilding, in his case, we have to be unusually strict and watchful. He’d be in the gym day and night if we allowed it. Fortunately, over the years, we’ve learned better.” “I’ll bet you have,” thought Sam. “Casey’s also a black belt in karate and could be a champion extreme fighter – that is, if I ever let him out of the lab.” Zaftig smiled devilishly. “He has a mean left hook,” he added. “He can knock a 250 pound man unconscious with a single punch. His vision far better than 20/5 – what you can see at 5 feet, he can see at 20. Casey doesn’t drink or do drugs. And he has never in the three years we have worked with him here at Valhalla had so much as a gram of processed sugar. In short, gentlemen, Casey Rockland is a perfectly-developed male specimen.” One of the 1-star generals on the Committee blurted out. “Doesn’t do drugs,” General Needling echoed, as if appalled. “That’s a steroided physique if I ever I saw one!” he shouted. Walrus frowned. Another officer, General Wampum, added his harsh agreement. “He’s Ahhh-nold,” came a deep voice from somewhere in the junior officer row. “I’ll beeee beck.” Some chuckles, immediately silenced when Walrus, without turning around, sharply lifted an index finger to one ear. The men were clearly covering their growing excitement with feeble jokes. Zaftig continued. “On the contrary, gentlemen, there are no contraband controlled substances anywhere in Casey’s bloodstream. He’d test negative for any drug. No growth hormone, no insulin, no pain blockers. Nothing synthetic. I assure you there have never been any sort of street drug protocols at any time in Casey’s extraordinary development. Casey receives nightly injections of P-21, Valhalla Labs patented muscle-building enzyme, painstakingly developed by our technicians a decade ago, and unavailable to the general public. All of Project Herculaneum’s subjects receive nightly injections. There are no negative side-effects of any kind to P-21.” He paused for effect. “And it is not a steroid.” Zaftig let that sink in. Admiral Walrus snorted. He didn’t believe a word of this crap. He’d had enough, and the meeting wasn’t 3 minutes old. “What the hell are you talking about, Zaftig?” demanded Walrus. “Is this how you’ve been spending your Pentagon contract? Is this what you’ve brought us across the country from D.C. to see? A muscleman?! Some gym freak? Goddamn it, man!” “Admiral Walrus, sir, “ said Zaftig, his voice lowered to easy familiarity, “let’s just look at the facts. Casey Rockland is no ‘gym freak.’ He’s not simply “a muscleman.” Casey is the result of years of pain-staking research, protocols, hard-core training, and delicate systemic honing. He and the other 19 men we are presenting to you tonight are uniquely developed physically perfect beings. They are trained to exert control in all situations, and to follow orders to the letter. To the letter, I might repeat.” I can think of a few orders I could issue, thought Sam, shifting in his seat. Once again, his twitching cock was beginning to bind in his shorts. He mused if such wishful thinking might indeed have a payoff. The Generals murmured in low tones to Walrus, who nodded fiercely. “He looks – what did you call it?” Needling whispered again to Walrus. “He looks Photoshopped! How do we know this is real? No man looks like this!” Zaftig turned and faced the group. “Gentlemen, I assure you, there’s no trickery here,” he confided with a touch of theatricality. “Zaftig, this is a waste of our time.” Walrus started to get up as if to leave. The other officers stirred, hesitating. Zaftig resumed pacing. “Gentlemen, I confess, I’m disappointed. In fact, I’m speechless. You think this is all pure speculation?” He gestured at the figure on the screen. “Theory? Scientifically uncertain? Wish fulfillment, perhaps? Photoshop?” He paused for effect, and turned to a tall, lanky, owl-like man hovering at the end of the first row. “Dr. Shaft? Perhaps you might confirm to the Admiral…..?” He waited smugly. The Joint Chiefs personal physician, Dr. Shaft, was invariably called in as a paid expert on any matter remotely medical, for which service he balanced his time between coasts, living half his life with his annoying socialite wife of 35 years in an impressive Chevy Chase McMansion near the Washington, D.C. beltway, the other in a smaller, more secluded ocean-front home off the Pacific Palisades. Shaft had remained silent and withdrawn up to now. He turned meekly to Admiral Walrus, cleared his throat and spoke nervously. “Admiral Walrus….requesting your indulgence, sir, but Dr. Zaftig is quite correct. Casey – and the other 19 muscle specimens – does indeed exist. And his specifications and dimensions are just as Dr. Zaftig is presenting them to be tonight.” Walrus grunted. “After all, Admiral Walrus,” said Zaftig smoothly, “Dr. Shaft is your own representative in Project Herculaneum.” “And they’re all living here in this compound?” he demanded. “Now? Tonight?” “Yes, sir. They’re all in residence here at Valhalla Labs. You can see them for yourself in a few minutes, if you wish. In fact, we have planned on it.” A moment passed. Walrus resumed. “Get on with it, then,” he muttered. “It’s a waste of my time, but get on with it.” He snorted. “Admiral Walrus, sir,” said Dr. Shaft, placating him with superior charm. “Dr. Zaftig and the team at Valhalla are indeed introducing a species of super-beings. I have had the opportunity to personally review them myself in the not-too-distant past.” For years, Dr. Shaft had upon occasion enjoyed the discreet company of out of town young male visitors from Venice, California in his West Coast home, whose ‘careers’ on the bodybuilding competition stage he had generously funded. When Zaftig’s informant, one retired pro bodybuilder by the name of Miles Donovan, revealed Shaft’s little secret, Zaftig knew he had an ally, if an unwilling one, amongst the Joint Chiefs. He’d played his cards right, and covertly brought Shaft in months before for an unofficial unveiling. Shaft had been stunned into fawning speechlessness, and gratefully accepted a deal in exchange for support. Zaftig found the man useful but repugnant. And now - review the men? Is that what he calls it? “Let’s not exaggerate, Dr. Shaft. I haven’t created a species. After all, I’m not Victor Frankenstein,” Zaftig said humorously. “Aren’t you?” asked Dr. Shaft. “Who are they? Where did they come from?” asked General Wampum, glaring at Shaft. “They all came to me on their own at different times during the last 18 years,” replied Dr. Zaftig. “On their own, they were already splendid specimens, ranging in age from 18 to 40. Though I searched them all out personally, no one was recruited. Moreover, their dedication to this project is unquestioned.” Zaftig’s audience began to murmur. “This is crazy,” said Wampum. “Crazy?” Zaftig responded, his voice raising. “Crazy, you say? I assure you, General Wampum, these men are real and at the height of their development.” The officers all seemed to speak at once. “Perhaps, to satisfy your doubts, I might pause and take some of your questions now.” “They’re volunteers?” “Are they soldiers or civilians?” “What are their backgrounds?” “How about their general health? Are they medical freaks?” “Are they even Americans?” Walrus demanded to know. “Are they even human?” asked Wampum. “Dr. Zaftig, I have a question.” Sam raised his hand. Walrus half turned, but nodded, permitting the question. Ensign Victor may look like just a pretty boy, but he has brains and guts, Walrus thought. His gesture silenced the group, and he allowed the Ensign the floor with a slight nod of his head. “You haven’t mentioned I.Q. How sharp is Casey’s intellect?” For the first time so far that evening, Zaftig seemed to hesitate. He recovered instantly, but Sam caught momentary crack in the façade. “Casey has the normal requirements of intelligence for a gifted soldier,” he answered. Aha. “This man’s a soldier? He’s enlisted in the US Army?” demanded Admiral Walrus. General Wampum preened a little. “Casey Rockland holds the rank of Private 1st Class in the US Army,” repeated Zaftig, but offered no more information. “Dammit, Wampum, why didn’t you know this?” Walrus demanded. General Wampum stopped preening and slumped in his seat. General Needling came to his defense. “We didn’t know any more about this than you did, Walrus,” he growled. Zaftig turned back to the image of flexing Casey, resuming his presentation as if nothing had happened. He brought his pointer up, lightly touching the tip to the biceps of the left arm. “Note the triple biceps head,” he continued. “The unusually separated deltoids, and the dynamically thick trapezius muscles.” His pointer lightly tapped each muscle group as he spoke. “You see the unusually dense vascularity. Also, pay special attention to Casey’s thin skin. Men with this low bodyfat are often cold, their own bodies incapable of supplying sufficient heat, and their skin can be fragile. Casey is never cold. His metabolism prevents it. And his skin is as tough as rawhide.” I’ll just bet, thought Sam. Zaftig clicked through a series of images showing Casey stripped down in different posing straps, in a various array of training room shots and routines. He lingered on a final image of Casey in a deep leg squat, a barbell of several hundred pounds weight resting easily on his shoulders. His hams were so thick they almost touched the floor. Behind him his butt curved powerfully upward. Far from grimacing at the colossal weight, Casey’s handsome face appeared serene. The auditorium pinged with tense silence. The officers stared hard at Dr. Zaftig. Zaftig gazed calmly back, his mouth now a thin line of determination. Behind him at the head of the table, the screen was frozen with Casey in deep squat suspension, the only light in the dimmed room. Zaftig resumed airily. “Casey Rockland and the other 19 perfectly-developed specimens not only are living and training full time in this very facility, they’re thriving. Within this very complex, these 20 perfect men completed their second shift in another day’s hard training protocol 30 minutes ago. They’ve showered and changed two levels below us while we’ve been talking. In fact, they’re not more than 100 feet away from where you’re sitting now.” Sam’s ears perked up. Zaftig placed his palms on the dais table and leaned in towards the uniformed officers. “I am ready to present them to you now, if you wish.” He let the statement sink in for impact, and pushed away from the table. Behind the Generals and Admiral Walrus, the Junior Officers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. All except Sam. This is getting interesting, he thought. “Perhaps I should do just that,” Dr. Zaftig said, “We might amend the agenda tonight. I think we need to break a little early. You all probably want to see the results for yourselves. Only then can you make an informed determination for your report.” He crossed toward the stage apron and turned to the group. “If you will all will be so good as to accompany me into the lab?” Confusion. The officers look dumbly at one another. Even Walrus said nothing. No one moved. Zaftig clicked his remote again, and the screen rose. “Dr. Irving?” he called out, climbing the stairs to the stage. “We’re coming into the lab now. Get the men ready.” He flicked some switches on a panel and the stage lights came up. At the back of the stage, a white-coated lab technician appeared, opening double doors. Beyond, the white glare of Valhalla Laboratories was revealed. “Admiral Walrus, Dr. Shaft, General Needling, Gentlemen: if you’ll all follow me.” Zaftig turned without a backward glance and crossed the stage to the opened lab doors. He turned and beckoned the group to follow him. A moment later the group rose, and with some uncomfortable putting away of laptops which had been hiding bulges, and with embarrassing shifting of slacks and trousers, which told the telltale signs of arousal, they crossed the stage and entered the lab. And with the notable exceptions of Walrus and Wampum, Zaftig noted with some satisfaction, that every man in uniform was sporting a straight-ahead trouser trout bulge. ******* Click below for the next chapter! "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed
  5. Chapters 7, 8 Precis so far: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. Chapter 7: Training Night 1: Good for Morale October 20th, 2021 1900 Hours The gym floor was buzzing with activity. Each man had a 5-gallon aluminum jug of water from which he regularly took enormous gulps, occasionally pausing to drench both himself and his training partners as needed to stave off the effects of the heat. All wore specially designed army green jockstraps. Regulation jocks were hardly adequate for their needs, and all 19 men (and especially Sergeant Moster) required XXX-large custom-fit pouches. Pendulously bulging, sweat, cum, and piss-stained, even these firm-gripping supersized mesh pouches could barely contain the musclemen’s super-sized genitalia. Gently curving cock shafts plunged from heavily veined, thin-skinned pelvic girdles on each man, leading to jaw-breaking cockheads. The jocks hugged the men’s cocks tightly, providing only barely adequate covering. Moster’s policy was that shorts and sweatpants were unnecessarily encumbering. All around the room, as the men moved from weight to weight, their mountainous packages swayed freely back and forth. On most of the men, the top 5 to 6 inches of their veiny cocks were visible, plunging into their over-burdened pouches. The men’s powerful, deeply striated glutes were fully exposed in back. Colorful do-rags, thick cable socks and black army boots completed their attire. On the floor, workout buddies Private Dan Gunst and Private Steve Waring were spotting each other through a sixth set of murderous curls. 24, 6'-10", 375 pounds, blond, huge, sporting a severe crew cut, and with a big nose and oversized hands, Gunst was a decidedly homely muscle giant, packed with imposing hardcore brawn. His bullish traps sloped massively from his 24” neck. The man’s 27-3/4 inch biceps were second only in girth and mass to Sgt. Moster’s, though he hadn’t yet attained the shapely cannonball peaks of Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, Blankenship and Alvarez. At 3.8% bodyfat he tended towards a thin coat of luminous bloat in his 375-pound physique; he was all the same, super-humanly powerful, and during his training sessions the bloat seemed to melt into a latticework of shrink-wrapped vascularity. His partner, the 26-year old Steve Waring, was uncommonly good-looking, if, at a mere 276 pounds of raw muscle, not nearly as big as Gunst. He was, however the far more ripped bodybuilder, having been in the program 2 years longer. His vascularity was astonishing, a complex map of thick, dizzying, zig-zag veins that criss-crossed his magnificent physique. Square-jawed, dimpled and brown-eyed, he always had a neatly groomed 2-day beard. As expected for a leaner man, Waring’s particular beauty lay in his batwing lat spread and chiseled abs, which tapered radically into a mere 29” waist. Cobbled, veiny abs lead down to his fearsome bulge. Now Waring was up. He tied on a pair of dirty wristbands and cinched them tightly, licked his lips, approached the 160-pound weight, and looked up at Gunst with a half smile. “What’re you waitin’ for? C’mon, get moving,” said Gunst impatiently. “It’s my third set.” “I know. C’mon, man, you’re stalling.” “You know what I want.” Waring winked and grinned, and his dimples broadened deeply. Gunst rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus. You and your third set mantras.” He leaned into Waring, cupped his palm, and roughly took the jock pouch bearing his partner’s heavy balls into his calloused hand. He flicked Waring’s leathery testicles with his thick thumb and with strong fingers stroked the curling cock shaft tucked into the jock. Waring closed his eyes and exploded breath. Gunst fondled the cock, feeling where the 11” flaccid shaft coiled into a sagging downward-pointing firehose U-shape. His own cock began to stiffen as the pouch bearing Waring’s junk began to expand under his touch. He gave a last thumb flick and stepped back. “Yeah!” shouted Waring, and he squatted, grabbed the weight, stood, and reeled off 15 perfectly executed curls. The veins in his biceps expanded and contracted powerfully, eddying currents of blood in a river of muscle. 40 feet away at the incline bench press, Privates Aja Jin, Reed Bogarde and Derek Washington were taking turns doing dumbbell flyes with 125 pound weights. Ginger-haired Bogarde was up, while black muscle giant Private Washington spotted him, and the Asian Private Jin muttered hyper-masculine, mono-syllabic bon mots of encouragement. "C'mon. Get big. Get huge. C'mon man. Push. We're right here." The three heavyweights were generally together. If they weren’t closely supervised, they’d spend more time than absolutely necessary on pec workouts. A year before they had petitioned Moster to be allowed to wear their prized brass chained nipple clamps during their training. Moster had refused at first, but after they appealed to Dr. Zaftig, he finally relented. “The pain inspires them,” Zaftig told him. Moster had to agree that this one time, he had been wrong to withhold his approval. And once again, it was good for morale. The chain to Bogarde’s clamps was draped over the t-shirt and lay across his mammoth, boyishly freckled pecs. He’d completed 11 reps seamlessly, but was now pausing, his arms open wide, the dumbbells held aloft. “Do, it, man,” he growled, and as Moster watched, Private Jin reached over and with gentle, adroit firmness, tugged slightly on the chain. Bogarde’s face contorted with pain. "Push, asswipe!" screamed Jin. Bogarde completed the set. “Thanks, buddy,” he breathed, as he slammed the weights to the floor and sat up. “Privates!” Moster called out. “Remember I want to see you remove those clamps every 10 minutes for an exact period of 20 more minutes!” “Yes, sir,” said Washington, about to take his seat on the bench for his set. “By my watch, it has been more than 11 minutes. Those clamps come off. Now.” “Shit,” muttered Washington, but he duly turned to Private Jin. “Take care of this for me, and I’ll do for you.” “Okay,” said Jin. He lifted Washington’s t-shirt, and gently unscrewed the clamp on the left nipple. Instantly Washington’s face contorted with pain. Jin leaned in and tenderly licked the swelling brown nipple with his tongue for a few moments. Washington nodded, and Jin repeated it for the right nipple. “I’m good,” he said. Jin lifted his shirt and Washington returned the favor, caressing Jin’s nipples with his tongue as he removed each biting clamp. “Hey, what about me?” Bogarde grinned, slipping off his t-shirt. His large nipples pointed heavily downward, with lusciously round, perfect aureoles. He pumped his 58” ripped chest fully, fists at his side, and stood smiling expectantly as his two muscle buddies moved into his side, their heads to Bogarde’s chest, each manning a clamped nipple. For Private Bogarde, the only good thing about the unclamping was the minute of stimulation he received from his buddies to keep the excruciating pain he so adored from making him instantly cum into his overstuffed jockstrap. Once he came, his partners knew the chest workout would be effectively derailed for a good 15 minutes, and so to prevent such time wasting, both men were inclined to be extra attentive. Over time, they developed a routine. Together the two bodybuilders carefully unscrewed the clamps, and swiftly leaned in to kiss, lick, bite, stroke, and caress Bogarde’s freed, erect nipples. Bogarde moaned, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, his cock now swelling threateningly in his jockstrap. “Shit,” he moaned, and his buddies glanced down at the straining pouch. His mushroom-round penis head poked heavily over the top and began to climb up his abs. Jin and Washington knew that he might shoot his load at any moment. The two double-timed their nipple licks. After a minute, their tender administrations allowed him to regain control. He nodded – he was okay – and they backed away. Satisfied, Bogarde pumped his pecs to their fullest size and inspected them both closely, nodding with serious, unsmiling self-approval. Wet with spit, his stiffened nipples bloomed. “Freaky,” he breathed. His buddies nodded. “Awesome pecs,” said Jin. “Awesome.” Bogarde stuffed his receding cock back into his jock, and winked at Moster. Moster watched. When it was clear Private Bogarde was past danger, he called out again. “Back to your work. You have twenty more minutes before you can put those damn clamps on again.” The men nodded dutifully. Washington sat, grabbed a dumbbell in each hand, hoisted them to his knees, leaned back, and effortlessly pushed them both to the ceiling. His chest expanded mightily. Bogarde shouted the count. “1! 2! 3!” Jin spotted, his powerful hands lightly meeting Washington’s elbows with each rep. For a moment, Bogarde fondled his smarting nipples tenderly. He caught Moster’s stern eye and, still counting Washington’s reps, nodded sheepishly and slipped back into his sopping t-shirt. Corporals Rene LeFevre, Tony Chad and Private Chris Hension were supersetting between bent-over single-arm rows and military presses. The massively muscled corporals, both in their mid-30’s, were the compound practical jokers. Their perfect foil was the slightly dopey 22-year old, 260-pound superheavyweight Private Hension, a square-jawed, curly-haired, dreamily handsome inductee who had only been admitted into the ranks of The Nineteen from the cadet squad six months before. Hension's face was so unusually beautiful that he was catnip for all who gazed upon him. With his deep blue eyes, perfectly square jaw, high cheekbones, imposing Roman nose, thick eyebrows, short curly black hair, powerful young physique and endearing, gap-toothed smile, he looked like a hyper muscular refugee from some crazy TigerBeat boy band. Teen muscles personified, and unusually huge, though he was 3 years past his teens already. His hazing was not quite over. Tonight he was burning from the red-hot chili powder LeFevre and Chad had worked into the folds of his jockstrap. Early in the workout he had waddled with his bodybuilder’s muscle-laden stride over to the 50-gallon water cooler, pulled down his jock, and poured a quart of refreshingly cold water onto his stinging red shaft. Every ten minutes he had to return to the cooler as his P-21 enhanced, ever-growing penis began burning anew. He couldn’t figure it out and was embarrassed. The fabric of his jock was now transparent with wetness, and the crimson outlines of his snake-coiled penis could be seen glowing painfully. LeFevre and Chad hid their grins innocently as a baffled Hension trudged back towards them, his fingers gently probing and rearranging his drooping big package for maximum comfort. “Something the matter, Private?” asked LeFevre. Hension nodded. “My junk hurts,” he said. He still wasn’t entirely used to the newly achieved girth of his organ. “And it itches.” “You keepin’ it clean?” “Sure.” He stuck his hand in his jock. “It’s getting too big. It don’t fit in these jocks.” “How big?” LeFevre winked at Chad. “I ain’t measured.” “Really?” “You lie.” “Okay, it’s past 10 inches now.” “About the medium point, then.” “You’re probably jerkin’ off too much.” “All that new size. Kinda hot, right?” “Gotta wipe all that jism off after you shoot, son.” “I keep it clean,” Hension protested. “Okay,” said Chad. “We can take of that later for you.” “Thanks,” said Hension, and then he noted the wicked gleam in Chad’s eyes. “Oh, you assholes,” he whined. “What did you do?” His buddies began to roar. Furious, Hension grabbed a 200-pound dumbbell and flew through a set of punishing one arm bent-over rows. His wide back roiled with shifting mountains of muscle, and as he jerked and lifted, his damp wife-beater gradually crept up to reveal his hardened, vulnerable butt, pumping up and down, undulating with each rep. A red handprint from a private discipline session with Sergeant Moster the night before still glowed on the right buttcheek. And the men laughed even harder. “You got it coming and going!” said LeFevre. Hension slammed the weight into the mat, turned abruptly and placed his big hands protectively against his ass. Then he grinned. “Yeah, yeah, it’s funny, so go laugh!” Inside his jock, his stinging member twitched. Private Hension liked humiliation. In fact, there was nothing he liked better, and both Chad and LeFevre were onto it. As far as they were concerned, the handsome Private’s hazing would continue indefinitely. Just two weeks before, Corporal Chad had hacked into Hension’s private PC and found links to dominatrix S&M websites on Hension’s private PC, with cum-stained downloaded jpegs and pngs of leather-clad, spike-heeled mistresses, face-slapping hapless, undersized men. Mixed in with the images were pictures of a huge muscleman tied up with ropes and chains, a rubber ball in his mouth and an enormous butt plug shoved up his anus. Hension’s private fantasy – and he was a little embarrassed about it, which was only good manners – was to get his face slapped, viciously and unrelentingly, by beautiful, affronted, enraged women. He dreamed of being caught sucking Alvarez’s massive cock, and being interrupted, and hauled to his feet by a beautiful blonde mistress of discipline, who would slap his handsome face repeatedly, leaving welting, bright red, stinging handprints on his clean-shaven cheeks. His head would whip from left to right, from right to left, under her powerful bitch slaps. Happy tears would roll down his face onto his stinging cheeks. “Aw, baby…” he’d cry, pretending to be in pain. “Don’t slap me!” And his mighty cock would also whip from side to side. “You deserve to get your face slapped, you filthy muscle slut!” SLAP. And meanwhile, Alvarez would drop to his knees and lovingly administer skillful oral to his massive cock. This dream of slapping punishment from angry mistresses filled his nightly jerk off fantasies. Chad printed up a few and privately slipped them to LeFevre, who laughed devilishly. “Someone’s been in my room playing with my computer,” Hension complained that night at dinner. The two feigned innocence. “Why, how can you tell?” asked Chad innocently. “Because the asswipe left it on.” “That might have been you.” “Nope. The asswipe left it on at a website I like. I would never do that.” The men roared. Hension pouted. “Don’t worry, baby face. Maybe some day soon on a field trip, we can set up a surprise for you, now that we know what you like.” Hension brightened. “Really?” he asked hopefully. “We’ll see if you’re a good boy. Why don’t you come by for some posing practice tonight?” “O—okay,” he said, shooting a furtive look at Corporal Alvarez and Private Lang, quietly sharing a table on the other side of the dining room. Chad caught it and for an instant was jealous. He knew Hension longed to be a part of Alvarez and Lang’s notorious “Pose and Approve” nightly sessions. Private Robert Lang was a younger version face and body look-alike for his buddy, Corporal Julio Alvarez. The same exact height, the two bodybuilders kept their bodies shaved, and might easily have been mistaken for one another at a distance, if it weren’t for Alvarez’s neatly trimmed mustache. Alvarez also boasted the same brutal muscles, the same sweep to his triceps, the same broad back, and the same peerless baseball biceps. Older, wiser, and a touch serene about his muscles, he and Lang were like brothers. Brothers, however, they weren’t, and they exhibited no instinctive physical filial reticence with one another. Lang, standing 5’ – 10” and weighing in at 285 pounds, was dark, serious, extraordinarily handsome, and brutally built. Secretly unsure of himself, he sought approval whenever he could, a little mortified by the beauty of his face. He had pronounced horseshoe triceps of uncommonly full sweep, an impressively broad back, and, as Alvarez noted, a beautifully rounded muscle bubblebutt graced with an almost horizontal butt shelf. To help bolster Lang’s flagging self-confidence, Alvarez – without question the alpha dog of this pairing, even as he was the slightly bigger muscleman - developed a ritual he called “Pose and Approve.” At first, it developed quite naturally. Over time, it had evolved into mutual muscle worship. Alvarez’s judgment and approval of Lang’s muscles were his drug of choice, next to P21, that is, and his own brutally punishing workouts. They started out privately in Alvarez’s room. From the first night, he was ready. An 8’-0” x 10’-0” lit posing dais dominated the back bedroom in his quarters. “Built it myself,” he said quietly as Lang stared at the polished wood surface. When did he find the time, Lang wondered. Alvarez carefully adjusted the cool LED lights. Lang watched eagerly, stripping down to tight posers straining under the weight of his throbbing, veiny penis. Alvarez took his sweet time setting lights and atmosphere. Lang watched, shoving his hand into his sagging pouch and absently manipulating his big tool to half erection. When he judged all was ready, he’d step back. “Okay. Get to work,” he said. Eagerly Lang jumped onstage and hit a front double biceps. Alvarez nodded his approval of his buddy’s muscles. “Nice. Big old cannonballs. Show me more.” Another pose. This time a side chest. Lang’s pecs pounded and seemed to reach the ceiling. His heavy nipples were already taut. “How do I look?” Lang asked nervously. “Looking all right,” Alvarez said casually. “Lights need adjusting.” He half turned away as if to check the wiring. This prompted Lang into frenzy, and he began whipping out pose after pose. “The lights are fucking fine! I’m smokin’!” he cried. “Look at me, Alvarez! Check out my muscles! I’m fucking huge!!!!” Alvarez smiled. “Okay, big man,” he said. “I see. I see what you need.” And casually bending in, he took Lang’s by-now rock hard penis into his mouth and lolled it about gently. Inside, his tongue stroked the long, thick shaft, working its way up and down the veins. “It’s your reward for your perfectly developed muscles.” Lang was in heaven. Then they switched. Alvarez stepped up and surpassed his buddy’s posing performance. As he flexed, Lang sank gratefully to his knees to admire his musclegod buddy. Alvarez hit a pose - wham! - and Lang would greedily slurp on his gigantic rod. "Boom," purred Alvarez. "Big biceps, baby." "Twenty fiiiii---vvve inches...." "Bullshit." "Twenty-five baby. Feel 'em. Suck my cock." "You got it. Sucking now, man." They went back and forth for hours. Flexing biceps, smacking roiling quads, pec dancing, sucking each other's cocks. After a few sessions, Lang developed a surprisingly insatiable taste for Alvarez's stunningly perfect glutes, and sometimes lost himself rimming the man's rosebud butthole while Alvarez posed, legs spread wide, gazing at himself thoughtfully in the wall-length mirror across the room from the dais. Whenever Lang's face was buried deeply in the bigger man's butt, Alvarez found his creative posing juices to be inspired, and he was able to flex for hours without getting tired. Over time, they worked out new routines this way. Of course, Alvarez and Lang had long since taken “Pose and Approve” into more stratospheric, not to mention more public, levels of performance during the last year. The men liked to watch, and occasionally were invited to join in. For more than a year now, the men all knew that Lang slipped whenever he could into Alvarez’s room late at night for an hour of nearly silent shared posing routines and powerful rounds of cocksucking. At the end of their private sessions, each man could be heard roaring in the compound’s corridors as he spurted a mighty ejaculation inside his buddy’s mouth, onto his abs, or inside his yielding bubble butt. Just a week before, when a confidence-challenged Lang was standing in front of the corner mirrors after general workout, trying vainly to figure out a new routine, coach Alvarez decided to take it public. After all, all the men knew. And were curious. And were watching. Eagerly. Even Karim bothered to look up from his own fascination with his flexing biceps. Alvarez directed Lang from pose to pose, nodding. He ran his fingers smoothly over his body. Then he dropped quickly to his knees, stripped off his jockstrap, took his cock into his mouth, and continued to direct him from there. “Bring your right arm up a little. Now tilt your head. Look up. Pretend you see something,” garbled Alvarez, his mouth full of Lang’s cock. “What am I looking at?” asked Lang, a little anxious. “Clouds. You see clouds. Good. More clouds. Right. Here’s your reward.” Alvarez licked his cock hard for a minute. “It’s like he’s licking an ice cream cone,” said Hension. “An ice cream cone with veins,” said Blankenship. Washington stared, grinning. Lang colored slightly. In his jock, his heavy penis head began to expand and push against the thick fabric. “Yo, bodybuilders deserve to get their cocks sucked while they’re posing,” Lang said dreamily, flexing. “I’m down with it,” said Washington. “You can suck mine next.” And Lang did. Alvarez sucked Lang’s dick approvingly, licking the thick shaft lovingly. Then he pulled back to allow Lang to pivot to the next pose. Lang crunched into a most muscular, Alvarez nodded again with serious respect, and sucked him as his reward, as his buddy held a crab shot for 60 full seconds. They moved as one: pivot, flex, a nod of approval, a minute of cocksucking, withdrawal, pivot, flex, another nod, another minute of cocksucking. Absorbed by their mutual passion of posing together, the two silently went into matching, impromptu routines, flexing their powerful guns in unison as if choreographed, slapping their quads, turning to flair their lats, all the while staring appreciatively, each transfixed by the other. And the men stared, too. Soon all they all joined in. The workout was effectively over. Cocks filled mouths for the next hour. Rough, calloused hands appreciatively patted and stroked flexed biceps. Pecs danced. Tongues licked sand dollar sized, downward pointing nipples. Moster was not pleased. Nevertheless, he waited until the last groans had finished, and the last drops of the quarts of ejaculated bodybuilder cum had burst from throbbing cocks down eager throats. "Are we finished?" he asked quietly. The men lined up, sheepish, all with dripping cocks and cum flecks on their lips. Hension's face, inevitably, was covered. "It got into my eyes," he complained. Smack! "Owwwww!" he yelled. Moster waited, and then spoke quietly. “There’s a time and a place for everything,” he barked, all sheepish and spent, wiping the cum from their lips and bodies. After that, Moster determined to keep Lang and Alvarez separated on the floor as much as possible, for the two men were so – was ‘inspired’ the word? – attuned to one another’s powerful physiques that the Sergeant had determined it would be more efficient for all if they trained apart. It always led to “Pose and Approve,” behavior that Moster determined was more efficiently left to the locker room and showers. “Pose and Approve” was all very well for private time, but on the gym floor the men had been known in the past to become hypnotized by one another’s muscles. On rest days, of course, Moster kept them completely separated. That was an order. These days, the two grudgingly but unquestioningly yielded to their CO’s command. Once, Moster had caught them together outside on a bike path on a prescribed rest day, both naked, erect, and posing feverishly. He watched silently for a few moments, waiting for the inevitable moment when Lang sank to his knees and greedily gathered Alvarez’s cock in his mouth. “Gentlemen!” he boomed, striding forward onto the path. “Today is a rest day!” He swung mightily, he clipped the surprised Alvarez right on the jaw. The punch felled the muscleman immediately. Even the usually arrogant Alvarez was a mere beta puppy before the 7’-0” Moster. “In my quarters! Now!” Ten minutes later a cowed Alvarez was stretched over Moster’s powerful knee, receiving a serious butt paddling. Lang stood by nervously, knowing he was next. “You’re like two bad boys,” he said gruffly as he spanked Alvarez’s perfectly rounded buttocks. Neither man protested, each watching the other meekly as he received punishment from the implacable giant Moster. The loud spanks were heard echoing down the hall for 40 minutes. The men sat in the mess and listened to the spanks and howls. “No one crosses Moster,” Schumacher said airily, to no one in particular. The distant sound of spanks bounced off the walls. Perfect musclebutts were receiving perfect punishment. “Gee, what did they do?” asked a fearful Hension. “Someday you’ll find out,” said LeFevre darkly. He winked at Chad. Later, they emerged sheepishly from Moster’s quarters, red-faced and gingerly rubbing their painfully reddened glutes. The two were barred from contact of any kind for three weeks. Moreover, the enforced temporary change in the training schedule upset all of the men, who privately handled the transgression in their own manner. There was a strict code of punishments the men had privately devised and agreed upon over the years, and when training violations occurred, the offender was subject to the discipline of the group, most often provided by a steely-eyed Corporate Karim Abdul. The night after their ordeal with Moster, Abdul and Gunst visited the men in their quarters. The men each stood meekly, as Karim punched their faces with cool precision. Then he spanked them both, followed by Gunst’s stern force-feeding of his cock. Then, for good measure, both men thoroughly fucked their butts. The next morning at chow, each man sported two black eyes. Their flanks ached, and closer inspection revealed that sitting was painful for more reasons than were immediately apparent. “Dudes, what happened to you?” shouted Chad across the mess hall. “Shut the fuck up,” grumbled Alvarez. “Report to the infirmary,” said Moster. “Sergeant, begging your pardon, we’re fine.” “As you prefer, Privates.” “Abdul stretched the shit out of my asshole last night,” Lang complained quietly to Alvarez. “Me too,” Alvarez asked. Silence. Then they both laughed quietly. “Was it worth it?” asked Alavrez. “Fuck yeah,” said Lang. Nevertheless, the men grudgingly acknowledged privately it was their due desserts. After that, Lang and Alvarez obeyed orders, and it didn’t happen again. Their eyes healed quickly and though they remained separated at night, soon they were back on the gym floor the same day Moster suspended their sentence. “No sense in losing perfectly good training time for those two. They’ve learned their lesson,” Moster said to Zaftig, who was always puzzled by the developing social rules within his own lab rats. Three weeks passed, and the night they were finally reunited, Moster smiled privately to himself in his quarters as the excited groans of the two reunited men echoed down the corridors long after hours. The next morning, far from being tired, they appeared at 0700 hours breakfast as if entirely rejuvenated. The other men looked a little weary, having been kept awake all night, but all were in grudging good humor now that the two muscle buddies were together again. Backs were slapped and good-natured jibes taken with grinning good grace. “Have fun last night, Lang?” teased Obatu. “Yep,” said Lang, his mouth full of eggs. “Alvarez get any bigger in the last three weeks?” “He sure did,” Lang nodded seriously, chewing and swallowing. The men guffawed, and Alvarez smacked Lang playfully on the back of the head with a giant paw. “What’d I say?” asked Lang, perplexed, and the men laughed harder. Across the table, Karim never looked up. Faggots, he thought. Still, his cock twitched in his jock. He had liked punching the handsome faces of both Alvarez and Lang, though he didn’t want to admit it, and the crisply delivered black eyes he had administered had made it all even more exciting. And the fucking was fun, too. Moster was satisfied. All in all, it was good for the team. Good for morale. Chapter 8: Tiffany’s Talent Karim was in the corner, working out on the punching bag. His buddies, if the taciturn Lebanese from Michigan could have said to have “buddies”, Privates Duncan and McIntyre, were alternating between bench wrist curls and neck-strengthening dumbbell lifts. The rhythmic volley of Karim’s rapid punches filled the air. Abdul Karim was, at his most social, on the taciturn side. At 6’-3”, 275 pounds, and less than 2% bodyfat, Karim had a beard and mustache that he kept meticulously groomed at all times. He had the Arab’s big nose, dark skin, and, except for his back and shoulders, a full body armor of tight, black curly hair. His muscular chest was black with fur, with two deep red-brown nipples poking through. His quads were oak trees. His bullish biceps, covered with bright tattoos, were stacked and wired for maximum damage. His fists were huge and calloused. Karim was an extreme fighter of the first order; calm, methodical, practiced, powerful, relentless and merciless. Zaftig had plucked him from the State Penitentiary of Washington about four years earlier. He was in for manslaughter, having beaten to death a suspected serial rapist in Seattle; the trial transcripts stated that he had simply held the dude aloft by his collar and repeatedly punched the guy in the face until he grew bored. Inside, it was said, he had beaten to bloody pulps 5 inmates who had jumped him one night in the shower with sharpened shivs and the intent to kill. How Zaftig got him out was still a mystery to Moster, but, as his CO was bigger and possibly even a hair stronger, Karim silently respected him without grudge or attitude, and there was no real breach of discipline. Still, it was tough to pair him off in extreme fighting matches in the compound, although Corporal Schumacher was a close match. Annoyingly, if understandably, both Chad and LeFevre were careful to keep the beautiful young Private Hension away from Karim. Secretly protective of their young initiate, they didn’t take any chance that the longingly masochistic Hension might approach Karim, and get a lot more than he bargained for. Karim, for his part, wasn’t particularly interested in Hension. For him, a hole was a hole was a hole, and as for getting his cock sucked, he preferred women to do the job, as long as they shut up about it. Oddly, he didn’t seem to mind if effeminate boys took care of his meat, if no pussy was available. A bitch was a bitch was a bitch, though he took care to show basic respect for being serviced (even if, of course, it was his due). He did, however, like piss. Karim liked to be pissed upon, and he liked to piss on others. He marked his territory. He especially liked it when big boy Gunst pissed on him. After all, he respected the man. He didn’t consider it a sexual fantasy. To Karim, piss was just the right expression of muscle and power. Late at night, he sometimes came to the workout room alone and worked on the heavy bag. On those nights, he made sure that the kitchen boy, Pedro, was standing by. A slender 16-year old kid, barely 130 pounds, and a sweet-natured homey if ever there was one, Pedro would wait patiently in a darkened corner until Karim summoned him to approach, get on his knees, and suck his unusually hairy cock while he worked the light bag. The boy loved hair and muscles, and Karim’s big veiny tool got an appreciative coating between his lips. Karim would grunt, shoot, coat the boy’s face with globs of semen, pat him affectionately on the butt, and head off to bed without washing off. The boy scampered into the kitchen to start breakfast for the men, happy to have been of service. Good-natured Privates Bill McIntyre and David Duncan were often buffer zones for the brooding Corporal Karim. Calm and circumspect, like Karim they too were hairy big boys who preferred the ladies, albeit always in groups with the Lebanese. Moster occasionally arranged for private liaisons for the three bodybuilders with three high-priced, Amazonian professional girls flown in from Las Vegas. The men fucked their women vigorously, always with their eyes on one another. After they finished up and the ladies had departed, Karim often polished off the night fucking his buddies’ shapely muscle butts, alternating between them. It took a lot to satisfy Karim, who could fuck all night, and sometimes Moster was hastily summoned to make sure the session ended. He often brought Gunst with him to break up the party, for Karim liked nothing better than to finally cum while Gunst pissed in his face. “Feels good,” he would grunt as Gunst’s firehose cock shot streams of piss on his muscles, while McIntyre and Duncan stood by smiling, gently fingering their reddened, aching buttholes. Karim would work his cock fiercely with his powerful fist, quickly spurting buckets of semen onto his hairy abs, and, as always, trudge off silently to bed without washing or saying good night. Gunst would then get the privilege of sucking Moster’s giant cock while McIntyre and Duncan watched respectfully, stroking their own cocks. Sessions would end with each bodybuilder shooting his cum into Gunst’s mouth. Gunst could swallow volumes of cum. “Makes me bigger,” he’d say. The big boy preferred monster penis, and liked it best with other musclemen standing by watching. So it worked for everyone. Beyond them, Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, and Blankenship were besting each other in sets of deep squat deadlifts. A 42-year old muscle veteran with tattoos, steel-wool skin, acne scars, an explosively powerful physique dense with vascularity, and all honed by nearly 30 years of raw, intense training, Herman Schumacher was the current king of this group, with his wide-oval, pronouncedly roiling, round hamstrings of pure power protruding far behind him. His broad, solid, rounded manbutt rolled above his hams, meeting into a firm, deep butt crack. His calves were split into two deep and distinct diamond-like heads. Schumacher had no-nonsense iron-grey hair and was generally scowling. He knew all who saw him wanted to fuck his mighty butt. Secretly, he was happiest when either fucking – or being fucked. His formidable, muscular, hairy glutes demanded attention. He was loath, however, to acknowledge his fantasy top. Rarely fucked by the other men, and always only after extreme begging and some act of subservience, Herman Schumacher had some private fantasies of his own, involving heavy rope and buttplugs, that one day he hoped he’d have the courage to investigate. For now, the opinions of the other men were still too gravely important to him. He wasn’t ready to betray himself. Not yet. In the mean time, it was generally understood that Schumacher’s powerful tool was always at the ready to plow a tasty ass. Just out of his hearing, the other men all agreed - and even Karim - they craved his particular kind of butt fucking. It seemed he could always find the g-spot, and he quietly provided hours of late night pleasure for those men who had just finished a grueling squat workout, and whose eager buttholes needed relief. Obatu chose to shave his head bald, had shiny black skin, and like Schumacher and Karim, nearly always had a fearsome scowl on his face. His glory were his bull-like traps and his mammoth pecs, which at 66”circumference approached Moster’s own in size, shredded cuts, and separations. His fearsomely large genitalia had a habit of rolling out of his jockstrap during training, and he’d absent-mindedly scoop his balls and cock back into place, often pausing unconsciously for a quick couple of strokes on the extra-long, heavy shaft and a quick flick of his thick thumb on the bell-shaped cockhead. Then he’d lift and adjust the heavy pouch and resume his powerful lifts. On white cap nights, however, he often didn’t bother to repouch. Blankenship, younger than both and only recently having attained the rank of Corporal, didn’t have the ripped density of Schumacher nor the sheer mass of Obatu, boasting instead superb genetics and beautifully honed symmetry. Good-humored and outgoing, the roman-nosed young Blankenship favored classical Greek poses in his routines, and he often showed off his alluring lines with his muscular arms held overhead. He was a statue come to life – and he knew it. Shouting encouragement and taunts at one another, Schumacher completed another grueling set of 25 reps with 400 pounds. On the last rep, he strained to replace the weight on the floor with disciplined quiet, in control of the weight to the very last. Then he blew out a mouthful of spit, shook his head violently so that his sweat flew everywhere, and straightened up. Blankenship planted a solid smack on his naked butt. “Nice!” he yelled. Schumacher smiled wearily and nodded. Then he turned and glanced across the room to see if Private Joe Tiffany had been watching his set. Tiffany was working triceps and delts with Private Robert Lang. Alvarez was at the squat rack, training legs with Private Eli Meyer. The good-looking All-American Jewish Meyer was the shortest man in the squad, standing only 5’- 3”, and sadly, a mute. He was a highly developed, talented gymnast, double-jointed nearly everywhere and was astonishingly supple for a little muscleman. He easily contorted his 210-pound body into positions the other men could only dream of. He favored the relatively simple – for him – pose of planting his rippling arms on the floor and swinging his legs sky-high behind them, tilting his pelvis forward past his elbows and holding steady for long periods of time. The pose was catnip for the squad, who, after hours in the compound rec room, loved to more closely inspect Meyer’s proudly displayed hairless, supple pink butthole, which he playfully puckered in and out for them at will. Meyer would smile hugely and nod encouragement, his eyes sparkling with mischief, as the excited men scrambled to their knees and took turns playfully licking and probing his asshole. Alvarez enjoyed a lick as much as the other men, but he always noted Lang’s slightly hurt gaze and promptly retreat with his buddy for some private posing. For his part, however, Alvarez had no issue when Lang, occasionally overcome himself, dipped his handsome face into Meyer’s butt for a taste of honey. Afterwards, Alvarez noted, he would pose harder than ever. For Tiffany was trouble. Alvarez noted that Tiffany was studiously ignoring Corporal Schumacher’s impressive set of deadlifts. Lang, almost as dim as Hension, hadn’t seemed to notice. But then, Lang hadn’t learned yet that he shouldn’t trust Joe Tiffany. Joe Tiffany was 19. He was gap-toothed, dark-haired, freckled, had slightly big ears, and looked a little goofy. He was bow-legged, weighed 235 pounds, and had almost no bodyfat at all – and what little there was lay sweetly atop what Herman Schumacher imagined was probably the most beautiful butt on the planet. On the day of his arrival into the Project facility just a little less than a year ago, Obatu had nicknamed him ‘Huck Finn’. The name stuck, and over time morphed into ‘Fuck Him.’ No one had, though, as of yet. Not privately, anyway. Tiffany was smart. He looked dumb and played the innocent, but he was canny, shrewd, and manipulative. He also had an unusual talent, which he had privately shared with the curious Sergeant Moster not long after his arrival. It was not unlike perfect pitch: Tiffany could take astonishingly accurate size measurements – orally. Moreover, he had no gag reflex. It appeared that he could take anything. Any cock. To its full length. Even Moster’s. Moster had found out quite by accident – or so he thought. In the showers alone one night, the black muscle giant was lathering up his armpits when he turned and discovered the Private staring at him from the doorway into the locker room. “You’re here late, Private.” “I forgot my jockstrap.” “Better get it and head to bed. Training tomorrow at 0700 hours.” Tiffany held his jock up silently. He waited. Moster stopped lathering and returned his look. “Is there something I can do for you, Private?” he demanded. Tiffany said nothing but gazed straight at Moster’s gargantuan, swaying dick. “Private?” Moster stepped forward. Tiffany didn’t move. “Sir?” He gazed unblinkingly at the cock. Moster glared. “Well?” Tiffany looked up and came to attention. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But that is the biggest dick I have ever seen in my life, sir.” “It is unlikely you have seen a bigger one.” “I’m guessing no one has, sir.” “No, probably not. Just how big do you think it is?” “Sir, if you will forgive the indulgence, sir, but I believe I could tell you, sir, and quite accurately, too.” Moster had already heard about Tiffany’s after-hours mess hall boasts. Now was the chance to see if the boy had the stuff. “On your knees, then, Private.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany stepped forward in the shower, got to his knees and opened his mouth. He held still. Water poured from the spigot and in an instant, Tiffany’s t-shirt was wringing wet and bulging with his tight teen muscles. He looked up expectantly at Moster. He was calm. “Doesn’t look like anything I can’t handle, sir.” Annoyed at the Tiffany’s arrogance for a flashing moment, Moster slapped his swaying, dripping cock fiercely three or four times. It blew into an engorged 20-inch-plus vein-pulsing snake inside of 5 seconds. Water from the shower splashed onto it and ricocheted off the walls. “All right then. You’ll have to open up much wider than that.” “Yes, sir.” Tiffany opened his mouth as wide as he could. Moster strode forward, grabbed the back of the young Private’s head, and forced his face onto his cock. Amazingly, Tiffany’s lips easily enveloped the enormous head, then the shaft, and slid down until Tiffany’s nose was pressed against Moster’s body. Somewhere inside, Moster’s giant shaft had disappeared deeply down Tiffany’s throat and into his upper body. Yet the muscleboy didn’t gag. Instead, he looked up and smiled, his mouth full of black bodybuilder cock. He held still a full minute, as Moster’s cock throbbed inside him. Then he slowly pulled his head back. “18 and 5/8s inches, sir. 8 pounds, three ounces. You weigh 396 pounds tonight, sir, your body temperature is 97 degrees, and your blood pressure is 120/85.” He smiled serenely. Damn, thought Moster. He’s right on target. There was just no telling where P21 protocols could lead, and what talents it might unearth. He nodded, satisfied, and then plunged his cock deeply back in and out of Tiffany’s mouth. In spite of its huge girth, Tiffany bowed and obediently went to work. As Moster pumped his hips rhythmically and Tiffany sucked mammoth cock, the sergeant’s mind drifted towards the men. Hmmmm, he thought. He was deeply in thought, automatically flexing his muscles and yet barely paying any attention to the efficient, powerful, machine-like sucks of Private Tiffany. Finally he began to shoot rivers of cum into the teen’s mouth. After a minute or two of shooting, he withdrew his cock and coated Tiffany’s face evenly with the last blasts of semen. Tiffany licked and took in as much as his tongue could reach, and then he stood, at attention once again. His cute face was covered with clouds of thick cum, which dripped down in thick globs onto his body under the spray of the shower. He saluted again, and wiped his mouth so he could speak clearly. “I hope that was satisfactory, sir?” “It was.” He didn’t appear to be injured in any way, at which Moster privately marveled. He turned away and began soaping the blobs of cum off his cock shaft. “You’re aware that sucking your CO’s cock is a privilege awarded rarely to men of your rank.” “Yes, sir. I know, sir.” “You will report to my private exam room tomorrow about an hour into the evening session. I’ll let you know when.” “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure, sir.” He started out of the shower room, and turned, adding, “By the way, sir, your cum tastes a little like banana. I love banana.” He saluted again, and was gone. “Fresh punk,” thought Moster, but he was pleased. Starting the next evening, Moster began to require that the priapic dimensions of each muscleman be included in his records, the information to be obtained in privately conducted sessions he personally oversaw with Private Tiffany on hand to take the strictest of measurements. As always, the sergeant immediately designed a standard ritual of procedure. Ordered one by one into the examination room off the gym floor, each bodybuilder entered singly, wearing a tight posing strap, and walked silently into the center of the room. Private Gunst was first. “Stand under the light,” Moster ordered quietly. The bodybuilder stepped onto a posing dais, and poised himself under a single focused spotlight shining from the ceiling. He awaited orders, hands at his sides. He wondered why Tiffany was present. Moster stood in half-light, fully covered in clean white sweats, as always. The silent Dr. Irving sat in a pin light in the distant corner, armed with a video camera and scribbling in a small pad. Tiffany, wearing the white regulation tight t-shirt and khakis, stepped forward from the shadows. “Let’s see what you got, man,” murmured Moster, and Gunst swung into a posing routine. The first pose was a side biceps pose with the muscleman leaving forward and rotating his back towards the sergeant, so that he might better appreciate the three distinct cannonball deltoids, the broad lat sweep, the baseball separations of the biceps head, the powerful shape of his obliques, the shapely, hard glutes, and the roiling hamstrings. It was a landscape of muscle, and the men all knew it was Moster’s preferred pose. Then Gunst straightened, reached toward the single spotlight, and slowly brought his arms down into his most powerful, sustained front double biceps pose. “26 inches, sir!” he shouted. He held it for about 30 seconds. “Looking good,” said Moster, slightly bored. A three-minute posing routine followed. There was no sound in the room apart from the rapid tapping of Dr. Irving’s pen, the hum from the spotlight, and the waves of air being sucked in and out of Gunst’s mouth as he glided smoothly from pose to pose. Front lats, pivot, side left chest, side left triceps, pivot, rear lat spread, rear double biceps, pivot, side right chest, side right triceps, pivot, left quad, shake, slap, flex, right quad, shake, slap, flex, overhead ab crunch, and finally a most muscular, crunching viciously into a vein-exploding crab shot. Then the bodybuilder stood still, waiting. Thick rivulets of sweat poured down his physique. “Okay. Front double biceps again, please.” Gunst flexed his mountainous peaks. “And hold it.” Gunst smiled and strained, eager to please his C.O. “All right, Tiffany,” Moster said quietly, “get to it.” “Yes, sir,” said Tiffany. He strode forward, and as Gunst stood steadily flexing the classic front double biceps, the shorter Tiffany gracefully reached forward, took hold of the elastic side straps of his thin mesh poser, pulled the pouch forward and down, and unveiled the muscleman’s flaccid, long, thick, imperial penis. Moster cracked a quick smile, noting that Gunst first looked startled….then curious…. and then aroused. The giant gazed down as the business-like Tiffany got to his knees, gently fixed his pretty lips on the man’s junk, closed his eyes a moment, plunged deeply, holding the instantaneously stiffening penis deeply in his throat for about 60 seconds. “Wow”….breathed Gunst. He continued to flex his biceps, but tears appeared in his suddenly glistening eyes, and his cheeks flushed deep crimson. Below, Tiffany held firm and steady, his moist lips gently enfolding the thickening penis, widening his jaw to allow the throbbing member to enlarge to its true, pounding, blood-filled girth, standing gradually as the man’s cock began to climb towards the ceiling. He appeared to be making some internal calculations. He allowed 30 seconds more to pass; then he lolled his tongue around the muscleman’s cockshaft, pulled back, dipped again to twice lick the bulbous cockhead, paused again, and then gently parted his lips and pulled back, smacking his lips happily. He wiped his mouth. Gunst stared at him. "Huge cock, man. Nice." Tiffany turned to Moster. That was all it took. Gunst promptly began to spurt ropes of milky cum into the air, which Tiffany deftly dodged. He announced his findings. “12 and three-quarters inches, sir, tip to base,” Tiffany announced with obvious pride. “As you see, he is uncircumcised. Foreskin is clean and about six inches around. Penis weight, five and one half pounds. Shaft circumference, eight inches. Head size, three and three quarters, sir. Two pronounced lateral veins.” Tiffany paused. “He weighs 325 pounds, sir, and at the moment, his blood pressure is 140/80.” He grinned. “It’s quite a penis. You should be proud, sir.” “Yeah, thanks.” Gunst was still shooting. Ropes of cum hit the walls. “Sorry, sir.” “That’s all, Private,” said Moster. “Dismissed.” Gunst, his dick still shooting volleys of cum, stepped off the platform, glanced with confusion at Tiffany, and walked slowly out of the room, his posers barely covering his throbbing cock, leaving a trail of cum as he went. “Tell Corporal Abdul to come in next,” Moster called after him. Gunst turned. “May I watch, sir?” Moster considered. “All right.” At the outset of the tests, Moster was immediately on hand with a tape measure and a blood pressure cuff to verify what he could. After awhile, he didn’t bother. Tiffany was always right. By the next morning, Moster had realized that Tiffany had deftly strategized the whole routine. He’d been punked, and by a newbie. It was as if Tiffany had foreseen Moster’s every move, and now, in record time, every man in Project Herculaneum was aware that Private Tiffany’s blowjobs were a vehicle to provide new particularized personal information being added to their charts. Moster was secretly amused at the teen’s cojones, but knew that he’d have to regain the upper hand again, and soon. Still, it wasn’t for him to break Tiffany personally. That would have made his displeasure too apparent. He began to look for opportunities for the cocky Tiffany to be bested by one of the men. A face punching by Karim would be too brutal. He considered other ways. Maybe in the wrestling ring. Yes. ******* Links to other chapters: "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed
  6. The first two chapters of my muscle novel-in-progress, The Twenty. Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets Precis: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes the twentieth muscle god, young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 19-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decades-long Project, itself only now beginning to suggest its full potential. Introduction The 3-story steel, glass, and concrete compound was snugly nestled in the misty rural hills that rolled gently inland from the ocean, where the Santa Ana winds met the hot air rising from the distant desert to the east. Poised at the edge of the highest peak of the Santa Cruz Mountains, the 4,000-acre gated complex was just barely visible from the discreet entrance on Pacific Coast Highway below. A single sign stood at the locked automatic entrance gate, reading - Private No Outlet The private drive wound up the mountain, snaking through dark woods of redwood and pine, finally arriving at the labyrinth of vine-covered high concrete walls, topped with barbed wire, which surrounded the entire complex. Closed circuit cameras marked every turn of the road. Manicured lawns and open fields could be occasionally glimpsed through thick veils of leaves, branches and red rock. 350 miles south was Los Angeles. San Jose was the closest city, 30 miles away. Local residents drove past the gate on Pacific Coast Highway, wondering about the mysterious multi-million dollar complex. The place had seemed to spring up overnight, seemingly from nothing, more than 10 years before. The traffic in and out was largely limited to food delivery and supply vans. Unseen generators hummed through the night. The people who worked there appeared to be in residence. Was it an athletic training facility? Low planes flying overhead clearly identified a likely indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool, bicycle trails, playing fields, and more. There were also a few outer buildings that appeared to be well-appointed dormitories, with small lawns and private drives. A building attached to the central core might possibly be a central hall, with sizable private, enclosed terraces open to the sky. Convoys of SUVs, all bearing the logo VALHALLA LABS were parked in a half-empty parking lot in front of the main building. Occasionally local delivery men, bringing whole sides of raw beef, fresh vegetables, lab equipment, chemicals, electrical supplies, and – this was the most perplexing part – hundreds of tons of expensive exercise equipment would spot one or two dozen young men on bicycles, pedaling furiously through the high hills, always followed at a discreet distance by an unmarked black car and by the one of the SUVs. From a distance the men on the bicycles appeared to be unusually large. In any event, the local deliverymen weren’t talking. Most would just shrug and say they didn’t know. Besides, they’d signed a confidentiality agreement barring their conversation about what they might happen to observe within. And since no one appeared unduly nervous about the place, over the years the matter dropped. Still, the rural locals who hung out at the motorcycle bars and music clubs nestled deep in the hills continued to buzz. Most assumed that it was some kind of military base and laboratory. Others noted the apparent residence buildings from the air, and thought it was either a private Olympic training compound, or some kind of crazy health nut cult commune. Certainly it was neither a prison nor a university. But no one really knew what it was. And over the years, little by little, the mysteriously well-tended commune was enveloped in the mists of revered local mystery, a legend the hill people of the coast, who were mostly Northern California biker clubs, surfers, horsemen, and artichoke farmers, relished and loved, without knowing anything about it. Remote, mysterious, un-Google-able, not listed on any map, no one really knew what the place was, and even less was understood. However, since it was apparent that no nuclear waste was being discharged, no one worried. No one appeared on either San Jose or San Francisco streets with appeals to join some far-out religion. No shots were fired in the night. And because, in fact, the whole compound was refreshingly green, paid its local bills on time, and was mysteriously quiet at night, for years no one really worried about the place. If only they had known it was the wellspring of the Fountain of Eternal Youth. Or, as it came to be called years later, after all the fuss and scandal and stories had finally faded into the misty aura of legend – the Lourdes of Bodybuilding. ********* This is the story about the day that it all changed forever. THE TWENTY A Government Issue Adult Cartoon -XXX- Muscle Fantasy By Joey Silverado This book is dedicated to Tiny Yokum – and to all his fans, past, present, and future. From Dr. Warren Irving’s Notes List sorted according to date of entry into program. Click tables to see details. Chapter 1: Project Herculaneum October 20th, 2021 1855 Hours In Valhalla Labs’ 15,000 square foot soundproofed gym, 18 of the longtime test subjects of Project Herculaneum were approaching the second hour of their balls-to-the-wall workout. On the west wall, one-way visibility windows framed the magnificent mountaintop panoramas in the growing twilight. As the sun disappeared, the glass increasingly glowed with the golden reflections of a roomful of massive male musculature. The workout floor crackled with the sounds of iron clangs, grunts, groans, and ecstatic roars of pain, shouts and taunts. The air was thick with hot sweat, crotch and armpit smell. Low ranking solders in the US Army, and ranging in age from 20 to 45, the 18 were, to use the argot of the world of male bodybuilding, freaks. Huge muscle freaks. Animals. Swole. Jacked to the balls. ‘Roided to the tits. Except that they weren’t ‘roided at all. Every man on the squad was clean and clear of the usual bodybuilding drugs required to build massively muscled specimens of uncommon size and strength. And they weren’t just conventionally “huge” either. All of the soldiers of Project Herculaneum were fired by one supplement only. P21. And Project Herculaneum, now approaching the end of its first decade, was finally yielding the astonishing results promised from the beginning back in 2007. The Project Director and Genius Factotum, Dr. Ira Zaftig, had long dubbed his lab creation enzyme P21, “The Fountain of Youth.” The wellspring of eternal energy, strength, youth, beauty, and sexual power. Perhaps the secret of life itself. The Men of Project Herculaneum thought of P21 differently, though. “It’s the straightest line between two mostly unreachable points: freaky muscle, and ba-boom!” Or so said Private 1st Class Dan Gunst, a 6’-10”, 375-pound mountain of ripped muscle whose growth on the enzyme had surprised even project founder Zaftig. Off to one side, the 19th man on the squad squatted on a bench and closely surveyed the men's training with half-lidded eyes. By far the largest man in the room, CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster’s muscular perfection was unparalled, even in this room of freakishly huge men. Squared-jawed and blindingly handsome, 44-year old Rod Moster was 7’- 0” tall, weighing in at 395 ripped and shredded pounds, a black mountain of solidly ridged muscle: deeply separated, profoundly striated sheer muscle mass, boasting a body fat index of 1.2%. Dr. Zaftig was the heart and genius creator of Project Herculaneum. The squad and their CO were the ongoing subjects of his personally supervised “Top Secret” project. For years, the men had been receiving regular lab-controlled injections of Zaftig’s carefully developed muscle growth enzyme, P21. Sergeant Moster, on the enzyme for more than a decade, was the project’s powerful senior officer and unopposed trainer. Yet in spite of Moster's formidable size and strength, he was soon to be equaled by two of the soldiers in his direct command, Corporal Karim Abdul and Private Gunst. He knew it, too. The workout room met Moster’s strict standards. Room temperature was always set exactly at 90o. Moster would not allow air-conditioning on the workout floor. After all, sweat lubricates muscles and encourages growth. No one disputed Moster's rules. On a sprung workout floor measuring 10,000 square feet, there were two dozen squat racks, 42 benches, 8 rows with hundreds of dumbbells ranging from 5 to 300 pounds, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gleaming machines, standing bicycles, elliptical tracks, cable racks, ropes, belts, grips, and stacks of weights. Hundreds and hundreds of tons of weights. In the distant corners of the gym, a few normal-sized Valhalla lab assistants scurried silently in the shadows with video equipment, towels, heavy water jugs, and cleaning equipment. The men on the floor never paid any attention to the pipsqueak lab rats, as they called them. Occasionally, one of the pipsqueaks meekly approached Sgt. Moster with questions or a need for direction. Moster was always gracious, brief and business-like with lab underlings. They were Zaftig’s people, after all, and he appreciated that it just might be difficult to recruit them. More importantly, the lab rats were not, after all, muscle worshippers. Geeky science majors somehow matriculated from Berkeley and Stanford, their applications for their employment were most thoroughly scanned to determine both their dedication to science, and their lack of sexual interest in the project subjects. Past circumstances had indicated that the men of Project Herculaneum were unusually vulnerable when it came to the possibilities implied by muscle worshippers. The less of that from outsiders, the better. For now, anyway. Besides, there was real money to be made with the advent of worship. That would come later. Above all, Moster didn’t want to water down the future possibilities. Some day, when all this was over, there was a lot of money to be made. Moster was counting on it. Under his leadership, the goals of his 18 musclemen were never ending, their focus never dulled by the daily routine of their sequestered lives inside the Valhalla Compound. And for Moster, it was all about building muscle. Solid, rock-hard, healthy, powerful muscle. Muscle supported by bones and internal organ strength. Whereas Dr. Zaftig was compelled to his daily grind of endless lab research and observation of the men by his quest for eternal youth, Moster was not distracted by such vague, high-minded creationist illusions. All Moster cared about was that his men develop huge, serious, ripped, dominant, clean, overpowering muscle, muscle like the world had never seen before. Moster relished the fact that his extraordinary development was still a constant inspiration to his men. He generally preferred to remain completely covered, rarely choosing to display his magnificent physique. His custom-built oversized sweatsuits were carefully tailored to camouflage his physique while not hindering movement. They were heavily reinforced at the seams to avoid tears and bursting, and were neutral in construction and color. The sweat pants were gathered into tight stretch bands at Moster’s ankles. He generally wore combat boots and a white do-rag. But even the careful design of more than 25 yards of a blend of durable synthetics and heavy cotton couldn’t disguise Moster’s 60-inch wide shoulder girth, 7'-6" reach, 70-inch chest, 36-inch quadriceps and 25-inch calves. An observer might only be able to guess at the Sergeants’ biceps, triceps, and brachialis size. Moster chose to wear his sweatshirt loose, masking a slender, powerfully shaped 32-inch waistline. He never tucked it in, always making certain he was successfully covering his crotch. He had his reasons for this, which were well known by his men. Whenever Moster appeared in uniform, or civilian clothing, his appearance was all but terrifying – and, at the same time, insanely alluring. Rod Moster's boxing, wrestling, and extreme fighting skills were superior to all but Corporal Karim. Moreover, by now in this stage of team development, Moster found he had to work harder than his men in order to maintain the very slight edge he still held. Zaftig knew this, much to Moster’s subtle discomfort. He knew could be unseated by the right man at any time. Project Herculaneum was that far along. He remained proud of his team, knowing as he did that some day soon they might surpass him. When it became apparent to all that his long-held edge over the others was narrowing, a few of the men privately anticipated the day that he might finally be bested by one of the 18. The bets were on Karim Abdul, though Abdul had no particular vendetta against Moster; all the same, it would be a day of reckoning for the alpha CO, to atone for some of the more painful and humiliating extra-curricular disciplines he had long enforced. Hey, as long as that day doesn’t come too soon, he would joke in the mess hall. And all would laugh, even as they exchanged meaningful glances. Moster’s dedication to Project Herculaneum was total, even if it did lead him to occasionally lock horns with the dreamy, physically underdeveloped senior genius Dr. Zaftig. The 67-year old Zaftig was both crafty and kind-hearted. Though he held a basic unshakable respect for all, he was not above manipulating the men’s fragile psyches to get what he wanted out of them, and he made it a priority to know and understand all of them for their personal strengths and weaknesses. Over the years, it had been hard work finding and inducting these particularly gifted men into the program, and, once introduced, each man represented years of painstaking research, investment, time and testing. It was only right that he would pay close attention to what made each man tick. On the other hand, Moster preferred to accent his authority with an occasional dash of cruelty. He felt it was good for the team. After all, life was cruel, wasn’t it? And so together, Zaftig and Moster had forged a decade-long alliance of good cop/bad cop, each man sharing in his own personal way a common goal. Both cared only for the success of Project Herculaneum. At base, however, they held profoundly different motives. Zaftig hoped to find the perfect candidate for P21. As magnificent as the 19 men were, the final, perfect genetic recipient of the miraculous compound had yet to be discovered. Sergeant Moster, meanwhile, had other plans. All those worship sessions loomed ahead on a promising horizon of money, power, travel, and new opportunities. After all, Moster wasn’t a fool. Zaftig might be, but he certainly wasn’t. Chapter 2: P21 1987-2021 Ira Zaftig’s 2007 successful lab synthesis of Protein P21 promised nothing less than a physical revolution for all mankind. For more than 30 years, the eccentric, obsessed, and touched with genius, Harvard Med educated Dr. Ira Zaftig had parlayed a vast inherited private fortune and the proceeds of his own lucrative San Francisco medical practice into ongoing lab research and experiments. At first, he sought to develop nothing less than an injectable synthetic that would, of course, cure cancer. The usual dream of every young medical researcher, the youthful and wealthy Zaftig, heir to a lumber empire long sold to a larger conglomerate for a lifetime profit that elevated him into the 1%-ers, had the means to set up a private lab to do it. Over the years, that cure for cancer evolved into something else. As he aged, Zaftig grew more interested in creating a formula permanently extending youth, while enhancing physical strength and systemic health. The years passed with no result. Zaftig grew more obsessed, and eventually discarded his practice. He never married and avoided personal relationships, building an impressive private lab in the Santa Rosa Mountains outside San Jose. And he became a hermit whose life routine was only about continual research, testing, developing, synthesizing, note-taking, and video review. He amassed a team, whose job it was to test protocol after protocol on lab rats, guinea pigs, and rhesus monkeys. None of the animals, he was satisfied to note, were ever harmed by his injections, but none ever exhibited any permanent signs of renewed vigor, either. It was as if they were injected by harmless placebos. Over time, lab teams noted some temporary strength and health benefits in some, not all, of the lab animals. The effects were temporary, at best, and it was difficult to determine which animal might feel the effects, and which ones would not. Zaftig assumed sympathetic systems were required for any effects at all to take place. By 1998, Zaftig had engaged as his permanent first assistant the all but silent, studious, equally hermetic Dr. Warren Irving, whose natural reticence disguised fervor equal to Zaftig’s. By then, Zaftig’s ever-growing lab employed small army of coming-and-going lab workers, security personnel and personal administrators, whose silence and trust was purchased with time-stamped temporary employment terms, astonishing starting salaries and carefully drafted legal confidentiality contracts, were on hand in the continually refurbished lab facility, now enlarged into a complex of some size. Since Zaftig was seeking the creation of a God, he appropriately named his ever-growing facility Valhalla Labs. At first, in the specialized world of pure research outside the lab, ‘Zaftig’s Folly’, as came to be referred to, was an unending in-joke on the perils of vanity research. However, it was equally observed that any man or woman who had served in Zaftig’s lab emerged silent, circumspect, and deeply respectful about what went on within. Over the years, the jokes stopped, and by the late 1990s, ambitious young researchers hoped to spend a few seasons at the secluded lab, if for only to slake curiosity – and to make a lot of money. Still, the lab had produced nothing. No patents had been applied for. On it went, year after year. Then, after 30 years of steady non-production, in 2003 the 53-year old Zaftig had a breakthrough. A crop of lab male lab animals appeared dramatically invigorated by a trial run of newly developed formula. Careful notations of animal behavior indicated that the rejuvenation of the lab animals was deeply organic in nature. Most importantly, after protocols were ceased, the effects remained. And the animals grew surprisingly. They did not become monsters, but measured, in some cases, a quarter larger in size and weight than they were at the outset. They were somewhat more aggressive, too, but, as all were relieved to note, did not become, maddened, dangerous or even slightly mean. In fact, personal handlers reported that the animals appeared “cheerful” and “playful.” They also, when allowed, copulated with the other males, and sometimes the females, almost continuously. This was noted by Zaftig, who duly recorded it. Dr. Irving felt Zaftig somewhat ignored the sinister implications. After a year of continually successful lab animal results in select males, it was finally time for the first human trial. Zaftig, ever the Henry Jekyll tried P21on himself. The results were disastrous: violent vomiting, nosebleeds and headaches forced Zaftig into a week of bed rest. “Wrong genetics,” he had to admit to himself. He assumed the formula was a failure for humans, and lived in despair for weeks. Once recovered, he volunteered for trial his chief lab assistant, the meek, complicit, and nearly silent Dr. Irving. The injection nearly killed him. In sympathetic systems, it was as if evolution was sped up 10,000 years. P21 was capable of creating nothing less than jaw-dropping gigantism, coupled with glowing organic health, visually stunning physical perfection, astonishing strength, grace, speed, coordination, and renewed sexual energy. It only worked on X-Y heterogametic chromosome pairings – that is to say, on human males. Moreover, at this point in its development, it was successfully observed in very few subjects. Because of the necessary secrecy of the project, Zaftig lacked proper comparative controls, but by his estimation, he calculated P21 to be beneficial for only 1 out of every 1,000 men. However, for that one recipient, the sky was the limit. Zaftig finally saw the light on a subject for whom the formula might work when he met Rod Moster. That was in 2006. Moster was facing prison then, charged with manslaughter. Zaftig had heard all about the man’s prodigious muscularity, and got him the best defense money could buy. Moster served 1 year, and was released. Zaftig awaited him at the prison gates, ready to whisk him away to the Santa Rosa Mountains, to another kind of a prison, and yet one that Moster would soon relish. And so, in 2007, Rod Moster (soon to be Sergeant, USAC, hurriedly and secretly enlisted) became Project Herculaneum’s first official entrant. The already competition-trained superheavyweight bodybuilder Moster took to P21 like a duck to water – or, rather, like gasoline to fire. And Moster beat even Zaftig’s greatest expectations. Muscles bloomed on muscle. Strength quadrupled. Now that he had a perfectly responsive candidate, Zaftig was eager to find another. Later in 2007, another superheavyweight bodybuilder, the near-silent Turkish giant Abdul Karim, was discovered at Raw Weight, the hardcore San Jose gym owned by 50-year old retired pro bodybuilder legend Miles Donovan. Immediately whisked into the program, Moster and Karim trained like madmen in the Valhalla Labs compound, where a new gym was put into construction just for the two of them. They didn’t much like one another, but that led to heightened competition, tension, anger, and, inevitably, greater muscle growth. And now Zaftig could make some truly accurate notes on the success of P21 in sympathetic systems. Zaftig observed in his lab notes that it was as if the full assimilation of P21 triggered alterations in deep genetic timestamp coding. It was exactly as if the body suddenly redefined its male development to date as late ‘childhood’, and began to take itself into something like a new ‘adolescence’, blooming into a new definition of ‘adulthood’. Consequently, accompanied by proper training and consistent regulation of nutrition and rest cycles, muscular growth was not just enhanced; it was prompted into a supersonic explosion unlike anything Zaftig had anticipated. As intended in trial development, P21 was, in effect, nothing less than a miracle formula, successful beyond Zaftig’s wildest imaginings. He was still tinkering with it in the lab, however, in hopes that somehow he might find the key to more universal acceptance, including female development. The injected enzyme boosted performance, it seemed, only in those recipients whose natural dopamine and endorphin levels had already reached a certain high capacity, following either years of regular workouts, or a monitored high-intensity training in very young, genetically predisposed teens. Moreover, once on the enzyme and going forward, steroids, regular insulin injections, pain blockers, and growth hormone proved not only unnecessary, but also potentially dangerous. A protocol of P21 worked best on a naïve system, or, at the very least, a metabolism cleaned over time from the longtime effects of other injectables. Mental acuity was not diminished, but then again, it wasn’t improved, either. At first, Zaftig had been disappointed P21 didn’t produce intellectual giants as well, but in time he accepted it. After all, as long as subjects weren’t rendered newly stupid by the protocol, and followed orders, he accepted that it wasn’t really an issue. It was about muscles and strength, not smarts. More subjects were introduced into the program. By 2011, the men in the program included competitive bodybuilders Rene Lefevre, Herman Schumacher, Anthony Chad, Derek Washington, and William Obatu. Muscle monsters all at the outset, and mostly discovered by Miles Donovan, as each man moved into the compound and began the training and the protocols, their size and strength increased with rapid gains measureable almost daily. Most astonishingly, perhaps, was the measurable growth in each man’s height. Over time, all recipients grew anywhere from 2 to 5 inches taller. The skeletal structure itself was affected by regular injections of P21, and bones lengthened and thickened throughout each man’s body. The principal area of bone growth appeared to be in the legs, but even the arm bones slightly lengthened. A 6’-0” man with a finger-to-finger reach of 6’-3” before injections was gradually able to reach a length of 5 inches in addition to his newly gained height. The lengthened arms, of course, gave the men a slightly ape-like appearance, with the tips of their fingers now brushing the patella of each kneecap. However, the men did not become ungainly as a result, seemed to grow at the same time in natural grace and motor coordination. Muscular density almost doubled, strength nearly quadrupled, subcutaneous fat tissue was nearly eliminated. Muscular separations, ripples, cuts, and deep tissue striations appeared where before, even on a beautifully developed physique, there had been nothing but smoothness. Muscles roiled and bloomed with magnificent grace. Even symmetry improved; it was as if the muscular system had developed an over-all critical eye as to the proper balance and sweep necessary for each man to remain at optimum performance levels. Even so, with the loss of subcutaneous fat, waist size was stunningly diminished. Within six months of starting injections, a formerly 200 pound muscular man with a standard 34” waistline would find himself sporting a mere 30” at his midsection, with his rectus abdominus muscles and lower obliques newly reknit into interlocking, striated layers of shapely support musculature, easily able to carry the newly burgeoning upper body mass. His bodyweight would shoot up at least 20 pounds, all of it lean muscle mass. Fast-twitch and slow-twitch muscles were affected alike: a man on P21 was not only able to lift almost impossibly heavy weights, but run like the wind. Motor-nerve coordination profoundly improved. Endurance was beyond imagining. Although the subjects’ diets were kept clean, this appeared to have little effect one way or the other. As long as the men were regularly fed full meals six times a day, and drank a quotidian 3 gallons of water, then diet itself was moot. However, to maintain the psychological fiction that diet was still “important”, food selections were limited to lean meats, arrays of vegetables and proper complex carbs. The men held the “no veggies” diets of standard, “middle earth” bodybuilders in profound contempt. “If it’s green, it’s good,” was the mantra. With the six meals a day and the explosion of muscle growth, human waste products predictably doubled. The men seemed to require 30 minutes daily for proper excretion. Each man found himself pissing rivers of bright, clean urine. Happily, their digestion systems were as efficient as could be hoped for, and pleasure-filled howls filled the residence halls periodically as the men eagerly shat their meals. “A good shit is like great sex,” Obatu observed. Pissing was as pleasurable, for as powerful as their kidneys were, each man produced ropes of healthy white piss, like clockwork, 5 times a day. Their glowing prostate health allowed them to empty their bladders thoroughly with each resoundingly copious piss. A man on P21 would also exhibit astonishing skin health. Blemishes and scars faded to nothingness. The men’s complexions glowed as if powered by an inner laser. Hair health flourished, and though some of the men on the protocol preferred to shave their heads, it was not for a lack of healthy follicles. Even the bald Sergeant Schumacher, hairless as a wombat when he entered the program, was delighted to see his full head of hair restored within six months. Later, however, in response to other psychological effects, he chose to shave it off daily. Normal pain thresholds decreased proportionately. Sleep cycles were not affected. Over time, any already-accomplished athlete’s natural talents were likely to be exponentially sharpened. Newly recorded performance benchmarks surpassed any previous personal best. In short, the benefits were astounding - provided the recipient was initially genetically gifted to begin with, and had already achieved a certain performance level. Once P21 had been introduced into the system, after 3 years of weekly injections, Zaftig had discovered the protocol must be carefully monitored, and in some cases, stopped for periods of time. Not everyone developed at the same rate. Once the protocol was stopped, the successful manifesting effects enjoyed by the recipient to date would not be lost, but any continuing development would slow and finally stall. However, to avoid trauma, the project’s subjects weren’t informed of this, and several of the older men had been receiving intermittent placebos for years, in order to avoid a state of psychological withdrawal. More seriously, and although Zaftig was not yet certain of the veracity of his latest finding, he was keen to observe with a continued injection schedule, that the men’s aging processes seemed to stop entirely. This is the most sensitive of all the information he gathered, and the top-secret introduction of placebos disguised the anti-aging effects for the older men in the project. It was critical that this be kept a closely guarded secret. Was part of P21’s astonishing potential the end of natural aging? Zaftig was at war with himself on this point. As a scientist, he was elated. As a sympathetic human being, he was appalled. No one but he and the deeply trusted Dr. Irving were aware of indications that P21 was The Fountain of Youth. And just as P21 seemed to promise unending anti-aging, not all of the other developmental effects could be anticipated. Nor were they, in fact, terribly convenient. Its extraordinary properties included some rather startling, not to say unexpected, priapic side effects, which had first manifested themselves in the first guinea pig lab rat Sergeant Moster, nearly 15 years before. Since then, as new men successfully entered the project, different results were recorded for different recipients. All the same, universally P21 provided something like miraculous growth and enhancement for all who responded to it. Even now, in 2021, Zaftig could only guess how it might manifest itself in different subjects. Zaftig didn’t really want to deal with the complexity of the multiple sexual side effects. For there were surprising sexual benefits as well. After all, a physically evolving male always experiences a coinciding change in sexual stats and activity. What he had not anticipated was the dramatic extent of these changes. Zaftig discovered it not long after he first tried it out on Moster in 2007. The most observable immediate change was the startling increase in genital size. At the outset of his induction into the program, Rod Moster’s penis was already unusually large, looming forth when erect at a majestic 8 inches. While impressive on most men, all the same for a muscleman of Moster’s size and development, in appearance, it came off as merely average. All that changed once Moster entered the program. Six months after beginning the P21 protocol, even when flaccid, Moster’s penis measured just over 10 inches. When erect, it approached 16 inches. Midnight black, cobra-thick, and lightly laced with a cross section of interlocking capillaries shooting off from two pulsing central shaft veins, it had become a dangerous, dazzlingly beautiful machine. In fact, Moster’s penis had become a weapon. While he was delighted with his newly gargantuan cock, it presented him no end of trouble. For one thing, there was simply no hiding it in his clothing. His dress slacks uniform trousers had been custom-fitted to accommodate his massive quads, glutes, hamstrings and calves. Now, unless he wore specially designed rubber mesh briefs under his slacks that firmly restrained him, his slack member lay lazily on his quads, with muffled slapping against his thighs as he walked. The flies of all his clothing had to be forged from blue steel, and even so, were doubly reinforced to prevent bursting from the strain. Standard bodybuilding posing trunks were all but impossible if he wanted to remain covered; his cock and balls simply didn’t fit in any pouch. Most of the time, Moster chose to wear ultra-baggy sweats, with the sweatshirt hanging down to his thighs to cover the always-looming member. Otherwise, it was all just too distracting. Over time, Dr. Zaftig discovered that for all enrollees into the program, the size of the subject’s genitalia similarly grew to outlandishly large proportions. A man with average endowment was soon delighted to note that his organ, when flaccid, enlarged half again in length, girth, and stamina. A man considered ‘well hung’ at the outset would enjoy even greater growth. But that wasn’t all. Moster quickly realized a greater sexual appetite to match his newly achieved girth. Soon after injections began, normal societal behavioral blockers that prevent many men from acting on their fantasies all but vanished. Deeply buried sexual fantasies began to seem not merely attainable, but regularly actionable. Over time, the sexual activity of the subject became an all-pervasive cycle of, at first, increasing need, accompanied by a single-minded determination to fulfill the fantasy. Moreover, it was apparent that the recipients of P21 responded with particularly heightened sexual energy and passion to other recipients of the enzyme. So-called heterosexuality was no longer an issue: choice was abandoned. The men needed close supervision to keep their sexual activity confined to the proper hours, settings, and duration. And it took some doing to keep the men in line. Of course, any partner was possible for the men. As long as their muscles were the source of longing, they were eager to spread their copious seed in any number of ways, among any number of partners. Fortunately, a psychological fail-safe was built into the men’s newly ripening sexual psyches. The men were at their most vulnerable when presenting their muscularity to outsiders. Always able to leap into swift action, whether fighting, flexing, posing, Zaftig discovered after some carefully administered lab control tests that if the men were confronted with levels of apparent sexual unresponsiveness from observers, their sexual impulses were notably dampened. While their overall athletic, training, and bodybuilding prowess was never diminished, the translation of muscle energy into unfettered sexual energy did not occur unless observers explicitly expressed longing. In other words, the men needed to be sexually worshipped, gawked at, touched, stroked, admired and longed for in order to become aroused. They needed to flex their powerful biceps and rotate their mountainous quads for the stunned and appreciative. It was slightly ironic, therefore, that these astonishing physical specimens of undeniable Alpha males were, actually, subservient to the atmosphere of admiration. Indifference seemed to cow the men into silence and confusion – all except Sergeant Moster, of course, whose internal sexual battery was always on full charge levels. Fortunately, for the orderly continuation of Project Herculaneum, Sergeant Moster was aware of what he called “the Kryptonite effect” on his men. He could douse their sexual energy easily with a disparaging glance or an offhand comment. The small army of resident support staff, facilities associates, cafeteria and maintenance personnel, and office and lab workers were duly advised not to show any sexual interest in the men on any level. Zaftig himself was never troubled by the issue. Proud of his men, he nevertheless seemed to regard them as his “boys”, growing adolescent sons, in whom he had nothing but the purest parental love, devoid of any sexuality. Moster was more than well qualified to handle that job. Zaftig took a step back, promising himself that “some day” he’d approve a comprehensive study on P21 and sex. Over time, the psychological benefits had proved addictive. In other words, P21 was crack cocaine for bodybuilders. Any man receiving regular injections of P21 had to be handled with extreme care and caution, which necessitated a largely cloistered lifestyle. They were simply not ready for general public release. Nor was the public ready for them. To be continued.....
  7. "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey Chapter 6: Casey Is Discovered The day that Casey Rockland first set foot inside a gym, he was a shy, tongue-tied, lonely, oversized 12-year old. He stood, frightened and abashed, at the front desk of Raw Weight. He had walked around the block for an hour before he found the courage to walk through the dark-glass swinging doors. Miles stood behind the desk. “Yes, son?” he asked after a moment. God, this kid has potential, he thought. Gosh, he’s handsome, Casey thought. He gawked at the huge, veiny arms that poured from the short sleeves of Miles’ sports shirt. The hugely rolling biceps made his dick twitch a little. From the moment Casey first laid eyes on Miles Donovan, he thought he was the handsomest, smartest, most masculine, most muscular man he had ever met in his life. Just the sight of Miles’ hardcore physique, casually displayed in loose-fitting slacks and a navy blue sports shirt boasting the Raw Weight logo, made Casey’s well-hidden, oversized teenage member leap to attention. It was love at first sight. Which was not lost on Miles. “C-can I join?” Casey finally stammered out. “You want to train here?” “Yes, sir.” “How old are you, son?” “Twelve,” answered Casey honestly. Miles paused, and then asked kindly, “Where do you live?” “San Jose Boys’ Home.” Aha, thought Miles. His heart went out to the beautiful, over-sized, sad-faced kid. “Of course you can join. Ever trained before?” Casey’s heart leapt. “No, sir!” “How much can you pay?” “I can work for you, sir! I can clean the locker rooms, and the toilets, and take out the garbage, and paint the walls, and – “ If Miles had allowed it, a tear would have come into his eye. Besides, this kid had overwhelming genetic promise. He held up a hand. “No need for all that. Of course you can train here. We’ll discuss money some other time. Let’s get you started. Do you have workout clothes?” “N-no, sir.” “Well, let’s get you fitted out. Come on along with me. Sid, take the desk,” Miles shot to the flirting young muscleboy trainer who was chatting up one of the wide-eyed fitness babes who trolled the workout floor, looking for available young muscle studs. “And try to keep your mind on your work.” Back to Casey. “What’s your name, son?” “Casey Rockland.” “Well, Casey Rockland, I think you might have found your new home. Let’s see what you got.” He moved out from behind the desk and approached Casey. Casey’s heart was still leaping. Miles Donovan was an astonishing man. Casey had never dreamed that such a huge, handsome, masculine, muscular man would ever take notice of him. Like an eager puppy, he fell into step behind Miles, who was leading him out onto the workout floor. There, dozens of men and women of various sizes, states, dress, and degrees of sweat were toiling away at nameless, complicated activities involving weights, machines, benches, bars, cables, racks, mats, balls, rings, and rope. One or two looked up curiously at Miles and the gawky big kid trotting behind him. William Obatu was one of those who looked up. Already in enrolled in Project Herculaneum, the handsome black African muscle monster Obatu was allowed to steal away from the compound to his home front of Raw Weight (with occasional forays to the 3rd floor, where he regularly held personal worship sessions). Obatu takes a selfie.... “Who’s that big kid?” he asked Miles one evening a few weeks later on the 3rd floor. He was working arms, doing slow concentration curls, generally ignoring the rich twinky boy on his knees before him, begging to worship the bulging cannonball biceps. “What kid?” asked Miles innocently, walking by. Obatu continued doing curls and feigned the same indifference that Miles was displaying. “You know. The big kid. Downstairs. He ever come up here to 3?” “Naw. Too young.” “Pleeeeeaazzze…..” begged the handsome kneeling twink on his knees, reaching up in hopes to get a quick fingertip brush of iron muscles. Obatu glanced down, a little impatiently, and reracked the weight. “Whtchu want?” he demanded, and slapped the kid’s face. Some ‘a’ this?” He flexed his biceps. The kid moaned gratefully. “Shut up, worm,” he commanded. Flexxxxxx… “Boom,” he said. “25 inches. Feel ‘em.” Back to Miles. “Saving him for yourself?” “Nope. Saving him for your boss. And your commanding officer. Is Tyrone any good?” Obatu was perplexed. “Who’s Tyrone?” He continued flexing, gazing admiringly at his peaks. Miles pointed down at the kid who now was both reaching in vain to touch the iron biceps while feverishly licking the heavy downward-pointing bulge in Obatu’s regulation tiny posers. Obatu shuddered with pleasure but covered. “These posers are too damn small.” “You must be used to it by now.” “You never get used to it.” “I repeat, is Tyrone any good?” “What do you care, I’m paying $5,000 a month to be up here,” mumbled Tyrone, his mouth now scooping up the thick black muscle cock that tumbled from Obatu’s straining posers. Obatu glanced up. “Trust fund kid,” Miles explained. “Oh.” He looked back down again and flexed his biceps again, a little more respectfully. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself.” Tyrone moaned passionately and sucked vigorously. After a moment, Miles spoke. “Looks like fun. Mind if I join you?” “Oh, if you’re gonna make a party of it, be my guest,” said Obatu, stepping aside. Miles, still dressed, stepped in and unzipped his pants. His big cock poured out. In an instant Tyrone had both bodybuilders’ cocks in his mouth. “Flex for him. He likes it,” said Obatu. Miles flexed his powerful silver daddy 23-inch biceps. A slight tearing sound was heard. “Damn. Another shirt.” He decided to take it out on Tyrone. He plucked the cock from his mouth and slapped his handsome smooth young cheeks vigorously with the now hard-as-steel shaft. “Nice move,” said Obatu. “Let me try that. Hey, asswipe. Over here.” And he smacked Tyrone’s face with his black cock. Soon Tyrone’s head was whipping from side to side, his face buffeted by heavy cock blows. "Take us both, boy. One after the other," ordered Miles. Tyrone went into a frenzy, sucking Obatu's cock, then twisting his head and sucking Miles' cock, back and forth. "Yeah, good boy," said Miles. A few minutes later the musclemen both shot, coating Tyrone's face with heavy layers of thick, creamy cum. Tyrone moaned as thick spurt after thick spurt emerged from each man's pisshole, painting his face, covering him with cum. “That was fun,” said Obatu. “Yeah, let’s do it again some time,” said Miles, walking away. "Clean that up, boy," he ordered as he strode away, squatting slightly as a zipped up, putting his heavy cock away. Obatu resumed his workout, Miles went back to his office. Tyrone lay on a bench, ecstatically spent. Casey took to lifting weights immediately. He had a genius for developing his own start-up training program, and he poured over the muscle magazines he could find. During computer hours he browed the net for muscle information, training routines, and reading all about the muscle stars. He was going to be one, one day, himself. He was determined. Then they’d see. But, gosh, it was hard work. Lifting hurt. It was painful. It was slow. It took time. He was stunned at the beginning at just how much work it was. One afternoon after he'd been lifting only a few weeks, he was sitting dejected in the locker room. Alone. Miles, coming through with towels, saw him. He understood. He put the towels away, and came over and sat with him on the bench awhile. They were silent together a few minutes. "It hurts." Casey finally said. "Yes, it does." "And it's hard." "Yes, it is. Not everyone can do it." "I didn't know it would be this hard." Miles smiled, and put a paternal arm around Casey's shoulders, patting him with a giant paw. "If it were easy, everyone would be big. It is not magic. You can't take a pill and get bigger. People who think so are crazy and wrong. There's no growth serum. I repeat Casey, there's no magic. It doesn't exist. You can't eat a magic cookie, and just get huge. And people who think so are fools. And dreamers." "But I'm a dreamer....." Casey said sadly. "Yes, you are a dreamer, too, but you're not foolish. You know what work is. Hard work. It's growth with effort. Growth without effort doesn't exist. It's an empty dream, a useless fantasy. There are no super heroes, Casey. There's only hard work. Years and years and years of it. But I'll tell you a secret......" he leaned in. Casey looked up. "If you keep doing it? every day, you'll get a little closer to your dream." A light began to shine in Casey's eyes. A tear formed. He looked up at Donovan, now standing over him. "You mean that?" "I do. And Casey? You'll achieve your dream. If you keep working." He paused and stepped back, hitching his thumbs in his belt. "You had a good workout today. You're pushing the limits. But now you need to rest. G'wan back to the home and eat some chicken. Rest tomorrow. No, rest two days. Don't want to see you back here until Saturday." He smiled. "But on Saturday? I'll train with you. And we're gonna fucking murder those weights." Casey's face shone like the sun. He nodded, eagerly, unable to speak a moment. "Sure, Miles! I'll go back and eat chicken and sleep and see you Saturday!!" He got up and began packing his bag. "Work on those abs. You can do crunches tomorrow as long as you don't use weight," he said as he left the locker room. ****** As Casey trained at Raw Weight it was soon apparent that as he gained strength and grew, he needed more than three times as much food. Sister Anne in the kitchen, sympathetic to the big, sweet, dumb, exceptionally handsome kid, supplied him with the extra portions of meat whenever she could get away with it, unaware that the Home’s director, Sister Marietta, had deliberately turned a blind eye. She was even guilty of making sure there were plenty of steaks and chicken breasts on hand. Four years passed. Casey trained like a maniac. He would have been there every day, all day, but Miles forbad it, making him aware of the need for rest days. "Your body won't grow muscles unless you rest. You want to get big?" "Yes, sir! I want to be huge!" "Then you stay away 3 days a week. Eat a lot of protein. Do your ab exercises every night. But no weights. You wanna grow and get big you gotta give your body a rest." Casey, deeply in love, filled with awe, was all the same a little frightened of Miles, and shied away from him for a long time. Miles, understanding the nature of hero worship, gave the handsome kid a wide berth, encouraging him in a business-like way as he made muscle gains. Sensing even more talent, after Casey had been at Raw Weights about 2 years, he introduced him one afternoon to Ramon Ramon, a stern, grizzled, totally ripped, if slightly punch drunk old Puerto Rican extreme cage fighter who always seemed to be at Miles’ gym, as if he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Soon Casey was taking boxing and kickboxing lessons from Ramon Ramon. He began running, jumping rope, lifting the huge truck tires in the corner of the 1st floor, and working out with a punching bag. Ramon was also into wrestling. He bought Casey his first singlet. For hours after Casey's workouts they grappled on Raw Weight’s stained old wrestling mats, bathed in sweat. Ramon was old and grey but had solidly ripped, strong muscles, and Casey loved the feel of the old iron warrior’s abs against his abs as rolled around together on the floor. When Ramon locked his legs around young Casey’s neck and squeezed, Casey always got what the boys in the home called ‘a boner.’ Big and hard, it poled up in the singlet and would have embarrassed him had Ramon not been so cool about it. “Big tool. Get you a bigger singlet next time. You need a scoche more room in the crotch.” Ramon’s legs were clamped onto 16-year old Casey’s 22-inch neck. He howled. He had never been happier. His erection pointed high to the ceiling. “Go ahead and take care of it,” said Ramon. “Be good for ya. Young guys gotta cum.” He let go of Casey’s left arm. Casey shouted and stroked with his freed hand and his cum shot to the ceiling and plopped onto his abs and the wrestling mat. He was never embarrassed around Ramon. “Think you got the biggest cock I ever did see,” said the old wrestler, his iron vice grip holding Casey in a headlock now. The cum continued to shoot. “It’s healthy. Like to see it.” And Casey groaned happily with pain as Ramon squeezed harder. They wrestled in a pool of cum, soon made even greater as Ramon shot all over his steely abs. “Thought I’d join you,” he said. "Be sure to clean that up before you hit the showers." "Yes, sir!" said Casey, happily spent. For two more years Casey followed a strict regimen of quiet hard-core muscle building. He grew and grew. Miles was taking notice. By the time he was 17, it was clear that he had extraordinary bodybuilding gifts. His dedication to lifting was unquestioned, his genetics nothing less than astonishing. One afternoon at the gym during one of his workouts, Miles Donovan glanced out of office window at the big, muscular young teen in the middle of the workout floor. Casey stood alone on the workout floor, his red t-shirt dripping with sweat. He was insanely propelling himself through a 5th set of unduly punishing biceps curls, curling 125 pounds. His face was crimson, his eyes bulged, his teeth were gritted like a madman, thick cords of veins pounded in his neck. His meaty young biceps were being punished into new growth levels. Miles watched the 16-year old boy through the window closely. “Guess it’s time,” he said to himself. He speed-dialed Dr. Anton Zaftig at Valhalla Labs on his mobile. It was time. He hardly knew nor cared what who Zaftig was, or what this “research” was about. All Donovan knew is that he was supposed to be on the lookout for ‘special’ muscle - from the young men who showed unusual potential, to the older, more weather-beaten gym rats who were so far past feeling any pain that all they could do was pack on more and more beef – as long as they were able to keep a balance with their abs, that is. And – as long as they had other talents as well, including square jaws, clean skin, clear eyes, and redoubtable priapic gifts. Zaftig had been quietly paying Donovan for years to spot potential talent. And the size and regularity of Zaftig’s checks were profoundly motivating. “Zaftig?” A mumbled affirmative. “There’s a kid who’s been training here a few years who I think you might want to check out….. No, he’s only 17, but he’s huge. Yes. Really huge. Yes, he’s good, very good, and I think he could be great. I’ve been watching him quite awhile now. Hmmm? Two years. No, three. Regularly. Yeah.” Donovan paced a little and glanced out his window to the gym floor. Casey was putting himself through his 6th set of curls. 15 reps per set. Now at 160 lbs. “Weight? He’s 220. At age 17. Yes, really. 220. Height? Get this: he’s 6’4”. And I don’t think he’s done growing. Yes, superb symmetry. What?" He sighed at Zaftig's question. "Yeah, he's hung, too. Biggest goddam tool I ever saw." Another mumbled question. "What? Okay. I’ll call you back. Ten minutes.” He hung up. He got up from his chair and walked out onto the floor up to the muscleboy. “Awesome. Awesome young muscle. Congratulations,” he said breezily. Casey was in heaven. “Gee thanks, Mr. Donovan!” he said. Casey was always excited when the handsome muscleman praised him. “Let’s see those guns,” said Miles. Casey was only too happy to comply, eagerly flexing his powerful young biceps. Miles stroked them appreciatively, and then casually flexed his own right arm. Casey stared. “Wow,” he breathed. He reached forward to touch it. “Go ahead,” said Miles. “Stroke it.” As Casey approached respectfully and softly ran his fingers over Miles’ thick biceps, the older man glanced down. And was startled. The bulge in Casey’s gym shorts was poled out about a foot from his hips. He didn’t seem to notice, transfixed as he was stroking Miles’ biceps. Miles flexed a few more times for him, and with great self-control, walked away. He called Zaftig back. “Yeah, he gets hard when he touches muscles. Okay. No, I don’t think he does drink. Or smoke. One thing, though. I don’t think he’s the brightest light in the billboard. Does it matter? No? Okay. Yes. I will. I’ll keep you posted.” It was that afternoon that Donovan smilingly informed Casey that his membership to Raw Weight would be free of charge for the foreseeable future. He clapped him breezily on his powerful young shoulders, and was slightly astonished at the hardness of the muscle beneath his palm. For his part, Casey was overjoyed. He didn’t stop to examine why such good fortune might have his way, and what might be expected of him in exchange in the future. He continued to pump enthusiastically, and pack on the muscle. The kid’s not bad, thought Donovan, watching Casey joyfully burn through a grueling set of 20 reps of 400-pound deadlifts. ******* Just a few days later that Casey Rockland finally decided to do something about the gang who had been pummeling him in the dorm shower room for years. Already it was taking more and more of the boys in the gang to hold him down during his beatings, which were growing far less frequent as he got bigger and bigger. One day they stopped completely, but the boy’s hostility still festered in the air. Casey was getting ready for payback. Ramon had showed him how, too. “You got a fearsome punch, kid,” he said one afternoon, flat on his back in the ring where Casey had just knocked him, his eye blackened. “Lead with the left. You got it.” One night after lights out, a few of the boys circled his bed. He looked up at them, bleary-eyed and half asleep. “What?” he asked. “Pull his shorts down!“ “You do it! It’s gay!” “I wanna see!” came a pipsqueak voice. Casey felt a dozen hands pin him down in the half-light, and his shorts were yanked to his knees. His adolescent penis, tumescent in the steamy night, was exposed. He was humiliated. And mad. “Goddamn!” one boy yelled. “It’s huge!” “It’s like a monster!” “Hey, Banana Man!” “See, I told ya!” “He’s a freak!” “Casey the Freak!” the boys chanted, and began to pummel him. Casey curled into a ball on his mattress, gritted his teeth, and took it tearfully. “Next time,” he said himself as the boys rained his body with their weak punches. "Next time, they get it." On what turned out to be his last day in the San Jose Boys’ Home, a gang of 18 biggest boys circled him during morning showers, laughing and pointing at his monster penis for the last time. "Okay," he said. "You turds have laughed at me for the last time. He swung a fist, very deliberately, and caught the ringleader square on the jaw. A tooth flew out and the boy hit the wall of the shower. Methodically Casey began to punch his way through the crowd of now-terrified boys. He was surprised at how easy it was. When the steam cleared, all 18 lay on the ground with an array of blackened eyes, broken noses, fractured jaws, and missing teeth. Casey sported a huge shiner himself. It was worth it. That afternoon 5 ambulances pulled up to the front gates and took the boys away for bandaging in the San Juan ER. Four boys were required to stay overnight for observation. Sister Marietta called him into her office to reprimand him. As she always did with the bad boys, she bent him over her lap and spanked his firm young butt with a ruler. She broke three of them before she finally gave up, perplexed at how hard the young man’s behind had become. Afterwards, rubbing his stinging bottom, Casey ran back to his room and cried. No one loves me, he cried. That night he ran away forever from the San Jose Boy’s Home. He went to the gym, and still sniffling, emptied out his locker. Donovan watched him from the window in his office as Casey, in tears tucked his favorite do-rag in his back jeans pocket and slumped out into the night. Casey figured he had to leave town, although he had no idea where exactly he was going to go. Miles picked up his mobile phone. He figured the time had come. A hour later, Dr. Zaftig found Casey sitting alone and dejectedly in the San Jose bus station. Dr. Zoloft was in transit from the city to the lab facility in the countryside outside town when Donovan had called him hurriedly. He did a fast detour in his minivan, walked swiftly into the bus station, and took a good look at the huge kid bursting out of his t-shirt, sitting alone on a bench in the corner. He knew right away he had another promising specimen for Project Herculaneum. Miles Donovan was never wrong. Zaftig walked unhesitatingly up to Casey and introduced himself. He talked about a bright, golden future for the young bodybuilder. Innocent Casey stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few minutes. Then he smiled through his tears. In the end, he went with the doctor with the funny name. He never questioned anything. He was just grateful. Casey moved into the cadet facility at the base of the mountain leading up to the main compound that night. The next morning, Dr. Irving appeared in Sister Marietta’s office and signed for his release. He flashed some government identification for her, muttered some Federal mumbo jumbo, announced that Valhalla Labs had invested in Casey’s training for four years, and petitioned the court for the right to take Casey into custody. Sister Marietta held up her hand to cut him off, offering no objections. “Take him. He’s too big for us now. We can’t afford to feed him anymore, and the other boys are now terrified of him. Besides, four of his classmates are still in the hospital. It would be best for all if he left.” As she signed the papers offered by Dr. Irving, she added, “But please take good care of him. Casey is a sweet and simple young man. He needs love.” No other paperwork seemed necessary, and though it was far from being anything like a formal adoption, it was enough for the Good Sister. She was relieved to see the boy go – he now always seemed to be hungry, and she had been forced to replace Sister Anne in the kitchen because the boy’s appetite was breaking the food budget. She was glad he could go somewhere where, hopefully, he would get his required 6 square meals a day. Beyond that, she wouldn’t worry. Casey had always been a good boy – well, until the day before. She knew he’d make the right decisions for himself. Or not. Once in the program, Zaftig fast-tracked Casey’s growth. Under Zaftig’s watchful eye and the encouragement of the cadet trainers, he worked harder than anyone he had yet encountered. And the food? He couldn’t believe it – six full meals a day! Two days a week he was required to remain near his quarters and relax. The other five days of the week were taken up with schooling, enhanced nutrition, supervised meditation, running drills, bicycling, swimming, gymnastics practice, small arms training, and nightly injections of Protein 21b, Zaftig’s laboratory serum developed under the most rigorous of testing. Within two months, he was a full cadet in the program, and in less than 2 years he was approaching the threshold of muscular perfection. Most of the time for those years, he was alone with Zaftig, Dr. Irving, his trainers, and some of the Project cadets. He had been restrained from meeting the other 19 men, who trained and socialized on their own in the main building of the facility. He didn’t notice it just at first, but during the next two years he couldn’t help but wonder at the increasing volume of his emissions. He had no inkling that Protein 21b might be causing his sperm production to gradually increase exponentially. Still, during the two years he came to understand that there might be some link between the clear liquid in the daily injections and the increasingly generous volume of semen that spurted out of his cock nightly. He was also amazed that his cock itself appeared to be getting even bigger. He had always been hugely hung, but – this was crazy. At first it required little more than a washrag to clean up after himself, but in time, larger and larger bath towels were required to mop up the flow after cumming. His sheets were badly always badly stained in the morning, and – strangely – every night he found they had been replaced by crisp, new sheets. He never knew who might be doing this for him, and over time his initial embarrassment about his sticky sheets faded away into the generally dark, accumulating volume of unanswered questions. After he passed his high school graduation equivalency exams, Zaftig decided he was ready to take it to the next level. It was time to formally present the boy to the 19. Casey was 18 years old and in the best condition of his young life to date. Still, he was lonely. At night he lay alone in his little room, gazed out the window at the moon and the stars, and beat his humongous meat off fiercely. He dreamed of being the biggest, strongest man in the world. Everyone would love him. And he would protect everyone. It was the sweetest dream in the world, and it was always enough to charge him to a satisfying climax. Then he’d roll over and fall into a deep sleep, hopeful for better days.
  8. Guest

    Jeff: Ab workout

    Hi guys This weekend I finally finished a new short story, this time focused on abs. Hope you like it ----------------------- - Please, sign here - the delivery man handed the receipt over to Jeff, offering a pencil as well. Jeff took the paper and pencil, rolled up his right arm sleeves, up to the midpoint of his freakishly developed forearm, exposing dozens and dozens of bulging cords of muscle under the paper thin skin. As he did so, the delivery man opened his eyes wide, really scared of what he was seeing. Jeff placed the paper on the entrance table and started signing under his name. Each stroke of the pencil made his forearm cords move unnaturally, each one of them trying to make a space amongst the rest of the bunches of fibers in Jeff's forearm. Crawling veins on top of those muscles were raising and falling with each snake-like forearm cord moving under them, and pressing them against the tight skin. The signing show was as unnatural as any other routinary task Jeff did during his day, his mind trying to make natural what his muscles couldn't do but in an obscene unnatural and surrealistic way. In the final signature stroke, the veins all over his fingers and back bulged thick all over the hand tendons and bulging bones, while the paper skin thin was trying to adapt to the movements under it, hardly stretching over the freaky hose thick veins under it. - Is that all? - Jeff asked while he returned the signed receipt and pencil back to the still amazed and wordless delivery man. - Y... Yes, sir - he recovered as he could, took the paper and went away - Thank you. - You're welcome Jeff closed the door and looked at the heavy box. Finally, after some weeks pushing the steel factory, he had received his order. He opened it, uncovered the contents and saw all three industrial springs, each one of them composed by a two-inches thick iron spiral with the same specifications he ordered: the endings were a wide round place, another two-inches thick steel plate with a 2 inches wide hole with a thread in the middle, to attach it where needed. Each one of the springs was 2 feet long and could easily weight 100lbs. Having a look at the specifications he checked the extension resistance limits: 1 inch extension --> 100 lbs 5 inches extension --> 500 lbs 1 feet extension --> 1 ton 2 feet extension --> 3 tons The breaking point is 2 feet of extension. Please use carefully "Ok, it would be enough for the moment", Jeff thought as he was carrying effortlessly all three springs to the basement, where he had installed the self-made ab crunch machine. The machine had the same basic shape and mechanism of a conventional one but in a much larger size. The steel thin cords that propagated the movement in a gym version was substituted by a 3 inches thick cable to support the resistance it was meant for. Instead of plates to adjust the resistance of the machine, there was a huge void inside a steel frame. A thick steel plate was attached to 5 individual cords that joined into the main cable that transported the movement. The plate was crossed by two thick column-like bars that served as a guide to the movement of the plate, soldered to the base of the whole machine. Both in the base and in the steel plate there were 3 thick holes, each one of them 2 inches wide and with a thread in the inside, obviously meant to be joined to the springs Jeff has just received. As a whole, the machine was an absurd ab-breaker workout machine, meant for an animal like Jeff. He took the springs, the bolts, and the pneumatic screwdriver and attached each one of the three springs to the base of the machine. The, he lowered the upper plate to the height of the springs and again, attached them to the plate with another three bolts and the screwdriver. Once done, he did a simple test with the hand, trying to lower the plate, just to check if it was firmly attached. He tried to raise the plate and test the resistance of the springs. The first attempt was successful, all pieces were firmly attached; in the second attempt, he pulled harder, making his biceps pop up obscenely against the fabric of his t-shirt. He smiled, completely satisfied with having finally finished his ab workout machine, a perfect piece of machinery to destroy his abs in each rep. The bench of the machine was not a usual one either. The most extended position of it was not at 45 or 30-degree angle over the horizontal. He took the back of the bench and started lowering it to a 30-degree position, then to 15 degrees, then horizontal, and then he lowered it even more, forming an obtuse angle of -90 degrees over the horizontal. He removed his t-shirt and looked at himself in the mirror right in front of the ab machine. "Oh fuck, I cannot believe this", he thought as he checked his freaky obscene shredded torso. His 10 pack abs looked like 10 thick melons attached to his stomach, perfectly cut one against each other and against the obliques. The upper pair of abs were partially in shades due to the shadow of his own pecs over them. Those pecs were bulging about 1 feet away from his sternum and crossed by a huge deep striation that broke each pec into two wide halves, apart from the deep cleavage, 1 feet deep that fell into his bones. He did a slight twist of his waist to have a better view of the obliques and serratus, and the movement made the 10 cobblestones shred vertically, from the insertion into the uppermost flat muscle tissue to the lowermost, million of fibers crossing his midsection in an obscene display of lean conditioning and dry status. The cut all along the obliques was not a clean one, but a saw-like ridge of crisscrossed fibers inserting into each other, but forming a deep deep deep zig-zag valley of muscle cuts. He turned himself completely to have a whole side view of his torso. Right after turning his head and watching himself in the mirror, he developed a huge hardon, brutally visible inside the fabric of his pants. His 13-inches cock pushed the fabric away, making the rim get separated from his paper-thin abdominal skin. He could see his pubic hair appearing, and threw a huge spurt of pre against the pants, wetting it completely. The view was freaky obscene: a huge and thick slab of muscle hanging heavily in his chest, the mammoth pec bulging horizontally, impossibly attached to the collarbone, hanging 2 inches low into the abdominal section. Hi his abdominal side view was composed of 5 incredible and perfectly round bulges of muscle, popping out hard from his stomach wall. Each one of them bulged almost 4 inches away, in a completely regular way, except the lower pair of abs that were much longer, getting into his pubic section as if it were a giant snake getting into his pants. He went up to the machine, sat on the bench and fit his feet and ankles into the hook, so they could be tightly fastened to the base of the machine. He leaned onto the back of the bench, but since it was in a -90 degrees position, he had to force his body to reach it, stretching his upper torso until he could fit his arms into the grips at the sides of the bench, firmly inserted so he could use them to propagate his strength and pull up the weights. He had arranged the machine and the grips in such a way he could raise his head enough to check his own abs during the workout, but in this impossible position, it was hard to see his stomach. Anyway, he could fit how hard the abs were stretching under his skin; in order to get that position, he had to force a semi-vacuum pose; his stretched abs were pushing his stomach and guts against his back. He was ready to test his grotesque invention, this ab breaker creation that could make his abs collapse, or take them to a never witnessed level of obscene development. He took a deep breath and tested the resistance in a very light way, just pulling himself up very slightly, just one inch only to realize that he had ordered a real ab breaker. That simple and short movement made his obliques react, flexing hard, and pulling both from his hips, where they were attached to at the lowermost side, and his ribcage at the uppermost one. He relaxed the flex, raised his head until he could see his stomach and repeated the operation, but 2 inches this time. He crunched and saw the obliques grow as if they had been inflated with air in just one second. Both snakes grew thick and shredded, and he could feel a warm burn inside of his muscles, they were warming up to get ready for the destruction he was about to inflict on them. Some small and thin veins started to appear on top of the obliques. He was still in a negative 87-degree position; there were still so much to travel. He lifted himself another inch, grunting slightly and focusing the effort on the obliques. This time it burned much more than before, the industrial springs were doing their job. The obliques snakes started peaking at the midsection, bulging obscenely due to the life of brutal workout that Jeff had lived. He went on raising his body, each inch destroying his obliques more and more. He checked himself again, the veins had doubled their size, pumping blood as fast as his heart could, feeding his muscles to go on with the intense and destructive workout. The obliques had grown so much that the cuts with his serratus were one inch deep, the obscene zig-zag of fibers were pushing his skin tighter and tighter. At this point, he decided to destroy his right oblique more. He had included in his machine a rotating fitting between the seat and the back of the bench, so he could twist his waist during the workout when he decided. He twisted slightly to the left, concentrating the effort on the right side of his body. The left oblique could relax for a while, but his right one was about to explode since he lifted himself 5 additional inches while twisting his waist. He was at a -60 degrees position, he checked his right oblique and the sight made him threw a thick spurt of pre against his pants. The oblique was brutally obscene: the muscle looked as if it were a competitive bodybuilder's forearm. The fibers had re-grouped forming thick bunches, that gave them the appearance of strings of muscle, as if the muscle had cuts on them. The veins on top of the oblique were now as thick as a forearm vein, half an inch thick, long, bulging obscenely over the muscle. The cuts against the serratus were even deeper, where any cock could fit in. He did the same again, but with his left oblique, twisting his waist to the right while raising his body 5 inches more. His right oblique relaxed but his left one exploded into a million cords and fibers bulging one against the others, the snake muscle burst out of his stomach wall and bulged obscenely on top of his midsection, a different dozen of huge thick veins surrounding and feeding the muscle, pressing his skin as the right muscle did before, but forming different shapes under the skin. At this moment he was at a -45 degrees and rotated his waist again until reaching a natural position, both obliques suffering the same, relaxing somehow. Jeff looked again at his stomach; from his perspective, and due to the -45 degrees position, which relaxed the vacuum pose, his cobblestones started to be visible again behind his mammoth pecs; he could see all 10 muscles, absurdly cut against the brutally grown obliques, and grotesquely ripped, though there were not so many veins as in the obliques. He looked at the springs in the machine and saw the extension that he had inflicted on them. They were extended at least 5 inches which meant that he was pulling 500 lbs with the strength of his obliques. He took a deep deep breath and determined himself to reach the horizontal in the next crunch. He started pulling with a loud grunt *ARGGGGGHHHHHHH* trying not to collapse with the effort. The spring started extending more and more, as his body slowly raised. His lower abs were doing all the effort, what made them explode in an almost audible POP, bulging outside of the stomach wall and making themselves as thick as his obscene obliques. Along with the explosion of his lower abs, his cock suffered a huge spasm that made him out of the pants, pointing up in a rock hard straight way, his mushroom cock head oozing precum half due to the workout effort, half because his own view was insanely hot. He couldn't understand how he could develop his body in such an inhuman way. He was grateful to his unnatural genetics for his evolution. He went on raising his body, grunting louder and louder, his abs popping out pair by pair as he made his fibers join the other in the inhuman effort that he was doing: 2... 4... 6... 8... along with the lower set that was already bursting out of his stomach. "FUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK", he thought as he reached the horizontal and could see in a full view his obscene, grotesque, alien, inhuman 10 pack of muscle abs popping in his stomach, and surrounded by two grotesquely thick snakes of muscles that other people call obliques. The whole view was like a nightmare, he couldn't really distinguish that was a man's stomach, bulges were so unnaturally thick that it looked like thick oranges glued to his stomach. At this point, he looked at the springs and measured the extension: at least 1 feet. "No fucking way, one ton on my abs". He realized how much weight he was using to his workout and that made him threw another spurt of cum, this time flying and falling directly on top of his 2nd set of abs, the 2nd closer to the pecs. He lowered himself to -15 degrees and crunched again to the horizontal, repping non stop from -15 to 0 and back. His mind started blurring as if he were high; he entered "the zone" where all he could think of was MUSCLE, his own muscle, only determined to go on repping and repping, until his stomach exploded into a massive and obscene set of cobblestones. He rolled his eyes, enjoying the burn in the abs, focusing his mind on the intense and hot feeling in his midsection. Now he looked again to his stomach and he gasped at the sight: The previously insane looking muscles now looked sick; each muscle had doubled its size, the size of a melon, popping disgustingly off the stomach, some of them slightly bigger than the others, moving separately to fit in the thin waist, rubbing one against the other in each rep, radiating heat, red as hot iron; each cobblestone covered by dozens of thick veins, a brutally vascular view of abs, shredded from one side to the other, drops of sweat running through the cuts and flowing to the sides, until they reached the oblique and made their way inside the cut with the serratus, reaching the intercostal muscles. Now he reached the horizontal again and stopped abruptly; his abs stopped his workout but still had to stay crunched to hold the position. The cuts of them were so perfect, so deep and shiny; he was dying to release his hands and start admiring their own muscles; but he was caught in the grips, he couldn't let them or then the back of the bench would fall again. But he needed to touch those disgusting muscles so much... He got angry at this frustrating feeling and that led him to crunch a bit harder, raising himself some inches more and making each ab muscle to peak as if they were biceps, bulging high, some shreds so deep that the ab looked as if it were about to split up. The sole idea of the abs looking like biceps made him so high so hard, that he crunched harder and harder, cobblestones bulging 4 inches high, cuts so deep that each cobblestone threw large shadows over the next one. Jeff's cock was so hard and high he could have broken a wall. The mushroom was completely purple, oozing pre non stop, some spurts landing in the brutally shredded abs, some large drops of them just flowing down the shaft, wetting his pubic hair. Fuck he needed a good blowjob right now, or a beasty jerk session, but he could move his hands off the grips, he was forced to workout without any relief. But then... SLAM!!!!! - Honey, I'm home!!! - Martin shouted from the front door. "Fuck yes!!!" Martin had moved some months ago, but Jeff still didn't remember all his work timetables. But the important thing right now is that he was home, at the perfect timing, and let's hope that with the perfect attitude. - In the basement!! Come quick!!!! Martin instantly understood what Jeff was doing, and what he wanted him to do. He was completely obsessed with his boyfriend's body, he was encouraging him to grow more, to work out harder and harder, he was his best sponsor, the mental one. That's all Jeff needed: motivation. But not the normal motivation that other guys would have given, but the right motivation to become the freak Jeff wanted to be; and, more incredible, to become the freak Martin wanted Jeff to become. Martin got rock hard and headed quickly to the basement, excited but scared, nervous, not sure how this would end. He knew it would end up in the best way possible, but he still got scared every time he saw his boyfriend do one of his brutal workouts. What would it be this time? Biceps? Legs? Oh fuck, what does it matter? He wanted every single muscle on him, every single freaky and obscene abomination that those muscles were. Jeff could hear Martin's steps coming down the stairs. He forced himself to crunch harder and harder, to force the springs more inches, to be in the freakiest possible condition for Martin. All he could think of was his boyfriend's tongue, fingers and cock running all over his veins, his paper-thin skin, playing with his obscene body. He crunched harder and let a loud roar in the crunch. *GRRRRRRRRRRR FFFFFFFFFUCKKKKKKK* Martin heard the roar when he was about to open the door. His heart stopped, the same way he stopped at the door before opening it. His pants were about to explode, he had developed a huge hardon since Jeff called him first, and now his cock was about to burst. But that roar, that beast shout made him almost cum. He had no idea what he was about to find but he wanted to discover. He opened the door... Martin found Martin in the newly created ab crunch machine, at a 30 degrees angle, but he seemed to have some balls on top of his torso. He walked more towards him, Jeff's roaring getting louder and louder. Now Martin noticed Jeff's cock was completely erect, stiff and pouring precum down his shaft, and his ass started to get open. But when he was just 3 meters away, he noticed... that... those balls... - No no no - He stuttered - No way... He realized what those balls were. Muscles... Abs... "It's not possible" He couldn't believe it, those... things were muscles on top of his boyfriend's stomach. His knees started to get weak, his head started to ache, his blood pressure raised as his heart was pounding hard through his veins. He could see Jeff's stomach completely covered with 10 obscene slabs of muscle, shredded as fuck, millions of fibers disgustingly visible, surrounded by dozens of veins feeding the muscles, wrapping the muscles as if they were fingers worshipping that beast body. - Fuck Martin, come and see this... Look at these fucking abs!!! Martin looked into Jeff's eyes, completely injected with rage, lusting over his own muscles, his eyes going from Martin's eyes to his own abs, drooling over them, his eyes showing how much into himself he was. Marting got closer, watching his boyfriend rep more and more, each time his grotesque bicep-like ab muscles growing more, shredding more, getting veinier, more grotesque, disgusting. He stopped in front of the monster cock, that seemed to grow with each rep, constantly oozing precum; Martin was completely mesmerized with the scene, he couldn't even hear Jeff roaring, he could only focus on the pervert flexing of his boyfriend's abs. He grabbed the rim of Jeff's pants and slowly lowered them, exposing those baseball nuts, exposing the monstrous thighs, kind of hairy, completely cut and covered in veins, from the huge effort of having his legs attached to the machine while he was working out. When the pants reached the ankles he kneeled down, his face at the height of Jeff's balls, completely covered in precum, stuck his tongue out and placed it on the base of the shaft. Jeff felt the tongue on his shaft and threw a new spurt of pre, landing on his lower abs. Martin ran his tongue slowly, moaning, getting all the precum on it, and slowly closed his lips around the shaft, kissing it, swallowing his bodybuilder's precum, savoring it, his own cock spurting precum like a hose, completely high on the feeling of satisfying his muscle god. He reached the top of the shaft, licked the rims of the mushroom with the tip of his tongue and slowly suck on his boyfriend's cock head. At that moment, Jeff roared again, completely hot, throwing a new spurt of cum right into Martin's throat. Martin opened his eyes and saw the obscene landscape of muscle in front of him; mountains of muscles on Jeff's abs, grotesque valleys between the muscles, wet with precum and sweat, disgustingly covered in thick veins; and now he noticed for the first time the obliques, those two snakes of muscle surrounding the monster abs and inserting directly into the sides of the crotch. Insertions so obscenely visible that he seemed skinless, firmly attached to the tendons, running up, thickening into bulging bunches of fibers, in grotesque shapes, covered with thick veins until each oblique had the appearance of brutal alien forearms, bulging here and there, fibers twitching under the skin, some of them breaking at Martin's sight, regenerating and growing. The intense sucking of Martin made Jeff crunch his abs even more. The springs were absurdly extended, one foot and a half, almost 2 tons destroying that god's abs, but being determined to finish his brutal workout. He raised one more foot at once, the springs extended beyond his limit, more that three tons. The bicep-like abs peaked more, grew thicker; Marting stuck his eyes into his boyfriend's lower abs, removed his mouth from Jeff's cock and placed his fingers on top of that disgusting pair of abs. The feeling was hot as fuck, like hell, hot iron; he moved the skin all over those muscles, feeling how they rolled over the veins; he could feel the steel-like fibers under his fingers. - Fuck honey, look at this freaky skin!!! Jeff raised his head again and looked at his boyfriend playing with his skin, that simple movement making him horny as fuck, like a raging stallion. He started repping like a crazy beast, moving 3 tons with each rep, with the only help of those 10 abs. Martin looked at him begging for more. - Please honey, give me more. I want you to become the freak you deserve to be!!! Jeff hit a brutal crunch - GROARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR - that made his 2 lower abs break into an additional set of abs. POP, POP, both abs appeared in a sudden at Martin's sight, disgustingly shredded, bulging as thick as the other abs, covered in veins. Martin threw his mouth onto those two new freaky muscles and ran his tongue in the cut between the new abs, lustingly feeling the cut, the fibers on his tongue, the sweat, the veins bulging under the skin. Jeff was raging, he was repping more and more, and then concentrated his mind into separating each pair of abs. They started to separate from each other, making the cut transform into a valley, wider and wider, until Martin's tongue was licking the flat tissue underneath the abs. - Come on you fucker, eat this!!! He made his abs get closer again, catching Martin's tongue between the abs. Martin let a loud moan out of his throat, running the tongue as he could against the popping peaking abs. He finally got rid of the ab grip and instanty stuck his mouth on top of the closest peak, biting it salivating it, mouth washing it like a dog, completely into the lust of his boyfriend's abs. He stood up, climbed Jeff's thighs and in a matter of seconds, removed his pants and let himself on top of that monster cock, engorging it with his ass as if it were butter. - Fuck me god, fuck me you freak monster!! Jeff had his eyes injected in blood and he couldn't hold it more. He let the arms' grips go away, and the springs made the plates and the bench go to its resting position in a sudden, with a terrible sound, but Jeff kept the same position as if he were still flexing with the machine. He got Martin's cock with his hand and stuck it into his own abs. With a freaky and fast movement, he started flexing his lower fibers, making Martin's cock get deeper and deeper into his abs. Martin couldn't believe it, his cock was fucking his boyfriend's stomach surrounded by obscene and grotesque fibers, veins pumping blood against his own cock, while his ass was being pounded by that monster dick. Jeff raised his arms and hit the freakiest bicep flex that Martin had ever seen, even after months of daily worship, he had never seen peaks like those. The two halves of each bicep were bulging obscenely, the deep separation begging for Martin's hand to get inside them, and so he did. Martin placed his hand on the outer half of each bicep, his fingers inserting in the deep split, feeling each vein, each striation, in such a lust and obscene way he just wanted to spit on him. - That's what you want huh? You want to have your fucking slave drooling for your muscle huh? - Martin bragged at him. - Fuck yes!!!! I am your fucking muscle god, and I need you to worship me FOREVER, you hear it? - Aw yeah you bastard, come on give me muscle!! Give me your disgusting peaks you disgusting freak!!! Jeff crunched his peaks more, Martin's hands obscenely rubbing them. His hips were thrusting against Jeff's abs more and more, while he was crunching his abs in such a way he was literally jerking his boyfriend's cock, satisfied with this freaky worship sex session. Martin couldn't resist it any more an started cumming like a fucking hose. - Aw take thisss!!!!!!! Jeff thrusted his hips pushing his cock into his slave's cock more and more, pushing him while crunching his arms more and more, and started cumming inside of his boyfriend, filling him with bodybuilder's cum, each one of the spurts making him feel like an alien monster freak. Martin moaned as he emptied his balls into those grotesque abs, his hands rubbing them, feeling the disgusting fibers, moving the skin on top of that brutal flesh, and making him cum even more. Slowly both of them finished cumming, exhausted, unable to comprehend what they had lived; probably the freakiest sex both of them had had, Jeff still amazed at the size of his new abs, and Martin completely in love with his freaky god. - Fuck honey, thank god you're home early - he winked at Martin and gave him a deep and loving kiss.
  9. Links to other chapters: Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 "The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend Chapter 20 Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 February 10th, 2022 2050 Hours Alvarez, already shirtless and oiling himself up, answered the knock on his door. Naturally, it was Lang. “Right on time. Come on in,” he said. Lang came in, babbling with his usual over-the-top excitement that preceded every Pose and Approve session. “So what do you think the brass thought?” he asked eagerly as he pulled off his t-shirt. Alvarez tossed a bottle of heated mineral oil to his buddy, who uncapped it and began to smear oil onto his muscles as well. “Did you see that old Admiral Whatsisname? Jesus, he looked awesomely p i s s e d o f f, man! And what about all those other dudes? Didja hear them? Didja hear them groaning?? Dude! D’ya think they all creamed their pants?” “Of course they did. They always do. It’s the guaranteed effect.” Alvarez sighed, oiling his triceps, shaking his head. "It's why we're here, man. It's the only reason." Lang laughed excitedly, working the oil into his muscles. “Man, those dudes ain’t never seen muscle like ours before, right? Right?” He flexed powerful biceps and nodded into one of the room’s full-length mirrors with a frowning sneer. “Asshole dudes never seen guns like these, right? pow! bam!!” “Oh, shut the fuck up,” muttered Alvarez. Lang stared. He was suddenly quiet. Alvarez continued to oil himself up. He looked worried. “What’d I say, dude?” Lang asked plaintively, his arms outstretched. Alvarez walked over to him and stood nose to nose before him, the bulges in Alvarez’s jeans and Lang’s posers just touching. He reached around Lang to the back of his head and, guiding his face close, planted a deep kiss onto his perfect lips. He worked his tongue into Lang’s mouth, who responded deeply. Then he pulled back and gazed long and hard into Lang’s deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry. Forget them,” he said reassuringly. “Let’s pose.” “Yeah! Pose and approve!” shouted Lang, and then giggled apologetically, clamping his hand over his mouth in response to Alvarez’s stern look. “Shut up. We don’t want everyone in here.” “Sorry, dude.” “Tonight is just us.” “Sorry, dude! Let’s rock!” Both turned and looked at their reflection in Alvarez’s three-paneled mirror. Excepting Alvarez’s mustache, the two powerful musclemen were almost exact duplicates of one another: tall, dark, and handsome, with deep brown eyes, taut cheekbones and shiny black hair. Their ripped, 285-pound physiques were perfect symphonies of bulging muscle. Lang nodded and forgot all about the brass. He did a crab crunch into the mirror. “Freakkkkyyy…” he muttered. “Swole. So swole.” His veins exploded with throbbing power. Alvarez was undoing his belt, unzipping his zipper, working his tight jeans gradually down his ripped quads. “Pose and approve time, man,” he said to Lang. “Pose and approve.” He picked up a remote and lowered the room’s lights, bringing up the glare of the overhead spotlight focused on the 15' posing dais in front of the mirrors. “Yeah, man, let’s get to it!” Lang ripped off his clothes and stepped up onto the dais as Alvarez kicked away his jeans. Both men were now only barely covered with skimpy royal blue competition posing trunks with hundreds of bright spangles sewn onto the extra-large pouches. The spangles caught the light and glistened like small sapphires. Alvarez stood before him. “You go first.” For an instant, Lang was honored to be going first, as the unspoken law between them during their nightly mutual muscle worship sessions was that Alvarez always got to pose before he did. Tonight was apparently different; even so, Lang was instantly caught up in the sheer joy of his own reflection of muscular near-perfection, and he forgot it right away. The muscleman stood quietly, his heavy arms around his back, his hands clasped. He waited. His ripped abs seemed to extend forever, cobbled fatless bricks laced with thick veins. His cock poled out in his posers. But still he waited. Alvarez was always in charge of Pose and Approve. “Go.” “I’m fucking ….. awesummmmm…..” Lang moaned, loving himself. He slowly curled his huge body into a side biceps pose and turned his head to cockily grin at his reflection. Then he glanced uncertainly at Alvarez in the mirror. “Talk to me,” he demanded, but Alvarez knew he was really begging. “Tell me I’m huge.” Alvarez was not about to let him down. “Yeah, you’re huge, man,” whispered Alvarez with warm smoothness, and he shifted his weight, smoothing the small pools of oil onto his delts. “Those guns of yours look to be about 23 inches. Check out your fist. Motherfucking huge. You could seriously do some serious bare knuckle damage with a fist like that.” His muscles were now gleaming with oil. Lang laughed joyfully. “I have, man! I’ve cleared a few barrooms in my day!” “Punching out ba-a-a-d dudes with those fists?” “Yeah, punching out the bad dudes! Check out these veins, man! They’re like super highways, man! Pumping, buddy. Pumpin’ it up for ya, man.” Lang pumped and flexed. Alvarez capped the bottle, set it down, and turned back, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, yeah, man. That’s good. Nice. Big old motherfucking biceps. Flex those guns for me, man.” “I’m flexing these guns for ya, bro. BOOM. Big muscle in the house,” he cried out joyfully. “Yeah, I see you, man. Nice. Nice big muscles. Biggest muscleman on earth, man.” “’Cept for you, bro. You’re bigger,” said Lang. Alvarez stepped onto the dais under the spotlight, and standing between Lang and the mirror, smoothed hot oil onto Lang’s glistening pecs, stroking his muscles appreciatively. They stood nose-to-nose, not six inches apart. Lang flexed powerful biceps. “Don’t know about that.” Alvarez smoothly applied oil to the granite softballs of Lang’s peaks. Lang stared at himself, transfixed. In his posing trunks his heavy cock was already pointing straight ahead. Alvarez clapped Lang’s huge biceps in his palms. “Like fucking rocks.” “Yeah, man, like fucking boulders, I know. Feel ‘em, man. Feel my muscles.” His eyes took in the mirror reflection of Alvarez’s awesome glutes. “I’m there, man, doing your muscles for you, man.” Alvarez licked his pecs, kissed each bulging biceps, and lightly bit Lang’s nipples. Then he knelt, leaned in and whispered again, his face now level to Lang’s bulging crotch. His breath softly exploded onto Lang’s stiffening cockshaft appearing as his posing trunks poled heavily outward. “You’re big, man. Real big.” “I’m big, hunh?” asked Lang. Now that Alvarez was on his knees and not blocking his upper body reflection, he was gazing at himself with hypnotic eagerness. “Motherfucking huge muscleman, dude.” Lang could feel Alvarez’s breath lightly exploding onto his junk. Still, he never looked away from his own reflection. “So reward me, man. Reward me for my muscles. Reward me for this pose.” “You got it, man. Here comes your reward.” “Thanks, bro,” purred Lang, gazing now in rapture at the pointing peaks of his biceps, his tongue slightly hanging out. His buddy approved. He was in heaven. He’d taken first place in the show running in his head. He and his buddy. “Just keep posing, man.” Alvarez gently opened his mouth and tenderly began to suck Lang’s big cock through his posing trunks. Lang glided into his next pose, a side-chest. And then a front lat spread. His pelvis pushed forward. His poser straining with cock. The pose and approve ritual always began with each man wearing his posing trunks for as long as he could manage to keep them on. They mentally pictured themselves on a competition stage, posing for overwhelmed judges and an audience of thousands of screaming fans, while under the lights, they were really posing only for each other, taking turns kneeling and occasionally bending and sucking each other’s erect cocks through their trunks. They fantasized no one else would be allowed to touch them. They’d turn and punch the lights out of anyone who dared. But the reality was that anyone who wanted to suck their cocks could do so. With just a little begging. After all, big musclemen deserve to get their cocks sucked. Now Alvarez was licking the bobbing cockhead through the straining cloth, running his tongue up and down Lang’s piss slit. Then he deep-throated him, holding the giant cock tenderly in his warm mouth. He held it for 30 seconds. Above him, Lang gulped and continued to pose. Then Alvarez slowly slid his lips off the big dick. The bulging fabric of the bursting poser was wet with saliva. He looked up and winked at the grateful Lang. “Big musclemen like you work hard,” he said with a quiet smile. “You pump those awesome muscles into unbelievable size. When you flex those muscles, it’s mind-blowing. You deserve a reward for all that hard work. You deserve to get your big cock sucked.” “Thanks, man.” “Don’t mention it, bro.” Alvarez ran his hands smoothly up and down Lang’s obliques, smacking his firm sides. He nodded, then looked up. “You got a lat spread you want to show me, man?” He licked his buddy’s abs and waited. “Comin’ up, “Lang breathed, and with a small explosion of breath, he grabbed the straps of his posers, pulled them taut, planted his fists into his obliques, and pumped his rocky pecs into their full mass. He spread his legs wide, the pouch of his posing trunks bulging forward with his fully erect 10-inch penis. Alvarez, still licking the washboard abs, stroked the cock with his thick fingers, glanced up and nodded. “Good lat spread. Great pecs. Lemme see you bounce ‘em. Show me, now.” “Okay.” Lang began to bounce his flexing pecs back and forth in dance of perfect machine gun muscle rhythm. “Yeah, man. Doin’ some serious pec dancing for you now. Boom. Boom. Boom. Watch ‘em, now. Watch these pecs of mine do their thing.” “Do that pec dance thing for me, baby,” said Alvarez. He watched Lang’s bouncing pecs for a full minute. Then he leaned in and licked the cockhead, again through the posers. “I approve. Here’s your reward.” Alvarez once again opened his mouth wide, and with a quick fleck of his tongue against his lips, took the bulging pouch of Lang’s posers full down his throat. Lang, his pecs still dancing, began to slowly pump his hips, fucking face. Bursts of warm precum began to stain the poser fabric, blooming into a widening pool of moisture. Alvarez could see the giant slit of Lang’s big penis head, and licked respectfully. After a minute, he released another small explosion of breath to signify to the bodybuilder kneeling before him that he was going to change his pose again. “Front double biceps,” he announced, and swung his arms up into mighty peaks. Alvarez pulled back slightly, licked the cockhead again, and rocked back on his heels. In his own posing trunks his cock was now full 11 inches erect and poling above the waistband, slap tight against his abs. “Lookin’ good. Now hold that for two minutes. No, three. Hold that pose solid without moving for three minutes. Then you’ll get your reward.” It was agony. Lang loved it. He fiercely held the mountainous peaks of his 23-inch biceps for three full minutes. Sweat began pouring down his face. “Flexing for ya, man!” He bared his lips and gritted his teeth into a grimace. His veins exploded down his neck. The veins in his forearms were like cables of steel wire. He raised one biceps, then the other, again dancing them back and forth. The baseball peaks of his guns gleamed in the spotlight. On his knees before him, Alvarez gazed up worshipfully, pumping his own cock right out of his posing trunks, but not touching Lang. “It’s been more than three minutes,” Lang finally said through his gritted teeth. “So reward me, man! Suck my cock, man!” “Think you deserve a reward?” Alvarez teased, now stroking Lang’s cock tenderly with his tongue. “For these guns? You bet, baby. Take that big cock of mine down your throat now!” “You got it, man.” Alvarez fell forward onto his knees again, his mouth wide open, and landed bulls-eye onto the giant pole bursting in Lang’s posing trunks, taking it all into his mouth. For three minutes, he sucked cock, up and down, licking, spitting, back and forth, deep sucking. Lang gazed down at him, relaxed his biceps a few seconds, and then resumed the pose. He was rock hard. “Dig these guns, man, and suck my cock. Suck your approval. Pose and approve me. Pose and approve.” “Yeah, you like it when I suck your cock while you’re posing?” breathed Alvarez. He licked the mammoth bulge in Lang’s posing trunks. “I can see you onstage, man. Flexing for all those asshole judges. Blowing them all away. Never seen biceps as big as yours. Never seen a cock as big as yours. Poling out in your posing trunks. Big old heavy bulge. Big cocks need to get sucked.” “Yeah? Well, man, I like it when you suck my cock. I like it when you suck my cock while I’m posing for those assholes.” Greedily, Alvarez licked the cloth covering Lang’s heavy testicles. “Lickin’ your balls now, man, licking your balls.” “Put ‘em in your mouth, man. Put my balls in your mouth.” Still flexing, he looked down and eyed Alvarez’s cock hungrily. Alvarez was pumping it now with both hands. It looked like a firehose. Suddenly Lang wanted to suck it. But he didn’t want Alvarez to stop. He dropped to his knees. Alvarez lowered with him, knowing what he wanted. As he watched, Lang flexed his right biceps one more time; Alvarez nodded approval; then Lang leaned in to Alvarez’s cock. He pulled the posing trunks over the cockhead onto Alvarez’s balls, and brought it into his mouth. Alvarez kept sucking. Together the two bodybuilders slowly lowered their huge bodies onto the posing dais under the spotlight and began to service each other with a full-body 69 grapple. Their arm muscles rippled against each other as each man gripped the other’s hard glutes, thick fingers gripping slabs of butt muscle. Each man ecstatically sucked his muscle buddy’s gigantic rod, their balls both still barely covered by their straining posing trunks. After 18 minutes of violent 69 sucking, their posing trunks finally tore from the strain. Rrr-i-i-i-i-pp! Their bullish balls burst free in unison, and each man eagerly licked the other’s heavy testicles passionately. “Next time, you pose first,” whispered Lang, and Alvarez looked over at him, grinned, and flexed a biceps. Lang nodded seriously. “I approve,” he said, “now here’s your reward,” and he bent in, sucking cock. The slurping, moaning, sucking sounds echoed down the corridor. In his room, Private Chris Hension, lying naked in bed, covered with sweat, his pole rising stiffly towards the ceiling, finally couldn’t take it any more. He jumped out of bed, grabbed a robe and a pair of purple spangly posers, stepped into them, fitting his huge member into the pouch with some difficulty, and tore out of his room. He ran down the hallway, his half-tumescent, half-sheathed cock waggling in the breeze, and stopped at Alvarez’s door. He waited an instant – and was about to knock – but, what the hell. He banged on the door, threw it open, and walked in. He knew it would be unlocked. Somehow instinctively he knew they were waiting for him. And so they were. The two musclemen lay on the dais, sucking each other’s cocks, their mammoth physiques coated with a glistening layer of sweat. Without removing dick from mouth, each man slowed for a moment and gazed up at Hension questioningly. “Were we making too much noise?” asked Alvarez, his speech garbled by Lang’s cock. “Yeah. I’d say,” said Hension. He threw his robe to the floor and stood before them in his favorite posing strap, his own erection poling straight ahead. He slammed the door behind him and stepped forward, whipping his arms up into a front double biceps. “Check me out,” he commanded, but there was a note of hopefulness in his voice. Of desperation, Alvarez quietly noted to himself. Good, good, all to the good. “Damn. He’s a pretty little muscleboy, ain’t he?” said Alvarez, momentarily releasing Lang’s cock. “He sure is,” said Lang, doing the same. “You see me every day, guys. I ain’t so little,” said Hension, flexing. “Maybe we’ve never noticed you before.” “Fuck you both.” “Oh, sorry. Maybe you should leave?” “NO! I wanna play too!” Hension flexed feverishly. “Okay. We’ll think about it.” Alvarez licked Lang’s dick a few times and lolled his head back towards Hension. Lang, however, appeared to take no more interest, turning his full attention to sucking his buddy’s dick. He bent in and deep-throated Alvarez’s stiff penis a few times, gagging slightly, and then resumed his gentle, steady sucking and licking. “You sure are pretty. Big biceps. Big. Good quads. Turn around.” Hension turned around, did a rear lat spread, pointing his shapely round glutes to the ceiling. “Nice. Awesome hams. Lang, you see those hams?” …..Suck suck suck suck suck…. “No? Hmmm. Guess he’s busy. Come on over here and flex for us while we suck some cock.” And Alvarez turned back to Lang’s quivering member, appearing indifferent. “I’ll show you guys,” muttered Hension, stepping onto the dais. He was ready. He’d been waiting a long time for this. And he’d been kidded, slapped, punched, and pushed around too long to not grab the moment. His moment. “I’m gonna flex now, and you’re gonna watch me!” he shouted. From the floor of the dais, Alvarez and Lang turned and looked up at him. There was a pause. “So go ahead,” said Alvarez. “Let’s see what you got.” He paused. “Boy,” he added.
  10. 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.
  11. 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.”
  12. Previous chapters: "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1 Precis: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable appetite to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his ever-growing need to receive equal doses of both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. Chapter 9: Good for Morale, Continued Oral was hardly uncommon in the compound. In fact, Moster encouraged it. And Zaftig was fascinated by the men’s hunger for it, though he never took part. Not long after starting a P21 protocol, each man had developed insatiable an insatiable need to suck and be sucked. Cocksucking was therefore more than just a healthy release for the men: it was now mandatory. And though none of them would acknowledge themselves to be 100% gay, part of their acceptance into the program relied on each man’s private original tendencies towards pansexuality, boosted as they were by the behavioral blockers of P21. Over the years, each of the bodybuilders in Project Herculaneum had at one time or another sucked every other bodybuilder’s cock to full release many dozens of times. Often it happened in the showers after training, but sometimes it was after meals, as well. And as all were superlatively endowed with astonishing penises of uncommon weight, size, length, beauty and girth, no one was disappointed. Even Abdul Karim took part, much to the surprise of everyone. Though he never talked about it, even appearing bored, the more observant men noted a gleam in his eye each time he bent to service Gunst. Oral was against the rules on rest days. By the time training days came around again, the musclemen were already laughing, slapping each other on the backs during meals, and smacking their lips in anticipation. Fucking was another matter. All the men had been vaccinated against the virulent STDs that had long ravaged the world, and were now immune to any infection, their antibodies remorselessly attacking any invader. Butt fucking was an art. The soldiers were all equipped with powerful machines, all endowed with superb glutes, and all highly in touch with the pure waves of pleasure broadcast by their sensitive prostates. Good muscle butt fucking was serious stuff. As all the men were huge, heavy, and powerfully strong, it was like heavy lifting crossed with pure animal pleasure: one bull fucking another bull. Vigorously. Group fucks of spirited, high-energy muscle daisy chains were a once-a-month event, seriously organized and generally preserved on video for the records. Wearing full black leather masks in order to remain as anonymous as possible, and with deep black satin robes covering their individually distinctive bodies, the men gathered in the dimmed mess hall and connected their dicks to the next asshole in a line-up deliberately arranged by Moster. Muscle worship was not part of the evening. The point was prostate manipulation and bonding. Still, private fucking was not discouraged. A few of the men had distinct preferences for one another as fuck buddy, even as the cocksucking was group-wide and free-for-all. Of course, Schumacher had been fucking them all for years – except for Karim, of course. Apart from the daisy-chain sessions, no one dared to even approach Killer Karim from the rear - if he valued his teeth, that is. But so far, as far as he knew, no one man in particular had privately fucked Joe Tiffany – apart from the scheduled group daisy-chain fucks, where Moster was careful to make sure that the connections varied from session to session. Schumacher had fucked him just once in a group session, although as always as always he was masked and gowned. He could see through Tiffany’s mask that his eyes were rolling back in his head in pleasure, and Schumacher wasn’t sure Tiffany knew who he was. He knew it was Joe Tiffany’s muscular rear he was fucking, however, sliding up and down his supercharged big cock. That butt was pure, beautiful gold, a magically shaped combination of soft skin and raw, ripped power that was mind-boggling in its balance and tireless in its energy. Tiffany had taken charge of the fucking, as he gave it to the taller muscleman in the chain ahead of him, powerfully blasting forward into the glutes ahead of him, and, in perfect timing, also pumping his animal butt up and down on Schumacher’s cock with furiously blind energy. For his part, Tiffany knew full well whose cock had impaled his perfect butt that night. He didn’t share this information. From that night, he had a plan. Another plan, that is. In reality, all of the men were deeply aware of whose butts they were servicing, and who was manfully plugging his own from behind. The men had spent too many hours together in the rec room, on the workout floor, in classes and in the showers, not to be able to instantly recognize and distinguish each of his buddies. The wearing of the robes was nothing but a farce, but still they conceded, secretly further aroused by the spectacle of the volumes of black fabric draped with alluring mystery over each man’s rippling physique. Still, from that night on, Joe Tiffany knew that Herman Schumacher was just the man to regularly plow his supple, needy, bodybuilder-cupcakes behind. All he had to do was train him just a little bit over the following few months to ensure that he was captive, obedient, and would always be on call whenever Tiffany was of a mind to be mindlessly fucked. In the mean time, at night in his quarters his oversized dildo was getting the workout he bought it to do during one of his rare trips to town. He would energetically shove it deep into his butthole, rear his head back, close his eyes, and dream of Schumacher’s likely powerful thrusts. And, as Moster always said to Dr. Zaftig, who wasn’t entirely comfortable with the ritual behind the group fucks, “They need more sex than ordinary men. A lot more sex. Their metabolisms demand it. Besides – “ And Zaftig would say with him, in unison, “It’s good for morale.” Waring was screaming in Gunst’s face. Steve Waring “Come on, asshole! What’s the matter, pansy ass? Can’t you do it? You’ve only done 12 so far, butthead. What’s the problem, 200 pounds too heavy for you to curl, baby boy?” Gunst’s face was screwed into a mask of lip-curling, teeth-crunching pain as he vainly tried to complete the 13th rep. His biceps were exploding. The veins in his neck stood out like steel cables. His face bloomed deep crimson. He screamed. He couldn’t do it. He strained and squeezed and tried again, and his arms froze mid-rep, unmoving, the biceps bulging with 23 inches of shattering power. Suddenly he threw the weight to the floor, where it crashed resoundingly, echoing throughout the compound. Waring jumped back a little to avoid getting hit by the bar. The other men never stopped work, nor did they look up. Moster strode over to them. “What’s the problem here, Private Gunst?” “I – I couldn’t do it, sir,” said Gunst, backing away and mopping his face with his huge hand. Ashamed, he lowered his head. Fountains of his sweat splashed onto the floor. Moster turned to Waring. “What set was he on?” “Sir, he had completed five sets of 15 reps each, sir.” “Successfully?” “Yes, sir.” Gunst glanced nervously down at Sergeant Moster’s twitching palm. Moster hadn’t punished anyone yet tonight for slacking, and he knew it was about time he’d want to show his authority over the men. He needn’t have worried. Moster smiled kindly. “That’s actually pretty damn good, Private Gunst,” said Sergeant Moster. “Waring, take care of this man, and then let’s see him try again.” “Yes, sir,” said Waring. The young bodybuilder quickly got to his knees, lifted Gunst’s pulsing cock out of his barely restraining jockstrap, brought it tenderly up to his lips, and began to suck it deeply. Gunst closed his eyes and reared his head back thankfully. Immediately his cock was at full erection, throbbing and pulsing in Waring’s mouth. On white cap nights, cocksucking was permitted on the workout floor only if approved by Moster. “Use your lips, Private,” directed Moster, “the way we’ve discussed. You know the way Private Gunst likes it.” Waring nodded eagerly and mouthed the young man’s giant throbbing organ. “Pump your hips, Gunst.” Gunst began manfully plowing Waring’s good-looking, All-American face. “Harder.” Gunst pumped harder, and the satisfying sucking sounds grew louder, adding to the din. Waring thoroughly licked the cock up and down its full length, and rubbed it against the two-day old beard stubble of his cheeks. “Scratchy,” moaned Gunst with pleasure, his eyes closed. He plunged in again. Tiffany nudged his darkly handsome training partner Private Lang, who was just finishing a set of pull-downs. “Check ‘em out,” he murmured, winking and pointing. Lang turned and smiled broadly at the dreamily cocksucking Waring. “Waring always was a good cocksucker,” he said, just a shade too loudly. “You have a problem, Private Lang?” Moster’s voice boomed through the room. Tiffany ducked his head towards the pull down machine. Lang went white. “No, sir,” he stammered. “I think you do. Get over here.” Here it comes, chuckled Gunst to himself, watching the intimidated Lang stumble forward meekly as Waring, below, hungrily sucked his throbbing big cock. “Go get your punishment, man,” whispered a grinning, sweating Corporal Lefevre, punching the shame-faced Lang on the shoulder as he passed. Alvarez watched expressionlessly. “Take it like a man,” he murmured Alvarez as Lang passed him. He flashed a hard look at Tiffany. He knew what he was doing, getting Lang on the hot seat. He’d pay. Later. The hot seat. Indeed. 5’-11”, 280-pound Lang, streamlined with ripped, striated muscle and dripping with sweat, approached Moster and stood at rigid attention before him. He saluted. Sighing, acting as though he were resigned to the inevitable task of discipline before him, the giant Sergeant Moster sat heavily on one of the benches. By now the men were all looking away in a mix of nervousness, embarrassment, eagerness and excitement. Lang stood motionless, staring straight ahead in perfect attention, dreading the humiliation about to befall him. “Was something funny, Lang?” “No, sir.” “You don’t find Private Waring funny?” Lang glanced nervously at Waring, who greedily sucked cock. “No, sir.” “What are the rules, Private?” “We are respectful of the need for regular oral stimulation, sir.” “And why are we?” “It’s good for morale, sir.” “Was your comment good for morale, Lang?” Lang was ashamed. “No, sir.” “No. Let’s get to it, Private.” “Yes, sir.” Lang relaxed his attention, gulped, and quickly slipped out of his sopping t-shirt. He squeezed large droplets of sweat out on the marley surface of the gym floor and tossed it resignedly in the growing puddle. Standing before Moster a little pathetically, he was a muscle giant about to be chastised by an even larger muscle giant. Silently, submissively, he bent over Sergeant Moster’s powerful quads and lay prone on his lap. Moster, his fingers twitching, raised his palm. He paused a moment. “How long has it been, Private?” “Since when, sir?” Through Moster’s sweatsuit Lang could feel the man’s enormous penis, relaxed across the top of the sergeant’s right thigh, press against his abs. “Since I had to discipline you in front of the men, Private?” “About two months, sir.” Moster glanced down appraisingly at the beautiful, trembling glutes that lay gleaming over his knee. He paused, his hand held aloft, inspecting with internal approval. “You were training legs tonight, weren’t you, Private?” he asked. The suspense was killing Lang. “Yes, sir, I was, sir.” “Squatting deep?” “Yes, sir.” “Keeping good form?” “I think so, sir.” “Good, Private. This will supplement your workout tonight. Heat helps muscles grow.” With calloused, powerful palms, his thick fingers spread wide for maximum sting, Sergeant Moster sharply spanked the muscleman’s rocky glutes with carefully applied, deeply resonant butt smacks. Lang twisted and turned on his lap. After a few sharp spanks he cried out. “Sir, it stings, sir!” Tears spouted from his eyes. “Goddamn right it stings.” Moster turned to Gunst, watching from a few feet away with wide eyes, his large cock sliding deeply in and out of Waring’s mouth. “Fuck face, Private,” he commanded. “Yes sir!” shouted Gunst. He placed his hands on the back of Waring’s head and pumped his hips rhythmically as Waring, his mouth full of cock, moaned with deep satisfaction. The rest of the squad was watching. Moster could see all were now getting visibly excited. Their jocks were starting to bulge fearsomely, and two or three massive penis heads had popped out of their restraining pouches. “Get back to work!” Moster commanded, and without hesitation, the men turned back to their weights and began to lift again with renewed zeal. Gunst’s huge body shuddered, and a river of thick cum began spurting out of Waring’s mouth and down his chin. “UUUUNNNNNGGGGHHHHH!” he roared. Waring was moaning deeply as the desperately swallowed the pint of semen pouring down his throat. By the time he was finished shooting his load, Moster was steadily applying the 25th blow to Lang’s shiny red, twitching musclebutt. Moster issued his next order. “See that you finish that set properly, Gunst, or you’re next on the hot seat.” “Yes, sir!” he shouted, stuffing his dripping, still hard cock back into his stained jock as best he could as Waring, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, scrambled to his feet. “Spot me,” Gunst said to Waring, and, grabbing the weight, he peeled off 15 perfect-form, agonizingly correct curls. Waring, doing his best to ignore both his own achingly enlarged cock and the yet looming bulge in Gunst’s jockstrap, and with the splotches of cum still dripping down his face, spotted him with as much concentration as he could muster. “1! 2! 3!” Waring counted the reps, filled with admiration as Gunst’s mountainous biceps exploded with power. As Waring shouted the count, Moster applied another heavy smack for each rep to the quivering, deeply scarlet, muscular bottom of Private Lang, who, over his knees, groaned deeply with a blend of humiliation, excitement and pain. As he spanked, Moster called out loudly to the men. “Attention! Men!” “7! 8! 9! 10!” Spank! The man snapped into attention from wherever they stood around the workout floor. “Tonight you will be meeting our newest recruit in Project Herculaneum.” Spank! Spank! “From this evening on, we will now be known as The Twenty.” Spank! Spank! Spank! The men stood at rigid attention. “Yes, sir!” they shouted. “And remember, men,” said Moster, grinning down at handsome Private Lang stretched over his knees, who had tears in his eyes and whose face was almost – but not quite – as beet red as the handprints on his perfect butt, “being spanked by me is a badge of honor. Never be ashamed when I call you forward to the hot seat have your butts whipped. I do not pay such honorific attentions to anyone outside the squad.” Spank! Spank! “18! 19! 20! 21!” “Yes, sir!” Spank! Spank! Tiffany grinned. He had often spotted the quiet, shy, legendary young muscle giant Casey Rockland in the mess, and heard all about his fearsome physique. He was looking forward to meeting him. He paid no attention to the unwavering, hostile gaze of Corporal Alvarez. Corporal Schumacher strode over to him. He glanced over at Alvarez threateningly, who immediately shifted his gaze and went back to work. “You better watch it. You don’t want to piss off that guy,” he muttered to Tiffany. “Who the fuck cares?” shrugged Tiffany. Thirty feet across the room, Moster continued to apply his stern, masterful spanking to Lang’s squirming, rock-hard musclebutt. Lang’s face was now contorted in an ongoing blissful combination of pain and pleasure, his mouth forming a smiling O….. “…oooooooooo….” Alvarez was watching closely from the corner. Even at more than 40 feet, Tiffany could see the Alvarez’s jock was now poling straight out from his body, strained to the bursting point. “I can’t always cover your ass when you misbehave. These men are my buddies. You’re still new here.” Tiffany smiled cockily. His fresh young musculature glowed with youth and health. He knew that since the last daisy chain that his sunny handsomeness and bad boy intentions had become irresistible to the old horndog Schumacher. It was all going beautifully. “I can take care of myself,” he said. He gestured with his thumb to the blank-faced, completely erect Alvarez, who was by now busy with his next set of deep squats. “Besides, he looks like he doesn’t mind.” The mute Private Meyer was now gleefully bent over before Alvarez, holding his ankles and laughing silently, dancing and twitching that magical butt of his just a few feet in front of the man’s protruding jockstrap. Alvarez had to grin. Then he turned back to the squat bar. “See?” Schumacher grunted. “Yeah, I know you can take care of yourself.” Schumacher moved in close and breathed into Tiffany’s face. “ I want to see you later on.” “You do, hunh?” “Yeah, I do, hunh. After the detail meets Casey Rockland, you come to my quarters. Tonight. That’s an order.” “Finish up, men!” commanded Moster, still spanking the twitching Lang’s bright-red glutes. Spank! “Ouch!” Lang cried. “You’re not my CO.” Tiffany lifted a bar off a squat rack and began doing slow military presses. He smiled indifferently at Schumacher and said no more. Schumacher grunted angrily and moved to the cable rack, where he finished off his chest workout with a final set of intense cable flyes. He now had Corporal Herman Schumacher wrapped around his little finger, and he knew it. He wrapped up his set of presses, now purposefully ignoring him, and grabbed his towel. He wiped himself off and smiled beatifically across at Moster. Moster, never pausing in his discipline of Lang, was amused. He winked at Tiffany. He knew he’d get the Private’s butt to himself – in time – but he generously allowed that Schumacher would get to it first. And that was part of his plan. Casey Rockland was the other part. The workout was finally over. “To the showers, men,” Moster called out. The men collected their workout bags and empty water jugs, and filed eagerly off the floor, clambering over one another like puppies, heading towards their no-holds barred shower room games. Even the normally disgruntled Karim had a special light in his eyes. He was looking forward to Gunst’s piss. As they raced out, Moster looked down at Lang, still stretched pitiably over his knee. “How many was that, Private?” he asked calmly. “59, sir.” “Good. I assume you enjoyed it?” “Yes, sir,” he said with meek truthfulness. “Actually, I loved it.” “Then here’s one more for good luck.” He raised his black hand and applied the last, 60th searing red-hot butt smack. WHACK! “Ow! That was good, sir!” Lang scrambled to his feet, saluted, and tenderly rubbing the scarlet handprints on his delectable bodybuilder butt. “May I join the others now?” “Off with you.” “Thank you, sir!” Lang scooped up his discarded clothes and plastic bottle with one hand, flinging his gear over his broad shoulders, standing still for a moment pouring what was left of the cool water over his shoulder onto his stinging glutes. He grinned at Moster. "Thank you again, sir, for the discipline. My butt needed it." Moster waved him off. Then, kneading his iron-hard, hand-print reddened butt cheeks with the fingers of both hands, the handsome private scampered happily, if somewhat bow-leggedly, away to join his sweaty, horny muscle buddies in the locker room. Chapter 10: The Showers Inside, they had already slipped out of their drenched t-shirts, boots and jockstraps, slipped on striped flipflops, and had headed quickly to the showers, and down to extreme business. Lang was eager to rejoin the men. After all, there was just enough time for one more round of group cocksucking, butt fucking, and stress-reducing water sports before they all had to gather in the lab upstairs to meet the new recruit. Naked in the steamy group shower, he found his way to his muscle buddy Alvarez. He fell to his knees as Alvarez turned, strode forward to meet him, flexed his mammoth biceps, and shoved his meaty erect cock into Lang’s gratefully receiving mouth. Behind Lang, Private Gunst thoughtfully soothed his stinging, reddened glutes with a powerful jet stream coating of clear, clean piss. His mouth full of cock, Lang nodded gratefully up at Gunst, who returned his nod with a “Hey, it’s okay.” Lang arched his butt to receive the coating of piss all the better. He glanced over at Schumacher, who was now violently plowing Tiffany’s wide-open mouth with his own swollen firehose man meat. Schumacher hadn’t said a word. He had walked directly up to Tiffany, who swiftly went to his knees and carefully guided his lips over the shaft of the Corporal’s 11-inch penis. Schumacher was facefucking him as mercilessly as he could manage, but the young Private seemed serenely in control. As usual, he never gagged. Which made Corporal Herman Schumacher plow harder and deeper. Which prompted a satisfied smile on Tiffany’s calm, appreciative lips as he sucked with cool detachment the muscle daddy Schumacher’s violently throat-pounding large cock. After Gunst finished painting Lang’s glutes with thoughtfully applied streams of hot piss, he turned to Waring, fondled the handsome young muscleman’s leathery testicles, got down on his knees and allowed him to glide his own achingly engorged member down his eager throat. “MMMMmmmmm, it’s good!” he moaned, satisfied. “Even big boys like to suck cock,” he winked up at Waring. He smacked his lips. “If it’s big enough.” “Is mine big enough?” asked Waring as he rubbed his scalp in the streaming hot shower. “Yup,” answered Gunst, dipping in for another full-throated suck. “Sure is.” All the other musclemen were similarly at work, soaping up, sucking cock, washing armpits, lathering crotches, laughing, shouting, grunting, flexing their muscles, getting their oversized cocks sucked, or with their faces buried deeply in their buddies’ spectacular glutes. In the center of the shower, Corporal Alvarez and Private Lang were going through “Pose and Approve.” Alvarez was gliding through his finest posing routine, while below him and kneeling on the tile floor Lang licked and sucked his huge, stiff cock with hungry appreciation. “Front double bi’s,” said Alvarez. “Pow.” Meyer was dead center in the large shower room, standing on one hand on the tile floor, holding his powerful body aloft, his legs spread wide, one fist supporting his full bodyweight. He arched his butt high and smiled happily as, through the steam and roar of the water, one after another of his training buddies bent over and applied luscious, deep licks into his succulent butthole. He grinned, pumping his stiff cock with his free hand as they licked, kissed, and smacked his firm buttcheeks. Jin and Washington were now each chewing ferociously on Bogarde’s perfect, brown nipples. He roared with pleasure, and pumped himself into a mighty front lat spread. Straps of pec muscle bloomed powerfully. He turned from side to side, proudly thrusting forward each pec. His buddies chewed, licked and bit. Meanwhile, the handsome Blankenship, who had a preference for big black cock, was fiercely lathering up Washington’s enormous pole. He covered it waves of soapsuds, pumping it up and down as it rose to full girth. He glanced up at Washington, now biting Bogarde’s nipples. “Yeah, you got one big black motherfucker muscle cock!” he shouted. “You like big black cock?” roared Washington, waggling it in Blankenship’s face. “Love it!” he shouted, and washing the soap off, took it all in his mouth. “Watch him suck my cock!” Washington whooped. Obatu, soaping his armpits, laughed. He strode over to the group. “Room for another brother?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, shoved his meat into Blankenship’s face. Blankenship smiled rapturously, and as Obatu continued to soap up, he took his cock into his mouth as well. “Most muscular,” said Obatu. “Pow. Check out dis crab.” Black veins exploded. His fists pumped together. He pushed his hips forward. His cock surged straight ahead. The two black cocks plunged in and out of Blankenship’s mouth, his tongue tracing over their shiny thick veins. The enormous Washington, the biggest man of the group of five, put his arms around Bogarde’s and Obatu’s shoulders, while on the tile beneath them Blankenship moved from cock to swaying cock, from Washington to Bogarde to Jin to Obatu and back to Washington again. Surrounded by the bodybuilders’ cocks, Blankenship sucked each erect penis deeply. He gazed at the network of veins that criss-crossed the hip muscles of each of his buddies. Their huge cocks were like jewels set in the finest of settings: lean, fat-free muscles. When he got to the handsome Asian Private Jin, he marveled once again about how a Chink could have such a huge dick. He sucked it lovingly as the other men stood closely above him, their cocks looming in his face, dripping with water and pre-cum, awaiting their turn. When he finished with Jin, he moved on to Bogarde, whose nipples were being avidly chewed with care above him by Jin and Washington. Bogarde’s cock was, of course, in great need of immediate service. No problem. It was, after all, a world of huge, looming bodybuilder cocks. And Blankenship’s favorite sport – after bodybuilding – was cocksucking Next to him knelt the dimwit Hension, his handsome face now buried deeply into the posing Corporal Alvarez’s glutes. Lang was now on his feet and posing with him, as the dark Arab Corporal Karim, behind him, licked and kissed his mighty ass as well. He caught Hension’s eyes, and, in unison, the two men buried their faces into the posing partners’ glutes. “Hey, careful, there,” said Lang. His butt still stung, and Moster’s handprints were still glowing bright red on his taut asscheeks. “Sorry, man,” said Karim. He gently licked the red hand welts, and could taste Gunst’s piss. He knew the man’s special sweet taste. Gunst had often pissed deeply into his mouth. Chad and LeFevre, soaping up themselves, moved over to Hension, whose beautiful face was deeply buried in Alvarez’s butt. “Hey, McIntyre,” called Chad, “get over here and take over for Hension!” “Don’t bother me,” said Hension. “Sure thing,” answered McIntyre, licking Meyer’s butthole. “Be there in a sec!” “What are you doing, guys?” asked Hension plaintively as Chad and LeFevre lifted him bodily from Alvarez’s glutes, carrying him into a corner of the shower. Alvarez stopped posing for a minute and looked back at them. “Hey, where you taking him?” he asked. Lang looked up. “To the rescue,” said McIntyre, now on his knees and pressing his face into Alvarez’s butt. “Oh, okay.” Alvarez turned back to Lang and continued posing. Karim had never stopped licking Lang’s ass. Chad and LeFevre were now sharing Hension’s pretty tool. “Figure you have it coming,” said LeFevre,” licking away the last remnants of the chili powder. “You guys,” said Hension, and began to wash his hair as the men cleaned his cock with their tongues and lips. Moster leaned in at the shower door. “Good work tonight, men.” He turned and headed toward the locker room door. “Thank you, sir!” the men shouted after him. Moster called back to them as he left the locker room. “No fucking tonight. No time.” “Shit!” Moans of general disappointment. “Sorry. Expect you all upstairs in the lab in 10 minutes.” “Yes, sir!” Once again, in unison. On the workout floor, alone and silent as always, the meek Dr. Irving slipped back into the room and to shut down the lights for the night. From the locker room, he could hear the splashing of the showers and the groans, moans, roars, whoops and shouts of the satisfied men as they each let loose volleys of thick, spurting cum high into the steaming air, arcing and splashing onto each other’s superbly muscled bodies. Thick cascades of semen plopped onto the tile and began flowing slowly past the men’s browned feet towards the shower’s drains. Irving walked over to the garbage pail. He glanced inside. Yep. There they were. He could see them in the half-light. He reached in amidst the wet rags of paper and extracted 18 empty aluminum capsule wrappers. Moster had probably ordered the enhancements from Zaftig particularly for tonight’s workout. He knew that by now each bodybuilder probably had already cum three or four times. By 2150 hours, they would all, to a man, be drained. Except, of course, for Sergeant Moster. He picked up the receiver of the staff phone on the wall, and pushed a button. “Facilities,” he requested. In the distance now, the men were all roaring as one. No doubt they were all spurting in unison by now. Pints and quarts of cum. “Facilities? Yeah. Irving. Right. Better put the plumber on notice. The shower drains in the main workout locker room will be clogged again tonight. They need to be cleared by 1800 hours tomorrow.” He hung up without bothering to listen to the response, turned, and walked out of the room. In the showers, the roaring was dying down to satisfied explosions of breath and more laughs, whoops and hollers. The water was turned off, and locker doors began to open. The room grew quiet as the men dressed, all thoughtful now. All thinking about the new recruit they were about to meet. Casey Rockland. In the showers, thick rivulets of cum dripped from the ceiling, walls, spigots and faucet handles, clogging the drains. It cost Zaftig thousands each month to simply to maintain the system’s burgeoning septic tanks. “It’s just one more thing I didn’t really plan for,” he would sigh to Moster, who would nod, straight-faced. "It's always something," Moster would reply, absently scratching his bulge.
  13. dredlifter

    The Giant Football Coach - Chapter 8 Chapter 8: The Big Game The next morning my teammates and I awoke and made our way to the team's cafeteria for our typical pre-game breakfast. We noticed that strangely, most of the assistant coaches were not there enjoying breakfast with us. In fact, I saw a couple of assistants hustling quickly down the hallway as I walked into the cafeteria. I didn't think much of it, since, of course, this would be my first ever collegiate football game and being the first game of the season, I expected there to be some hectic surprises. The rest of the day the team hung out at the athletic center. As the game neared, I was becoming more and more nervous. Some of the upper-classmen noticed and did their best to give me pep talks and calm me down. Being just a freshmen, I appreciated the support, but it didn't calm my nerves much. Early in the afternoon we gathered in the players auditorium to run through our game plan with the assistant heat coach. Obviously, Coach Wood's massive leg wouldn't have fit in there, much less his entire impressive physique. Thus, Assistant Coach Harvey came in and led us through the game plan. At the end of the run through, Jamal asked. “Is Coach going to be on the sidelines with us?” Jamal and some others had also sensed some unease among the athletic staff throughout the day. Coach Harvey looked over the crowd of players, we could tell he was a little bit nervous, and spoke, “I'm positive he will be. I'll be frank with you all, The College Sports Association was offering some concerns about how to allow a man of Coach's size to be on the sidelines and it seems they attempted to force the school to disallow him to be on the sidelines.” A murmur wafted through the large crowd of amped-up young jocks. Coach Harvey quieted us and continued, “But, as our athletic staff has been researching, there's no rule against a giant man being on the sidelines so we don't see any reason why Coach won't be at the game. We are actively discussing with the Association and will confirm our stance with them. In the meantime, don't you worry about this matter. You young men have a huge opening game against our bitter rivals, the Monroe Mauraders. You focus on that, that's what Coach would want, got it!?” We all shook our heads and broke the meeting. After hanging out in the recreation room and eating another pregame meal fuel up, it was finally time to head to the locker rooms and get ready. The dozens of men around me began slipping into their pregame rituals. We had about 45 minutes before we had to be out on the field to warm up. Many of my now scantily clad teammates put in noise canceling headphones to zone out to their favorite warmup music. The jokesters of the group wandered around making fun to break the tension for those of us who were nervous. The Senior captains, clad only in football pants, their ripped upper torso's exposed, came around to quickly speak to each player and offer words of encouragement. The environment was brimming with amped-up testosterone waiting for competitive release on the gridiron. Soon we were suited up and ready to head out on the field. Assistant Coach Harvey came in to give us a little speech to pump us up some more. With and excited grin, he assured that our Giant Head Coach would be out there with us. This caused a raucous roar of approval from the team of young Brutes. Clad in our cleats, pants and undershirts, we each grabbed our shoulder pads and helmets and started for the exit of the locker room. The locker room wasn't directly connected to the stadium, we would have to cross a small, off-limits parking lot to enter the small stadium. The lot was specifically for the vising team busses, refs, and other College Sports Association (CSA) officials. As we headed for the door we felt a rumble on the ground. Jamal spoke up, “Awesome! The crowd must already be here, even for warmups! We don't usually feel the ground start to shake until the pregame show when the crowd is going nuts. Damn, I love our fans!” This further excited the rest of the team. We exited the door and began trotting down the soft carpet to the stadium entrance. We noticed it was a bright, beautiful, sunny, late summer day. I noticed we were bathed in shade, which was odd since there were no tall buildings or trees nearby. Then we heard some deep, deep rumblings that shook us to our core. I turned my head to my left, as did the rest of my team, and froze. My mouth hung open as I stared at the most magnificent, most awe-inspiring, yet terrifying sight I had ever seen. There, standing in the parking lot was Coach, clad in his normal outfit, sans shirt of course. Only he was bigger. Not just a little bigger. MUCH. MUCH. BIGGER. Whereas before the tallest members of our team reached the bottom of his tremendous diamond shaped calf muscles, now we didn't even clear the tops of his sneakers. The deep rumbling continued as we realized Coach was chuckling at us. The giant man leaned forward to address us. His upper torso was so muscular that he would have had to stand well back in order to see us over his monumental pecs without leaning forward. The monster muscle man opened his mouth and spoke. “HELLO DOWN THERE, BOYS. BOY, MY BIG STRONG BRUTE MEN SURE ARE LOOKING AWFULLY TINY LATELY! BUT DON'T WORRY, EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING LOOKS TINY TO ME LATELY, HEH HEH. WOW, YOU LITTLE GUYS DON'T BARELY REACH TO THE TOPS OF MY SNEAKERS, AND YOU ARE SOME OF THE BIGGEST MEN ON CAMPUS. YOU GUYS REALLY MAKE ME FEEL BIG!!!” Coach quickly stood straight up and reached HIGH into the sky. From our comparatively minuscule vantage point it looked like he could reach up and grab the sun. He then brought his arms down into a mind-blowing double-biceps pose. I'm sure the approaching fans got an amazing view. But, for us, he was so damn HUGE we could really only see the hulking triceps of his under arms, which were so pumped they hid his peaks from our eyes. He dropped the pose and again leaned forward, quickly adjusting his unavoidable bulge. “WHAT DO YOU THINK, BOYS? DO YOU THINK THERE WILL EVER BE A BRUTE AS HUGE AS ME!!” Myself and team began to overcome our natural fear and awe and happily shouted up our praise. A chorus of “No way, Coach!”, “You are the biggest Brute EVER!”, “A fuckin' MUSCLE GIANT!” and other similar platitudes emanated from my awestruck teammates. Coach grinned at us from far above. “SORRY I MISSED THE TEAM MEETINGS TODAY. I JUST COULDN'T FIT ALL THIS MASS IN THOSE TINY, ANT SIZED BUILDINGS.” He smirked down at us and continued, “YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED THE POWER WENT OUT LAST NIGHT. I WAS HEADED TO THE DEAN'S OFFICE WHEN I WALKED INTO SOME POWER LINES. DAMN THINGS ARE SO TINY TO ME DIDN'T EVEN SEE THEM AS MY LEGS CRASHED RIGHT INTO THEM. THE PHYSICS DOC SAID THE ENERGY WAS GREAT ENOUGH TO CAUSE ANOTHER GROWTH EPISODE. HE SAID I AGAIN DOUBLED IN HEIGHT! ISN'T THAT AWESOME, LITTLE MEN. YOUR COACH IS NOW A 100 FT COLOSSUS OF HUGE BODYBUILDER BEEF! GRRRRRRRR!!!” Coach growled and crunched into a most muscular pose above us, shielding us from the sun above and filling the entire team's vision with rippling, vascular, shredded, prodigious musculature. His growl was so ferociously loud we all shirked. Coach immediately noticed and quieted himself. “OOPS. SORRY LITTLE MEN. I'M SO HUGE THAT EVEN MY VOICE IS OVERPOWERING!” The players and myself began walking around Coach, examining his towering frame. Coach, pleased as peacock, simply stood still with his hands on his hips and with a bright handsome smile on his face as he looked down to us. We stood next to his sneakers, hardly able to comprehend the size of his footwear that were each the size of vans. We marveled that even at our highest reach our hands were far under the heavy sagging meat of his Fankhouser-esque calves. Jamal looked up and shouted up to our leader, “So glad you could be here, Coach. Coach Harvey said the CSA tried to keep you away.” Coach leered down to us with an ominous grin. “OH, THEY TRIED TO KEEP ME AWAY. A COUPLE OF GOVERNMENT GUYS CAME BY TOO AND TRIED TO GET ME TO GO WITH THEM. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? SOME TINY LITTLE "OFFICIAL" RUNTS TRYING TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO?” Coach leaned over, brought up his left arm and FLEXED his awe-inspiring biceps to full peak. Simultaneously, he reached over with his right arm and pointed at the boulder sized muscle. This time he angled himself forward so we could see the enormous mass bulge up from his arm. I remember how Coach had earlier said that he thought he was still growing slightly more muscular along with his sudden spurts of height and I could clearly see this in his arm. His astounding arm looked like it could've now been 26 or 27 inches around if he were at his previous mere moral height of six and a half feet. His biceps was so large that when he flexed, there was virtually no space between the mounded biceps muscle and thick elongated muscles of his forearm. “ALL I HAD TO DO WAS POINT AT THIS MUSCLE TO THEM KNOW WHO MAKES THE RULES. I TOLD THE LITTLE SHRIMPS THAT NO ONE IS GOING TO KEEP ME FROM COACHING MY BRUTES TO A VICTORY TODAY. AND THERE WAS NOTHING THEY COULD DO TO STOP ME. HELL, AT MY SIZE NO ONE COULD STOP ME FROM DOING ANYTHING IF I DON'T WANT THEM TO!” Coach sneered cockily as he relayed his story to us. It was impossible not to sense a bit of fear from his attitude. I imagined the CSA and government men pissing their pants as they tried in futility to tell the biggest, strongest, most powerful being on the planet what to do. Coach was an intimidating man at just 6 ft 6 inches tall. At 100 ft, that intimidation factor was magnified exponentially. Coach, sensing our unease, softened his expression. “SORRY IF I SCARED 'YA, LITTLE MEN. IT'S JUST THE THOUGHT OF NOT BEING ABLE TO COACH YOU MAKES ME VERY ANGRY.” Coach snickered and repeated that famous line from the Hulk franchise, “AND YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY!” Coach then looked over his shoulder down at the parking lot. I wondered what he was searching for when I saw it. A small white sedan with the “CSA” logo painted on the side. Obviously the car used by the CSA officials to oversee the game. “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY MAKE ME ANGRY!!” Coach raised his huge left foot, the fibers of his exposed quads firing as he moved. He was so large that he just had to lean over a bit to his left where he let his colossal sneaker SMASH down on top of he doomed car. In a millisecond the car was flattened beyond recognition. Unlike when Coach slowly caved in the news van from a couple of days ago, with his newly doubled size his massive shoe completely covered and obliterated the small car. We all jumped back from the sudden show of power. After a couple of seconds of stunned silence, my teammates began to shout more cheers and praise up at him. “Damn, Coach Brute! That was awesome!” “Yeah, Coach, show them CSA pussies who is in charge!” “Man I'm sure glad you are our Coach! You are like a god to the little people!” “Haha you made smashing that car look easy! You are so fuckin' powerful!” “Nobody tells you what to you, BIG COACH BRUTE! Especially not those tiny government boys!” Coach beamed with pride as he heard us, feeding his ever growing, yet deserved ego. Even with the frightening display of masculine power we just witnessed, we knew it had only been brought out because some foolish officials were trying to keep him from coaching us today. With a 100 ft tall overdeveloped herculean man watching over us, nothing could take us out! “WELL BOYS, IT'S TIME YOU HEAD INSIDE THE STADIUM TO WARM UP. BECAUSE I'M SO DAMN HUGE AND MUSCULAR, I'M GOING TO STAND OUT HERE TO COACH. OTHERWISE, WITH MY HUGE LATS, HALF THE STADIUM BEHIND ME WOULDN'T GET TO SEE YOU GUYS KICK SOME ASS.” Coach punctuated this statement with a titanic lat spread. The wing-like lats under his arms spread out to what looked like 25 yards across...then 30...then 35!! Coach's lats were so magnificently built, that when it looked like he couldn't get any wider, his enormous back muscles unfurled even further. The v-shape he demonstrated as he expertly flexed was nearly incomprehensible, seemingly extending his upper torso to three times the width of his chiseled abdominals. Coach chuckled some more as we stared up at him, again in awestruck silence. He broke the pose, allowing our brains to regain function. “YOU BOYS KEEP STARING AT ME LIKE THAT AND IT'S GOING TO GIVE ME A BIG HEAD, HAHA. NOW GET OUT THERE AND GET WARMED UP! GO!” His sudden demand caused us all to hustle onto the field. As we entered the field it became clear that Jamal was right about one thing. Many of our fans had showed up early and even with 45 minutes to kickoff the stadium was about 75% full. The crowd cheered us on as we entered the field, but as soon as the cheering died down I noticed that all the spectators had turned their heads toward the South end of the stadium. The South end was adjacent to the maintenance parking lot and at only about 30 ft tall, was the lowest part of the stadium. Thus, everyone could see the magnificent bare-chested giant bodybuilder standing behind there behind. He clapped as we entered, each time his hands connected it sounded like a large firecracker exploding. After Coach's news conference it became clear that so many people arrived early so they see the largest man in history with their own eyes. A few minutes later the visiting team entered from the opposite end of the stadium. I chuckled as the entire visiting froze as soon as they caught sight of our coach. Once they had got their wits back, they filed onto the field and stretch as well. The visiting Marauder's head coach, Thomas Morton, a well-known portly man who was known for his bombastic attitude and arrogant demeanor, trotted out onto the field and too became paralyzed with awe. Coach, with his hands on his hips in a powerful stance, quickly spotted the overweight opposing coach at the other end of the field. “COACH MORTON! WELCOME TO OUR STADIUM. I'M EXCITED FOR A GOOD GAME BETWEEN OUR SQUADS. BUT I MUST SAY, COACH MORTON, YOU'VE REALLY LET YOURSELF GO! HOW CAN YOU BE AN INSPIRATION TO YOUR PLAYERS TO GET BIGGER AND STRONGER WHILE LOOKING LIKE THAT? ONE THE OTHER HAND...” Coach spread his arms out wide and looked cockily down at his own torso. He alternately turned each arm, admiring the size of the unflexed muscles covering each appendage. He bent down and felt up the massive individual muscles of his quadriceps and then looked back at Coach Morton, “...ON THE OTHER HAND, MY BOYS SEEING ALL THESE HUGE MUSCLES OF MINE EVERYDAY ONLY INSPIRES THEM TO LIFT HARDER AND GET BIGGER AND STRONGER THEMSELVES!” Coach Morton had never felt so emasculated in his life. He just stood there, frozen, looking like a man whose entire dignity had been stripped away. He lowered his head and headed over to his sideline, looking defeated before the game even began. Something Coach obviously saw as he continued to address Coach Morton. “AND DON'T THINK I DIDN'T SEE THAT PRESS CONFERENCE YOU GAVE LAST WEEK. HOW YOU SAID YOUR TEAM WAS GOING TO CRUSH OUR TEAM. HOW YOU WOULD SHOW NO MERCY AND HAVE NO HARD FEELINGS ABOUT RUNNING UP THE SCORE! HOW ABOUT I SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL 'CRUSHING' WILL LOOK LIKE!” Coach looked down and to his right and reached down with both hands and picked something up. As he rose it became clear that he was holding each end of Morton's bus. In his hands it was no bigger than a loaf of bread. And with no more strength than a normal man would required to squeeze that loaf of bread, our giant coach bared his teeth and CRUSHED the ends of the bus together like an accordion. The windows shattered and fell to the parking lot. Loud distinct pops could be heard as the tires blew. The high pitched squeal of twisting metal pierced the air. “THIS IS WHAT REAL CRUSHING IS. AND YOU WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE THIS POWERFUL. IF YOU ARE GOING TO USE BIG THREATENING WORDS, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE THE MUSCLE TO BACK IT UP! HAHAHA!” Coached laughed and let the crumpled-up mass of metals crash to the parking bellow. Coach Morton gulped in fear at what he had just seen. “OH, AND COACH MORTON, I CAN TELL YOU AND YOUR BOYS ARE SCARED OF ME AND TO PLAY AGAINST MY MEN. MAYBE EVEN SO SCARED THAT YOU ARE AFRAID TO WANT TO BEAT MY TEAM. WELL, THAT IS EVEN IF YOU COULD BEAT MY TEAM. IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE, I'M A REALLY, REALLY BIG STRONG MAN. BUT TRUST ME, IF YOU GUYS SLOW PLAY THIS GAME AND DON'T TRY YOUR HARDEST, THEN I ASSURE YOU I WILL BE VERY, VERY ANGRY. I WANT TO SEE A GOOD COMPETITIVE GAME, FULL OF EFFORT FROM BOTH SIDES, GOT IT?” Coach finished his statement by ominously cracking his knuckles. Ever the sportsman, he did not want us to win simply due to the other team's fear of his imposing body. He wanted us to EARN the win against a worthy opponent. I shuddered to think what would happen if the other team just flat out gave up and didn't give us any fight. Coach Morton dramatically shook his head up and down, notifying our Coach of his understanding that he wouldn't hold his team back. Forty minutes later the game began. Obviously, our head Coach couldn't perform all the duties typical of a mortal-sized coach so Assistant Coach Harvey took over for that. Still, as we had many hand signals, he was able to communicate sufficiently with us what he wanted on defense. For the first half the game was relatively tight. We never led by more than 10 points and after a successful long touchdown pass, we went into halftime with a three point lead. I could easily tell why the other team was one of the top in the nation. They were very good, very big and very strong. Not to mention the fear of invoking OUR Coach's wrath likely had them playing harder than they ever had. The giant man behind the South stadium provided us with excellent calls, motivation and inspiration. There was nothing like seeing his huge jacked body and handsome smile beaming proudly down at us after we made a good play. While the visiting Morton team was good, they were still no match or our own superior skill, size and strength and we began to slowly overpower them. Early in the 4th quarter we were nursing a seven point lead. The Marauders had the ball and were driving the field against us with some trick plays that caught us off guard. They were only 15 yards away from the North end zone. Before the next play, I looked up to see Coach signaling an outside blitz from me and I relayed the play to the rest of our team. The Marauders snapped the ball and I broke and made a beeline to their QB. As I closed in on him, I could see the surprise in his eyes. I saw him cock back his arm and start to lob the ball over my head for a screen pass. In a flash I read the play and leaped straight up as high as I could. I saw the ball just above my head, reached up and snagged it out of the air. INTERCEPTION! I landed and took off sprinting towards the opposite South end zone. As I ran as fast as I could, I saw Coach waving his beefy arms to me in a “come here” motion. I had never seen him look so excited before. I made it to the 50 yard line, then the 40, then the 30, I could feel the defenders on my heels. As I kept running Coach started JUMPING UP and down! I could feel the tremors rumbling the ground as his muscular tonnage pounded the ground. His massive pectorals bounced hypnotically as he himself bounced on the ground. The tremors were strong enough I almost tripped up! But I kept my balance and finally made it the the end zone! It was an 85-yard, pick-six interception! In my first collegiate game! I was so excited as my teammates caught up and mobbed me from behind that I barely noticed how winded I was from sprinting 85 yards. As the team cleared away I looked skyward to see Coach beaming proudly at me. Remembering that day in the weight room, I smiled up to him and gave him my most imposing most muscular pose, clenching my fists together in front of my waist. His grin widened more and he laughed. He then smirked, hunched over and returned his own far more impressive most muscular pose with a cocky smile. The crowd went wild, not only from my touchdown, but from seeing Coach FLEX his titanic muscles. In one play, I had turned the game from a tight contest into a dominating win for us. I had never felt so proud of myself in my life. With the momentum on our side, we dominated the rest of the game and ended up winning by three touchdowns. As the teams left the field, Coach addressed Coach Morton. “GOOD GAME COACH. WE'LL SEE YOU AGAIN NEXT YEAR. OH YEAH, REMEMBER WHAT I SAID, YOU WOULD REALLY SHOULD GET YOURSELF INTO THE WEIGHT ROOM IF YOU WANT TO COMPETE WITH THE LIKES OF THIS! HAHAH!” Coach laughed as he flashed the opposing coach a quick double biceps pose. As we exited the stadium we gathered around Coach's shoes. I noticed the car sized lump of twisted metal that was formerly the Morton passenger bus nearby and could hardly comprehend the power it would take to do that. Coach grinned down at us. “YOU LITTLE BRUTES SURE MADE THIS BIG BRUTE VERY PROUD TODAY. THAT WAS A CHAMPIONSHIP EFFORT. NOW, THERE ARE STILL 11 MORE GAMES IN THE SEASON SO DON'T THINK YOUR WORK IS DONE. YOU ALL NEED TO KEEP PRACTICING HARD AND LIFTING HARD AND IF YOU DO YOU HAVE A GREAT SHOT TO MAKE IT TO THE CHAMPIONSHIP COME DECEMBER. NOW HIT THE SHOWERS. AND CAPTAINS, OLDEST TO YOUNGEST, MEET ME EVERY 15 MINUTES IN THE FIELD HOUSE FOR A POST-GAME DEBRIEFING STARTING ONE HOUR FROM NOW.” After showering up and enjoying a nice post game meal, I soon headed over to the field house. The sophomore captain was just exiting as I entered the building. I walked in and there was Coach, standing up, the top of his cap dangerously close to the rafters of the field house, filling my view with fuzzy, rippling, golden MUSCLE. “THERE'S MY STAR OF THE GAME!” He said excitedly as I entered, filling my heart with pride. “GREAT GAME, JACKSON. THAT LONG PICK-SIX BASICALLY SEALED THE GAME FOR US. I BELIEVE YOU ARE A STAR IN THE MAKING, YOUR READ THAT SCREEN PASS BEAUTIFULLY, JUMPED UP AND SNAGGED THE BALL AND RACED BACK TOWARD ME...MAN THAT AWESOME.” “I owe it all to you, Coach! You called that blitz for me, it was the perfect call! That QB never saw me coming!” “I GUESS WE MAKE QUITE THE TEAM, YOU AND I, MY LITTLE BRUTE!” “Yes we do, my BIG COACH BRUTE!” I lowered my voice and shouted, trying to sound big, Coach chuckled at my playfulness. Coach then slowly crouched and sat down on his big bulbous ass. He put his arms beside him, palms flat on the turf, triceps flaring, and stuck his LONG legs straight out, straddling me. On each side of me were the world's biggest and most muscular thighs and in front of me was the worlds most packed crotch, trapping me in a virtual cocoon of manhood. Even with him sitting slowly, a big tremor rumbled through the ground as his hulking tonnage rested on the field turf. “THERE, MUCH BETTER. YOU LITTLE GUYS ARE BASICALLY SHRINKING TO ME. I DON'T MIND STANDING UP AND TOWERING OVER THE OTHER PEOPLE, IT REMINDS HOW HUGE AND POWERFUL I AM. BUT I DON'T LIKE INTIMIDATING MY OWN LITTLE BRUTES, HEHE.” “It's ok Coach, you really can't help it! Haha, even with you sitting there your head is FIVE stories above mine. I could practically HIDE under your pecs even with you leaning back. Your massive quads are so huge I would need a rope to scale them, it's like I'm flanked by two massive, golden tanned beefy walls of POWER. And your crotch...Coach, your shorts are looking tighter and tighter!” Coach smirked with satisfaction as I praised him. “HEH HEH. JACKSON, YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS BIG BRUTE FEEL GOOD. REALLLLLL GOOD...” Coach leaned forward and brought one hand forward and began to palm his crotch in front of me. “AND YOU ARE RIGHT. LIKE I SAID, ALONG WITH MY HEIGHT SPURTS, I SEEM TO BE SLOWLY GETTING BIGGER AND MORE MUSCULAR...” He smirked down into my eyes and added, “...AND MORE HUNG!” By now I was rock hard as well, watching the monster in Coach's packed shorts grow. “Wow, Coach I can see that. OH MY GOD COACH!” I shouted in surprise and his monster dick began to extend out PAST the leg of his khaki shorts, pressed up tight against his left inner-thigh. “YEAH, LITTLE GUY. LOOK AT THAT. THAT IS A REAL COCK RIGHT THERE.” In complete shock and awe, I could only nod in agreement. “JACKSON, I HAVEN'T TOLD ANYBODY ELSE YET, BUT I HAVE AGREED TO LET THOSE GOVERNMENT BOYS RUN SOME TESTS ON ME. THAT MEANS I WON'T BE HERE FOR PRACTICE FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS.” My face fell as I looked up him disappointingly. “I KNOW, I KNOW. AND I KNOW I TELL YOU BOYS TO NEVER TAKE ANY GAME LIGHTLY, BUT YOUR NEXT GAME IS AGAINST A TEAM THAT WAS WINLESS LAST YEAR, SO I HAVE COMPLETE CONFIDENCE IN COACH HARVEY TO LEAD THE TEAM.” Coach's face turned stern, “AND TRUST ME, THERE IS NO WAY I'M GOING TO LET THEM KEEP ME AWAY FROM YOU GUYS FOR TOO LONG. IF THEY DO...THEY WILL REGRET IT.” Coach was so huge that it was easy to see all his muscles and tendons tighten and flex defensively, all his massive firehose-sized veins erupt as he considered what he would do if anyone tried to keep him away from us. “NOW, BEFORE I TAKE OFF TOMORROW...” Coach reached down his huge hand and began rubbing the now exposed cock head, “HOW ABOUT YOU JOIN ME IN ONE LAST BRUTE JACKING SESSION?” He grinned at me seductively, there was no way I could resist. I striped off my clothes and stood there naked and rock hard in between the giant man's legs. “OH YEAH, LOOK AT THE HOT JOCK STUD BODY. YOU LOOK SO GOOD, LITTLE BRUTE.” Coach's dick began to thicken and lengthen even more! Quickly I heard the unmistakable sounds of ripping. His cock was so huge and powerful, not to mention his now proportionally larger glutes and legs, that his khaki shorts could take to no more and began to tear at the inseam! Coach reached down, lifted his ass slightly off the turn and proceeded to finish TEARING his shorts off with a ear-piercing RRRRIIIIIPPPPPPP. He wasn't wearing underwear, and his rock hard cock sprang up like a trebuchet, thwacking his abdomen well above his navel. “AHHHH THAT FEELS SOOOOO MUCH BETTER. I OUTGREW MY UNDERWEAR A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO, IT'S NICE TO BE FREE OF THE LAST RESTRICTIVE PIECE OF CLOTHING! LET ME FINISH UNDRESSING LITTLE BUDDY!” Coach leaned way forward over me reaching his long arms behind me. He lightly bent his legs, reached forward and slipped off his shoes and socks. A warm smell of musky, jock feet crossed my nose. But it wasn't rank, just another pungent smell of ultimate masculinity. I looked straight up and saw each car-sized abdominal muscle hovering 30 feet above me. The valleys in between each ab was so deep they could've served as small canals. Coach leaned back and began to take off his hat and whistle. “Coach, wait!” I shouted. “Um...would...would yo mind leaving the hat and whistle on?” You look like such a huge jock muscle stud with them on!” Coach chuckled deeply. “YOU GOT IT, LITTLE MAN. TELL YOU WHAT, SINCE YOU WERE THE STAR OF THE GAME, WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?” He asked with a smirk. I thought about it for a few exciting seconds. The possibilities I could dream up with him seemed endless. “Um, would you mind setting me on your belly, and then laying down with your hands clasped behind your head? I just want to explore your giant body, Coach!” “MMMMM JACKSON, I LIKE THE WAY YOU THINK.” He slowly reached forward and gently lifted me up with his incredible hands. Each finger was a long as I was. For a second I was worried he would accidentally crush me, no doubt he possessed the power to do so. But, he proved to be perfectly gentle, lifting me up with and depositing me on his titanic stomach, right now to the mushroom head of his monster cock. The massive beast had to be 15 feet long now and over four feet in diameter. He smiled as he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head with a happy smile. His chest pulled up and his massive lats flared out, exposing his DEEP hairy armpits, again sending my sense of smell into overdrive as his sweaty musk permeated the air. Wow. Standing on his abs, I looked left, then right. There was SOOOO much super-developed man flesh spread out in front of me. I noted how his elbows were out so wide they were nearly brushing each side wall of the field house. I began to walk forward, noting the taught hard skin and enormou lumps of abs. I layed down on top of the upper most right side ab and just felt the hard, warm mass underneath me. I couldn't help it as I ground my hard cock into the taught, tough skin. “MMM EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE SO TINY I CAN FEEL THAT, JACKSON. FEELS GOOD.” I got back up and walk up to the shelf of his pecs. I traipsed over to his right nipple, the size of a beach ball and began to knead and punch it. Suddenly the ground below began to tremble. “OH DAMN, JACKSON, FUCK! MY NIPPLES ARE SO SENSITIVE. YOU'RE MAKING ME LEAK!” I glanced being me and sure enough, the huge cock head was dripping pre into a kiddle-pool sized puddle on his abs. After playing with his nipple I climbed up onto his pecs, now allowing me to see Coach's handsome face with his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of a tiny man exploring him. “Wow, Coach, your pectorals are so massive I could build a house on each one! I can see each sinewy fiber under your tanned skin. Your chest hair is so soft, it's like walking through a wheat field. No one on earth has BIGGER or MORE MAGNIFICENT pecs than, you do, Coach!” I feel the ground rumble underneath me as he moaned deeply from his sternum. I made my way over to his right armpit. I had to step down of his huge pecs. Luckily, his lats were so huge they gave me more than enough shelf to safely walk on. I spread my arms out and let my entire body fall into the warm musky pit. His pit hairs were so soft and comfortable. I ground my face into this pit and again felt Coach moan from pleasure. I saw a shadow cross over me and noticed he had release his left harm from behind his head to reach down and rub his pipeline sized cock. After servicing his pit I climbed back out and up onto his arm. For a muscle lover there was just no way I couldn't explore that arm. The massive ball of biceps and huge meaty triceps. I simply layed down in the relativity small divot between the biceps and triceps on the side of his arm and marvelled at the muscles flanking each side of me. “Coach, no man on earth has biceps like you. There have been proportionally bigger arms in history, but those arms were bolstered by layers and layers of fat. There may have been more ripped biceps in history, but they belonged to skinny little weak men who had zero fat. But no man has the ultimate combination of ripped AND huge, freaky, massive peaked biceps, and feathered triceps like you do. These are the best arms in HISTORY!” Coach growled and the FLEXED his right arm with loud GROWL. The arm underneath me expanded, the skin underneath my body pulled tighter in each direction as it struggled to contain the growing muscle. I watch as his already mounded biceps began to push higher...and higher! At my tiny size the split in his peaks was big enough to rest my leg inside! “FUCKKKK YEAH JACKSON. LOOK AT THOSE COLLOSAL ARMS. ARMS SO HUGE THAT YOU TINY MEN COULD LIVE IN THEM. ARMS THAT COULD CURL AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER! BICEPS SO MASSIVE AND HARD THAT A WRECKING BALL WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO DENT THEM!” Coached moaned some more and jacked his cock with more fervor. I followed his lead and did the same. “UHHHH JACKSON, LET'S DO THIS. NOW YOU DO ME A FAVOR. STAND UP ON MY CHEST, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME WHERE I CAN SEE YOU, AND GIVE THAT MOST MUSCULAR POSE LIKE YOU DID AT THE GAME!” I walk over and stood on his right pec facing him. His left pec was bunching and and bouncing like crazy as he used his left arm to masturbate. He tilted his handsome face up and opened his deep blue eyes to see me standing on his pec, rising and falling as he took deep breaths. I kept my stance wide to maintain balance. As soon as his eyed made contact with mine, I smirked cockily, back at him. “A most muscular pose, Coach. Like you taught me?” I teased. Coach moaned and jacked harder. I then crouched forward and FLEXED my abs, arms, traps, pecs and legs as hard as I could and GROWLED as loud as tiny man could. “GGGGRRAHHHH COACH! LOOK AT MY MUSCLES THAT YOU HELPED BUILD!” Coach's face scrunched as the loudest moan I had ever heard erupted from his gaping maw. Suddenly I felt a huge stream of wetness fall across my shoulders and back. Coach's massive dick was EXPLODING WITH ORGASM, coating me in his seed. I quickly brought my own hands down and jacked my own rock-hard tumescence, seeing and feeling jet after jet of white Coach jizz shower me and the massive chest surrounding me. I screamed and let out my own powerful orgasm, coating the square footage of his hairy muscle chest in front of me. As I finished, I fell to my knees, and then laid down on the wet, hairy expanse of pectoral in front of me, exhausted. Coach let his arms fall to the side and I fell myself rise as his pecs consequently plumped underneath me from the motion. “DAMN, JACKSON. THAT WAS THE BEST ONE YET. THERE IS NO WAY I'M LETTING THOSE GOVERNMENT BOYS KEEP ME AWAY FROM YOU!” He rumbled, chuckling. “DAMN, NOW I HAVE EVEN MORE OF A MESS TO CLEAN UP!” He joked and as I stood up and laughed with him. Epilogue: Coach did indeed return next week right before the game. Our team dominated the rest of the season and coach was at every game. In December, we brought home the school's very first national championship. There were challenges with a 100 ft Coach, especially for away games, but like any challenge facing him, he met it head on along with the rest of us and came away with full success. Coach, of course, became a national celebrity, using his size to help out wherever he could. Whether it be assisting the fireman or police in rescue missions, cleaning up verhicle accidents or his favorite, helping the city demolish condemned or unwanted buildings. An activity where we really got to show off his size and power to his adoring fans. The university supplied him with sustenance and clothes, although he rarely wore a shirt. His huge body was like a human radiator and even in winter he only required a light tank top to keep warm. The university constructed some living quarters for him off campus in the form of a handful of aircraft hanger size buildings, furnished of course. Along with a massive heated swimming pool to allow him to wash off. Of course, I continued to see Coach during “captain's meetings” throughout the year. Coach had promised that he would stick around to coach the team for at least the next three years, through the end of my playing career before he would decide what the future held for him. Even without being able to properly workout with weight, Coach continued to slowly grow in musculature, aided by his nearly naked body constantly absorbing energy from the sun and his daily workouts consisting of various body weight movements. The only question that remained, was Coach truly done growing, or was there a power source out there strong enough to cause another doubling of his size? Only the future could tell.
  14. dredlifter

    The Giant Football Coach - Chapter 7

    Previously: Chapter 7: Captain The next day, Friday, was our last day of preparation before the big game tomorrow. In order to allow our bodies to heal and rest up from the hard week of practices, the pre-game practice was more of a walkthrough in just our shorts, t-shirts and helmets. Coach towered over us all at center field, shirtless, explaining our game plan on offense and defense. His exposed torso was a point which Jamal, the big playful lineman, couldn't ignore. “Yo Coach, where is your tank top from yesterday? Or are you just trying to impress us with your jacked muscles?” A deep, rumbling chuckle could be felt in all our chests. “WELL JAMAL, IS IT WORKING?” Coach lifted up his left arm and clenched his fist, flexing his titanic biceps far above our heads and exposing his cave-like armpit. Whistles, hoots and appreciative hollers were voiced up toward the giant posing man. “HAHA, BOYS. JUST DIDN'T WANT TO GET ONE OF MY FEW SHIRTS SWEATY. A BIG MAN LIKE ME ONLY HAS SO MANY CLOTHES.” I noted that Coach's bare skin seemed even a slight shade darker than yesterday, as if the energy he was absorbing was not only making him bigger, but perfecting him in other ways too, giving his skin a deep bronzed glow underneath the light covering of body hair. Jamal shook his head and added, “Damn, Coach, I swear you are looking more swole than ever!” Coach grinned as he flexed and unflexed his cannon, pumping it up bigger. “I KNOW MY BODY, JAMAL, AND I AM DEFINITELY MORE “SWOLE” AS YOU KIDS SAY. IF I WAS STILL MY OLD SMALL, ORIGINAL HEIGHT, I'D VENTURE A GUESS THAT I'VE PUT ON AT LEAST A SOLID INCH ON MY ALREADY AWESOME ARMS. I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THE ENERGY FLOWING THROUGH ME, MAKING ME BIGGER AND STRONGER! I LOVE IT!” After Coach's self appraising speech, we ran through a few plays at half speed to make sure we were all on the same page. After a short 45 minute practice session we gathered literally at the feet of Coach for one final practice speech. As part of the speech, he also discussed the captains. Yesterday during film we all voted for two captains. Coach revealed proudly that, unsurprisingly, our starting senior quarterback and senior all-American linebacker were two of the captains as voted on by the rest of the team. We clapped for our team leaders as they stepped up in front of coach's massive sneakers and he commended them. As we stared up at his heaving pectorals, Coach then announced the additional three captains as chosen by the coaching staff. We applauded as he called up the Junior starting center and our up-and-coming star Sophomore defensive lineman. Coach then finished, “AND MY FELLOW BRUTES, CONGRATULATIONS TO TOMORROW'S STARTING SAFETY AND CAPTAIN, FRESHMAN MASON JACKSON!” My eyes went wide as I heard my name and saw my leader's gigantic, handsome eyes boring into mine, his face with a proud smile. The rest of the team hooted and hollered, those close to me patting my back as I made my way up to the front with the other captains. I was stunned and speechless. Here I was, being named not only a starter, but as a team captain, and I was only a Freshman. “BRUTES, THESE FINE MEN WILL BE YOUR ON-FIELD CAPTAINS. ONLY THEY ARE ALLOWED TO ADDRESS THE REFS ON THE FIELD. THEY WILL BE YOUR LEADERS ON THE FIELD, LISTEN TO THEM. AND CAPTAINS, MYSELF AND THE OTHER COACHES DO NOT TAKE LIGHTLY IN SELECTING YOU. YOU HAVE EARNED THE “C” ON YOUR JERSEYS, DO NOT LET US DOWN. NOW, THE REST OF YOU HIT THE SHOWERS AND THEN MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE FILM ROOM. OBVIOUSLY I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO JOIN AS I'M TOO BIG TO FIT IN THE FILM ROOM, BUT THE ASSISTANTS WILL TAKE YOU THROUGH THE SESSION. CAPTAINS, STICK AROUND, I WANT TO GO THROUGH A COUPLE MORE THINGS WITH YOU BEFORE YOU SHOWER UP.” After the rest of the team left the field, Coach got down on the one knee in an attempt to get closer to us and together we walked through the duties of the captains, including what we would need to do during the coin toss tomorrow. We discussed several scenarios, whether to defer or take the ball, which side of the field to choose, how to consider the wind and weather, etc. Coach then instructed each of us to visit with him one-on-one early this evening. He wanted to speak with each of his captains individually to further go over each of our respective responsibilities. Since I was the youngest captain, I would be the last to visit him at about 8:00pm tonight. Coach rose up off his knee to his full height, his abs and pecs rising like a hot air balloon above our heads, and dismissed us to shower. “THANK YOU MY BRUTE CAPTAINS. NOW GET READY FOR FILM SESSION AND PAY ATTENTION. YOU ARE THE NEXT IN THE CHAIN OF COMMAND AFTER THE ASSISTANT COACHES, SO ITS ALSO YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO KEEP YOUR TEAMMATES IN CHECK AS WELL. I'M COUNTING YOU MEN. HIT THE SHOWERS!” Once cleaned up we joined our teammates and the assistants to watch film. The assistants also ran through tomorrow's agenda. Even though the game wasn't until 7:00pm tomorrow night, we were instructed to be at the athletic complex early in the morning for breakfast and we would remain there, isolated for the entire day to avoid distractions. After film I had one Friday afternoon class before I headed to the cafeteria to fuel up. I caught up on some studying until it was 7:45pm, when it was time to head to the field house for my meeting with Coach. As I was walking through the corridor to the field house I passed the starting quarterback. I was right on time. I opened the door and was again instantly overtaken by Coach's superhuman scent, causing my cock to twitch. Coach was sitting on his bench, shirtless with just a sheet wrapped around his waist, his head still a good 30 or so feet above the ground when he spotted me. “JACKSON! WELCOME MY LITTLE BRUTE CAPTAIN!” Coach shifted his butt down onto the turf to speak to me from a more equal level. “Thanks Coach. I'm honored and so surprised. I...I don't know what to say. I mean, I thought there would be several other guys who are better than me-” Coach cut me off, “DON'T YOU START DOUBTING YOURSELF, JACKSON. YOU EARNED YOUR CAPTAIN'S STATUS. THERE ARE OTHER MEN ON THE TEAM WHO MAY BE BETTER ATHLETES THAN YOU, BUT NONE OF THEM HAVE YOUR COMBINATION OF INTELLIGENCE TO GO WITH YOUR ATHLETICISM. YOU NEED BOTH BRAINS AND BRAWN TO SUCCEED AT THIS LEVEL AND YOU HAVE IT. YOU'VE BEEN WORKING YOUR TAIL OFF SINCE YOU GOT HERE.” Coach and I spent the next few minutes discussing what he expected of me as a captain. How he wanted me to be a leader on the field and speak up and make decisions for my teammates, even though I was younger than three-quarters of the team. How I would be one of the players who is allowed to speak the referees when a penalty occurs. It seemed like such a huge responsibility but with Coach encouraging me I had never been so excited to tackle a new task. “YOU HAVE A BRIGHT FUTURE. YOUR GROWTH SINCE I RECRUITED YOU HAS BEEN WONDERFUL TO WATCH, JACKSON. AND NOT JUST YOUR FOOTBALL SAVY, I'VE ALSO NOTICED THE MUSCLE YOU'VE PUT ON. HOW MUCH WEIGHT HAVE YOU GAINED SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE SUMMER?” I smiled up at Coach, happy that he was seeing what I was also seeing in the mirror. “So far about 15 pounds!” “THOSE ARE SOME GREAT GAINS FOR A MAN YOUR SIZE. I CAN DEFINITELY SEE IT. AND I CAN SEE IT IS ALL MUSCLE. YOU'RE SHREDDED, AND SEEING YOUR ABS MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A FAT MAN!” We shared a laugh as Coach patted his mighty stomach. While my abs were small yet deeply etched, his were huge and powerful, like the rest of him. “Thanks Coach. Although my gains are nothing compared to yours in the past week!” “HAHA, I GUESS THAT'S TRUE JACKSON. I'VE HAD A BIT OF HELP TOO, BUT I'M NOT COMPLAINING!” Coach said as he looked down and bounced his pectorals, one by one. “Damn, Coach, your muscle control is insane!” “THANKS JACKSON. I'M SURE WITH YOUR GROWING BODY YOU ARE LEARNING TO DO FUN TRICKS LIKE THAT TOO. AND TRUST ME, THE LADIES LOVE IT!” Coach smirked wryly at me and added, “AND SO DO THE DUDES.” I grinned up at Coach and caught a sparkle in his eye. He then requested, “WELL JACKSON, STRIP OFF THAT TANK TOP. SHOW ME YOUR PROGRESS. YOU'VE SEEN MY BOD, LET'S SEE YOUR MUSCLES. SHOW ME A DOUBLE-BICEPS POSE.” I obeyed and whipped off my tank top and tossed it on the ground. Coach was still sitting on the ground with his back against his bench. He legs were splayed wide on each side of me as he watched me intently. I brought my arms out wide and slowly raised my fists upward and toward my head, flexing my biceps. “VERY NICE JACKSON. YOU HAVE SOME NICE PEAKS. GREAT SEPARATIONS. LET'S SEE YOUR CHEST.” I turned sideways and tried to mimic Coach's side chest flexes. “AGAIN, YOUR DEVELOPMENT IS GREAT FOR YOUR SIZE. NOW SHOW ME YOUR BACK.” I turned around and again brought up both biceps and gave Coach my best back-double biceps pose. “A NICE WIDE BACK TO GO WITH YOUR TINY WAIST. TREMENDOUS V-SHAPE. YOU'VE GOT A FRAME THAT COULD EASILY PUT ON PLENTY OF MUSCLE.” I turned around and beamed. “Thanks, Coach! Your weight training program has really helped. And you are such an inspiration, seeing your big bulging body every day.” I grinned and brought my arms up into another double-biceps flex and playfully crowed at Coach. “I would love to be a bodybuilder like you some day!” Coach chuckled and started to stand up. As he rose from the ground he grinned, “JACKSON. YOU ARE LOOKING GOOD AND YOU CERTAINLY GOT THE GENES. YOUR POSING NEEDS SOME WORK THOUGH. HERE, LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL POSING ROUTINE LOOKS LIKE!” I gasped at the what I was about to see. Coach slowly stood, reaching the pinnacle of his towering height, with me standing awestruck on the ground about 15 feet in front of his ankles. “THIS IS HOW YOU DO A PROPER DOUBLE-BICEPS POSE, LITTLE MAN.” Coach re-planted his feet so they were slowly pointed outward. This caused his mega-sized quad muscles to bulge even larger. He clenched his stomach muscles before he gracefully swayed both his arms out wide and up, where he paused for just a second, before locking the position of his elbows and then swinging his forearms upward while making a fist. Each of his biceps erupted from his arms. “POSING IS ALL ABOUT FORM AND GRACE,” he narrated as he unclenched and reclenched his fists, causing the wrecking ball size biceps muscles to rise and fall hypnotically. Coach then synchronously brought both arms down while rotating 90 degrees. He did so with the fluid motion of a ballet dancer. It was a side of Coach I had never seen. Not only was he immensely powerful, when he wanted to he could move with a beauty and grace that belied his rugged, supremely pumped body. He brought one arm to the side and while smiling down at me, puffed up his pecs and performed a perfect side chest pose. Even he was impressed with how we was looking, “WOW, JACKSON, YOU COULD PRACTICALLY BUILD A HOUSE ON THAT PEC SHELF, DON'T YOU THINK?” I nodded, dumbfounded at what I was having the pleasure of seeing. Coach then swung his arms out wide again and using their momentum to turn another 90 degrees to show me his back, which was loaded with mounds and mounds of thick, lenticular muscles. As I stared up 30 ft into the air I was greeted by the sight of Coach's two, thick erector muscle columns, no doubt overly developed from years of massive deadlifts. As my eyes drifted higher my own eyes had to refocus into wide angle lenses as his tanned, hairless lats suddenly jutted outward, even without flexing. Coach then reached both hands back and placed his fists near the top of his waist. As he faced away from me I heard, “IF YOU WANT TO WATCH A MOVIE SOMETIME, JACKSON, I KNOW WHERE YOU CAN FIND A WIDE SCREEN! HAHA!” As Coach joked he slowly unfurled his incredible lat muscles. Throwing his elbows out wider...and wider. He unfanned his lats and I was astounded. He looked to be 25 ft wide!! Saliva dripped from my open mouth as Coach presented me with an Olympia quality back lat spread. Somehow, I audibly emanated a “wow” and saw my hero's body bounce slightly as he chuckled at my verbal awe. From over his shoulder, Coach added with a cocky grin, “OF COURSE, HOW CAN I SHOW OFF MY HAMSTRINGS AND GLUTES WITH THIS BIG BAGGY SHEET?” I gasped as Coach undid the sheet and it fell to the ground. I again gasped as two of the most glorious ass muscles that ever existed loomed above me about 25 ft up in the air. His glutes were just as developed as the rest of him, sitting atop his ribbed hamstrings and presenting a tight crease where his hamstrings and glutes met. The old adage, 'you could bounce a quarter off that ass' was apt here, only in his case you could use a manhole cover instead! Coach adjusted his stance and really squeezed his glutes, which shockingly tightened even further revealing a clear concave dimple in each glute. I was certain that butt could squeeze coal in diamond. By this time, I was rock hard although I hadn't even noticed. The titanic man of muscle in front of me was just too much. Even slightly bigger, harder and more muscular than when I saw him in the pool the other day, and now seeing him in his full gigantic glory under the bright indoor lights had me at full mast, harder than I'd ever been in my life. And it was only going to get hotter as Coach slowly turned around to face me. As he turned I quickly Jutting far out past his his hip. Like me, his posing session had turned him on. Coach only had to twist his body by about 30 degrees before the enormous cock head came into view. He continued turning slowly around to face me, his battering ram making a wide arc out in front of him. Finally he was facing me with his hands on his hips and his erection jutting out directly above my head. With him being so huge his face was obscured from me by the pornstar-sized schlong. Coach chuckled and twisted his hips slightly, again exposing me to his handsome smiling face. “POSING ALWAYS GET'S ME EXCITED, HOPE YOU DON'T MIND, LITTLE BRUTE.” I saw his massive eyes drop slightly downward as he took notice of my own tenting shorts. “IT LOOKS LIKE MASSIVE MUSCLE FLEXING GETS YOU EXCITED TOO, JACKSON! WHY DON'T YOU LOSE THE SHORTS, AND JOIN ME IN POSING. PERHAPS I CAN GIVE YOU A COUPLE OF POINTERS.” I dropped my shorts and kicked them to the side as Coach Wood gave me a whistle. “YOU ARE ONE FINE SPECIMEN OF YOUNG SEXY BEEF, JACKSON,” he said as I felt myself go into a full body blush. “THOSE EXTRA 15 LBS OF MUSCLE ARE SUITING YOU VERY WELL. IT GOES WELL WITH THAT IMPRESSIVE COCK YOU'RE SPORTING THERE, LITTLE STUD.” I grinned up at Coach as he peered far down into my own relatively tiny eyes. “HOW ABOUT A MOST MUSCULAR? LIKE THIS!” Coach's chest tilted forward toward me and it felt like a wall was falling at me, causing me to flinch just slightly. He brought his fists together just above his waist and FLEXED every muscle of his torso down at me. His width seemingly doubled in size as each muscle tightened into frightening definition. The fibers snaking across the top of his chest looked to be as large as ropes to me as he smirked and growled and held the pose. I grinned up at him and mimicked his pose as best as I could, bringing my own hands together in front of me. Of course, being at a level 40-some feet below him I couldn't much hunch forward, but I did my best to crab my torso muscles and sneer up at coach. “OH YEAH, JACKSON. LOOKING POWERFUL. YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE ME A RUN FOR MY MONEY I SEE! ALL THE LITTLE GIRLS AND BOYS WILL BE ALL OVER YOUR BUFF BODY.” I reveled in his praise. “BUT...I DON'T THINK YOU CAN QUITE COMPETE WITH THIS!!!” Coach raised both his monstrous arms up and brought his hands together behind his head. His bulbous lats flared out like a the wings of a peacock. Each arm seemingly doubled in size as the muscles of the limbs fought for space and bunched against each other. Each biceps was so massive the peaks were pressing against his own temples. The exposed hairy armpits were so deep and cavernous due to his incredible pectorals and delts that I could've gone spelunking in them. He swung one massive leg out in front of himself and planted his foot, which was longer than I was tall, right in front of me. He growled down at me as he crunched his abs together and flexed his godly quadriceps, giving me the most amazing abs-and-thighs pose ever seen on this earth. From my vantage point just below his shins I was looking up at a tower of thick, powerful, bodybuilder muscle and manhood. Coach's own proportionally 13 inch cock, that is, 13 inches if he were still a 6 ft 6 mortal, loomed above me like a battering ram, flanked on each side by tons of warm, veiny, dense muscle. I broke my pose and just stared way up in awe, my own cock now leaking. I could barely speak. “ huge...” I muttered and my hero smirked as he heard. “Coach Wood, you are amazing. Wow, I've never been so turned on by a man before. You are amazing, sir. No man on this earth could ever compete with you. Those muscles, that definition, cock. You make every man on this planet look like a...pathetic weakling! You are hot!” He relaxed the pose and chuckled before giving me a warm smile. “THAT MAY BE TRUE JACKSON, BUT I DON'T WANT YOU OR ANY OF YOUR TEAMMATES TO EVER THINK OF YOURSELVES AS PATHETIC WEAKLINGS. I MAY BE IN A LEAGUE OF MY OWN, BUT YOU ARE MY PLAYERS AND I WANT YOU TO BE THE BEST MEN YOU CAN BE. YOU ARE A STUD, JACKSON. YOU'RE TALENTED, SMART, ATHLETIC, YOU'VE GOT A FANTASTIC BODY...” I noticed now that Coach was playing with his tumescent log. “...AND YOU ARE HANDSOME TO BOOT.” Coach sighed as his massive eyes bored holes into my own. I could feel the tension in the air. It was then that I realized I had been full on jacking my dick while talking with Coach. “YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD LOOKING YOUNG MAN. FUCK, I JUST CAN'T HELP IT!” Coach suddenly stooped over and reached his mighty right hand down and wrapped his fingers around me. I lurched up into the air as he picked me up. He moved me up to his waist where we sat me down straddling the magnificent caber that was his cock. I leaned back against his pelvis, his trimmed pubic hair scratching against my back. “JACK OFF WITH ME MR. MASON JACKSON, I HAVEN'T GOT OFF SINCE THAT EVENING IN THE POOL I'M SO PENT UP.” I stared forward and saw his monstrous hands work down and back on the mighty erection. The sequoia sized, sinewy forearms moving toward and away from me in rhythmic motion. I titled my head back and looked up and saw the underside of his gigantic pecs hiding his face from view. Each nipple pointed down toward me due to his herculean development. I joined him and began beating my own dick in the same rhythm as coach. After a few minutes of heavy mutual masturbation I could feel my body becoming warm and wet, dampened from my own sweat and my coach's. I could hear Coach's breathing picking up along with mine. He then again reached toward me and picked me up with his right hand. He lifted me up and held me in front of his sex-glazed eyes. “FEEL MY MUSCLES, JACKSON.” He then lifted his left arm and flexed. He maneuvered me over and laid me down on top of the flexed biceps muscle! My ass was sitting in the crook of his arm while I leaned forward and hugged the granite mound of flesh. Coach flexed and unflexed his arm and I felt myself rise and fall against it. The motion of the muscle fibers bunching and elongating against my groin caused stimulated me to start humping his muscle. Coach signed heavily, “OH YEAH JACKSON, THAT'S SO HOT. FUCK MY MONSTER BICEPS, MY LITTLE BRUTE!” My body was on fire as I leaned forward to lick the flexing mass underneath me. At his size, the split in his biceps was as big as the cleavage between a normal-sized bodybuilder's pecs. I continued to grind my rock hard cock against his arm. At one point I glanced to the side and down 25 ft or so to see coach using his free hand to furiously jack his own meat. “OOOOOOHHHH YEAH LITTLE BUDDY. LET'S BLOW TOGETHER!” Coach began to flex and unflex faster, bringing me to a fever pitch of muscular stimulation. Not 30 seconds later both of our bodies tightened. Coach flexed his biceps harder than ever, his forearms pressing against my back forcing my body into his boulder-sized muscle. We both groaned loudly and blew our loads in sync. I was only slightly disappointed that I didn't get to see his geyser, but unloading my balls on his biceps was more than enough to make up for it. As we calmed down Coach reached over and gently lifted me from his arm, his wet, jizz soaked fingers encircled my waist and he set me on the ground. I looked behind me to see various pools of white cum dotting the turf of the field house. I looked back up at Coach and saw one of the hottest things I had ever seen. Coached smirked down at me, again flexed his left biceps muscle and brought it toward his mouth. He stuck his tongue out and licked up my own load off the taught, titanic biceps. “MMMM, NOT ONLY ARE YOU A STUD, YOU TASTE GREAT TOO, JACKSON.” To clean up, we again snuck our way into the pool. Once we were clean Coach dismissed me for the night. “GET SOME REST, JACKSON. WE'VE GOT A BIG GAME TOMORROW. AND, I NEED TO GO BACK AND FIGURE OUT HOW I'M GOING TO CLEAN UP MY MESS IN THE FIELD HOUSE,” he chuckled. My roommate and I were hanging out as we prepared for bed. We talked excitedly about how our first game would go tomorrow. Suddenly the power went out, which was odd since there were no storms in the area. Luckily, since it was Friday night neither of us were in the middle of any homework assignments so no school work was lost. About 10 minutes later the power came back on. We watched some TV before settling in and drifting off to sleep, excited for the chance to play for our giant football coach the following day.
  15. Guest

    Jeff: Back freakshow

    Hi guys! I've been lately not writing much, but today I finally found inspiration, so here you have a new Jeff's story, hope you all like it Sorry for the grammar and English in general, I was too in a rush when writing and didn't have much time to correct anything, hope you've got no problems when reading it. ---------------------- The gym was pretty empty at that hour of the day, just a couple of girls at the back, Jeff and the owner. The back day had been long, but not hard enough, as usual. Jeff was feeling that he could be reaching a high in his growth, that his organism could have a top and he could be reaching it. But he was wrong… his muscle anxiety always led him to think he wasn’t growing, even though the weights said the contrary: a pound per week. Yeah, some of you might think it’s not “that much”, but take into account it was a perfectly clean pound of muscle, not an ounce of fat, just raw muscle, pure, perfect, shredded beef on top of more shredded beef, the dream of every bodybuilder. But such a hard work for any other bodybuilder was so simple for him, so easy to accomplish, that it led him to think he was stuck. But he really wasn’t, and he knew it. And that though always led him to push harder, just the same way it was making him push harder again. He was seated in the lat pull down machine, and looked at the weights on it. 250lbs. “Fuck, I need to add more”. He had already managed a way to add more weights to the machine, but the rack was at the max, it couldn’t be added anymore, so he looked around to get new ideas. He saw a thick bar that could be attached to the upper weight in the rack. Stood up to go and take it, attached it firmly to the rack and went to get some weights. He turned back to go to the plates station and found a guy getting one of the 50lbs plates. There were just 6 of them, and Jeff needed them all. - Hi bud. Do you mind getting two 25lbs plates and let me use that one? The other guy heard that coming from his back. Looked at the station and saw that there were other 5 plates. He started to turn back answering: - But, there are other free plates… And when he finally turned and saw Jeff, he got frozen. Jeff always provoked the same reaction in people, he was used to it, though it still bothered him, but this time he felt funny about it. Martin was one of those guys who used weights to try to improve his self esteem. In the last two years he had made a huge improvement, going from a just 150lb average guy to a hunky thick 210lb almost-bodybuilder. He had managed to meet a lot of thick guys, but none of them the big he needed, but this new guy he had never seen, this freaky packed what? 300? 400? lbs monster standing in front of him was his deepest dream come true. But there were two things that disturbed him especially. Why the hell was he fully dressed from head to toe? And what happened to his face? He was dramatically sunken, as if the guy were a comp bodybuilder in the freakiest condition, but with his size he was obviously off season. He tried to imagine how he would look like when cut, and hoped his face wouldn’t get more sunken, if not he would look really weird. Martin had always been a huge fan of competitions, where the guys were always in the most astounding and freaky condition, and he started fantasizing about this freak in two or three months, when he had already dried out, and get perfectly clean for competition. He started to tremble with the idea, he had to manage to keep in touch with him and follow his progress, especially his cutting, until he became the freakiest shredded bodybuilder, then cheer him up in the audience when competing, encouraging him to flex harder and show more, and more, and more… - Hey, are you ok? Jeff woke him up from his daydream fantasy, and went back to reality, an already amazing one, with that beast in front of him. - Yeah sorry… err… but there are more plates available – Martin replied. - I know bud, but I was looking forward to use all of them – Jeff said. - Mmmm… errr… ok – he resigned and gave Jeff the plate. “What the hell? 300lbs? What for? Well maybe he’s going to switch to legs”. - Thanks bud, my back is going to be very grateful to you – Jeff smiled, winked at him and went back to the lat machine. “No way”, Martin didn’t think he had listened properly, but then he saw Jeff arriving to the machine and starting to put the plates into a bar attached to the upper weight of the rack. “What the fuck…?” Jeff seated in the bench, grabbed the bar from the widest positions and pulled down just a bit, to check if the weight was enough. “Mpppffff”, he had to do a HUGE effort to move it just one inch down. He loved that feeling, and focused on it. First his upper lats had started bulging, thickening under the sweat jacket, he could feel the fibers contracting, slowly at first, then with a huge contraction managed to move the gigantic weight one inch up. “Awwww yeah, perfect weight, now it’s time to grow Jeff”, he said to himself and got ready for the pull. He repeated the operation, but at a full effort. His upper lats started to thicken doing the first effort to move the weight. He felt them pressing against the jacket sides fabric and enjoyed the caress of it against his raw muscles. He went down pulling, now time for his lower lat to go helping. He felt the fibers twitching under his skin, pulling up from the tendons, concentrated to move the astounding weight. His lats started to burn, as if it was hell under the fabric, but he went on. When the fibers had contracted to the max, they started to grow thick, pressing away the jacket, so much the seams started to burst. “Oh fuck, I was missing this fucking feeling so much”. He was about to get high on the growth feeling, and pushed a bit harder. “Grrrrrrrrrrrr”, he pulled down some inches more, making the lats hurt as he had never felt them hurt. He was sure a million fibers were breaking apart from the effort, but he also knew this was what he needed to grow, so he went more and more, inch by inch pulling down, feeling his lats separate from the spine, sweating like a fountain under the jacket, until he reached the lowest and lowered the weight to its position, slowly, slowly, enjoying the burnt of his back, until he finally left it at the bottom of the rack. “Hell yeah, that’s it!!!” CLANCKKKKKKKKKKKK A huge loud sound alarmed him, he turned back to see what had happened, and saw Martin who was staring at him, mouth open, with one 25lbs plate laying at his feet. He was expecting to make the guy freak out, so now that he had managed to, he smiled satisfied at him, and finally got high on his workout. “Now the fun starts”. Martin couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. He had seen dozens of beasts and bull-like bodybuilders move incredible weights, but he had NEVER seen a guy pull 550lbs down in a perfect concentrated movement. He was feeling nervous, freaked out, horned, amazed, all at the same time, not sure if all that was real. - Hey bud, are you ok? You seem sick. – Jeff asked. - How… was that… possible? – Martin stuttered, not afraid of showing that he couldn’t believe it. That was Jeff’s fuel to go on working out, and the initial insecurity about if he was stuck or not, transformed into a cocky self confidence that he was the true beast he was normally feeling. - Well bud, you have to push hard if you want to grow – Jeff replied. - But… fuck 550lbs? I had never seen that before – Martin was obviously horny, with a huge bulge in his shorts, which Jeff noticed immediately. - Well bud this is only going to get better – Jeff said, while looking at his bulge. Martin felt embarrassed “Fuck, he’s noticed”. He was expecting this guy to come to him and beat him, but instead of that he stood up and started to take his jacket off. He heard him unzip the zipper and left it fall down. What Martin saw made him fall back to the bench that was right behind him. “No no, it’s not possible”, his mind was blurring with the insane sight of that back. The first impossible thing he noticed was the traps insertions in Jeff’s skull. The two slabs of muscle run from the midsection of his back up up up to the neck, slowly narrowing until they reached the base of the skull, inserting in it forming a perfect cut along them, and vanishing with the bones in his head. But the freakiest thing of those traps was not the insertion, but the insane SHREDDEDNESS of them. The bulky off season monster he had thought Jeff was, in fact was an insane, obscene and grotesquely shredded up muscle monster. The trap fibers were so clearly visible that he looked that one of those anatomy charts where the muscles are exposed to see how the fibers run from one side of the trap to the opposite side. But they were not only perfectly visible, but freaky twitching one above the others. It was so obvious that the muscle was so overdeveloped that the fibers could not have a normal position and alignment, but they were fighting each other to have a room in that freaky body, looking like small snakes placed in the back of that monster. But the traps were so overdeveloped they looked as if they were already fully flexed, though Jeff was fully relaxed. The thickness of them was about 8 inches, the whole set of fibers looking as if they had been attached to the back, perfectly cut, and forming an insane valley in the spine, both traps so freaky thick and so freaky separate that they looked like the separations between sets of abs, but 5 or 6 times the size of the most developed abs Martin had ever seen. Martin’s cock was the hardest it had ever been in his life, when that living dream seated and grabbed the bar again. The simplest movement made those traps move as if they were alive. When Jeff placed his hands in the bar, the traps moved towards the center of the spine, getting attached again. He knew he was being observed, so he decided to do his own show. He did a quick movement with his shoulders and made the traps separate again, showing a perfect muscle control over them. He did this a couple of times more enjoying the movement of his trap muscles over his freaky back. Martin was not able to believe this. He felt dizzy a couple of times during that freaky display of muscle control, but he was not able to take his eyes off him. It was his deepest dream, but multiplied by 10, and he wasn’t going to let his mind say no to that. He was forcing himself to go on watching it, even if that could cause him brain damage. Jeff did a second show, making another quick movement with this right shoulder, making his right trap bulge a bit more, and relaxing it quickly, making the trap relax again, as if doing a quick bounce of it. He explored this new movement and did it again, with the same right shoulder, and felt the weight of the trap moving up and down. Then he did the same with the left shoulder, feeling the movement of the left trap. He loved this new muscle control and hit it for Martin a bit more, doing a freaky TRAP BOUNCING. Right, left, right, left. Martin was fully wet in his pants, his cock had already popped out of his short and was leaking precum all over the fabric. That trap bouncing he had just witnessed was the freakiest thing ever, and his cock was about to explode, but he was so mesmerized with the sight that he could not even manage to jack if off. Jeff went on with the freaky show, mixing the first shoulder movement with a quick shrug of the trap, making the muscles go up and down alternatively along the spine, as if they could squeeze whatever you could stick in there. But he didn’t stop there, he grabbed the bar and pulled it down to the middle, moving again the freaky 550bs weights in the rack and the bar. The lats literally EXPLODED, fighting with the traps in size and definition. They were other 8 inches thick, perfectly cut in the border with the traps, and freaky ridge-like in the insertions along the spine. The fibers attaching the whole muscle to the bone tendons were suffering an immense pain, and Jeff could feel that, but he knew his back could resist everything and he wanted to push his show and his growth a bit further. The lat fibers run painfully from the outer sides of the back right to the middle of it. Some of them broke apart, he could feel them breaking, but he could also feel them regenerating in seconds, making the fiber stronger than before, thicker, leaner, more powerful. He crunched the weights down a bit more doing the same with other hundreds of fibers, feeling the death and resurrection of the fibers once and again. Martin was about to faint. He had witnessed how Jeff’s lats had grown one inch thicker during the last crunch, and it was pretty clear it was not new blood on the muscle, but pure raw lean fibers emerging from nowhere. The teres muscles popped out like hell in the back, as if they were two rocks emerging from under the rest of the muscles. He managed to move the right side of the bar down, then the left, and at the same time moving them forward and backwards, making the whole set of traps and lats move up and down, inwards and outwards, jerking and invisible cock inside of them. The shoulders were an insane mass of fibers. The different parts of the muscles were practically indistinguishable, since you could not notice which cuts were the separation between the delts parts, and which one were just separations between fibers. The only visible clear cuts were the deep deep deep cut between the delt and the trap, and he cut between the delt and the teres. Although the whole back was so freaky pumped, and freaky shredded, Martin could not focus in a single muscle. His eyes moved rapidly from one side to another, his heartbeat was at his max, at the edge of a heart attack, his head ached terribly, his cock hurting like hell. He was living a body orgasm, not cumming, not feeling the orgasm burn itself in his cock, but his whole body was reacting in the same way. He stuck his eyes in the jerk-like movement of the trap and lat muscles of that freaky back, and a freaky weird idea got into his mind. Without being able to fight it back, he started walking towards Jeff, like a zombie, controlled by the mesmerizing movement of those back muscles. His cock was fully out, his pants still on but suffering a huge pressure from his cock. He removed them and started walking almost naked towards that beast-like back. He didn’t consider that back part of a human (or barely human) being, but an independent being, a living muscle being calling him out to fuck it. He stopped inches away from that freaky back, full of muscles moving under a thin almost inexistent skin. From that distance he could even see more clearly the insertions, the freaky fibers covering that grotesque body. The heat that body was irradiating was making him sweat. Jeff’s body itself was sweating gallons, thick drops falling from the neck to the floor, running all along that god-like back, tracing the cuts in the traps and lats, surrounding the spine bones forming big bumps in the middle of the back, tracing the ridge-like xmas tree the lower lat had formed in Jeff’s back. He placed his hands in the back, in the intersection between the teres, traps and lats and felt about to die. His mind went wild, high as ever in his life, feeling the freaky bulges moving under his hands. Jeff felt Martin’s hands and finally felt satistifed. The touch of that mesmerized, hypnotized worshipper was his next level of fuel for his muscle growth addiction. The focused on the moving of his individual muscles and changed the way the moved under the skin, doing new and quick movements in this elbows, shoulders, even his spine, making the freaky dance of back muscles go a level up. Martin cock was just an inch away from the lover back muscles, dripping huge drops of precum, irradiating the same heat as Jeff’s back. The feeling of the new muscle movements under his hands made his cock suffer a huge spasm, moving up three inches, and in the way back landing on the deep cave the lower back muscles formed in Jeff’s back. Jeff felt it and, immediately crunched those lower fibers, catching Martin’s cock and not letting him take it away. Martin felt a new rush in his body. After having been at the edge of fainting when touching the back with his hands, he suffered a huge acceleration of his heart rate when his cock got caught in that freaky back. He looked down at it, and clearly saw how the surrounding fibers contracted against his cock head, grinding it and giving it a soft nice and quick jerk. His cock spasmed again, and spurted a huge drop of pre, thick globules of precum running down Jeff’s back. Jeff enjoyed the feeling of the precum running down his muscles, and took him to a next horniness level. He started to twitch his back, and flex and relax his muscles, once and again, once and again. Martin noticed new movements around his cock, and saw how Jeff’s muscles were making his cock go up along the freaky muscle valley of his back. The walls of that valley were full of fibers, some of them contracted harder than the others, making the movement be like fucking a real ass hole, the harder fibers grinding his cock hard, and the precum Martin was spurting being used as a natural lube for this back-fucking dream. Jeff went on engorging that cock with his back muscles, up up up. Martin was a bit taller than Jeff, but even so he started being lifted off the ground, so he had to place his feel in Jeff’s knees to be able to give better thrusts. Jeff went lifting him up and up, until Martin’s cock was inserted all along the trap muscles. Martin was 8in hung, but today his cock was perfectly 10 or 11 inches long, and thicker than ever. His balls were landing in the xmas tree of the lower back. Without a word, Martin started pumping his cock into Jeff’s trap muscles. Back and forth, once and again. Each thrust was a living heaven, feeling the freaky ridges the trap fibers were forming in the valley. Jeff left the bar, letting the weights fall loudly into the ground. But the muscles didn’t relax an inch. They were even harder than before. He used his free hands to perform the freakiest rear double bicep any human being had ever witnessed. Both peaks rose like two mountains in front of Martin’s face. He placed his hands on top of them, feeling them as the hardest material ever made. The bicep peaks were so fucking splitted he could stick his fingers in between, and so he did. Martin was on the edge since he first put his cock in Jeff’s back, but this was too much. He thrusted his hips faster, fucking Jeff’s traps in a total frenzy. He run his fingers along the cuts of the bicep and the tricep, the other hand running the cuts of traps and lats, using the index finger, then the thumb, feeling every ridge in that freaky body. Another cock thrust, another spasm running his whole body. Martin was in a true muscle frenzy, all he could do was fuck, squeeze, trace, fuck again, squeeze more, trace again. His head was about to explode, he felt a huge rush along his cock, he was about to cum, but he stopped. His ass hole trembled in pleasure, his cock erupted a thick huge shot of precum, and his hands went on feeling the most obscene and grotesque work of muscle art. He took a last look at that back in front of him, from the neck to the lower back: huge immense thick traps, fill with precum and his own cock; freaky delts emerging from under the back muscles; two teres muscles like two big eyes looking at him; the lats not looking like a muscle but like a huge set of strings emerging from the spine and landing in the sides of the back. The whole view was like a dream or a nightmare, he couldn’t say, but he was enjoying it, and he let himself go. He thrusted more, faster, faster. Jeff was doing his own, pumping his back more, moving his muscles non stop, his own cock about to erupt. Martin felt the final rush and orgasm, coming from his head down, grunting, feeling Jeff’s back muscles, and then the orgasm came. - OHHHH YOU FUCKING MONSTEEERRRRRRRRRRRR, AGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHH The scream filled the whole gym. The huge spurts of cum landed in Jeff’s neck, throwing drops everywhere. Martin erupted 10 more times, filling Jeff’s back with hot cum, running down until they dropped in the floor. Martin felt Jeff’s body contract like hell once again, transforming into the freakiest bunch of muscle fibers ever, and then he heard Jeff’s orgasm. - AW FUCK TAKE THISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS Huge spurts of cum came from Jeff’s cock, landing in Martin’s face. Once he finished cumming, Martin felt he was going to faint, and so he did. Last thing he saw was the back of his dreams going away from him, as he fell down the bench to the ground. He woke up with a huge headache, every heartbeat pounding in his head. “Oh my god, what a dream…”. He was pretty sure it had all been just a dream, the best dream he had ever had, but just that. And then he opened his eyes, and saw that sunken face, with cum drops all over, looking at him without believing what had happened, attached to the freaky body he had seen in his dream, and he realized that it had been real. He heard Jeff saying: - Where the fuck have you been my whole life?
  16. dredlifter

    The Giant Football Coach - Chapter 6

    Previously: Sorry for the slow continuation, summer is a busy time! Chapter 6: The Press The next morning my buddies and I gathered with interest around our computers to watch Coach's first press conference since he grew to gigantic proportions. Normally these pre-game press conferences were fairly bland. Lot's of boring discussion full of coach-speak on how we will stop our opponent's offense and break through their defense, along with updates on the health of the players. However, obviously today would be very different. The live stream cut in and loud buzz could be heard. Obviously there were far more reporters there than usual as word had leaked out that something extraordinary had happened to our captain. Instead of taking place in the media room in the athletic offices, in which Coach would obviously not fit, the feed kicked on showing the field house. In the background I could make out Coach's living corner, complete with crude, gigantic wooden benches and a bunch of mattresses spread out on the ground. After a couple of minutes the Dean walked up to the podium and began speaking. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. As many of you know, there was an accident on campus earlier this week in the physic lab. Thankfully there were no major injuries but one of our staff was affected by the incident. As I'm sure many of you heard that person was our beloved Coach Wood. I can assure everyone that Mr. Wood is in fine condition...” the Dean paused before continuing “ fact, he may be in better condition than anyone. Before we bring him in to speak with you I have invited the head of the physics department, Dr. Phillip Martin, to explain the situation in more detail. Dr. Martin if you would.” Dr. Martin made his way up to the podium and explained what happened to the best of his knowledge. He started off explaining how a crossed electrical wire sparked a small fire and an explosion. He continued explaining, “...during the small explosion which severely damaged much of our equipment, our prototype ionic photon accelerator beam escaped containment. The beam itself is invisible to the naked eye and so Mr. Wood unknowingly stumbled into the path of the beam as he was rushing to our aid after the explosion. I witnessed Mr. Wood fall to the floor unconsciously as soon as he cross into the beam. Thankfully we were able to shutdown the beam immediately and administer to Mr. Wood. He regained consciousness very quickly and seemed to be fine. As you all know he was taken to the hospital as a precaution. Several reporters' hands flew up and they began to shout questions. “What were the effects of the energy beam?” “Is Mr. Wood going to be able to coach the team on Saturday?” “Is there any danger to any of the players?” Dr. Martin raised his arms to indicate he was requesting silence. Once the room had settled enough Dr. Martin spoke again, “The Dean has only brought me here to discuss the accident. I will answer your questions as best as I can. As far as I can tell there is no imminent danger to Mr. Wood or his players. The effects of the energy beam were...extraordinary. We would have surmised that the the energy beam contacting most humans would have been fatal, yet it seems Mr. Woods' body was able to absorb the energy and convert it into normal human tissues. I surmise it was because of Coach Woods' exemplary physical development and strength that he was able to not only withstand the bombardment of energy particles but be able to make use that energy.” Once again the crowd of reporters erupted raising their hands and shouting out questions. “How was Mr. Wood able to use the energy?” “Is the physical threat to Mr. Wood over?” “Please, Mr. Martin, we have reports that Mr. Wood has grown to double his size. Is that true?” Dr. Martin looked over at the Dean who then nodded back to him. “Well, ladies and gentlemen perhaps its best if we allow you to speak with Coach Wood directly. Dr. Martin turned around and looked back toward the garage door at the end of the field house. A roaring silence emanated from the anxious crowd as the camera panned the side to frame the 40 ft. garage door. And then it happened. A titanic figured appeared behind the door, almost as wide as the opening itself and obviously taller. Coach ducked slightly down, his handsome grinning face blessing the crowd of reporter ahead and far, far below him. Gasps and whispers erupted from those in attendance. Coached ducked, stepped through the down and rose up to his full, proud 50 ft. height. He was wearing a huge blue tank top, obviously the theatre costume department had been able to whip something together for him. Even so, there has no hiding his overdeveloped musculature. Technically, the tank would pass as a shirt, but his pecs were so wide his nipples extended past the fabric and were exposed. About the only thing the giant loose tank hid were his rock hard abs. It reminded me of one of those stringer tanks you sometimes see the pro-bodybuilders wearing. And truthfully that's what our football coach looked like: A colossal, off-season, un-shaven professional bodybuilder. His shorts, socks, shoes, baseball cap and whistle still were holding strong, having grown with him. I suspected he wanted to keep these items on as much as he could in case he grew again. Coach continued to smirk down at the awestruck crowd as he slowly sauntered forward. Even on camera I noticed a handful the reporters get up and walk away and he walked toward them, obviously fearing the brutish giant. Coach reached the podium and stood there, letting the crowd and the world take him in, knowing his masculine superiority could never be more evident. Eventually he spoke. “I WOULD CROUCH DOWN AND USE THE MICROPHONE BUT I'M SURE YOU CAN ALL HERE ME JUST FINE WITH MY BOOMING VOICE.” He joked, but could still sense the tension in among the crowd. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET ME ASSURE YOU THAT YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR. I KNOW I WILL HAVE TO BE CAREFUL AT TIMES BUT I HAVE NO INTENTION OF HURTING ANYBODY. I'M STILL THE SAME 'OLE BALL COACH YOU HAVE INTERVIEWED BEFORE, I'M JUST BIGGER,” Coach chuckled and quickly brought up his naked arms into a quick biceps pose. “I DO APOLOGIZE FOR BEING A BIG UNDER DRESSED. IT'S A GOOD THING I'VE GOT NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF, BECAUSE AS YOU CAN GUESS CLOTHING HAS BECOME A PROBLEM.” Coach grinned down at crowed again, “NOT TO SOUND ARROGANT BUT I DON'T THINK ANYBODY WILL HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME SHOWING SOME SKIN EITHER, HEH HEH.” He then crouched down gave the crowd a quick crab pose, all this muscles exploding in sinewy vascularity. He relaxed the pose, smiled warmly and spoke, "WELL DON'T BE SHY, THIS IS A PRESS CONFERENCE. FEEL FREE TO ASK QUESTIONS." Finally the crowd began to relax and began to engage him. “Are you still growing?” one reporter asked. Coach glanced down at Dr. Martin and shrugged his massive shoulders. Dr. Martin stepped up to the podium right in front of the coach. The camera zoomed in to Dr. Martin as he spoke who was completely dwarfed by two muscular calf muscles flanking him on each side. “I'm strictly working off of conjecture here, but I believe the beam that struck Mr. Wood altered his physiology to be able to absorb energy from outside sources rather than simply ingesting sustenance, or eating and drinking. I believe Coach Wood's growth has been contingent on the amount of energy his body has absorbed. He grown twice now, first to approximately 25 ft and now to nearly 50 ft.” Gasps again erupted from the crowd as they learned Coach's staggering height. The doc continued, “Coach grew during the end of his football practices. From what I understand he was shirtless both times. Since it was been especially hot this week, I believe Coach Wood's body was able to absorb energy from the sun's rays. When he exercised via push-ups at the end of the practice after soaking in the sun's energy, that extra internal effort was the catalyst for the energy to be transformed into bodily mass, thus causing him to grow.” “But is Mr. Wood still growing!!” one of the reporters jumped up and repeated. “The good new is that every time Mr. Wood grows he will then require more energy for that growth to manifest itself again. Based on the square-cube law and my calculations, Coach Wood has grown so much that he would have to lay outside and bathe in the sun for four to six days straight to absorb enough energy to grow again.” A relieved sigh could be heard from the collective crowd. The camera had zoomed out again to capture most of the coach in view, and he clearly smirked when the crowd learned it was unlikely he would get bigger. “It would take a tremendous amount of energy for Mr. Wood to grow again. He will continue to absorb energy from the sun and various microwaves that permeate our existence but are invisible to the naked eye, but the majority of that energy he will expel through normal activity.” Coach then looked down and added, “ALTHOUGH, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, DR. MARTIN AND I BELIEVE SOME OF THAT ENERGY IS STILL BEING TRANSFORMED INTO BODILY MASS. I KNOW MY BODY VERY WELL AND I CAN TELL THAT I AM SLIGHTLY MORE MUSCULAR SINCE I'VE STARTED GROWING.” To demonstrate, Coach looked down at his legs, pointed his feet outward and FLEXED his quads, filling his shorts to the bursting point with giant, dense leg muscle. “THESE SHORTS WERE SLIGHTLY LOOSE A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO, AND NOW MY LEG MUSCLES ARE ABOUT TO TEAR THEM OFF. LOOK AT THE SIZE OF MY LEG MUSCLES!” Coach cockily grinned and scanned the awestruck crowd who were staring at his freaky legs causing the shorts fabric to be taught, which had the double effect of accentuating his bulge. The female reporters swooned and the men had never felt so insignificant and out-manned in their lives. Coach then stood back up to his full height and brought one arm up into a triumphant single biceps pose. He smiled at the enormous ball of muscle peaking toward the ceiling. “I KNOW MY BICEPS WERE ALREADY MASSIVE, EVEN WHEN I WAS A SHORT GUY AT JUST 6 FT 6, BUT I CAN TELL MY ARMS ARE JUST SLIGHTLY BIGGER, MORE DEFINED AND HARDER!” Coach reached his opposite hand up and proudly rubbed the inhuman ball of muscle, grinning happily the whole time. “Where did you find clothes to fit your giant frame, Mr. Wood!?” another male reporter shouted up to him from far below. Coach relaxed his pose and made eye contact with the reporter. “WE'VE DISCOVERED THAT MY CLOTHES ONLY GROW WITH ME WHEN I'M WEARING THEM, SO I SHOULD PROBABLY STOP FLEXING MY MASSIVE THIGHS TO KEEP THESE SHORTS INTACT AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. I ALREADY LOST MY SHIRT, BUT THE THEATRE DEPARTMENT HAS STEPPED UP AND CREATED THIS TINY TANK TOP FOR ME. WE SINCERELY APPRECIATE THEIR EFFORTS IN HELPING KEEP ME CLOTHED." Dr. Martin spoke into the microphone once again. “We aren't completely sure the mechanisms for why the Coach's clothes grew with him. Perhaps the close proximity or even his sweat permeating his clothes is what allowed them to grow as well. Frankly, this is completely uncharted territory and we are very much learning as we go. Thankfully Coach Wood has been very cooperative in letting us monitor him.” “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I KNOW WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME IS SPECTACULAR, BUT LET'S TRY TO REMEMBER THERE IS A FOOTBALL GAME ON SATURDAY,” he spoke, now trying to steer the conversation toward the team. It was a valiant effort, but I suspected it wouldn't last long. A few the area sports reporters were able to refocus and began asking the normal questions on the health of the team. Such as which players to watch for, who's injured, etc. I was thrilled when he mentioned me, “I THINK EVERYONE IS GOING TO BE SURPRISED BY MASON JACKSON, A FRESHMEN CORNERBACK. I THINK HE'S GOING TO BE VERY SPECIAL IN THE YEARS TO COME, POTENTIALLY EVEN AND NFL PLAYER.” I was floored when he said this, did I really have that much potential? Soon another reporter asked, “Mr. Wood, will you be coaching from the sideline this weekend?” “OF COURSE I WILL, WHY WOULDN'T I?” The little reporter seems to shirk in fear at seemingly being rebuked. He added, “Well, Sir, I was just wondering if you still even fit in the coach's box on the side of the field and I-” He stammered before smiled and cut him off. “OH YES I SEE. YES, LITTLE MAN, I WILL BE ABLE TO FIT IN THE COACH'S BOX. ALSO, WE HAVE VERIFIED WITH THE NCAA THAT I WILL NOT BE BREAKING ANY RULES BY BEING SO...MASSIVE. IN FACT IT WILL BE A BIT OF HINDRANCE FOR OUR TEAM. MY VOICE IS SO LOUD AND BOOMING IT WILL BE DIFFICULT TO COMMUNICATE WITHOUT ALLOWING THE OPPOSING COACHES TO HEAR. THANKFULLY, WE DO USE MANY HAND SIGNALS. BUT, OUR AUDIO DEPARTMENT IS ALSO WORKING ON A MICROPHONE THAT I CAN WEAR AND WHISPER INTO.” Coach then looked right at the tiny camera at the back of the room and addressed the team's fans. “I'M ASKING OUR FANS TO BE LOUDER THAN EVER TO HELP MASK MY CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FELLOW COACHES AND PLAYERS! HELP US OUT, BRUTE NATION!” Coach punctuated this statement with a colossal most-muscular pose, filling the frame of the camera shot with huge manly muscle. “I DO FEEL SORRY FOR THE FANS WHO HAVE SEATS BEING ME. MY ENORMOUSLY WIDE BACK MUSCLES ARE PROBABLY GOING TO BLOCK MUCH OF THE VIEW OF THE FIELD. I WILL TRY TO STAND IN DIFFERENT LOCATIONS DURING THE GAME IN AN EFFORT TO ALLOW EVERYONE BEING TO SEE AS MUCH OF THE GAME AS THEY CAN.” Of course this action once again steered the questions toward Coach's development. Another reporter, whom I instantly recognized as the weaselly man from the Channel 11 news, the one who had been bothering me and my teammates, Chet Howard, spoke up, “Just how strong are you, Mr. Wood. Do you think you might be a danger to society?” Coach spotted the little man who asked him the question. He had his hands on his hips in a powerful relaxed pose. The side of his mouth curled up into a half grin. “I WILL NOT BE A PROBLEM, BUT I WILL DEFEND MYSELF AND MY PLAYERS. BUT, TELL YOU WHAT, MR. HOWARD, WHY DON'T YOU FOLLOW ME OUTSIDE AND I'LL WILL SHOW YOU HOW POWERFUL I AM.” Coach then stepped around the podium and slowly sauntered to the opposite end of the field house. I noticed a reporter near the edge of he crowd, close to where Coach was walking, shifting nervously in his chair as our captain's massive sneakers planted on the ground next to him. The camera shifted over to view Coach Wood smirking down across his shoulder at the nervous crowd far below. Once he had passed the crowd and was out of the view the reporters themselves then got up and followed after him. The camera field we were watching was suddenly cut off. My roommate flipped on the local Channel 11 news who also had a live feed running via a shoulder-mounted camera, so we began watching that. The camera turned on to see coach bending over to step outside on the end of he field house that faced the street. The man holding the camera followed and stepped outside into the bright air. Once it had refocused we saw Coach standing on the grass between the field house and the street lined with news vans with his hands on his hips, watching as his little subjects stream outside to watch the events unfold. “I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A STRONG MAN, BUT NOW I'D WOULD SAY THAT IS THE UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE YEAR, DON'T YOU ALL THINK?” Our leader surveyed the intrigued and nervous crowd below. He picked out and pointed to a reporter. A beautiful, blonde, busty woman that I recognized from the Channel 13 news. “YOU. MS. KING OF 13 NEWS...” Coach winked at her and I suspected that he had previously fooled around with, probably often based on how gorgeous she was. “...WOULD YOU MIND HELPING ME DEMONSTRATE MY STRENGTH?” Vanessa King, the lead reporter at Channel 13, looked around nervously. She was biting her lip, obviously conflicted between her fear and intense lust she was feeling for the sexiest, biggest man on the planet. I wondered if she was also nervous that others might find out that she and coach had been together and jeopardizing her journalistic integrity. Perhaps, though, that was why coach picked her out because he knew she would trust him. She looked up at Coach Wood's hot masculine face, composed herself and stepped forward, standing barely shin high to the huge muscle man in front of her. “Sure, Mr. Wood. How may I help you?” Coach grinned, leaned forward and squatted down. “MISS, IF YOU DON'T MIND I AM GOING TO PICK YOU UP WITH ONE HAND. I PROMISE I WILL BE GENTLE.” I imagine Coach had told her that before in the bedroom before plowing her with the biggest cock she would ever have. Vanessa lifted her arms and Coach reached forward and wrapped his thigh-sized fingers around her torso and slowly lifted her into the air and stood up to chest level. “AND YOU ARE LIGHT AS A FEATHER TO ME, MS. KING. I CAN SEE YOU LOOK NERVOUS.” Coach then softened his voice as much as he could and spoke directly to her, “THERE IS NO REASON TO BE NERVOUS, VANESSA. YOU ARE IN THE SAFEST HANDS IN THE WORLD. WITH ME PROTECTING YOU, NOTHING BAD COULD HAPPEN TO YOUR RIGHT NOW.” With Coach lowering his voice his words came even more sultrily and sexily than anyone could imagine. There was an audible female groan from the other reporters and they absorbed his low rumbling, protective words. Any of the other female reporters would've given anything to switch places with Vanessa King at that moment. Vanessa was breathing heavily but it wasn't from fear so much as lust. Coach knew the effect he had on women and he smirked sexily down at the tiny voluptuous woman in his hand. “AS YOU CAN SEE, I AM MUCH STRONGER AND MORE POWERFUL AND THAN ANY OTHER HUMAN ON THE PLANET, AND IT'S NOT EVEN CLOSE.” Coach flexed his biceps with his opposite arm and the enormous split peak erupted upwards, stretching his skin. “WOULD YOU LIKE COP A FEEL, MA'AM?” Vanessa eyeballed the biceps muscle up and to her left. A muscle so big she could practically live inside it. “Um...yes, sure Coach Wood,” she replied. “OK. JUST REMEMBER I WON'T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO YOU.” Coach then raised up the excited reporter and set her down on his biceps! She sat with her butt on the peak and her legs dangling over toward the front. “SEE! I AM SO BIG AND MUSCULAR THAT YOU HAVE PLENTY OF SPACE UP THERE, MISS!” “Oh my, yes, Mr. Wood. You are certainly an impressive man. Your biceps feel like warm stone underneath me!” We could see that Ms. King was shivering, either from excitement, lust, or a fear of heights, possibly all three. “OK, THANK YOU MS. WOOD. I WILL SET YOU BACK DOWN NOW. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR HELPING ME.” “Oh, it was my utmost pleasure!” Vanessa replied excitedly as Coach gently grabbed and set her back on the ground. “SINCE THAT WAS SO, EASY, I DON'T THINK THAT WAS THE BEST DISPLAY HOW TRULY STRONG I AM.” Coach then turned and stepped over toward the street, leaned down and gingerly picked up a news van! He put one hand on the front and one on the back and lifted it up to chest level. We could see was the Action 5 news van. The crowd gasped at his display of power. “AND MAKE NO MISTAKE, THIS LITTLE VEHICLE HERE IS LIGHT. IT FEELS LIKE I'M LIFTING UP A TOASTER. IN FACT WATCH THIS.” Coach then shifted one hand under the van and rested the toy-like vehicle on this palm. He was holding it now with just one hand! While it was still light for him, the weight of the van caused the sinews of his deltoid to erupt in further relief, Meanwhile, he grinned cockily and brought is free hand up into a single-arm biceps pose. The awestruck reporters were beside themselves. “DOES THIS GIVE YOU LITTLE PEOPLE SOME IDEA OF HOW POWERFUL I AM. LOOK AT THIS. LOOK AT MY ENORMOUS BICEPS MUSCLE AND AS I HOLD ONE OF YOUR TINY VEHICLES IN MY OTHER HAND!” Coach then began raising and lowering the news van up and down above his shoulder as if it was a light dumbbell. “I COULDN'T EVEN GET MUCH OF PUMP FROM LIFTING THIS SMALL VAN, HAHA,” Coach chuckled. “DOES THAT ANSWER YOUR QUESTION OF HOW POWERFUL I AM, CHET?” Coach glared at Mr. Howard, who gulped at being spotted and addressed once again. I then noticed, even through the camera feed, what seemed to be an evil glint in Coach's eye. He motioned to set the Action 5 news van back down, next to Chet's Channel 11 news van. As he stepped over to the street, vehicle in hand, Coach kept his eyes on Chet and spoke. “I WANT TO THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING OUT TO DISCUSS THE RECENT DEVELOPMENTS WITH MYSELF AND THE TEAM...” Coach spoke, eyes still locked on the Chet, not watching where we was stepping. Then it happened. As he stepped over the empty car space his foot came crashing down on the Channel 11 news van! The sneaker easily crumpled the roof of the van down to its chassis. As more of Coach's muscular weight bore down the tires popped and gave way as more the metallic vehicle was smashed to the street. A horrendous sound of broken glass and twisting metal pierced the warm summer afternoon. Some in the crowd shrieked. Coach quickly lifted his foot up and metalic debris fell from the treads of his sneakers. He set his foot back down on the grass. He quickly then set down the un-damaged Action 5 van. “OH MY GOODNESS, I AM SO SORRY. I GUESS I SHOULD'VE BEEN WATCHING WHERE I STEP. WHEN YOU ARE A HUGE MUSCULAR GIANT LIKE MYSELF I GUESS I WILL HAVE TO BE MORE CAREFUL AROUND YOU TINY PEOPLE AND YOUR TOYS!” Coach found Chet again in the nervous crowd and addressed him, with a slight sneer. “I AM SO SORRY MR. HOWARD. YOU CAN SPEAK WITH DEAN WHO WILL REIMBURSE YOU FOR THE DAMAGES. I DOUBT YOUR INSURANCE COVERS YOUR CAR GETTING STEPPED ON BY A GIGANTIC FOOTBALL COACH, HAHA!” Chet nervously nodded his head up to the giant masculine man. We all knew it and few in the crowd who new of Chet's methods did as well, but Coach was clearly punishing Chet for bothering his players. All reporters made instant notes not to cross Coach or his players. “WELL THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING.” Coach's face and tone then turned stern. “NOW, I HAVE TO ASK THAT YOU ALL LEAVE MY PLAYERS ALONE. WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME HAS LITTLE TO DO WITH THEM. DO NOT BOTHER MY PLAYERS, THEY NEED TO FOCUS ON SCHOOL AND OUR UPCOMING GAME. IF YOU WANT TO SPEAK WITH ME MORE YOU CAN TALK TO THE DEAN AND MAYBE WE CAN SET UP SOME INTERVIEWS.” The crowd of reporters then erupted again, shouting out questions at the titanic man. Coach simply smiled warmly and raised his hands to quite the crowd, which instantly complied. “THANK YOU ALL AGAIN. I HOPE YOU WILL COME OUT TO CHEER ON OUR TEAM AT OUR GAME ON SATURDAY.” Coach then stepped around the group of action figure sized people, leaned over into the field house and shut the garage door. The feed cut off and we wondered where things would go from there.
  17. Guest

    workout Jeff: Muscle Frenzy

    Hi guys, here’s another chapter of Jeff. This time a heavy chest workout with a hot muscle frenzy in the middle Hope u like it. Here’s the link to the previous chapters: Jeff’s Shredding Freakshow: Jeff: How it all started: -------- 21/05/2016 10:30 am – NYC Jeff had one of “those” days: Those days where his mind had remembered his life: where he had reached, how he had gone from a skinny teenager to a grotesque freak of nature. Those thoughts about his progress, his growth, his natural (or unnatural) genetic variation, that transformed him into an almost skinless shredded freak. Those thoughts got him brutally horned up, since he woke up. And he knew what could satisfy him the most: one equally brutal, intense and insane workout. So he had a HUGE breakfast, with the biggest hard on ever in his pants, and got ready for gym. Still with the heavy breakfast in his stomach, Jeff was heading there. It had been a really good choice: the gym was meant for heavy lifting, but it wasn’t located in the best zone of NYC for that. Instead of heavy bodybuilders, there were lots of mid-aged women trying to keep in shape for his millionaire husbands. There were also some guys into lifting, but not in a hardcore way. But none of that really mattered: when Jeff appeared in the door, most of the people went their homes, and left the whole gym almost for him. Jeff knew the reason: the sole image of his freaky body disturbed them. Some stayed there for some minutes, half mesmerized, half scared, but none of them remained in the gym for more than half an hour, time enough for Jeff to get into his muscle frenzy workout. He knew his capabilities, his natural gift for training and building muscle: no carbs, no workout; but he burned it so fast he had to keep on eating during his workout. A high accelerated metabolism that let him take 100% advantage of each ounce of carbs, and once he stopped, removing any remaining fat in his skin and muscles. So that’s why he carried a huge meal with himself in the gym: 2lbs of rice, chicken, along with the bottle of supplements he needed every 15 minutes. He got into the gym and said hello. As usual, the owner didn’t cheered him back, who would like anyone emptying his gym in 30 minutes? Jeff didn’t take much time to prepare: he wanted to train as soon as possible. He had only one though in his head. “You fucking freak, it’s time to explode those pecs. Fuck I just can’t wait to feel them pump, feel the fibers tear apart, in the most freaky grotesque condition any human has reached”. He drank his first supplements, stuffed his meal in the locker and went to the weights room. He was only wearing his tank top, a XXXXL size that was fucking small for his frame, and looked like a second skin (or a first skin, since his real one was thinner than the fabric), and a pair of shorts, really short ones, with no underwear, who could barely contain his boner. And he didn’t care of that: he was high for his muscles, for his workout, for himself, all he could think about is how he was going to look in just a few minutes, and the freak he’d turn into in the 3 hour workout. He passed by the corridor who lead to the weights room, full of mirrors in both sides. But he did a huge effort not to look at himself. “Go on Jeff, focus!!! Don’t look at yourself yet, you have to start training NOW” But then he got into the weights room… and lost his mind. Mirrors everywhere, from the floor to the ceiling, gave him a reflection of his freaky body from every angle. He made a strong effort not to start posing and look at every muscle group, and headed to the seated bench press machine, but then he looked at himself at the mirror and focused on those pecs. “Oh my fucking god Jeff, you’re a fucking freak!” The pecs were almost fully visible, since his tank top was a really small one. It left visible the whole pecs, even the upper abs, and just covered a small trim by the tank braces. The insertions in his delts were freaky visible, even in a relaxed state, the tight thick tendon supporting the whole muscle and making the fibers flow from it, expanding to the rest of the muscle and forming freaky insertions in his sternon. His former trainer, Andy, had refused to go on training him because he thought he was pushing himself too much, that his health was in risk, so much tension on his bones and tendons could break them. But he didn’t care about that. He went on exploring his pecs, from the collarbone, the clavicles, down to the abs. The thickness of the pecs shocked him in the mirror, and looked down to watch directly at them, and all he could see was MUSCLE. “Awwww look at these freaks, man. You’ve got here two big balloons of muscle”. The sight got him harder. MUSCLE and more MUSCLE. Two immense balloons of muscle that didn’t let him look at his abs or his feet. He could see the cleavage, fucking deep, like a canyon surrounded by walls of muscle fibers. He focused on the insertions of the fibers in the bone, freaky visible, the thick tendon who ran along the cleavage was supporting so much force that is was popping out of his skin. He got his left index finger, sucked it up, getting it really wet, and used it to follow the line of insertions of the left pec fibers in the tendon. Millions, billions, of fibers inserting in a freaky tendon, feeling them with his wet fingers, got him harder again. “Aw Jeff, you’re such a grotesque and disgusting monster. But I fucking love this feeling, being such a peeled freak. Come on” Then he hit a big hard crunch on the right pec. He felt the nutrients he had eaten at breakfast flowing through the muscle to make it contract like hell. The right pec exploded and almost doubled its normal relaxed size. He could see the fibers growing, thickening, pulling the tendon hard, raising it up to release some tension on the bone, and the immense wall of muscle getting freaky thick, cut, higher than the left one, his finger stuck in the middle of it. He took the finger off the cleavage, hit a second crunch with his left one, joining both hands down in his abs and saw the second pec EXPLODE again. “Awwww that’s it u fucker!!! Now it’s enough, now let’s get these babies grow freak” He sat in the bench press and placed the plates at 300lbs. “Just a warm up” He didn’t use his leg to push the helping pedal and make the grip get at a normal position. Instead of that, he moved his hands back back back, in an impossible position to start pushing 300lbs. As he did that, his muscle fibers stretched like hell, his skin suffering an impossible tension, the tendon about to break apart, but he could finally get the grips. The look of his pec was impressive: the stretch had made his skin get even thinner, he could see every fiber, every vein under the skin, thickening to nourish the muscle with blood and carbs. And then he started pushing. The first push was almost bone crushing. He hit a loud roar as he started contracting the pecs. He could feel the impossible tension in the sternon and shoulder tendons, but didn’t care. His external fibers started pulling his arms, some of the fibers just broke, and he could hear that. “Aw fuckkkk that’s it let’s go with it”. He kept pushing and the grip moved effortlessly, making the whole muscle work, contracting in an impossible way, destroying thousands of fibers. His veins thickened to add more blood to the muscle, the muscle smoothed a bit from all that extra blood that his muscle needed to do the rep. As he was reaching the top he arched his back to add more pressure to his lower pec fibers, to make them work as well. He finally pushed to the top and looked at his reflection “Fuck I can’t even look at me”. The brutal growth of his muscle in the very first rep had almost covered his face against the mirror. He had to raise his head to be able to see and what he saw shocked him like hell. “No way, that can’t be me!!!! Whoooa u fucker, u did it again”. That wasn’t a though, he just said it alout.The few people that remained in the gym turned to watch the freak show in the machine. The sight from his position was shocking. His lower fibers were almost bursting out of his skin, freaky visible, the two upper abs were popping like hell, as if the exercise was meant for them. The rest of the abs were covered by the fabric of the tank top but he could see them clearly through the fabric. Popping like hell, covered in veins, even the shreds were visible. His nips were freaky disgusting, looking apparently normal but surrounded by billions of tearing muscle fibers, contracted to the max. “Now let’s do the show”, Jeff thought, and let the weight go down again, slowly, using the remaining carbs in his pecs to work them out while returning to the initial position. His fibers were stretching more and more, as he let the weights go down, but he didn’t stop in a natural starting position, no way, he let the weights go down down down again, his hands going back back back, until he stretched completely the muscle, tearing another hundred of fibers in that movement. And he repeated it again “Hit it, grow”, those were his words while pushing. He didn’t count the reps, he just kept pushing and pushing until he felt satisfied and full of blood. “Hit it grow”, he went on repeating those words aloud, like a mantra, with each rep. Each one getting him harder and hornier, losing his mind, and getting into the frenzy that he knew it was coming. “Hit it, grow”. He closed his eyes, and started visualizing his veins thickening, the fabric stretching, he heard a loud tearing sound and he knew the fabric couldn’t support the pressure and broke apart somewhere “Hit it, grow”, the burn in the muscle was painful, terrible, like a torture, but all he could think was on repping. “Hit it, grow”, he could feel the pecs fibers tearing apart, regenerating almost instantly thanks to his amazing genetics and the supplements, and making the pecs grow like hell. “Hit it, grow”, some heavy drops of sweat were running through his canyon cleavage, some others slowly ran over his over sensitive nipples, giving him a gentle tickle on them. “Awwwwww fuck my nips man, I need some work on them.” He went on “Hit it, grow”, the feeling on his nipples was getting too intense, weirdly intense, extremely horning. Then he opened his eyes and saw the owner of the gym, with a weird look, and his tongue out, working Jeff’s nips. That sight didn’t shock Jeff. He never thought the owner could want to do that, and it was probably because he was out of himself, his eyes were not those of a “normal” person, but a disturbed, crazy, devoted, in a trance one. But Jeff didn’t even care of that, he went on repping for 10 long more minutes of muscle development and nip work. When he finished he was already in a trance, frenzy, he didn’t know what that was. He couldn’t even think of anything, his movements were quite automatic, robotic ones. He stood up, looked at the mirror and saw the huge tear in his tank top at his upper abs. He grabbed the fabric and tore it apart, exposing his whole torso to the owner and no one else, because he had, again, emptied the gym. He gave himself a long look of his pecs. The pecs had doubled their size, each one would probably weigh 45lbs, nips pointing down, dripping sweat, carbs and the fat that his genetics was getting rid of. Slowly but continuously drying out, transforming his huge ballooned pecs into two slabs of freaky cords, tendons, veins, muscle fibers and an almost inexistent skin. The look was absolutely DISGUSTING, GROTESQUE, INSANE, INHUMAN, DISTURBING, but FUCK HE LOVED IT. He smiled at the peeled monster in the mirror and started his muscle frenzy. He extended his arms out, bulging muscles everywhere in his forearms, triceps and the huge biceps, then slowly with an evil grin look started moving them down, making the chest RIPPPPPPPLE from the bottom to the top. The fibers started crushing at the lowermost, the huge wave of muscle moving up. When it got to the nips, the wave made them roll up and point straight, horizontal, surrounded by those freaky and sinewy fibers. When it got to the midsection he crunched it harder, making each pec literally divide into two, and the deep dimple in the external side of the muscles looking like a cave. The wave moved up, getting to the top and forming a huge deep immense long cut along his collarbone, so thick and so deep everyone could fuck and cum into that cut. “Now that’s MUSCLE Jeff!!!!” He looked at the whole picture and got a huge wet spot in his already tight pants. He started oozing precum by gallons, wetting the whole fabric and making it drip to the floor. Then he noticed the owner, sitting there in a corner, next to him, his eyes lost, his cock out, jacking off furiously, with a painful but horned look, shaking his hips to enforce his jackoff, moaning loud, like complaining for not being able to cum. “Aw yeah yeah man. Jeff, this is what you need now. Someone to freak out” Jeff turned to the owner, his huge gigantic pecs still flexed. Relaxed his pose and got into a “normal” status. What Jeff called normal was an insane bunch of shredded beef everywhere, sinews, cords, tendons and veins popping everywhere He removed his shorts and exposed his snake cock, veiny as fuck, precum dripping off his slit non stop. The owner went crazy when he saw him fully naked, bulging everywhere, that monster muscle god in front of him, those pecs pumped like no one else in the world could have. Jeff started walking towards the owner, slowly, with an incredible self confidence who would make anyone crap. The owner got more nervous, his jackoff rate increasing. “That cock is gonna hurt tomorrow”. The manly voice of Jeff made the owner shake his head, and jack off more and more. Then Jeff started his freaking routine, what he called his muscle frenzy, and started hitting pose after pose, just for that poor guy laying there, unable to control his hand. “Let’s see if you can resist this” He started placing his right leg a bit forward, raised his feel and bent his knee. The gigantic leg was smooth but he could see the cuts under the skin. He started shaking the leg, from side to side. 50lbs of muscle moving like hell in front of that poor guy and then “TAKE THIS U FUCKER!!!!” He crunched the leg and the movement stopped in a sudden, transforming the huge slab of muscle into 15 different muscles perfectly cut out, carved in the surface of Jeff’s leg, right to the bone. The way the muscles popped there was a nonsense, disturbing. Even Jeff himself wasn’t believing how they looked today. He turned the leg and made his lateral muscle crunch harder, almost making it separate from the bone, popping out like hell­­­. “Aw fuck man you have to do this, come on!!” Jeff turned his leg outwards exposing the inner thigh and letting that scared guy look his real freak leg part. A giant snake of muscle crawled from the groin to the knee, a giant sartorius muscle, feathered like hell, make of long freaky fibers. Jeff crunched it separatedly and make it pop out, giving it the look of a thick vein. Then he took his hands and slowly followed the muscle, moving it under his skin, playing with him for that guy’s enjoy. He looked at him, and he couldn’t barely move, just jack off, so hard Jeff couldn’t see the hand, just a blur of a hand moving along a really damaged shaft. He decided to end that cock’s pain. “Stand up” The owner stood up without stopping his cock job. “Stop jacking” He obeyed and slowly stopped his furious jackoff. Jeff saw what he had done to himself. The cock was completely red, some of its foreskin was really damaged, small cuts along the skin and a precum foam covering the shaft. Then Jeff kneeled down, got close to the guy, leaned backward and hit an explosive pec crunch, in the same way he had previously pumped them. He could see the deep ridged cleavage, ready for taking that cock in. “Now fuck this” The guy opened his eyes wide, not able to believe it. He looked shocked and Jeff had to repeat, which he hated so fucking much. “I won’t say it again. Fuck this… NOW” The owner of the gym slowly moved towards Jeff, and placed his cockhead on the lower cleavage, next to his upper abs. The pain was impossible, for all the damage he had self-inflicted in his cock, but feeling was just UNBELIEVABLE, AMAZING, PURE HEAVEN. He leaned his head back and moaned loud. Jeff heard that and felt it, he could feel how that guy had let himself get lost in the muscle lust, the muscle frenzy. He started thrusting his cock into Jeff’s cleavage, moaning louder, feeling a terrible pain in his cock, the fibers were so hard it was like grating his own cockhead against some iron grater, but he couldn’t stop, he started fucking that pec god, that shredded bunch of fibers. “Oh fuck yes!!!! Don’t you ever stop” Jeff himself was in a state of pure ecstasy. The fact that this guy was FUCKING his muscle overpassed his limits and got deeper into his lust. He crunched his pecs harder, making them grow, and making that cock bury into the muscle. The guy cried out in pain but went on fucking. Jeff’s eyes went red, each time that cock entered his pec and reached his chin, he give it a deep suck, feeling the hurt cockhead. Jeff started rolling his pecs alternatively up and down, bouncing them, making his inner fibers to literally JACK OFF THAT GUY’S COCK. Both of them moaning loud, louder each time. All Jeff could see was his GROTESQUE PECS and that guy’s cock fucking them. That gave him a full hard on and his balls started churning. “Fuck here it comes. Cum over me!” Jeff made the guy stop fucking his pecs, stood up, stepped back and hit a freaky most muscular pose in that guy’s face. His muscles popped everywhere, freakishly cut, shredded, his traps rising like mountains, his face in a trance look, his jawline about to burst his face skin, the deltoids looking like 10 separate huge muscles on top of his shoulders, bursting out. The tricep and bicep, from that view, were unable to distinguish between them, just two huge gigantic and sinewy muscles forming an amazing frame for the torso, what was indescribable. The 12 pack of Jeff's stomach were popping out like hell, even in the shadows that his arms projected over them, he could see the veins running from his cock up to his abs, branching out to fill them with blood and pump them. But what really got him done was the pecs, they were looking as if two immense basketballs were placed where there should only be pecs. They had doubled their size again, a bunch of disgusting and obscene fibers that he had fucked minutes earlier. That idea make the owner cum. In a loud shout he shot gallons of extremely liquid cum right into Jeff’s pecs. Shot after shot. “Awwwwww that’s it you fucker!!!” Jeff felt the warm cum over his pecs, slowly flowing down, some cum dripping by his nips, some flowing through his abs down right into his cock, and that feeling made him cum like the freak he was. “Take this!!!!!!!” In a sudden explosion, Jeff’s body started shaking as he cum. Gallons of cum flew right into the floor, at the guy’s feet. Shot after shot, he made a pool of cum, a heavy smell that got him even hornier and made him cum more and more. When he dried out of cum, he smiled satisfied, opened his eyes and looked at that poor owner, back to his mind, unable to understand how he had been doing what he did. Mix of shock, embarrassment, disturb, he stood there, still dripping cum, as Jeff was putting his shorts again, entered the locker room, got his second supplements shake and got again into the weights room, right to the inclined bench press, to go on with his workout. Jeff looked at him again, then at the pool of cum and simply said. “It’s your gym. You should clean that mess” And started repping again.
  18. Guest

    worship Jeff's Shredding Freakshow

    Hi guys. Here's a new story, a new character, but still as freak as my previous stories. Been quite inspired, so it's a quite long one, but the first of a series to come. Hope you all like it!!! ------- Bob couldn’t even talk, mouth open, eyes showing a freaked out look, barely able to stand. He stepped back, half afraid of what Jeff could do to him, half scared of the sight of that (human?) being that was standing in front of him. He reached the wall of the room, realizing that he couldn’t go back any further; his legs started to tremble, weakling, and he left himself slowly fell off to the ground, back against the wall, until he reached the floor, not able to keep his eyes off from that (guy?) he had hooked up with. Bob, scared to hell, still had the biggest hard on in his entire life, his cock throbbing uncontrollably, oozing precum since an hour ago. His heartbeat accelerated, adrenaline flowing through his veins. Jeff looked at his date, fully satisfied of his reaction. Who wouldn’t? The mirror in front of him, next to where Bob had landed, gave him a full sight of himself. “FUCK ME, I’M A BEAST!!”, he bragged like a switch when he realized what he had become. He looked at his reflection and all he wanted was to fuck himself. 5’11 tall frame, 28 years old, dark skin, handsome as fuck, and that freaking sick disgusting look he had been living his entire life with. He was there, completely naked, hitting a single bicep pose with his right arm, making his two ceps rise high in the air, almost touching his own fist, covered in veins from the triceps to the highest peak of the muscle, where a freaky knot made of a huge thick vein made the peak look even higher. And with the most shredded look he had achieved in his life, his dehydrated skin barely able to contain all that muscle inside. Robert was still there in the floor, unable to believe that. He had already been with big guys, but the looks of Jeff weren’t human. He explored the bicep with his eyes again, although he knew that would scare him even more. He started with the insertion of the bicep in the deltoid. The muscle was clearly attached to the bone, the thick tendon clearly visible, just surrounded by a sick layer of paper thin skin. From the tendon it started a bunch of fibers, because that’s all he could see: fibers. Muscle fibers that grew thicker, dividing into more fibers, hundreds, thousands, millions of fibers that formed an immense, grotesquely shredded, obscenely peeled bicep, rising high in the air, but divided into two perfect ceps, the inner one, and the outer one, a bit higher. Perfectly separated and split, both ceps competed to be the most awesome work of nature in a man’s arm. Bob could see every single striation in the muscle. Both ceps grew thicker as they got closer to the forearm, forming not a baseball bicep, but two huge impossible baseballs put them together. They finally ended up attaching themselves to the arm, but bulging about 2cm away from the forearm, creating a huge deep and fuckable valley of shredded muscle. The exploration of the bicep made him ooze even more precum, thicker this time, as if he were cumming; but he wasn’t, that was just his human reaction to a perfect alpha male. Then he took a full view of the arm, realizing again that Jeff seemed skinless, the muscle pushing out hard, trying to burst out of it, but the peeled look was so… fucking weird and hot at the same time. Thousands of fibers pushing one against the other, fighting for space in a huge arm whose skin was not able to contain so much muscle. He could even see, from there, how some fibers broke with such and intense crunch, making a soft sound, and tearing apart, letting more free space for new and thicker fibers that were regenerating in that very moment. Bob’s cock throbbed another spurt of thick white pre. As he had thought before, that sight scared the hell out of him, and his breath suddenly stopped for a second, not sure if he was living a dream or if that was real. He took a moment to view Jeff’s whole frame, that 5’11 tall, 28 year old muscle monster who showed no fat at all. Peeled from head to toe, Jeff seemed like a skinless anatomy chart, only covered by veins instead of skin, some of them thicker, some of them thinner, but covering him everywhere, from his toes to his very jawline muscles. Robert had always loved ripped guys, even shredded guys, and when Jeff told him he was the most shredded guy ever, he didn’t really believe him. ”He’ll be just one of those skinny guys who call themselves ripped and they’re just toned”, he though. But, now and there, looking at that obscene freak of nature, he realized Jeff had lied. He couldn’t be called “shredded”, that was something further, something beyond nature, that couldn’t be healthy or even possible. How the fuck was this guy living? Just by taking a look at his whole frame and the intense crunch on that freaky bicep, he should be dead by now! A small tear fell off his eyes, which Jeff clearly noticed, fucking satisfied at it. But he wanted more, he wanted to make Bob cry, get him really scared, and at the same time give him the biggest orgasm of his puny fucking life. Jeff’s mind changed in that very moment, turning from a self-proud muscle freak to an out-of-his-mind muscle beast. He changed his face, erased that smile he always wore when being worshipped and turned it into an aggressive look. He walked towards Robert, there in the floor, got on his left knee and placed his freakish, mountain-like bicep really close to Bob’s face. Bob looked at him nervously, moving his eyes from the bicep to Jeff’s face, not sure what was going to happen. Bob took a close look of that bicep and his mind couldn’t process all of it. From that close, the bicep didn’t seem a muscle, it was hard for him to distinguish where the biceps ended and where the triceps started, the freaky cut between both muscles was so freaky striated and veiny that all he could see was muscle, thick, sinewy, obscenely shredded, millions of fibers just a few inches away from his eyes. He could clearly see how Jeff hit small harder crunches to make the muscle move under the skin, his fibers twitching, fighting for a space that wasn’t available anymore. Jeff was high, high for his muscle, high for Bob’s reaction, high for his own muscle-lusting mind. All he could think about was to blow that guy’s mind. “Look at it!”, he ordered Bob. Bob couldn’t react, begging with his eyes not to force him to watch that insane muscle once again. Jeff’s face looked angrier, and repeated “LOOK… AT… IT… NOW!”. Bob turned his eyes to focus on his unbelievable biceps. It was even thicker than before, but then Jeff did his own freak show. He started re-crunching his inner cep, the lower one, slowly getting it harder, more round, the peak higher, but what was more important to him: more shredded!! His inner cep contracted more, and he knew what was going on inside, he was dehydrating the muscle and filling it with blood to grow it. The cep fibers literally tore apart and healed in Bob’s eyes, in a random order, growing thicker, dividing into more muscle fibers, striations getting freaky cut, it was just as if the muscle were dividing into thousands of smaller muscles, but the reality was that the cep had grown more than an inch in just ONE HARD CRUNCH, in front of Bob’s eyes. Bob was about to faint. He started stuttering: “No way… no.. no… no way”. He frowned his eyebrows, trying to concentrate on not fainting. “Please, don’t go on”, he begged Jeff. But Jeff was too high, and he wouldn’t stop. He did the same with the outer cep, the higher one, the more veiny one, he hit a freaky harder crunch on that individual cep, making the muscle tear apart faster than before, growing thick, sinewy, shredded as fuck, peeled. The sight was too obscene for Robert, who turned his face away, even though his cock was throbbing more precum than ever. Jeff immediately took Roberts face with his sinewy veiny hands and forced him to look at his bicep and in the very moment that Bob looked again, he increased the crunch, making the cep literally EXPLODE and grow 3 inches in a sudden, his huge thick veins dividing into branches who covered the cep to fill it with more blood and grow them larger. “Now, LICK!”. Bob had no free will by then, his mind was controlled by the freak show he had seen just some seconds before, and like a zombie leaned towards Jeff’s bicep, took his tongue out and carefully placed the tip of it in the split of both ceps. Jeff felt that warm wet and shy tongue and his heart stopped for a second. That was the thing he loved the most: a stuttering shy and afraid guy surrendering to his muscles and finally worshipping him. His face changed again to his usual kind and smiling face, satisfied as fuck, then he took Robert’s head and slowly made him lick all the split, from the deltoid bound to the forearm. Robert let his mind go to the worship and felt both ceps with his tongue, the bigger and veiny upper one, and the even more shredded and dry lower one, looking at Jeff’s eyes as he did it and noticing his newly smiling and self-satisfied look. Then, by himself, Robert placed more of his tongue on Jeff’s outer cep, slowly running it up to the peak, noticing each of those freaky striations with his tongue and every single vein on top of it. When he reached the peak and noticed the knot of veins, he started playing with it, moving it under the freaky thin skin, making Jeff moan like a beast. That turned him even more, and started licking the ceps harder, letting his mind go into that muscle lust he had never thought he could experience. Jeff went on crunching, the harder he could, feeling a terrible pain in his bicep, noticing how the cramps were increasing to an unbelievable level. But all he wanted was that, have Robert crazy for him. He took Bob’s head off his bicep and extended it for him, his whole arm in front of him, dozens of freaky slabs of shredded beef forming an insane 75lb arm, from the balloon deltoid to the veiny sick skinny wrist and hands. He turned the arm to show Robert all angles of that incredible mass of obscenely sinewy muscles. The forearm looked as thick as Robert’s leg, with two clearly visible parts on it: the inner forearm, full of hose-thick veins, that even extended looked sick, sinewy, fibers running from the wrist to the elbow cave, twitching one against the other, fighting to bulge out, and the outer side, who just was insanely shredded. Dozens of thick bulging strings attached to his wrist with freaky and clearly visible tendons; a forearm so incredibly cut, cuts so deep that Robert somehow thought they were detached from the bone underneath, and each one of them so freaky shredded they seem being made of layers and layers of fibers, and covered by thousands of smaller veins. The triceps were hanging low, freaky low, as if it were another bicep flexing but downwards. Even in that extended pose, the cuts were freaky visible, all of them really deep into the arm right to the bone, no fat al all, it was just… MUSCLE, pounds and pounds of muscles glued to his suffering bones. When Jeff turned his waist to his left and extended again the arm but looking left, the view changed completely. Robert could see Jeff’s triceps in all its glory: three perfectly visible muscles, which weren’t really visible in any other bodybuilder, were just clear as water in him. The longer one, in the outer side, connected to his elbow by a thinner but extremely strong tendon was just a freak of nature. The term shredded was and insult, there were millions of fibers, clearly visible, crossing the muscle from the middle arm right to the cut with the biceps. The middle one, right next to the deltoid, was just a bulging mass of grotesque fibers, who was fighting for space with the third muscle, on the opposite side, bulging hard, magnificent, shredded as fuck. The three of them forming an immense horseshow made of muscle that blew Bob’s mind away. “What the… fuck?”, it was all that Bob could say when he saw that insane display of muscle. “Oh my fucking god”, he stuttered as he leaned forward to start licking those three mounds of freaky muscle, as if he were a dog, running his tongue all over the cuts, feeling the fibers, trying to pinch some skin with his teeth, and not able to take the slightest ounce of skin, that freak was almost skinless!!!!! Jeff’s mind went higher when he suddenly noticed how that shy and puny muscle worshipper had finally let himself go to the worship of every muscle in him, that his fear had become a desperate need for muscle. His cock spurted a huge thick ooze of precum, thick and long as fuck, spewing it right into his leg, and decided to explode the tricep again. He took a deep breath, his chest inflating deep and hit an extreme tricep crunch who made the three ceps of it explode and double its size in a second. “GROARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. FUCK THAT’S IT!!!!!” He felt his tricep explode and hit Bob’s mouth. Robert saw the show and couldn’t believe it. Jeff’s arm had become something monstrous, something beyond the nature of any human being. Peeled from the deltoid to the elbow, some parts of the triceps skin were so stretched that he could see small little cuts, as if the skin were about to tear apart. His mind changed again into a freaked status and started stuttering: “No… no no no no no”. Jeff turned his face to see Bob’s, smiling with a cocky look, satisfied, and replied: “Of course yes, you fucker”. In a sudden he crunched his bicep again, hitting a single bicep back pose, crunching the hardest he had EVER done in his life, and making his arm explode into billions of muscle shreds, veins, sinews, striations, and even in that freaky status, the cuts and insertions of each muscle were so perfectly visible, deep to the bone, that his arm looked like perfectly cut out masses of muscles glued to the bones, his skin about to tear apart open to let the muscles grow even more. Robert started crying, tears running down his face. “You’re a monster, a fucking freak of nature, you shouldn’t exist, you’re too grotesque and disgusting for people, but… but… but… I fucking love you…” He rolled his eyes and started breathing heavily, still crying. From his view, Jeff could see thick huge spurts of cum flying high into the air and landing into his own bicep, one after the other. “Yeaaah that’s it baby, cum to your monster”, he said satisfied as he noticed how Bob was crying and cumming at the same time, his ultimate muscle lust, being so freaky disgustingly shredded that people wouldn’t believe he was real, that he was a monster, and even so, making them cum just by flexing his muscles. That fact hit him deep inside, watching his own biceps pumped to the fullest, covered by Bob’s cum and he knew his own cum was coming. “Awwww yeah, that’s it you freak, cum to your freaky shredded muscles”. He turned to the opposite mirror, his back facing the fainted Robert, to watch himself and started hitting freaky poses, one after the another: double bicep, abs pose, most muscular, traps high, side chest, triceps pose, non stop. Every time he hit a crunch, his cock was growing thicker, longer, watching that freak of nature, that product of evolution, shredded from head to toe, become more and more shredded with each pose, his skin about to burst. He extended one leg, balancing on the other one and crunched it freaky hard. His immense quad exploded into four ceps of pure mass of feathered striated beef. His calf looked like another leg, just a thick mass of muscle peaking inwards, rock diamond shaped, and his inner thigh run by a long freaky thick feathered sartorius that flowed from his balls to his knee, barely visible for so much muscle around it. Covered by thousands of small veins, he knew he couldn’t hold his cum anymore and hit a final pose: placed his hands behind his head, spreading his lats wide, forming an obscene inverted triangle of shredded muscle, his serratus already looking like a brick road, his obliques turning into a grotesque bunch of parallel long fibers from his serratus right into his abs, and his thick Adonis belt framing his abs like two devil snakes inserting into his cock base. From behind, Robert recovered from his shocking experience and watched Jeff’s pose. His insane arms framing his head, the shoulders from behind were nothing but a compendium of anatomy, dozens, if not hundreds, of muscles attached to his arms and grotesquely inserting right under his traps. Those bulging traps, shredded to unbelievable limits, inserting into his spine so clearly he was almost close to puking: both traps were so fucking separated and shredded that he could clearly see the bones of his spine between the two mounds of muscle. The lats were so fuking spread that he had to physically turn his head to be able to see them all. The lats striations run from the front of Jeff’s body right into the middle of his back, forming an insane cut that seemed more a ridge than a real insertion. Both muscles forming an impressive Xmas tree shape that blew his mind away again and made him start crying again. He couldn’t do another thing but reach them and start caressing it, tracing the insane saw of his Xmas tree with his fingers, unable to find something he could call fat, water or even skin, it felt like touching raw muscle. He felt such a pervert for enjoying that muscle freak, but went on worshipping his back. And so Jeff felt it. He hadn’t noticed how he recovered until he heard his cry and felt his fingers admiring and adoring his gigantic freaky shredded back. He then focused on his last muscles to adore: that impossible 10 pack that made most of guys cum in their pants when he started training in the gym. 10 freaky cobblestones, made of pure muscle, shredded vertically, run by a thousand small veins who joined in the lower abs to form two huge hose-thick veins running right into his cock. Those abs got him even harder but he wanted more. He took another deep breath, and hit another impossible abs crunch, suffering like hell the pain he was self-inflicting in his body, but then the abs started popping out even more, one by one, first the upper ones, shredding at the same time, then the second row, who popped with an audible sound, POP, POP, then the third row, the fourth and finally his fifth row of abs popped out like hell making his stomach look like an insane washboard of shredded beef. But then he pushed himself further, crunched harder his pube muscles, which he had never used but for jacking off, making them pop out, forming an extra pair of abs and turning himself into a 12-pack monster. That was too much for him. His eyes injected with blood and self-lust, the touch of Robert from behind, and the sight of his own reflection, turned into a monster, made his whole body tremble, shake and ripple like hell as his balls started pushing all that cum out of his huge cock. “THERE YOUUUUU GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”, he shouted like hell as his abs and pube muscles contracted to throw huge and thick spurts of muscle cum right into his reflection. First shot looking at his abs, second shot looking at his insane biceps crushing his ears, third shot feeling Bob’s hands in his back, fourth shot looking at his insane lats and serratus, fifth shot for his calves and sixth one for his insane shredded quads. “FUUUUCKKKK YESSSSSSSS”, Jeff shouted out loud as he was shooting his last shot of cum right into his pecs’ reflection. Jeff rolled his eyes up, stood up, walked to his bed, and left his weight fell to it, exhausted, finally relaxing his muscles. “Now go”, he told Robert. He laid there, exhausted but satisfied, playing with Robert’s cum in his biceps, thinking about his life, and how he ended up being such a freak, as he heard Bob closing the door and walking away, still crying. -------- Here are the links for the next chapters. I hope you like it too!
  19. "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 NG "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed Precis: Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant. There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection. Known as Project Herculaneum, the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it. The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military. Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality. Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant. Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship. Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential. To start back at the beginning with Chapter One, click on the link below: "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped October 22nd, 2017 After the bout between Casey and Abdul, the musclemen retired to their separate corners of the compound. The vanquished Abdul, rivulets of dried cum caked to his physique, dragged Pedro along with him back to quarters. “Service me,” he growled. He threw open the door to his room and tossed Pedro onto the floor. Five minutes later, after a satisfying dump and a quick infusion of P21, Abdul was in the center of his room, working out on a speed punching bag hanging from the ceiling. His red, raw fists pummeled the stained leather furiously while Pedro gingerly danced around him, carefully washing the cum off his physique with a wet towel. Occasionally he leaned in and gingerly pressed a warm tongue against the muscle giant’s body, licking the cum-covered muscles respectfully, hoping not to get swatted away. It didn’t happen. Emboldened, he finished cleaning off his god. He took a deep breath, and grabbed ahold of Abdul's musclebutt. "Permission to worship?" he asked hopefully. Abdul grunted, and nodded slightly. Pedro deeply buried his face in the muscleman’s rock hard pillow glutes, feeling the heaviness of iron-like musclebutt cheeks violently knocking his head right and left as Abdul rhythmically punched the bag. This was what his god wanted. He knew this. Abdul said nothing, but slightly arched his back, to better extend his ass and receive the comfort of Pedro’s tongue up his butthole. They lasted like this long into the night, Abdul punching the bag with fury, Pedro probing his tongue deeply into his gyrating asshole, until Abdul reached back, grabbed Pedro by the back of the head, brought him violently around, threw him into the air and forced his massive penis into the teen’s small, hard butt. He fucked the boy mercilessly for about ten minutes, Pedro screaming happily with insane delight, his cries echoing down the corridor, as the giant member pleasurably pounded his butthole into raw meat. When he was near to climax, he pulled out and came about a quart all over Pedro’s writhing, grateful little bottom, grunting deeply as he shot, a bear in the woods. UNGH UNGH UGNH YEAH A moment later he push-kicked Pedro’s butt away. Pedro went sprawling, his hard little bottom covered with cum. “Get out of here,” he snarled, but with something like warmth, or so Pedro thought. “Yes, sir!” Pedro squeaked, and ran for the door. Abdul was asleep in 2 minutes. He dreamed only of revenge. Pedro scampered back to his room, where he masturbated gleefully for the next hour, envisioning a world of musclemen as he worked his pretty little cock into repeated starbursts of cum frenzy. He finally drifted into a woozy, muscle-filled sleep about 3 AM, knowing he’d have to be up by 6 to start breakfast with the compound chefs for the 19 musclemen. It was heaven. He was living in heaven. Lang and Alvarez drifted back to Alvarez’s room, where they posed-and-approved for about 45 minutes before falling asleep on the dais, Alvarez’s cock languidly filling Lang’s mouth, their ripped posers discarded and on the floor. Schumacher, Jin, Washington, Obatu and LeFevre carried the knocked-out Blankenship to his room. Fortunately, P-21 strengthened bones, too, and Blankenship’s black and blue jaw was okay – otherwise, it might well have been shattered by the force of Abdul’s powerful punch. They retired separately to their rooms and reflected on what they’d seen tonight. This Rockland kid was a threat. In their separate quarters all five men jerked off, and thought. And thought. And jerked off. Hearing Pedro’s echoing, ecstatic cries as he was being masterfully buttfucked by Adbul, each man shot muscle cum up and out into the dark, splashing onto their abs, the floor, the ceiling, everywhere. Blankenship, of course, was out for the night. Deep in his knocked cold sleep, he dreamt vaguely of doing endless sets of curls. And squats. Especially squats. He smiled in his sleep, two teeth missing. Tiffany, smug and satisfied and unaware his life was about to drastically change, drifted off. He remembered Casey from the world outside, but it was clear the big dumb muscleboy didn’t remember him. Yet. Eli Meyer, quietly determined to get off on real muscle, and not just fantasy, followed Hension back to his room. He knocked on the door, and Hension, startled, opened up. Meyer smiled. He went in. For the next hour the two men took turns with some heavy butt fucking. In turns, each muscleboy’s big dick met the other’s hard glutes and sweetly receiving butthole as they fucked each other silently in the dark. Finally Hension spoke, even as Meyer ploughed him. “Stinkface me,” he said, emphasizing the words, turning his head back and to the side so that the deaf Meyer could read his lips. It was all he said. It was all he had to say. Meyer nodded agreement, pulled his thick cock out of Hension’s butthole, got up and squatted down onto Hension’s handsome face, burying him in striated, iron glutes. He rotated and jerked his big dick. A few minutes later both men came, cum splashing sloppily onto Hension’s ripped abs, pooling in the deep valleys of muscle. And five minutes after that, both were curled up and asleep on the floor, wrapped deeply into each other’s muscles. In their separate quarters, McIntyre and Duncan, ever quiet and reflective, sat up awhile and listened to the compound’s nocturnal moans and gasps, punctuated by the sounds of the speed bag, and then the butt fucking drifting down the corridors. Finally each man reached into his pouch and jerked off again before hitting the hay. Gunst headed right to the gym. He tooled himself through a punishing biceps workout, doing curls long into the night, then flexing and inspecting. Gotta get these guns bigger, he grumbled to himself. Eventually he crawled off to quarters and to bed, and without jerking off. The others – Chad, Bogarde, and Waring – stood in a darkened corner of the hallway leading from the wrestling room, hungrily sucking one another’s cocks and taking turns butt fucking for an hour or so, before turning in for the night. And in the backs of the minds of all the men on campus were visions of the perhaps-perfect newest member of the club, the young bodybuilder whose gigantic, ripped and raw physique they had gotten their first taste of this evening. Moster, in his quarters, was satisfied. He slept without dreaming. He had to pick up Casey in the cadet dorms mid morning, and bring him back up the hill to his new muscle life. Unaware of the muscle sex going on in the compound behind him, and unaware of how his muscles started it all, a shuttle bus took sole passenger Casey back down the hill the two miles to the cadet dorm near the front gates, where he had been living and training the last two years. ************* Early the next morning, after his usual early morning workout and a breakfast of two steaks, 6 eggs, unbuttered toast, a quart of yogurt and 3 cups of black coffee, Casey went back to his room and packed his few possessions in preparation for his move up the hill to the main compound. His black eye still stung from the night before, but it also looked – well – incredibly hot. Or so Casey thought, inspecting it closely in his mirror. There were six other cadets in the dorm. Five of them gathered to quietly watch him pack up his few belongings, giving him congratulations and good luck and a sad little goodbye party. It was just a few protein bars, a colorful do-rag, a new gym bag (which they all chipped in on) and five slightly torn oversized XXXL-sized jockstraps. Casey knew they went to some trouble to get everything together. He was deeply grateful. But he didn’t know what to say. In truth, Casey hadn’t really gotten to know any of his fellow cadets in the two years he had been in residence in the cadet dorm. It was not from any snobbery, but from shyness and his natural reticence against intimacy in dormitory settings. All the same, apart from Miles Donovan and Ramon Ramon, Casey counted them as among his few friends in the world. “I’m gonna miss you guys,” he said. He sniffed a little. These guys were like him. Lonely, nice boys who had nowhere to go except the gym, and nothing to do but pound their bodies every day, growing big muscles. Over 1450 pounds of burgeoning, testosterone-fueled teen muscle gathered in 10 x 16 square foot room. And there was a lot of emotion in the air. Casey was their hero, and at 310 pounds, and at just 18 years of age, he was already far and away the biggest of all of them. Something had to happen. “You been ready a long time for those dudes,” said Cadet Tommy Rowenstein, a tousled blond middleweight Jewish Tom Sawyer of muscleboy who liked to work on his pecs. “Surprised they didn’t ask you long ago.” “Guess they know best when I’m ready.” “That how you got the shiner, Case?” “Shut up, dick wad.” “Can we come up the hill visit you?” asked Alan Owenbee, a sweet-faced young cadet with a friendly face and a slightly sub par physique that all knew would never develop much further. “Naw, we can’t go up there,” said Cadet Brent Ogden. “You know the rules. Plebes only by invitation. And they never invite us.” He sounded forlorn. “Sure,” said Casey. “You can come. I’ll ask. I’ll get permission. You can all come. We can all train together up there in the big gym.” “Gee, you think? Really??” “Shit, thanks, Case!” “Yeah, thanks!” The boys couldn’t believe the possible good news, and were now almost bouncing with excitement. “I’m gonna work on my guns with ya!” shouted Ogden. The others glanced at Ogden and grinned. An angel-faced kid with red hair, he had nice big muscles for a 15-year old, and surprisingly ripped abs, already weighing in at 185 pounds. He also had a complete inability to filter his speech. They all suspected he was a little slow. “At last, someone even dumber than me, “ Casey thought. No one knew whether or not he had any family; like Casey, Ogden was a foundling. Casey tousled his hair affectionately and zipped up his duffel. “I’ll always work on my guns with you, Brent.” Ogden grinned from ear to ear, his life made. He grew beet red with embarrassment and pleasure and spent the next few minutes inspecting his own biceps, flexing and unflexing them thoughtfully. Another cadet with more promise, and lot more self confidence, Brian Banks, a handsome black-haired extra lean 1950s greaser type turned bodybuilder, watched Casey from the corner, perched on the window seat, his deep-lidded dark eyes half closed. “So, Case, what happened last night?” “I’m not sure yet.” He turned and looked helplessly at all of them. They were waiting for some kind of an answer. “Yeah, Case, what happened?” He knew all the cadets admired and respected him. Overall, they were a pretty good bunch of guys, even if for the most part they had no muscle future. But he could use some friends, if last night’s wrestling match had been any indication of where this was all headed. And he was still thinking about last night. Those bodybuilders up the hill were a wild and crazy bunch. Huge, every one of them, the biggest musclemen Casey had ever seen, or even imagined. And even the younger guys, like that pretty-faced dude Hension, the mute Eli Meyer, and the wide-eyed Lang, seemed to have agenda of their own. And then there was that big mean bull, the Turkish guy, Karim Abdul. And Schumacher, who had growled at him and threatened him. Scary dudes. But hot. The wrestling was fun, though, when he thought about it. Casey had surprised at himself, at how skilled he was, how strong and fast. But then he had learned a lot from Ramon Ramon at Miles Donovan’s, and though Ramon was 3 times his age and far smaller, Ramon could always beat him. So he learned from the best. And – true – a few times when Casey shot his load on the wrestling mat after a bout, Ramon Ramon had joined him. There was something fun, something special about the tough, grizzled old daddy Latin wrestler happily pounding his hairy big meat, lying there next to Casey on a slick, sweat-drenched, stinky wrestling mat. And Casey knew Ramon was straight. No sissy, he. Straight straight straight, with a hot, mean, pretty little wife he fucked hard every night, or so he said. Casey had no reason to doubt him. I wonder how Abdul would do wrestling with Ramon? Casey wondered. And then, after all, all the bodybuilders had shot their loads all over the two of them last night at the end of the wrestling match, all over him and Abdul. He hadn’t expected that. Was it an insult? Or an honor? Casey was still having trouble taking it all in. And what about that punch that Abdul threw at Blankenship? It was awesome. Abdul’s fist shot out like a cannon, catching the handsome, smirking bodybuilder Blankenship right on the point of the chin. Probably broke his jaw. The guy’s feet never touched the ground. He just flew into the air and landed about 20 feet away. And then there was afterwards, with Moster closely inspecting his dick and that little ginger muscledude Tiffany sucking it just to find out how big it really was. Measuring dick size by mouth. It was all pretty weird. And he never even did get to do even a basic posing routine. He wanted to show these guys how much he liked to pose. Maybe he could pose for them later today? Casey really liked to pose. He did it for hours, alone in his room, peering into his crummy full-length mirror, looking for any improvements, and weaknesses, any new veins, any new striations, any sign of lingering babyfat. He wasn’t used to an audience. Casey had never known many people, and he certainly had never competed onstage, even though Miles Donovan had encouraged him to consider it. And now that he had trained hard, lived for training and diet and posing for so many years, now with the Home behind him and all the bullies, he was ready for others to see how big his muscles were. He was ready to pose for admirers. For a crowd. He hadn’t done that yet. So maybe these guys would accept him more if he posed for them? The babyfat was long gone, after all. And he was sure he could learn a few things, too. Maybe get some pointers from that dude Alvarez. He heard that Alvarez and Lang were always practicing their posing. But in any event, Casey now knew, after last night, that just having big muscle wasn’t enough. A big cock was pretty important, too. For the first time he was beginning to feel relieved, even joyful about his huge member. He had always been so embarrassed about it, he could never hide it, it was always prominent in his jeans, in whatever he wore. People could always see it flopping around in his pants, pushing out his fly in an obscene bulge. And he hadn’t found posing trunks that he really fit in yet. Not trunks, at least, that he wasn’t always popping out of, or worse, ripping the fabrics to shreds with his first big hardon. And posing usually gave him a hardon, which he’d have to stop and take care of. He'd shoot pints of milky thick cum against his mirror, and then he'd have to stop and get a roll of paper towels to clean it al up before he could start again. Or else he wouldn't have been able to see his reflection. And the sight of his muscles was what made him cum so ferociously. It would certainly be a challenge onstage, if he ever decided to compete. He had bought a few posers from online, trying them out, checking for the right colors. But so far, everything he had bought was just so….well….ridiculously inadequate. He hadn’t even begun to think about colors. Even if he managed to get the posers up his treetrunk quads, there was no way the simple kiddie-type pouches were able to cover his hefty manfruit. To say nothing of containing his coconut-sized balls. Still. Even so. “Good thing I got this big meat after all. I guess.” He muttered to himself as he walked, bowlegged as always with his bodybuilder waddle, over to the mirror. The cadets watched him as he walked across the small dorm room. “Hunh?” “What’s that, Casey? About your meat?” Ogden looked up, still inspecting his biceps, but suddenly alert to what was going on in the room. Casey looked back at them and pointed down to the sagging bulge that loomed out of the front of his baggies. “I said, it’s a good thing I got this super big meat. All the guys up there are hung huge. It’s important to them. Sergeant Moster showed me.” He thought for a moment. Maybe those dudes knew where to get posers that actually fit? Or maybe they had them made privately? Probably they did. They had to. And certainly from the layout of the place and the size of the gym and the wrestling room, they could afford a few extra yards of reinforced spandex to hold in a few giant cocks. Banks was studiedly casual. He inspected Casey’s black eye a little more closely and nodded, as if a question was answered. “Unh hunh. Bet he did. I heard about Sergeant Rod Moster. Seems he was there too. He give you that black eye?” “Yeah, he’s the dude in charge. He was there. And no, he didn’t give this to me.” Casey turned back and gazed at his package in the mirror. He repeated. “I had to fight one of them.” “Who?” asked Owenbee, breathless and getting hard now. “Abdul. Karim Abdul.” He paused. “You should see him this morning.” “He got a big package, too?” Casey colored, embarrassed. “Yeah, he does. I mean, I didn’t see it. Well, I didn’t see it well. I mean, I didn’t see it close up….” He stopped, confused. The guys were looking at him. “Well, one thing, these are the biggest goddam dudes I ever saw in my life.” “Lookin’ good?” “Fucking awesome. All of them. Moster’s like 7’ tall. No bodyfat. Biceps the size of my head. And…” “Big package?” “Yeah. He has the biggest dick. They say it’s the biggest dick on earth.” Casey turned back and began to flex for himself feverishly in the mirror. He had to get bigger. Banks liked Casey well enough and would miss him in the dorms. Even if the young muscle giant was a little dopey and innocent. Okay, Casey was stupid. Everyone knew it. Dumb as a bag of hammers. But a sweet guy, if you didn’t get on his wrong side. And besides, he’d also long had eyes for Casey’s astonishingly rounded, rock hard glutes, never mind the cock, and now knew he probably wasn’t gonna dip his stick inside the promised land of Casey’s musclebutt for a long time to come. If ever. Or even suck his dick. Maybe some day. Oh, well. Still, he wished Casey well. He was a good dude. He’d stand up for him any time. Now he stood behind him, watching his superwide batwing lats as he posed in the mirror, watching his perfect big round rolling glutes quivering a little in the seat of his stretched-tight pants. “I hear there’s a lot of sex in the main compound,” he said slyly. “Yeah, I guess there is.” Casey slowed down posing, caught Banks’ eye in the mirror, was a little circumspect. Not that he knew what the word meant, but that is what he was at that moment. “No chicks, though?” “No, I guess there ain’t. I didn’t see any last night.” Casey blew out a blast of air, followed by a honk of laughter. The tension eased. He grabbed his duffel and turned around towards the boys. “No chicks!” “Good!” said Ogden, still inspecting his biceps. “Guess I’m big enough. Thanks for the party, guys,” he added. “And the, um….” He gestured to his duffel bag. “….the extra jockstraps…..I can always use them.” “Actually, two of them were already yours. We just re-retrieved them from….somebody…” said Rowenstein. Owenbee turned crimson with shame and embarrassment. “Hey. Thanks. Alan, you were always a good friend. Here. Wait a moment.” Casey put his duffel down, lifted his heavy sweatshirt and kicked out of his baggies, stepping out of them fast and surprisingly easily over his big feet. “I have to get these off fast sometimes, so I cut out the, you know, drawstrings around the pants legs, to make it easier to fit over my shoes. Sometimes I don’t have a lot of time before…..” His voice trailed off. “You know.” Banks nodded, feigning seriousness. “We know.” All the cadets knew that sometimes during workouts Casey suddenly had to shoot a load, and to avoid coating his baggies with splotches of his unusually heavy, copious cumspurts, he ripped off his sweatpants and shot into a bucket that he kept on the side of the gym floor. By the end of the workout, the bucket was often half full. A few of the boys would often sneak away with it afterwards, loving the scent, loving the taste, drinking it all down, hoping it would make them grow into a muscle monster like Casey. “Yeah. We all know,” said Ogden. Owenbee and Rowenstein both nodded seriously. “Yeah, you got a problem, dude.” Rowenstein couldn’t help chuckling a little. “Big problem.” Then they both grinned, their smooth boyish faces lighting up. “I know.” Casey smiled. “So why is it, by the way, all this time I been here, that so many of my jocks go missing?” Shuffling of feet. Heads down. “Aw, Case…..” said Ogden. He stood before them in his sagging, bulging jock. “This one is new, I just got it.” All knew he had to order his jocks and posers online. Standard sizes just didn’t fit, and then the posers just didn’t last. “Here.” He curled his thumbs around the reinforced jock straps on his loins and tugged. His cock popped out and hung free, 10 solid inches of soft thick swaying girth. “Jesus,” breathed Owenbee. Banks was impressed. Ogden just panted. He pulled his new jockstrap down over his massive quads and stepped out of it carefully, lifting each big, smooth foot slowly, and then handing it to Owenbee. “You always been a good friend to me.” Casey teared up a little, but wasn’t so sentimental that he didn’t playfully waggle his penis’ full 10 inch soft, flaccid weight, then whipping it heavily from side to side. Smack! Smack! For a moment he slapped it heavily from quad to quad, and then looked up at Owenbee and Ogden and smiled sweetly. “It’s too big for most jocks,” he explained. “Yes, we’ve noticed,” said Banks, very serious. Owenbee took the jock gratefully, raised it to his nose and took a deep whiff. In his jeans his young teen cock throbbed to life. “Gee, thanks, Casey!” “Don’t mention it.” Casey pulled his baggies back up, covering his cock. “Going commando, Case?” asked Banks. Casey looked at him blankly. “I don’t know what that means.” “You will.” Casey shrugged, and sat down to lace his shoes. “Guess I better be going. Say goodbye to Danny Taylor. Where’s he this morning?” “His mama called. She wanted him back in Santa Barbara. He’ll be back tonight. He said to say goodbye.” He eyed the heavy sagging bulge in Casey’s lap. His cock was aching to get back out again, taste the air, straining the crotch of his sweatpants, pointing downward but twitching, threatening to rise, bulging in the fabric every which way. Banks sniffed a little, seemingly unconcerned, but Casey knew Banks probably missed his buddy Danny, the only cadet in the squad who actually came from a family and a good home. A blond surfer-dude turned bodybuilder, Danny and Brian were always pumping together and then going out looking for girls and to get laid. And unlike The Nineteen up the hill, the young cadets, still not indoctrinated into the squad, could come and go as they pleased. Not that these young muscleboys had anywhere to go….other than the gym and the bars in nearby San Jose, or maybe further up the coast to San Francisco. “Well…..goodbye then. Come and see me.” “Hey, dude. Before you go….give us one last flex?” asked Ogden shyly. “Yeah, dude. Pose for us one more time,” said Owenbee. “Like you used to do before you got so serious.” “Yeah, Case. Go ahead. Let’s see what you got.” That from Banks. Casey looked closely at Banks. “Sure, guys. Yeah. Be glad to.” He stepped back into the room and ripped off his sweatshirt. The muscle cadets crowded around him eagerly. He stood shirtless, his huge muscles gleaming in the morning light. “Here goes. Pow,” said Casey. He flexed a huge right arm bicep and moved his left hand back to the back of his head, ‘doin’ hair’ like the young Tom Platz from 40 years ago. “Wow!” “Jeez, Case, yer bigger than ever!” “Fuckin huge, man!” “That’s “doin’ hair,” dudes. Platz. ‘Doin’ hair,’ ” he repeated. “Can I feel it?” ‘My hair?” “No, dude….” “He wants to feel your muscles, Casey,” Banks explained, with exaggerated patience. “Oh. Sure.” Casey thought a moment. “Yeah! Sure! Come on!” Owenbee stepped forward eagerly and grabbed Casey’s biceps. His fingers ran over the vascular triple-heads. “Sure is nice!” he yelled. “How big?” He tapped the hardness of the peaks with his fingers, which bounced back. Impenetrably hard. “I don’t know. 25 inches? 27? I don’t know. Here come some big pecs.” He gave them a side chest, popping his pecs, his pouty brown nipples pointing down to the carpet. “Boom,” said Casey. “Wow! Frigging huge!” “You’re swole, man!” “Yeah, I got big pecs,” said Casey modestly, turning his head back, inspecting his two huge pectoral globes in the mirror. He bounced them up and down thoughtfully. “May I lick your nipples, Casey?” squealed Ogden. Casey was confused a moment. He stopped and turned and looked quizzically at Ogden. For a moment the two muscleboys were afraid, afraid that Casey would start handing out a roomful of black eyes and broken noses, powerful punches that were sure and methodical and swift and punishing. But Banks wasn’t afraid. “You like this, dontcha Case?” It didn’t happen. “Sure, I guess. Yeah. I like it. Come on up and lick ‘em. I never got licked and touched when I posed before. Let alone watched.” He thought some more. “Guess I do like it! Can you reach? Here’s another. Bam,” he said, swinging into a front lats pose. “Bam and double bam.” Ogden scampered up, reached wide, grabbed Casey by both lats and began eagely to lick his nipples. “You got awesome pecs, dude!” “You’re strong, too,” said Banks calmly. “Those dudes up there on the hill as strong as you?” “Yeah, I think they are.” Casey was inspecting his front lats pose in the mirror. “You’re in my way,” he said to Ogden. “I can’t see.” “Sorry, Case!” “Just move to the side a little so I can check myself out.” Ogden quickly stepped aside and leaned in, licking one nipple. “Okay, that’s enough. Reach around if you have too.” “How thick is your neck, Case?” “About 25 inches I think.” “How about your quads?” “Sure.” Casey pumped and rotated his thighs, still covered up in the baggies. “Oh, I forgot. Guess you can’t see.” He rolled them down to his ankles and stood in the center of the room, his pants down, flexing for his buddies. His penis loomed heavily over mountains of muscle and veins as he pensively rotated his quads for all the muscleboys to see. The muscleboys licked their lips. “No, I mean, how big are they?” “I dunno. 33 inches? Never measured.” He rotated a huge quad slowly, staring intently at it. “Got some new veins popping in here. Look at that diamond shape. Hard.” He slapped his quads, both of them. “They’re hard, man! See how hard I am? You guys see it?” Banks eased his nicely rounded butt off the window seat, where he’d been perched, watching the proceedings. He strolled over to Casey, thumbs hooked in his tight jeans, his black spandex t-shirt rippling with extra lean, hairy muscle. His own appreciable bulge flopped lazily from side to side in his fly as he walked slowly towards Casey. “Dude, I think you like to get worshipped.” “Hunh?” Casey turned to him and whipped up a pair of double bi’s. “Check out these gunsssss……” “I see ‘em.” Banks patted them firmly. Yeah. Solid. Cannonballs. Triple-headers. Laced with thick veins. He kneaded solid muscle between calloused thumb and finger. He pulled. Paper-thin skin. “These are biceps…. “ said Casey, breathing heavy, loving every second of it. “Nice. They are. Big biceps. Very nice indeed. But my tastes run to….something……darker……” He knew all about Moster. That was the dude he wanted. Banks turned to Ogden, absorbed in licking Casey’s big brown nipples. “Whyn’t you lick his biceps too, dude? He said he likes to get licked.” He turned to Casey. “Dontcha, Case?” “I’m gonna pop you right in the eye,” Casey said, but he smiled. He flexed mightily. “C’mon, lick ‘em.” His steely fists strained red. Suddenly he longed to punch Banks in the eye. Give him a big black eye. No, two black eyes. He wasn’t mad. He just wanted to punch him. “Yeah, lick his biceps, dude. And kiss ‘em for us, Case.” “Hunh??” “Kiss your biceps, bro! G’wan, kiss ‘em!” “Why do I want to do that?” “Try it and see. See how it feels.” Casey shrugged. His traps bounced up a little and bumped Owenbee’s head, who was trying to lean in to get a closer feel on Casey’s bi’s. “Oh. Sorry.” Meanwhile Ogden was now licking his right biceps, so Casey turned to the left and, leaning in while raising an elbow, began to softly lick and kiss his bulging cannonball bi’s. Casey forgot all about wanting to punch Banks and continued flexing. Hmmm. The licking felt good. “This feels good,” he announced. He kissed himself again, and turned, grinning cockily to Banks. “Guess I won’t bust you in the eye right now.” Banks smiled. He understood. “It’s okay, Casey. I’m your friend. You can trust me. And the boys.” “But I still wanna slug you.” “You just want to slug somebody. Not me.” “Guess you’re right. But sometime soon I’m gonna start some slugging.” He flexed. “Look at these big gunnnnssss….” he repeated. By now the other four cadets were grouped around Casey, touching, feeling, pawing, stroking, kissing and licking every muscle they could reach, climbing over him, feeling him, all while remaining respectfully distant from the heavily looming cock. Owenbee got on his knees and knelt before Casey’s massive, exposed rear, began caressing the twin globes of Casey’s monster round, hard butt, feeling where the gluteus muscles rolled in, where they bulged out, where they lead down to mammoth obtruding hamstrings and up to the small of his back. He wanted to bury his young, smooth face into the deep buttcrack, but knew he’d better not. He wanted to lick it, too. But he knew that might not be a good idea, either. Not yet, anyway. So he contented himself just to do deep tissue massage on the two giant round butt orbs before him, following their rolling movements as Casey posed above him. It was like kneading iron. But he loved it. “How do you feel, Case?” Banks was stroking Casey’s broad upper pec shelf with a connoisseur’s appreciation. “Good. I feel very good. I like flexing for you guys.” “Good. And we like when you flex for us. Nice pecs.” Banks flicked one of Casey’s nipples with a thumb and forefinger. Casey responded, immediately ballooning his pecs hugely, digging his fists into solid rippled obliques and expanding chest muscles high to the skies, so it seemed, to the ceiling and beyond. “This is called worship, by the way,” Banks added. “The way the guys are touching you now. The way I am touching you.” He ran a smooth hand across his pecs and looked him deeply in the eyes. “Admiring you. Admiring your muscles. Getting off on your muscles. That’s worship.” “You’re huge, Case,” said Ogden. “Big fucking muscleman,” said Owenbee. “Awesome muscles, dude,” said Rowenstein. “Tell us what you’re thinking, Case,” said Banks. Casey didn’t know what he was thinking. Was he even thinking? He was just flexing. No, he was thinking. He was seeing….something. Something distant. Pure and good. He breathed out, let out a massive block of air, crunched up, sucked in, intake, breath, blew it out, then more blooming muscle. Expanding everywhere, blowing up, hard and solid and good. He was… …..where was he?.... “Tell us, Case,” repeated Banks softly. “Where are you?” “On the moon, I guess.” He sucked in, expanded his pecs again, turned, inadvertently pushing the boys to the floor, looked in the mirror. The room was quiet. The muscle cadets scrambled away a little, but still touching, still feeling muscle. Tension increased in the room. It was silent except for the sounds of heavy breathing. Casey began to move. He swung from pose to pose. His cock swayed heavily as he moved, slapping his quads. Front biceps. Side chest, front lat spread. Most muscular, the famous crab shot, his veins exploding everywhere, his enormous fists clenched, held steadily before him. “Hold that one,” said Banks. “I think we all want to see this one.” Casey held still. His face grew red, then redder, then beet-red. The veins on his thick neck popped out like huge pylons. And even his massive cock began to retreat a little up into his loins as his blood was needed elsewhere. “Guys? Let’s check out these veins. Okay, Case?” “…yeah…..okay…” “You can breathe, though.” “Okay, thanks.” He breathed in and out. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for flaws, admiring rivers of vascularity, popping iron muscles. “Just don’t relax. Keep flexing. Keep that pose. Keep crunching.” “Can I take your picture, Case?” asked Rowenstein, begging a little. “My picture….?” Casey blew out air. He could barely think. He was just dreaming now. It was a wall, a planet, a universe of his muscle. “Keep crunching. Keep it swole,” said Banks quietly. He touched an iron biceps. “Yeah, okay.” Casey seemed befuddled, but it was because of the most muscular pose, and ….well…because he was still dreaming, now on that distant planet somewhere, where it was all about……muscle. His muscle, to be specific. Where he was posing high on a mountain, still visible to all, to thousands below, thousands of admiring men in the valley beneath him, all calling his name, all playing with their giant tools, their cum spurting and flying, the sun behind him, sweat in his eyes - “A picture. My cellphone? For, um, ….later?” “Later?” Casey barely heard him. “Yeah, later. To admire you later…..whenever I want to…..” The dream was broken for a moment and there was Rowenstein, shrugging and smiling, red-faced, embarrassed. Crab shots were his thing. He loved the solid billboard of muscle and veins. Exploding muscle and veins. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sure.” Casey saw Rowenstein’s cock was now poling forward in his khakis. “Made you hard, man?” “Yeah, you did. You do.” Rowenstein grinned toothily and admitted it happily. He pulled out his mobile and began snapping. Relieved, the muscle cadets groped in their pants pockets, next to their now-bulging flies, pulled out cellphones, and, never relaxing, never letting up even a finger on Casey’s massive musculature, began taking pictures. Casey went back to his mountain on his planet. He flexed. He was a god. He knew it. He wanted the universe to see him, to touch him, to admire him, to kneel before him, to reach up to him, to admire his strength, to touch his muscles, to stroke his chest, lick his nipples….. ….to worship him….. ….to suck his dick. Yes, that is what he wanted. He wanted the world to suck his cock. He nodded. That’s what he wanted. Like that hot mean little muscle dude Tiffany did last night. No one had done that before. Now he knew. Yes, and now he knew. Was this why he did it? Why he lifted? Why he had built his physique into the huge muscle sculpture it was now? No, of course not. Not entirely. He wanted to be the biggest and strongest man in the world. That’s what he wanted. But getting his dick sucked at the same time would be a nice perk. Again, he blew up his pecs to their fullest. Twin globes of pure muscle. Boom! Boom! He felt his buddies’ hands all over him. He was dizzy with lust and young muscle. He wanted to flex for everyone, his dick to throb and spurt and explode inside vanquished mouth after vanquished mouth, his long thick shaft gliding between adoring lips, plunging down dozens of supplicant throats, gagging them all with his cock girth and his cum, gagging the world with his giant man meat as he flexed mountainous biceps. He wanted to cover the faces of hundreds of men with his cum. Coating them all. Then fucking butt. Fucking hundreds of butts while he flexed. This was his planet. That is what he wanted. He never realized it before. But he did now. The muscle cadets were all over him, stroking him, rubbing him, feeling his muscles, inspecting his veins. Check out these striations, he heard one of them say. Yeah, these veins are thick as pencils. No, thicker. His skin is so thin. Check out these abs, they’re like cinder blocks. No, harder. This okay, Casey? Yeah, it’s okay. Feel me. Touch me. Check out my muscles. Suck my dick. He started to say it. The cadets seemed to anticipate it. The breathing in the room grew heavier. And heavier. And suddenly one of the muscleboys moaned. Ayyyy Ugnnnhhhh…. And then another. Casey closed his eyes and flexed…. Oh Yeah LOOK AT MY MUSCLES DUDES And then another low cry Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! And then he felt it himself. He felt the liquid start… was happening… YEAH YEAH YEAH No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t happening. The room was suddenly sharply quiet. He opened his eyes. It had all stopped. The boys had stepped back. No one was touching him. The worship had stopped. “You ready to go, Casey?” Casey was shocked out of his dream. He turned and stood, staring. His massive cock brushed the mirror as he turned. Rod Moster was at the open door, smiling. He wore his sweats, but even they didn’t conceal his 7’- 0” frame, his nearly 400 pounds of super wide muscle. His veiny relaxed biceps rolled out of his sleeves with nearly 25 inches of unflexed power, 30 when flexed. His quad veins were so thick the boys could see them through his sweatpants. And that wasn’t all they could see. The outline of his flaccid cock bulged lazily down his right leg, extending almost to his knees. The boys stared. “Who is that??” “He’s like a fucking god,” said Owenbee. Banks stepped forward, his eyes now half closed, a small smile on his face. “Sergeant Moster,” said Banks politely. “Greetings.” He saluted crisply, smiled. The muscle cadets stared at the giant, handsome black bodybuilder. “Shit,” said Ogden, “no one is that big.” “He is,” said Rowenstein. “Thank you, Cadet. You’re Banks?” “Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.” “Am I interrupting something?” “We’re just saying goodbye, sir,” said Banks, relaxed, crisp and smooth and confident. Casey smiled weakly. “Yeah.” “Put some clothes on, Casey.” Silence in the room. Casey looked down and realized he was naked and that his huge member was poling straight out and up what seemed to be 2 feet or more, as if ready to shoot. Precum was dribbling down the long, thick shaft and onto the floor. And he looked around his room, and saw all the tented, bulging flies of all the teen muscle cadets, their pants increasing with stain, their cocks now receding. Every one of them. Except Banks. His cock still poled out straight ahead in his pants, but his fly was dry, bulging with unleashed power. He'd been able to control himself. And Banks was not embarrassed. Moster took note silently. Hmmm. “Bye, Casey. Maybe we’ll see you at the compound? If Sergeant Moster will allow us in?” Owenbee was hopeful. Moster frowned. “We’ll see,” he said, non-committal. “Um. Yeah. Okay. Bye, guys.” Casey bent and grabbed his clothes, beet red, mortified. Was this the way to show himself on the most important morning of his life? Naked and flexing and about to shoot and filled with fantasies and dreams? And, it might be added – late??? Late for a military CO? He wasn’t even IN the military, and he felt completely humiliated. He struggled for his baggies, reached for his shoes, looked around in vain for at least one of his oversized jocks. And he hadn’t even packed up his laptop or his prized personal collection of vintage muscle magazines yet. “I’m really sorry, sir,” he blurted, moving clumsily around the room as the teens scrambled to step clear of the confused young bull. “I guess I’m not ready to go.” “You do want to move up the mountain to the main compound?” “Oh, yes, sir!” “Well, then, get yourself ready to go. I won’t wait for you long. I’ll be downstairs in the van. Take a few minutes, and get yourself together. I'll wait five minutes. After that, if you want to move up the mountain, you're going to have to walk.” He smiled, suddenly surprisingly kind. He looked around the room of awestruck boys, and smiled. “And if all you cadets keep training hard, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you all up at the compound sometime soon.” He looked pointedly at Banks. “Especially you.” “Turn around.” Banks complied, turning around. Moster gazed, eyes half-lidded, at Banks’ impressively shaped glutes, nicely packed inside tight pants. “Yes. Keep doing those squats, boy. Good flanks.” His fingers twitched a little. There would be a nice session of spanking this smart-mouthed handsome muscle boy’s hard little muscle bottom sometime in the very near future. He'd wake him up. Banks’ eyes twinkled. He knew what Moster was thinking about. It was okay with him. "I'll look forward to meeting you again, sir." They shared a quick look of understanding. Moster smiled slightly, an eyebrow cocked. Then he nodded briefly to the others. “At ease, men.” And then he was gone. The boys were still a moment, listening to Moster’s steps retreating down the corridor. The distant outer door opened and closed. A moment of awed silence. Then the boys scrambled back to life. “Jesus!” “He’s HUGE.” “Guys! I gotta bounce!” Boytown muscle chaos as the cadets dove around the room, gathering Casey’s bags and toiletries and clothes and laptop, throwing everything in a heap. “Get my muscle magazines!” “Where are they?” Rowenstein asked, looking a little frantic. “The closet. There’s a box. Four boxes. I need them!” The boys scoured the room, gathering their hero’s possessions. “We got your back, Case,” said Banks, smiling. Casey stopped a moment and looked into Banks’ eyes. Then he smiled. “I know you do, dude. I know.” ****** NEXT CHAPTER: "The Twenty" Chapter 15 - Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster
  20. "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed Chapter 3: White Cap Training At the beginning, Zaftig had believed that the perfect man was Rod Moster. Now, 18 other enhanced candidates approached the successful muscular development levels Moster had already achieved. Moster’s edge was waning. On training days, the men could eat whatever they wished, as long as their diets included 5,000 daily grams of pure animal protein. After a “light” morning workout, a day of classes and small arms training, and between regularly scheduled sessions of long distance swimming, bicycling, sparring, wrestling, karate, tae kwon do, yoga, kickboxing, and extreme fighting technique skills, the men were set loose in the gym at 1730 hours. By then, of course, they were wild to lift heavy and lift hard. On muscle recovery days, the men were commanded to remain in or near their private quarters and barred from stressful activities. Maintaining proper diet in all six daily meals remained in effect, socializing was strictly limited, and long hours of meditation were advised. It was understood that their finely honed mechanisms required fresh air, a little light running, a mile-long swim or two, and long, stress-free, leisurely walks along the many compound park trails. Lights out on muscle recovery days was 2000 hours. The rest day protocols were strictly enforced. These rest days were always the dullest days imaginable for the energized squad of musclemen. Early morning the day after rest, they were filled once again with blinding zeal and unfettered ambition for the hours of brutal, strictly regimented workouts. Lately Sergeant Moster was even more vigilant than usual, making sure that the men stayed on point throughout the session. Once every few weeks, the men eagerly anticipated a ‘White Cap’ training session. White Cap Nights meant one thing - no holds barred. They were scheduled generally as an incentive following of long periods of recorded ‘good team behavior.’ The men ached for them. White Caps contained traces of concentrated undiluted P21 granules, blended carefully with powerfully lab-enhanced homeopathic supplements and pure, powdered oxygen. It was like muscle heroin, mainstreamed. Zaftig’s researchers had found that this compound powder form of P21, when taken orally, produced short-term jolts of strength stamina, and unrestrained energy that were, unlike the injectable form, only temporarily enjoyed. The workouts performed after a white cap had been consumed boasted over-the-top performance levels, which always resulted in new personal bests. The gains the men made on these nights, whether lifting, swimming, running, or fighting, provided benchmarks for future optimal training. There was a drawback. The few remaining social restraints the men still had from their former lives had all but faded to nothingness. Just as the men were moved to achieve new highs on the workout floor, the few remaining inhibitors they did still maintain all but vanished. While scheduling White Cap nights was becoming an increasing necessity in order to keep the men focused on pure muscle growth, Dr. Zaftig had become highly concerned that as the team continued to surpass previously-considered “impossible” training goals, the squad’s standards of good behavior, or even basic societal standards of decency, were becoming increasingly rare. And while Zaftig continued to allow Moster control the group, he was aware of his probable own long-term foolishness in this decision. For under Moster’s direction, the squad was separating itself little by little from standards of common social boundaries. To say nothing of military discipline. How could Zaftig hope to impress the brass if his muscle monsters, for all of their nearly inhuman development, were out of control? And how could Project Herculaneum continue if the military removed its nearly decade-long support? Moreover, a Joint Chiefs review was scheduled for November. Zaftig was worried. In effect, his chief inmate was now running the asylum. It made for fantastic achievements in muscle size, strength, and accomplishment. It did little or nothing to contain the burgeoning sexual psyches of musclemen who craved to exhibit, show-off, pose, tease, and flex with abandon. Three years before, when the Nineteen were still the Twelve, a White Cap night had been introduced as a lab experiment. The men ended up in such a muscles-entangled in a spectacularly muscle-flexing, cum-spurting locker room orgy after the workout that the program was almost abandoned. Sheepish and humiliated the next day, the Twelve went back to the gym to set new benchmarks in strength, endurance, and lifting. With some persuasion, Moster argued to Zaftig that occasional white cap nights, strongly regulated and following firm procedures might inspire the men further to new heights. Distributed in the wrong hands, White Caps could be dangerous, and perhaps lethal. They were highly stimulating drugs, and the enlarged pupils, deep breathing, increased body heat and volumes of sweat they produced required careful monitoring. For the Project Herculaneum men, white caps were like crack. Zaftig had been against them from the start, until over time it became apparent that no organic harm had ever resulted, nor certifiable addiction issues. Moreover, the men remained inspired by White Cap workouts in the months to come. And they understood that for them to be most effective, these nights could come only 4 or 5 times a year. Zaftig reluctantly agreed, on the condition that the nights were videotaped by no less than six cameras. The tapes would be closely reviewed for infractions and sexually aggressive behavior. In exchange, Moster bargained that during shower time, they men could indulge as they wished. Zaftig, sincerely hoping no long-term hospitalizations would result, gave the go-ahead for periodic white cap nights. And so they began. On these nights, for two hours, it was only Moster’s grim domination of the men that prevent them from brutally fucking each other right there on the workout floor. That would wait, as he faithfully promised them all, for the shower room afterwards, when, fuck each other, they did, and with relish. Of late, however, not a little of the sexual acting out had made its way to the gym floor. One by one, the video cameras were shut down and put away, leaving no record. And the men grew more unrestrained. October 19th had been a required rest and muscle recovery day, for October 20th‘s workout was scheduled as a White Cap Night. After all, later that night in the mess, the men were scheduled to meet the so-called young ‘muscle genius’ Casey Rockland for the first time. Another recruit from Miles Donovan’s San Jose hardcore gym Raw Weight. Just a kid, really. Only 18. But with real promise, or so it seemed. Moster determined to think about Casey Rockland a little later. He couldn’t afford to have split attention when the men were on the floor and under the influence of the pure, undiluted stuff. And it was too late to turn back now. As long as P21 continued to produce almost miraculous results, and the men grew exponentially large and become stronger beyond all projected imagining, and Project Herculaneum approached its 10-year anniversary, Zaftig had finally been forced to turn a blind eye to both the benefits of White Cap Nights, and the now-nightly after-hours sexual behavior. Moster distributed the capsules personally to the men as they filed onto the floor. The bodybuilders gobbled them down immediately, already chuckling and winking at one another. Then Moster stood back and allowed their raging hormones their full force. Watchful and ever ready to impose his strict discipline as needed, he nevertheless understood the basic benefits of weight-room bonding. He let them go. He did not take one himself. He stood watchfully to one side. He was dressed, as he generally was, in his spotless oversized white sweats. He had completed his own workout privately an hour before while his squad was going through their abs training in the enclosed hot room just next to the workout floor. It was generally unnecessary for him to display his physical superiority to his squad of muscle freaks, except privately, and only when warranted. And tonight in particular, he chose to remain fully covered as if to encourage the men to pay attention to their own bodies. Upon occasion, however, he would strip down to his jock and join the men in their training to maintain bonding, and supply ongoing inspiration, however he determined it might be needed. Those nights had become increasingly rare, however, as the complicated, competitive reactions of the men to Moster’s detailed muscularity had begun to inhibit the workflow. From the sidelines, watching his squad’s training with laser focus, he made sure his men strictly maintained dead-on correct form with each grueling lift. Moster made careful notes in the margins of the evening training session report filled out in advance for him daily by meek, balding little Dr. Irving, Zaftig’s nearly silent civilian lab assistant. Never disappointed at either their stamina or their passion during normal workouts, the results achieved on white cap nights amazed even him. The effects always began gradually. Divided into their usual smaller training teams of 2 and 3 men each, the soldier-bodybuilders of Project Herculaneum took turns spotting one another and blasting alternate muscle groups. Tonight, teams one and two were working back and lats, teams three and four delts, traps and triceps, teams five and six legs, team seven chest and biceps. An hour of punishing abdominal work preceded the heavy lifting. The men grimaced, grunted, spat, cursed, shouted and groaned with ecstatic agony as, all around the room, each man pumped his super-sized, vein-exploding muscles to their greatest potential. Their dirty army regulation wife-beater t-shirts were grimy with dirt and drenched with water and sweat. Beneath the t-shirts, each man displayed blinding, awesomely ripped physiques, packed with dense, intricate, vascular cables of tendons, ligaments, river-thick veins and mountainously large, round, popping muscle bellies. Abs rippled with cobblestone washboard 8-packs on waistlines that grew no larger than 32 inches. Lats flared. Pecs pumped. Biceps bulged ferociously as the men aggressively lifted and posed for one another in between sets, each man confident that he was bigger than his training partner. Some of the men kept their bodies shaved. Others let their body hair grow. Moster demanded shaved physiques only once a month for company inspection, and over time he had come to respect the fact that some of the furrier musclemen were proud of their sprouting masses of thick, healthy chest, asshole, and pubic hair. Short, regulation haircuts were required, though some of the older men were allowed beards and mustaches. After all, personal vanity, as long as it didn’t supplant regulations, was to be encouraged. It also kept the men unique from one another. While they were all extraordinarily developed bodybuilders, Moster knew the value of each man maintaining his own identity and special tastes. It was all part of his plan. Moster's vision, if you will. After all, later on, new cadet Casey would be presented to the group. For it appeared that Casey Rockland might possess the rare organic gifts that were even more sympathetic. Moster wanted the men to be aching with rage and pain from their blazingly cruel workout when they first encountered Muscle Cadet Casey Rockland at precisely 2200 hours. He wished he could also prevent the men from the usual hardcore White Cap Night after-workout showers free-for-all, but he knew that was impossible. Then again, P21 worked in mysterious ways. Maybe the men would be feeling replenished and reloaded? White Cap Night workouts were tougher, true, but the floor activity and the post-show group release in the showers meant the men would be drained. So maybe not quite as spot-on impassioned (envious? turned on?) at their first meeting of the impressively swole 18-year muscle monster. In any event, Moster would enforce no-touch rules on Casey for the first few weeks. At least. Zaftig had recently confided in Moster that Rockland might indeed be that long-sought P21 perfect recipient. The men already sensed that Rockland was different. For almost two years, they’d all glimpsed the fully-covered teenage cadet Rockland periodically training with the program’s other young cadets in their own, smaller gym in an auxiliary building in the compound. He was unaccountably huge, and the cadets were increasingly intimidated by his size and strength. It was way past time to move him up into the ranks. Most of the cadets still lived off-campus in discreetly rented apartments in nearby San Jose. Vans picked them up early each morning and returned them to their front doors each early evening. There was no socializing with The Nineteen. A few of the more promising cadets were assigned cadet housing in the facility’s dormitory. And Rockland had been moved into the dorm at the outset. And from what the men could tell from a distance, he was mammoth beyond imaging for a teenager. Rockland was said to be a genetic marvel, even amongst these men, though none of them had yet had the occasion to closely inspect the young man’s physique. Zaftig had made sure of that. Even Sergeant Moster had not yet interviewed the young man. He was amused (if just a little irritated) that Zaftig had purposefully held back on presenting Rockland to him, instead encouraging Rockland to bond with the other cadets in their own comparatively unsupervised weight training. The point was to see what the teen cadets would do on their own recognizance. Junior to Moster, but reporting only to Zaftig, Casey’s handlers were required to keep their notes confidential – that is to say, away from Moster. So far, Rockland had little inkling of the plans that were in place for his future. In time, Moster had come to accept the set up. In the 10 years since he first began to assemble the men of Project Herculaneum, Zaftig had always been successful in presenting a finely honed candidate worthy of the grueling responsibilities of membership. He had an eye for talent, Moster had to acknowledge, finding gold in a man he himself might have passed on. Moster assumed, correctly as it happened, that at this very moment in another part of the compound, Zaftig was preparing young Casey Rockland for his first presentation to The Nineteen. For it was only after long-term study of the effects on a so-called control “perfect specimen” that the kinks of the formula could finally be identified, and eliminated. After that, it would be ready for general release to the public – and ready to earn billions for Zaftig. For even in the true believer Zaftig, at the end of the day, it was still all about the money. What Moster didn’t know was that Zaftig, sure of Rockland’s gifts and unparalleled fast-track progress, had been injecting him from day one as a cadet with P21. It was possible that young Casey Rockland was the man that Zaftig had long been searching for. He’d been on the protocol for two years now, ever since that night Zaftig found him, lonely and alone, and prompted by a hurried call from Miles Donovan, in the San Jose Greyhound bus station. Chapter 4: A Brief History of Casey Rockland 2002-2021 Even as a baby, he was unusually large and healthy. He had appeared one night in Fall, 2002, delivered anonymously just inside chilly porticoes of City Hall. He was carefully tucked in a battered little crib, which had been wheeled and abandoned in the shadows of the Rockland Avenue entrance. Snugly covered with a warm blanket, the baby had a bottle that he sucked on pensively. A note pinned to the cradle read: Take care of our boy. He is a good boy even if he is big. We just cant feed him no more. PS His birthday is April 23. He is six months old today. We call him Casey. Goodbye and thank u and God bless u. No one knew who his parents were. And now he was no more than just another foundling in the city system. City social services responded quickly. Baby Casey’s birth certificate being untraceable, his social worker hurriedly gave him the surname ‘Rockland’, and the smiling, big-eyed, big-bodied baby went directly into foster care. Passed from home to home, prospective parents seemed to give up very quickly. At first charmed by his beauty, sweetness, clear eyes and blond hair, all gave up rather promptly after discovering just how much baby Casey ate. In time he was transferred into the San Jose Catholic Boys’ Home. There he was looked after by a small platoon of the devoted nuns of the Benedictine Order. Something about him touched the normally cold-hearted sisters, and in short order, they began to feed him as much as he required. Which was a lot. Baby Casey was growing before their eyes. Casey didn’t start to talk until he was nearly 3 years old. His vocabulary consisted of “Yes”, “No”, “Okay”, “Please”, “I’m hungry”, and “I’m still hungry.” By the time he was 4, the sisters sadly noted that Casey was slower than the other boys his age, if much bigger, and generally in need of twice as much food. By age 5, he was already as big and strong as a 10-year old, which required some special clothing and a certain amount of care that he didn’t accidently break things. Even so, Casey was shy and sweet natured, if withdrawn. He always tried to do the right thing and not worry the nuns. The boy had an uncommonly beautiful face, with long, thick lustrous blond hair, and deep set violet eyes with heavy black eyebrows and eyelashes. The kind-hearted Sisters told him quietly about what a handsome man he was going to be when he grew up. “Just be patient,” said Sister Mary Christopher. “Your day will come.” His day hadn’t come yet. The other boys didn’t like him. By the time Casey was 11, his blend of dopey sweetness and a rapidly maturing pre-adolescent body forced unwanted attention onto him. Still the favorite of the sisters, he got the biggest dinners and seemed to receive the most privileges. Even his relative slowness in class didn’t daunt the Sisters’ devotion. He never asked for any special treatment. It just came to him. His size added to his troubles. He knew he could hurt the other boys without meaning to, unless he was very careful, and soon enough, the older, meaner gangs in the home learned that in spite of his size and superior strength, he wouldn’t fight back. The sisters, after all, told him not to. It was more blessed to turn the other cheek. In fact, as Casey grew, it became apparent that he had four cheeks that he could turn. Four of the bigger boys loved to pin him down and administer bare-bottom spankings. And Casey’s supple little butt was nice and ripe for such punishment. In fact, he could take any punishment, feeling somehow that it was his due. And he never told tales. In spite of his increasing size and strength, he was open season for bullies. Over the years, he became a punching bag, a repository for the other boys’ fears and anger. The years passed. Casey went into puberty early. He grew exponentially fast, and the other boys became more wary of him. His strength was already an issue, and often the nuns would catch him testing his strength by lifting tables and bending the iron bars that lined the dank little playground. A bigger problem, however, developed out of the group showers in gym class. Casey’s penis was growing fast, even faster than his strong body. His pants never seemed to fit any more, and it grew harder to hide the developing bulge. To make matters worse, when he was 9 he had started having erections and wet dreams, and sometimes would get excited in class or on the playground or at mess hall. The other boys stared at the growing bulge in his pants, whispered, and pointed, secretly unsure and intimidated. Casey was always baffled by their snickering, half-heard, never-understood jokes. One day one of the older boys had an inspiration on the playground. Staring at Casey’s looming young fly, he called out. “Hey. Banana Man! You getting’ another hard-on?” The other boys roared nastily. “Seems you’re always gittin’ hard-ons, Banana Man! You queer or somethin’?” The name stuck. That was the worst. Casey was now ashamed of his penis. Ashamed and embarrassed. He was always getting hard at the wrong times. He was always being called out by the other boys. It was too big. He couldn’t hide it. And he certainly couldn’t discuss this with the nuns. “Banana Man, Banana Man!” Casey knew they were mocking him, mocking his embarrassingly oversized manhood. He was ashamed and tried to hide himself. And that made the boys laugh even more. When Casey was 12, he had had enough. He was too big, too pretty, ungainly, awkward, lonely, slow-witted and alone. Although he never let the other boys see it, he cried a lot, usually under his bed sheets late at night, stifling his sobs so that the other boys in the dorm room wouldn’t hear him. One night he thumbed through a community free handout magazine he picked up at the corner market to see if he could find – well, anything. The sisters never let the boys use the office computers for mere webs surfing, but he was desperate, and he knew there had to be a place – somewhere – where he could go to vent his frustrations, anxiety, and deep loneliness. He knew he was a freak, but he suspected there might be a place where there were other freaks, like him, where he could find some comfort. There it was. The ad that changed everything. The ad that changed his life. MILES DONOVAN’S RAW WEIGHT GYM HARDCORE BODYBUILDING REASONABLE RATES COME TRAIN WITH THE CHAMPIONS And there was a picture, too, an old one of bodybuilder Lee Labrada. It was enough for Casey. This is what he wanted to look like. This was what he wanted to be. The next morning he begged Sister Mary Alice for extra yard work duty so that he could earn the money to join Raw Weight Gym. He worked all fall late into the evening washing dishes, sweeping floors, emptying the teeming garbage pails in the kitchen. The sisters saw to it that he was paid $125 weekly for his work. “He’s learning responsibility,” said Sister Mary Alice. “He’s preparing to jump the wall,” said Sister Agatha. “Freak….teacher’s pet…..queer,” said the boys. And on day in the spring of 2016, after classes were over for the day at precisely 2:30 PM, he took a bus downtown to join Raw Weight Gym, the hardcore gym owned by the 50-year old retired pro bodybuilder legend Miles Donovan. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. The nuns knew he was venturing out, however. They trusted that wherever Casey was bound to go, as long as he was quiet, stuck to his chores, was well behaved and responsible, and was back at the rectory in time for dinner, they were not about to get involved. He would be on his own in a few years anyway, the sisters reasoned. Better he began to learn the world now. And secretly, he remained the favorite of all in the order. Chapter 5: Raw Weight Gym Once upon a time, retired pro bodybuilder Miles Donovan might have qualified as one of The Nineteen. But at 55 years of age, with almost 40 years spent in the ranks of competitive bodybuilding, Miles had seen too much the world of competitive muscle up close and personal for way too long. He was done with the competitive end of the iron game. Handsome, cleft-chinned, grey-haired and grizzled with an ever-present two-day growth of beard, and sporting the powerfully thick musculature of a superheavyweight competitor, Miles was still a national phenomenon. His big, hard body was graced with a half dozen fading 1970s-era tattoos, and at 255 pounds, the man proudly boasted the rocky 34-inch waist of a 20-year old. His veined, iron super-abs still served as impressive midsection body armor, his hard pecs still loomed with impressive cuts, and his oversized nipples still sported the brass nipple rings he’d first put on when he hung up his posing trunks for the last time, 15 years before. Better still, Miles had long since stopped shaving his body, and his hardcore daddy physique was lined with a matting of soft black body hair. Miles was stronger than all of the men at his gym, effortlessly curling 225 pounds, squatting 600 and benching 500. His bodyfat index never got much higher than 3%. No, he’d never stop lifting, never stop training as if the contest of his life was just next week. But Miles knew all about the favoritism of the judges and alpha-male insecurities of most other pro bodybuilders. He had been through the health problems, the staggering personal toll taken on most competitive bodybuilders with their litanies of failed relationships, bad business decisions, drugs and violence. A survivor of three scorched-earth divorces, Miles had long since turned his back on blissful domesticity. Now, it was all about his gym – and the private sex games his muscles could still inspire. Always a hustler, Miles had a different magic formula for his survival in the world of muscle. Why not let the muscle fans work for him, he reasoned to himself. Miles was all too familiar with the viciousness of the confidence-challenged muscle worshippers, whose mean-spirited online backstabbing masked profound, unfixable fears, physical inferiority, and personal emotional agonies. He’d seen too many talented, hapless, dog-dumb young musclemen, eager for fame and recognition in the world of competitive muscle, get their hopes and dreams dashed on the rocks of life, their fine physiques spiraling into decay as the years of being used and abused caught up with them and the despair of association with the seedier elements of bodybuilding began to take its inexorable toll. Not for him this downward spiral. And he had no inclination of spending his retirement years in a lab complex headed up by his crazy old friend, Dr. Ira Zaftig, inspiring muscle project or not. After all, he could still get the better any man on the workout floor or take him down in the free-for-all boxing ring; he was known to have a mighty punch. And below the belt he was nicely endowed with a 9-inch penis that liked to come out to play often, for he was well known to particularly enjoy the discreet worship of his teen members. There wasn’t much Miles liked better than when a handsome 18-year old muscletwink pulled down the man’s outward poling sweatpants and enveloped his always-tumescent, thick member between pouty teenage lips. Miles’ Gym, Raw Weight, was cavernous. It sprawled over three floors in a large former warehouse located at the end of an alley in downtown San Jose. Plate glass windows on floors one and two showed lines of cardio machines and stacks of weights. Raw Weight was his baby. He’d carved it out of the world and made it all his own. He had bought the building for a song 20 years before, in 1997, where it had stood, a nearly forgotten emblem to bodybuilding history for nearly 40 years. In it, some of the greats of bodybuilding had once trained at the beginning of their careers. Most had long since retired or moved on to the slick strip mall gym chains that had cropped up across the country since the early 1980s, which now catered to the legends and the weekend bodybuilding hopefuls alike. The steroided goons that had dominated the competition stages for more than three decades may have created their own little scattered fiefdoms, but all the same most who had survived returned (quietly) once or twice a year to the rarefied muscle environment that was Raw Weight Gym. For the first few years he was in business, Miles was always barely one step away from creditors, foreclosure, IRS audits. Then one afternoon, while grimly watching an annoying old gym rat hitting on an unresponsive 22-year old Mexican muscleboy, he hit on a marketing strategy that was, for inner sanctum muscle lovers, just about flawless. All were welcome at Miles’ gym – at least on the first two floors. There, at all hours of the day and night were the teens, the rock-solid gay guys, the strapping young executives, the boxers and the runners and the middle-aged and the muscle wannabes and the flabby former high school athletes and even the merely curious. The vast gym floor clanged with the sound of weights and the whirring of the treadmills, and the house music echoed resoundingly throughout its depths. The showers were always hot, the equipment was dust-free, the machines were new and shiny and well tended, and the floor mats were scrubbed and clean. From a clerestory row at the height of the 16-foot walls large, lines of faded color posters of the bodybuilding legends of the 20th and 21st centuries promised the results of years of muscle-building dedication and discipline. Few lifters on these two floors could ever hope to achieve anything like the muscle density and mass of the gods that beamed down upon them with smug superiority, but spirits were undaunted, and the air was charged with the serious endeavors of those who trained beneath the glare of the merciless fluorescent lights. And then there was the 3rd floor. It was an exclusive and private membership-only club, and it was Miles’ own world of muscle, where he was the unchallenged director and Chairman of the Board. Miles Donovan A passkey, only issued by Miles personally, was available to a very few elite members. The 3rd floor was resolutely men-only. It too was clean and scrubbed, but it was quiet, music-less, and unadorned by the posters of proudly flexing past contest winners. No more than five men trained there at any given time. There was a private entrance through an unmarked door on the street level with an elevator that went directly to 3, so the passkey members didn’t have to be bothered by the stares and curiosity of the comparative plebes found on floors 1 and 2. The rules were clear. The Men of 3, as Miles called them, were required to train, at least during business hours, in tight posing trunks. After hours, they could train naked if they chose. They were even allowed to bring in occasional training partners and visitors of their own choosing, as long as they either a) kept up with the grueling training, or, their non-training guests remained silent, respectful, discreet, observed the rules, remained dressed in a suitable sweatsuit and gym shoes, and paid appropriately. But that wasn’t all. Miles also admitted floor access to a few privately selected well-heeled subscribers. They paid dearly for the privilege. For a few thousand dollars a shot, the subscribing visitors were allowed to indulge in discreet muscle worship while the bodybuilders trained. The rules were clear here, as well. The full-time muscle members who were worshipped were required to train past their pain thresholds on a regular basis. Their progress was reported in weekly time sheets that listed current dimensions, gains, possible injuries, and reported income earned while on the floor. The money was 90% theirs to keep: Miles took the rest of his cut from the paying guests. As keys and membership could be revoked at any time, both musclemen and muscle worshippers were all conscientiously engaged in maintaining their good standing. The specs of the muscle members were clearly understood. All had to have superior muscular development for their weight – Miles did not discriminate in favor of age or the super-huge, and several of the men were either older or bantams. A few men were silver daddies well into their sixties, who looked as if they might have another decade of solid growth ahead of them. The only area where Miles had to lay down a firm law of size requirement was relative to penis length, girth, and weight. Only the well hung were admitted, and although it wasn’t spelled out per se in any charter, the Men of 3 all knew that any new member was unquestionably packing – and talented. Butt fucking was generally discouraged on the workout floor on 3, although there were no active rules against it. Butt fucking tended to be louder and distracting to the men at work, and besides, few had the inclination to offer their well-honed glutes for the pleasure of the visitors – at least, during training hours. What the men did after hours was, of course, their own business, but Miles suspected few wanted to be known as available butt buddies, and that alone kept actual fucking to a minimum. Butt worship, however, wasn’t uncommon, and once or twice a week some lucky guest might be spotted on his knees near the squat rack, his face pressed into the hardened musclebutt of a seasoned member, who might appear to a casual observer to be completely ignoring him. Once Miles was amused to see two muscle members deeply engaged in a serious conversation about quad training while, beneath them and on either side, two eager visitors had their faces deeply buried in their well-rounded glutes. The men were ignoring them. After all, they expected no less. Overall, the system worked surprisingly well. The ranks of the Men of 3 were few, but well chosen. It was also an urban legend to the scores of gay guys on 1 and 2 who might hope and dream, but did not yet have the money or tact to be considered for the occasional foray upstairs. Only the longtime muscle members themselves were allowed in the 3rd floor locker room and showers. The locker room, of course, was a different story, for there the naked musclemen were free to take their pleasure of one another as often as they liked, sucking cock, fucking butt, worshipping the muscles of their training partners, and even engaging in water sports, as long as they mopped up after themselves. Muscle members were not allowed to exchange favors with one another on the floor at any time during the gym’s open hours, but late at night after all visitors had departed for the day, muscle members could train naked if they liked, or in leather, or thongs, or wearing masks – or whatever they preferred. Generally the newer members, once initiated, made use of the free-for-all spirit of after hours, finding other like-minded newbies overwhelmed with personal pride over the honor of having been accepted. However, all the men of 3 made frequent use of the locker room. It was strictly observed that at no time were water sports acceptable on the gym floor, but it wasn’t uncommon to see a smiling, exhausted, fulfilled muscle member pissing a powerful jet stream onto the face and pecs of another satisfied muscle member kneeling before him while they showered. Miles auditioned the men of the 3rd floor himself. He rarely sucked cock – he’d had enough of all that years before, although for a particularly gifted candidate he’d loosen up his own rules, if he happened to be in the mood. His test was far more cut and dried, and, in effect, far more exclusive, even to the point of cruelty. Applicants were subjected to a simple test: Miles would put a bodybuilder through an after-hours grueling workout, and stopping it short without warning just as the man appeared about to drop from pain and exhaustion, demand he immediately drop his shorts. Miles would then measure the flaccid penis, and if it passed the dimension test, take it in his tough, calloused palm and, with a stopwatch in hand, determine the time it took the man to get fully hard. Then, he would measure again to see the full erection length, and demand an ejaculation on the spot. Only one in ten men might make it, although the candidates who displayed promising size and ability, if not able to make the full distance on the first audition, were free to come back and try again whenever they felt up to it. If the men were big enough and hung enough, Miles didn’t mind testing and retesting. If not, no further audition was available, although Miles saw to it that the flunkees were treated with respect and discretion. After all, upon occasion, a hopeful 4F might gain access as a visitor, although he would not be allowed into the ranks of the talented muscle beneficiaries. Of course, he’d also have to pay for access privileges. And the muscle hopefuls, wannabes, worshippers, trainers, pros and future pros came from all over the world just to get a shot at membership at that 3rd floor exclusive aerie of muscle and muscle lovers. And years later, it would have the added notoriety of being the gym where the legendary muscle giant Casey Rockland got his start. -- To be continued --
  21. Links to other chapters: Links to chapters of "The Twenty": "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2 Chapter 21: Sam and Casey February 10th, 2022 2035 Hours Right after the presentation, Moster briefly convened the men in the corridor around the corner from the lab. “Okay, what just happened?” asked Alvarez. “Didn’t you see? The Army creamed in their pants at the sight of us,” answered Chad. Hension, as always, stood by, pensively flexing his muscles and dreaming. Chad clapped him on the back of the head. “Ow! What’d I do?” “Pay attention.” “Head back to your quarters, men. Await further instruction. Visitation tonight strictly prohibited.” Moster was specific. He’d turned his broad back and strode away, but all saw as he turned he was grinning. “Strictly prohibited?” asked Alvarez. Moster glanced back at them briefly. “Just keep the volume down.” And he was gone down the corridor towards his suite. “My room, 10 minutes,” Alvarez said to Lang. “Yeah, baby!” They were gone. Hension looked after them, and followed a moment later. Casey was thinking of Sam. He could think of nothing else – the way the handsome young ensign had stared at him. He’d caught his name on the way out. Sam. Sam Victor. Schumacher glanced briefly at Tiffany, who was, as usual, smiling and opaque. “I’m gonna go train,” grumbled Washington. “Me, too,” said LeFevre. Tiffany walked away without a word. Schumacher watched his butt as he went, and turned and walked back to his room, seething as usual. “I’ll join you,” said Waring, looking after Schumacher. “Me, too,” said Jin. “Wait for us,” said Reed. “You in?” he asked Blankenship. “Sure.” He clamped his hand around the back of Eli Meyer’s head and gestured, train? Eli shook his head no, mimed he was going to go to bed and jerk off. Blankenship laughed. “Maybe I’ll join you instead.” Meyer nodded and off they went together, Reed following. “Not gonna train?” Washington called after him. “Changed my mind.” He threw his arms around Meyer and Reed and walked away with them. “Showers after?” asked Obatu. “Whaddya you think?” asked Blankenship. “Wait for me,” said Chad. He turned to Bogarde, who was headed to his room. “Not you?” “Yeah, I’m coming. Wanna get my nipple clamps first.” “Gonna work pecs?” “Yeah.” “I’ll bind your tit clamps if you spot my curls,” said Gunst. “Tonight I’m gonna blast these big guns to the limit.” Abdul said nothing. He went on his way alone, looking for Pedro. His dick was twitching. Casey ran back to his room and quickly brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He reeled off 300 pushups, which took him less than 3 minutes. Then he ran out the door in search of Sam. After a moment he came back, climbed up on a steel chair he kept in the corner, reached high, and carefully adjusted one of the lights on his posing dais. Nice and easy. "That's better," he said to himself. Then he went out again, in search of Sam. October 21st, 2021 1843 Hours The men gathered around Casey, now kneeling on the hard concrete floor before Abdul, who stood before him, cock out, ready to plunge in. Unexpectedly, before he started, Casey spoke. “Tell them to pull up their pants. I want to see their dick outlines in their pants.” A pause. “Pull ‘em up, gentlemen,” commanded Moster. “And when I say so – and not before – they can pull them down again. At my command. Or I stop this.” The White Caps seemed to be working. Moster suppressed a smile as the men in line looked at one another, bent, pulled up their jeans, and fastened them – with some difficulty, as each man was now sporting 10 – 15 inches of wood. The bulges were….dizzying. Casey leaned in closer to Abdul, the Arab’s 15 inch cock now bobbing two inches from his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I like that. I like the view. They can flex, too. Tell them to flex.” “Gentlemen, front double biceps, please.” “Yours too, Sergeant Moster.” Moster raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. Biceps slowly rose, like the rising of 36 suns over distant mountains, hitting the ceiling, filling the room with flexed muscle. “Dr. Lang?” The video cam whirred to life. “Okay. Here goes.” And Casey opened his mouth, and for the first time in his life, took a male organ inside. Abdul, above him, spread his legs wide, and began slowly pumping his hips into Casey’s face. February 10th, 2022 2050 Hours At the same time that Alvarez and Lang were just getting under way with Pose and Approve, Casey was standing in front of Sam in the corridor outside the men’s room. Even now, months after he first arrived in the main building, Casey had gotten lost four times. He worried that Sam may have left the building. And that he’d lost his opportunity. But no, for there he suddenly was 40 feet down the main corridor, coming out of the men’s room. His heart filled with joy as he ran up to him. Sam stopped short, surprised. The 6’-7”, 330 pound bodybuilder muscle giant Casey Rockland was suddenly just there, standing shyly before him, legs spread awkwardly wide, his hands held meekly at his side. He was breathing deeply as if he had just been running. “Hi!” he said, a little desperate sounding. “Well, hello,” answered Sam. Casey was still wearing the white VALHALLA LABS t-shirt he’d worn before he stripped down for the presentation to the brass, bulging with barely sheathed muscle, the gigantic arms pouring out of straining sleeves, the tight white jeans, bursting at the quads and calves, and the black army boots. A light coat of sweat gleamed in the corridor light. Sam tried to meet his eyes at first, but in spite of all his control his vision wandered as he began to take in the staggering proportions of the handsome young behemoth standing before him. The dude was perfect. Fucking perfect. Casey radiated golden-tanned muscle, his taut skin gleaming a natural sheen of rich, deep brown-gold. The sleeves of his t-shirt strained to half-cover the bulging, hard, veiny, cannonball masses of his unreal, sick biceps. His firm round pecs were held hugely high, and Sam could easily make out the shape and slight coloring of the man’s large red-brown nipples. His square jaw was alluring, with a movie star’s cleft chin and a day-old scruff. His eyes shone a deep violet blue. The crew cut was of thick burnished gold. The hands? Each the size of both of his, held together. Below, the outline of an 8-pack of deep, firmly ridged abs pounded through the t-shirt, hillocks of muscle deeply sloping to ridges of darkest ab lines, all tapering to an improbable – no, unbelievable – 30 inch waistline. The boy’s broad lats spread horizontally behind, like eagle wings, the traps above the pecs boulders of pure power, his deltoids powerful triple-headed mountains of strength. And then Sam’s gaze went a little lower – and held there. O My God. There it was again. And now only five feet away. “I was afraid you’d left.” “No, I’m still here.” “Yeah! Um. I see….good!” The fly of Casey’s white jeans wasn’t merely bulging. It loomed with the weight of the heavy member firmly curled, tucked away and packed inside. It was if he was carrying a long, thick, heavy snake in his pants. A boa constrictor. No less than that. Clearly, the boa was currently at rest. The barely-restraining fly was fully revealed by the fly flaps, forced back by the tautness of the fabric. The zipper appeared to be industrial grade. No doubt made of some sort of reinforced steel. Sam stared openly at the ungodly bulge. Then he heard a voice, and he shifted his eyes back up. “So…you’re…you’re Ensign Victor. Is that your name? And, um, your rank?” Casey was fumbling to think of something, anything to say. He stumbled forward, hand extended to shake. “Does that mean you’re in the Navy?” So Casey wasn’t the brightest bulb in the billboard, was he? All the better. “Call me Sam.” He smiled, offering his hand and Casey shook it with firm eagerness. He nearly crushed Sam’s fingers in his vice-like grip, but Sam never blinked. He smiled sweetly. “Nice to meet you,” Sam said. Casey glowed. Sam turned slowly, smiling, and resumed his walk toward the main hall. Casey trotted up alongside. “Where you going?” “I’m under orders to find about more about you men.” “I can tell you more!” “All right, then. Shall we talk? Before I meet with the others?” “Yeah! I mean, you don’t have to talk to them. I’ll tell you everything you wanna know!” “Everything…?” “Welll…..” Casey looked around. “Enough.” “Fine, then. Where shall we go?” “My quarters! How about my…quarters…? Okay?....” “Lead the way.” October 21st, 2021 1845 Hours In the first moments, Casey didn’t think he’d much like sucking Abdul’s cock. The huge Moroccan pushed his hard cock into his mouth without any ceremony. As new to this as Casey was, shouldn’t there be something like…he didn’t know, maybe some foreplay? He knew Abdul was not about to kiss him or anything – geez – but still, as his enormous penis came, hard as iron, enshrouded with thick veins, like a freight train, slow and big and hard and powerful and unyielding, the corona and the shaft pushing resolutely past his lips and teeth and deeply into his mouth and down his throat, Casey wondered, just a nanosecond, ‘Shouldn’t there be a little – something more?’ But, no. Guess not. For there it was, huge and throbbing and hot, crammed down his throat, deep and firm, in one thrust. And no nothing else. Just cock. Not even any flexing. No challenge, no demand to feel his muscles. It was just cock. Big and hard and throbbing and hot and unyielding. At first, Casey was stunned. His eyes went wide and he looked up, his mouth full of cock, even fuller than he’d ever imagined, his lips enveloping the thick shaft of a man’s penis for the first time in his life. Okay, so he had to get used to this. He was beginning to realize they did a lot of this here at the top of the mountain. And he did want bigger muscles, so….. So. It didn’t take him long. February 10th, 2022 2055 Hours Casey practically skipped ahead down the corridor, talking excitedly to San over his shoulder as he went. “I heard about you. The men…the other guys… know, in the lab…. They said you were coming tonight. I wanted to meet you before they did.” “Who said I was coming? Who knows me here?” Sam asked calmly. “Oh. Oh, they all do. All of them. They’ve talked about you. Um.” He stepped ahead of Sam and gestured hopefully down the corridor. “I was hoping to …. um….talk to you first. So you want to know more about us?” Sam stopped, turned, and smiled serenely with plain honesty. So the others talked about him. How did they know him? Still, the thought pleased him. “Yes. But principally, I want to know more about you. Personally. And we’d all want to hear more about the project. We’d like to learn more about all of you. Who you all are, where you’re all from.” Sam paused. “But I’d like to hear a little more about you in particular.” Casey’s eyes grew wide with joy. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Sam continued breezily, “if I might. You sure you have the time for me?” “YEAH!” Casey said, almost shouting, and then glanced around in quick alert spasms to ensure no one had heard him. Tiffany could appear at any point and stop the fun. Of late, Tiffany had been stalking him….and Casey didn’t like it. Not to play, but to keep Casey under personal wraps. “I mean, yes, sure, I have time,” Casey said again, more quietly. “Let’s go.” “It’s late. Sure you don’t mind?” “Naw. Tomorrow’s a rest day anyway. We trained hard tonight. Got all pumped up for you guys.” He paused, and then added. “I’m really pumped up.” “Are you?” “Yeah! REALLY pumped. Very big. Um…” He was getting ahead of himself. He stopped, shyly, confused, and then continued. “Down here. I think. Yeah, I’m right. I get lost sometimes. This way.” He walked ahead fast, heading down the corridor, looking either way, watching for spies. “Down here.” Sam picked it up and hustled a little behind. He was in complete control of himself. His eyes were half-lidded and studiedly casual. He watched the muscleboy’s dancing butt as he ran ahead of him down the corridor. He sure is happy about something, Sam thought. I'm gonna pose for this dude for hours," Casey was thinking happily. October 21st, 2021 1846 Hours Casey closed his mouth around the hugeness of Abdul’s cock with an eagerness that surprised him. His lips held firm. Hey, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it felt right. In fact, it felt great. He glanced up, and then bent his head down and went to work. He started to suck. Lotta veins here. Nice. He pulled back, managed to get his tongue out to wet his lips. In a moment his mouth was wet and milky with thick gobs of spit. He leaned in an resumed. Wow, this was cocksucking? He really liked it. Abdul began to pump his face, first slowly, then fiercely. His big penis started to glide powerfully, in and out of Casey’s mouth. “Mmmmm,” Casey moaned. “Uh hunh,” Abdul moaned. “Fucking your mouth, boy.” The men stepped closer. “Wow,” breathed Hension, and this time, no one smacked him. So, all in all, and pretty fast, it got fun. February 10th, 2022 2056 Hours Sam could hear some moans and groans drifting from various rooms. “What’s going on?” he asked Casey. “Oh, they’re probably all fucking and sucking dick by now." Casey had stopped in front of a door. "Here’s my room. These are my quarters. You wanna come in?” He unlocked it, opened up and went in. Sam was pleasantly startled. “Yes, of course.” Fucking and sucking dick by now? So much for the claim by Zaftig that the muscle giants didn’t have sex. The truth would seem to be otherwise. He followed the giant in. Casey was waiting on the other side of the door, closing it behind Sam as he entered. “Welcome to my room,” he said. October 21st, 2021 1837 Hours “Breathe through your nose,” instructed Moster. “Yeah, we all have to do it that way or we’d suffocate,” said Lang helpfully. Casey looked up. Abdul nodded. “Do it,” he said gruffly. Casey, on his knees, gazed a little up at Abdul’s black eye. It made him hotter, remembering he was still sporting a nice big shiner himself. “Okay.” He’d never sucked a cock before. But of course his masturbation fantasies had included it since he was 8. His bed sheets at the Home had been stiff and sticky with boy cream produced from midnight fantasies of just such a scene. Him, on his knees, servicing the huge penis of a muscle god. And Abdul’s penis was satisfyingly huge, yes, a full, warm, salty dark log of beef gliding forcefully between Casey’s lips and sluicing powerfully, relentlessly down his throat. It plundered deeper into his larynx than he would have thought possible. Casey would have been startled, if he’d thought of it, at how easily his throat opened up, taking it all, without resistance or gagging, swallowing the hugeness of it. The man’s penis was uncut and slightly cheesy to the taste, and the foreskin proved something interesting to nibble on. It filled his mouth – and Casey had a big mouth – and lay at intervals resting with heavy satisfaction atop his tongue. It grew even larger when inside, too, taking on the warmth and liquid of Casey’s mouth. It expanded and began to throb and play and jump, scraping against his teeth. He couldn’t help but bite, just a little, but Abdul, above him, his eyes closed and his face to the ceiling, didn’t seem to notice, mind, or care. The cockhead should have choked him, or gagged him, or something, but rather immediately, Casey had no problem taking it in, 14 inches of girth capped by a huge mushroom corona. Precum must have been dribbling from the piss slit, because right away Casey could taste cum oozing down his throat, coating his tongue. He knew the taste well. He always ate his own, every time he jerked off, 5 to 6 times a day. Abdul was moaning loudly now and was probably unaware of it. “He any good?” asked Blankenship. “Kid knows how to suck dick,” said Abdul between moans. Casey was licking now, playing with the enormous cockhead with light tongue taps. “Oh, God. This kid is good. Really good. Get ready.” “Look, he don’t even gag,” breathed Lang. The other men nodded sagely. “Pants Stay UP!” Casey suddenly yelled. General groans. All were playing with their tools in their trousers, getting big, hard and ready. Hension was flexing for himself, as usual. Gunst was rubbing his 8 pack, while Jin and Schumacher were unconsciously pawing each other’s packaged schlongs. And Tiffany was there, too. Smiling. Always smiling, his fat big organ poling straight ahead in his pants. Casey guessed he’d have to suck his cock, too, but as beautiful as it was, he wasn’t looking forward to it. He was about 8th down the line. Okay, so that would be later. “No gag reflex on this boy,” said Moster from the back. “That’s a good thing. You can suck cock all night, right, Cadet? And not get tired? And keep breathing? Your jaw hurt?” Casey nodded, then shook his head, confused as how to answer. He pulled back. “I like it, sir” he answered. “My jaw don’t hurt.” “Don’t stop,”said Abdul, his voice now had a note of pleading in it. Wow. Casey smiled. “Okay,” he said, and bent down, his mouth full, going back to the business at hand, his throat crammed, sucking a big cock, as all the bodybuilders in the room watched. The tension in the room added a thick layer of electricity, covering them all. And there in the corner, there was Dr. Irving, as always, shooting video. Casey reached down began to steadily work his own gigantic tool, completely popped out of his baggy sweatpants. “Shit, look at his junk,” muttered Chad. “Big as Moster’s,” said Waring. “Close.” Moster looked up critically. And – he had to admit it. Casey’s cock was indeed close to his own in girth, weight, thickness, and circumference. Hmmmm. February 10th, 2022 2058 Hours Casey’s quarters were an efficiency studio with kitchenette and bathroom. The room was large as befitted a huge muscleboy, but somehow with the lighting and the sofas and the pillows – and the posing dais with all the mirrors, and lighting just so– it was still cozy. It was all concrete, everywhere, true but Casey had tried to enliven it with an LED TV, a computer, some stuffed animals and a few plants. There were dozens of books in a study bookshelf. A small private terrace just beyond double glass sliding doors and dark with night gave a beautiful view of the bright stars above. The terrace walls were high and covered with ivy. No one would be able to see Casey sunbathing naked in the late afternoon sun. Sam could envision him spread out on the extra-durable steel chaise longue, his 12” soft cock languidly lying atop a ripped quad. Sam could see Casey watering his few little plants, desperately trying to keep them alive. A lonely boy’s room. It was sweet and sad. Lonely and alone. No muscleman this beautiful should ever be alone. “Want some coffee? Water? A beer? Juice?” he asked eagerly. Sam wondered if he ever had any visitors at all. Sam nodded. “Sure, that would be great.” Casey headed towards the darkened kitchenette and snapped the light on. Sam’s eyes followed his round, rock-hard tightly jeaned ass swaying as he went with its own inner rhythm. It was like dancing steel. “You have coffee?” Casey nodded, pulled an instant coffee jar from a cabinet, and filled a cup with hot water from the sink. “Yeah. Got it. Milk? Sugar?” “Just black. I see you have beer? I thought caffeine and alcohol were supposed to be bad for you.” “Naw. We can eat and drink anything. It won’t show up.” He stirred the coffee. “Come on in here,” he gestured. “Get it while it’s hot.” It sure as shit is, thought Sam. He came into the kitchenette. “Yeah, we can eat or drink anything. We just train it out. We’re gonna look like this for years. Except maybe we’ll get bigger.” He handed the cup to Sam. “Have a seat,” he offered, and Sam sat down at a small round table in the kitchenette. He looked back at the books in the shelf. “Looks like you work hard.” “I have to. I’m not as smart as the others. I’m pretty dumb, really. I don’t understand half of what’s in them books.” He corrected himself. “Those books. Coffee okay?” Sam sipped, nodded. “Fine.” It tasted terrible. Casey sat down at the little table with Sam. His heavy shoulders and pecs loomed over the table surface. He folded his big hands together and leaned in slightly, shy but – determined – about – what? Sam noticed there were slight tears in the tight sleeves of the t-shirt, still straining to cover the massive biceps. Casey followed Sam’s gaze. “Those guns are pretty impressive,” Sam said. Casey nodded, solemnly, without smiling. “They’re big. Not the biggest in the barracks, but close. They’ve always been big. 26 inches. Moster’s are bigger. Gunst’s too, I think, but I’m getting close to him. I think mine are harder than his, though.” “Impressive.” There was a long pause. “Would it be okay if I flexed for you?” Casey asked shyly. Sam sipped his coffee. “Sure, let’s see what you got.” October 21st, 2021 1843 Hours As he sucked, licked and played with the Arab dick, Casey became intrigued with the latticework of heavy veins that lined Abdul’s lower abs. Hmmm, he thought. Rough. Masculine. Ripped. He thought for a moment of Ramon Ramon, and then Miles Donovan. Maybe he could take a trip back to Raw Weight Gym sometime soon. Suck their dicks, too. In fact, there was also Banks, and Taylor, and the other cadets who wanted to touch and worship him. In fact, there was a whole world of cock waiting for him now. And who was going to say No to a kid as big and muscular and good looking as he was? Casey was, in fact, still discovering his own power. Looking down the line of men waiting, all of them hard and hot, he could see Gunst was next. Looking up, he saw that Abdul was now posing for him, doing a front lat spread, his fists buried in solid obliques. “Yeah, pose for me, big man,” muttered Casey, who continued to suck. “You pose for me, and then I’ll pose for you, and you’ll suck MY dick.” “Fuck you,” said Abdul. “Yeah, and I’ll do that, too,” replied Casey. February 10th, 2022 2058 Hours Casey didn’t need for Sam to prompt him further. He was ready to flex. Joyfully, he stood, towering over Sam. He slowly brought up his right arm, extended it, made a fist, and flexed. “Ka-boom!” he shouted. He flexed it again. “Wham! Bam!” The powerful peaks rose to the ceiling, pumping with sheathed veins. The tear in the shirt sleeve cloth widened a little more, the threads straining to cover the cannonball peak. Then he brought up the left arm, cocked the fist, and flexed it as well. Then he flexed both together, in a massive front double biceps display. “Pow Pow Pow Pow,” he added, whispering now, his gaze never leaving Sam’s face. “Look at my biceps. Check out these huge mother fucking guns.” He was whispering low, his face a foot away from Sam's. Sam gazed. In truth, he had never seen such muscle before. But still he seemed calm. The tendons of Casey’s forearms spasmed as if charged with electricity, and veins seemed to audibly pop as the heads of each biceps peaked. Casey clenched his fists powerfully and grinned, showing teeth. Then he grew shy again. A pause. “What do you think of me?” he asked timidly, still flexing mammoth biceps. “I think you’re fucking unreal.” Casey nodded seriously. “Yeah, I am.” He turned and inspected his flexed arm muscles closely. “26 inches. I have dense muscle fibers,” he reported. “And, um, good bones.” There was silence for a moment. Sam sat still, watching the unwavering young muscleman flexing his biceps. After a minute, Casey looked up, and brought his right arm closer to Sam. “You can touch it,” Casey said eagerly. “Feel how hard it is.” “Okay,” Sam said calmly. He rose to his feet, brought his hand up and touched the enormous biceps head with his fingers. It was impossibly hard and hot. He looked into Casey’s blue eyes, and smiled. Then he clapped the mountainous biceps full with his palm. He stroked, softly and more thoughtfully. In spite of himself his eyes grew wide for a moment. He had never felt any part of any man to be so hard to the touch. It was as if he was stroking hot, smooth iron. Casey looked at Sam a moment, then turned away, lowering his arm. He pulled a 5-gallon aluminum thermos from the refrigerator, unscrewed the top, and drank heavily. Sam watched him. He drank about a gallon, water running down his beautiful scruffy chin, then stopped, and held out the bottle for him. “Distilled water. Want some?” “I’m good.” “Okay.” He drank the another 2 gallons while Sam watched. “Sit down,” said Sam. “Thanks,” said Casey, as if he were the guest. He sat. Both men sat at the table. Casey wiped his mouth. “Hang on a minute,” Casey suddenly said. He reached into the kitchen table drawer and brought out a little vial. He shook out three capsules, grabbed his water bottle and swallowed them down, drinking the last gallon. Sam smiled. “Drugs?” Casey smiled back. “Just some P21.” He paused again. “Wait a minute while I get an orange.” He got up and walked across the room to a bowl of fruit. He grabbed an orange and chowed it down whole, without bothering to peel it. Then he smiled. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said. October 21st, 2021 1845 Hours “Pay attention. Lick it,” Abdul commanded, and Casey licked Abdul’s lengthy shaft from base to tip, as he would an ice cream cone. “Balls,” Abdul added, and Casey leaned in and turned his head up into the man’s perineum, the massive log now lying hard and lazy on his face, extending from jaw to hairline, gobbling at the leathery scrotum sacs that hung and swayed, slapping against Abdul’s iron muscled quads. Lolling the cock around in his mouth, Casey glanced up. The men were gathered around him now. Waiting, their pants still buckled, their flies up, bulging, waiting their turn. Waiting. 17 more cocks, all huge, bobbing, erect, ready to be tasted, probed, learned. His head was reeling now. The P21 was zinging about in his system. It was, after all, an aphrodisiac (although in truth, Casey wouldn’t have known the word). Wow, thought Casey. I like this. I really, really like this. No, 18 cocks. For there he was, in line, at the end, waiting. The monster cock. Sergeant Moster. Moster’s monster. “Moster has a monster….” Casey began to giggle. “Get serious and keep sucking,” commanded Abdul. “Yes, sir,” said Casey. The P21 was still kicking in. Even as Abdul pulled out, shooting thick rivers of white Arab cream, his blasting cum covering Casey’s face, and Blankenship stepped up for his turn, his own monster machine pushing through Casey’s lips, Casey knew he wanted it, too. “AUUUGHHHHNNN GGGHHH!!” cried Abdul, his mammoth pole shooting ropes of semen onto Casey’s face. Casey received the facial calmly. It felt warm and wonderful. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. Cum streamed down his face. Badge of honor. He wanted them all to line up to suck his cock. Now. It was as if Moster was reading his mind. “You’ll have to wait your turn, boy. Before you get your cock sucked in this squad, first you have to suck all of ours.” Casey shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and a moment later, his mouth was full of Blankenship’s ploughing, plundering machine. And on either side of him, Chad and LeFevre were now rubbing their protruding trouser bulges on his traps, impatiently awaiting their turns. He could also barely make out between Blankenship’s hip plunges that Lang was on his knees now, feverishly servicing Alvarez. Obviously Lang couldn’t wait. Okay. It was fine with him. It was all good. He looked up. Blankenship was closest to him, flexing biceps now. Wow, Casey thought. But mine are bigger. Wait till he sucks my cock. Behind Blankenship stood Gunst, eagerly awaiting his turn. Gunst’s cock was one he was looking forward to. He rapidly finished up on Blankenship, bringing him to climax, and then pushing him out of the way, grabbed for Gunst, who, surprised, came forward awkwardly. “Give me your dick, big man,” said Casey. “And let me see those big guns of yours.” Gunst began to flex huge biceps, as Casey took the giant cock in his mouth and began to chow down on it. Wow. Even bigger than Abdul’s. February 10th, 2022 2100 Hours Casey had oiled his arms up just before he met Sam in the corridor. He knew he wanted to show his biceps to the handsome young officer. It was as if he knew Sam would be coming. An instinct. From across the lab earlier that evening he’d seen the gleam in Sam’s eye, saw the once-over that was a little different, saw the stare Sam couldn’t cover at his large package. He knew there would be deep-throating going on before the evening was over. He could hardly wait. But first, he had oiled his biceps. “Play with then. G’wan. Feel my biceps. Have some fun with them. You know you want to.” Casey raised his fists higher and took a step closer. Sam could feel his breath. Sam brought up both his hands, and ran them along the flexed biceps of both Casey’s arms. He clapped the hard peaks, smacked the left forearm, and ran his fingers along a network of thick veins. Casey moved a little closer still. He brought his left arm right up under Sam’s nose. “…….why don’t you lick it…..?” he murmured. Sam gazed into Casey’s eyes. His gaze was mild, unthreatening, encouraging, hopeful, but firm. He wanted his biceps licked. Sam slowly leaned in, his eyes never leaving Casey’s and lightly flicked the biceps head with his tongue. Casey’s eyes closed and he inhaled gallons of air, heavily heaving forward. Then…… R-r-r-i-i-i-i-p-p-p! That was all it took – the touch of Sam’s tongue. Each of the straining sleeves of his t-shirt gave way, and tore open wide. Casey’s biceps burst free of their final confine, both gleaming with power. Sam licked the peaks, ran his tongue firmly up and down mountains of muscle, tasting dusky mineral oil. A droplet of moisture streamed slowly down the left peak. Sam licked it up. “Your shirt’s going,” he said quietly. “Fuck it,” said Casey. The fabric stretched to its maximum length, and split again in six different places, drifting gently down his torso and hanging at his belt. Casey tore off the remnants of the shredded t-shirt and blasted into a front lat spread. “It’s gone. I go through a lotta shirts this way.” "I'm sure of it." “I wanna keep posing for you.” “Go for it.” “Stand back then.” Casey started reeling off poses. First, he showed off his 60” chest in six different ways - front lat spread, most muscular, side chest left and right, crab shots, and slow pec dancing. "Boom Boom Boom Boom," he yelled out proudly as his pecs leaped and danced. His nipples were taut and high and hard. He wriggled and slapped his quads, still encased in the skintight white jeans. He turned full around and went into a lat spread, hands on his hips. “Watch this,” he commanded. His lats flared wider than seemed humanly possible. He arched his butt towards the ceiling and threw his head back, and every tendon of his back leaped out. Veins criss-crossed the canvas of his physique. Sam resisted a momentary impulse to fall to his knees and bury his face in his glorious butt. Somehow he restrained himself. Casey turned back front. “Doin’ hair now,” he said, cocking one biceps up and palming the back of his head with the other arm. Sam laughed. “You’re too young to remember Tom Platz.” Aha. In an instant, Casey got it. This dude knows who Tom Platz is. The dude likes muscle. Casey covered well. “I know who he was! He was awesome! "BAM!” Casey flexed his biceps. “You’ve never seen guns like this!” His enormous muscles danced, gleaming brilliantly in the bright kitchen light. Sam saw the look in Casey’s eye, and knew in a flash that he’d blown his cover. He was a muscle worshipper, too. Shit. Still, he covered well. “How about a little more oil there?” “Sure!” Casey said eagerly, secretly overjoyed. A worshipper! WOW. He whipped open a cabinet door and produced a large bottle of mineral oil. “Pour it on me, baby!” Sam stood and smiling, slowly unscrewed the bottle cap. He poured a generous amount of oil into his palm, and began to apply to Casey’s pecs. Casey brought his hands back to his hips and expanded his chest to its fullest size. Sam smoothed the oil onto the muscle boy. Beneath his hand he could feel Casey’s heart beating, the blood pulsing, the unyielding hardness of warm muscle. He rubbed the oil in. Casey’s pecs glistened, and droplets of sweat beaded into the mixture. Sam poured more oil and layered it onto to his rocky washboard abs. He smoothed the liquid evenly, then rubbed his hands together and took hold of the flaring lats, running his hands down Casey’s obliques. Sam glanced down at Casey’s jeans. The looming fly was beginning to bulge even larger. The men’s eyes met. Casey’s face colored a little. He was embarrassed. “Sorry, man,” he said. “Getting oiled always works me up.” He reached down to his crotch, squatted a little, pushing his big butt out, and adjusted himself. His face was bright red now. He explained. “These pants are too tight. Zaftig made us wear them tonight. Usually we’re just in jocks. Or posers. They’re made specially just for us. So we can fit everything in them.” He was breathing heavily, now, and though he felt slightly humiliated that his priapic eagerness was showing so clearly. All the same he was happy and satisfied that things were going so well. He had gotten to show Sam his muscles up close before the other guys did, and without getting caught. He flexed again his biceps and stood back. “I like doing that,” he said. “Go right ahead.” “Okay!” He flexed a few moments more, and then stopped. “So what do you want to know?” he asked happily. He looked down. “Sorry about the hard on.” There was no hiding it now. “It’s okay. You’re young. It’s bound to happen. Not a problem. Pull your pants down.” “Yeah?” asked Casey happily. “Yeah. I know you big bodybuilders love to pull your pants down, keep them over your ankles, waddle around with your pants over your big feet, showing off your quads…” “Okay!” Casey was practically singing with joy at the prospect of showing this handsome new guy, a guy he’s just met and already was swooning for, his huge muscles. “And my hams, wait until you see my hams…..” he crooned as he pulled his pants down to his ankles. October 21st, 2021 1900 Hours Casey looked down the row of waiting musclemen, shifting nervously, eagerly from foot to foot, and saw that Moster would come last – that implacable huge mountain of a member would be the last of the evening to maraud his throat. He closed his eyes and dreamed as Gunst let loose with a cascade of gism down his throat. Casey swallowed every drop. And was on to the next, who, it happened, was Chad. Followed by LeFevre. Together the two men plunged their cocks down Casey’s throat at the same time. He’d been sucking cock twenty minutes now, on his knees, his face thick with cum deposits, now and then flexing his own huge biceps while he sucked, now and then switching back and forth to Schumacher and Waring. The men watched intently. Casey pulled back and called out to Moster. “Tell them all to pull their pants down. Now. Around their ankles. Keep them down. I want to see their quads. And their hams.” He licked his lips, then wiped his hands on his cheeks and lapped up the cum. He grinned. It was even in his eyes. He didn’t care. “You heard him, men,” called out Moster from the back of the line. He unzipped and plunged his pants down to his ankles. All unzipped. Pants around ankles. Huge quads blazing with veins. And thick cocks, erect, lining up, down the row, one after another. Even Tiffany’s. And even Tiffany’s was huge. And beautiful. “Yeah, lookin’ good,” Casey mumbled, licking his Chad’s cock now. “Take ‘em both, boy,” Chad growled, his good humor vanished. “Yes, sir,” said Casey, sucking obediently. His knees were beginning to hurt. He reached down to rub them, and in an instant, the sweet-hearted Eli Meyer, from the back of the line, was suddenly there at his side with a pillow, which he got from God knew where, fluffing and arranging. He tapped the top of Casey’s quads and, one knee at a time, and never breaking his suck rhythm, Casey lifting each leg and allowed the pillow to be slid under his aching, bruised knees. Eli rose and Casey saw his bobbing cock, eye to eye. “Wanna thank you,” he muttered. He reached up and tousled his hair. He could see Eli was hoping for service. Casey pushed Chad and LeFevre roughly away and grabbed Eli by the hips, pulling him close. “Unzip,” he commanded, forming the words clearly so that Eli could read his lips. He unzipped and his eager, big young muscleboy penis spilled out. Casey’s mouth enveloping his now-at-attention rigid cock. Chad and LeFevre grumbled angrily but backed off, impressed by Casey’s determination. He was done with them. “Maybe we should have gotten him the pillow?” “It’s okay,” said LeFevre as he knelt before Chad and finished the job, grabbing Chad’s cock and enveloping it with his lips. He pumped himself to release as Chad shot in his mouth. “AUUUGHHHGGGHHH FUCCCKKK!!” Casey paid no attention. He worked Eli to a frenzied climax in no time. Thick spurts of cum travelled down his throat. An instant later, there was Obatu’s big black rod, marauding his mouth. “Keep those pants down around your ankles,” Casey commanded. “I wanna see quads. And bulges.” “Yes, sir,” answered one of the men. Probably Lang. “You heard the boy. Pants down. Around the ankles. Keep those cocks covered till he’s ready for you,” ordered Moster. “It’s what the boy likes,” he added. All the while, Dr. Irving’s video cam continued to whirr. Dr. Shaft will pay major bucks for this tape, thought Moster with some satisfaction. Thousands. Casey finished with Obatu, cumming in his mouth, sperm dribbling down Casey’s chin into big pools on the pillow beneath his knees. “AUUUGHHHGGGHHH shittttt!!” "Glad you enjoyed it," said Casey. "Next?" The line moved forward one more man. Moster’s turn was coming up soon. February 10th, 2022 2115 Hours Sam stood back and smiled, still breathing hard himself from the posing routine he had just witnessed. The kid was charming. Was it an act? Had to be. No matter. Casey was right. His hamstrings were sick. Back-blooming with thick roiling mounds of sheer striated muscle, in line with his rock hard butt, sweeping past the back of his head, thick and solid and bursting. But everything about the swole, beautiful young muscle beast was sick. And swole. Sam caught his breath. Casey was sweating now, standing before him in only his bulging posers, his pants still around his ankles. Sam decided to play it calm. “So. How long have you lived here?” “Three years.” Casey was breathing heavily, trying to seem casual, but with his swelling penis smoothing out the few folds that were in his posers, poling ever outward, it was increasingly impossible. “I think give or take, 3 years. Um. I don’t remember. Seems like forever. I got here when I was 17. But I only moved up the hill here a few months ago. When they thought I was big enough.” “When they thought you were big enough.” “Yeah.” “I see.” “Had a really tough workout tonight before the showing. Let’s see. Got here three years ago. I think.” He put the bottle down and started counting on his fingers, thinking hard. “Zaftig first spotted me when I was 15. I just got thrown out of school. I had nowhere to go. He told me to start training heavier, and he got me a little apartment. He paid me to train, said he wanted to see where I would be in two years.” He ticked off a finger. “I trained hard on my own for two years. When I was17, um, yeah, when I was 17, I finally met Zaftig. And that’s when he moved me here to the mountain.” “Why were you thrown out of school?” “Fighting.” He picked up the bottle and drank again. “I put about 12 guys in the hospital one night.” “I see.” “They were laughing at my dick.” “Uh hunh.” Casey changed the subject. “Zaftig thought I had real potential. But there were a few guys ahead of me. One or two dropped out of the program. A few got promoted into ranks. Once I got here, I started really training, training hard. Day and night. Had to follow a strict regimen.” “Sounds tough.” “Naw. I like it. I mean, what else can I do? Not much. I’m dumb.” Casey chugged the last of the 5 gallons. Sam watched him silently. He put the empty bottle down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I mean, yeah, it’s tough, but not so much when you love lifting like I do.” “Tell me about it. Tell me more about you.” “Hunh? Really? You want to know about me?” “Sure.” October 21st, 2021 1940 Hours Tiffany’s session had come and gone as fast as Casey could get the mean little muscleboy to cum. In his mouth, as it happened. Now Moster stood in front of Casey. It was finally his turn. All the men leaned in to watch. “Men, dismissed,” Moster said calmly. “Casey, to the showers.” The men looked at each other, stunned and perplexed. Abdul grumbled and walked quietly out of the room. He would head for the heavy bag room first and once he’d worked up a sweat, then find Pedro again. “Let’s go pose,” said Lang to Alvarez after a moment. “Yeah. Let’s go.” The two left the room. All filed out, a little perplexed. “Ain’t he even gonna spank him?” Hension asked plaintively as they left the gym floor. “How many times do you have to be told, don’t say ‘ain’t’,” barked Obatu, clapping him on the back of the head. “Ouch!” “Hit him in the face and he’s yours forever,” said Chad. Casey heard the men roaring as they headed down the hall. He wiped some of the cum off his face. Damn, every time he met with these guys he walked away coated with cum. Stlll, it tasted good. Damn good. He wiped his cheek and licked his fingers. “That was fun!” Already Casey recognized Blankenship’s voice. The laughing subsided as the men moved away down the hall. Yeah, Casey thought, it was. He had to agree. “Casey? The showers.” “Yes, sir.” He got up and turned to go, wiping his face and mouth with a towel. Eli scrambled to get the cum-covered pillow, which he threw at Dr. Irving, getting cum all over his lab coat before scampering out of the room, grabbing his clothes. Moster watched as the harried Irving packed up the camera and the lights and left the room, wiping his coat and muttering angrily as he left. What came next Casey couldn’t quite believe. “I’ll join you in the shower in 10 minutes. Get ready for me.” Casey turned back and stared. Moster had crossed to his desk and reached into a drawer for a small vial. He was taking a handful of white caps. He smiled up at Casey. “My guess is that you need a little more intro into what we do here. To relax. Go ahead, Casey. Showers.” “The showers……” Casey repeated dumbly. “Yes. Hit the showers. I’ll join you. I think I need one, too.” Moster stretched, raised his arms behind his back, rotated his massive torso. In his trousers his huge organ shifted lazily. Casey gaped a moment at Moster. “You need a …..?” “A shower. Yes.” “With…..just me?” “I think so. Few things I want to talk about. Privately. Got it?” “Uh….” “Go on then." “Yes, sir!” Casey backed out the door, turned, and and ran down the corridor. Towards the showers. This time, he knew exactly where he was going. February 10th, 2022 2125 Hours Casey was thrilled that an officer as handsome as Ensign Victor was interested in his story. He sat down on the stool opposite Sam and spread his arms out wide. But he paused, perplexed. “What d’ya wanna know?” “Well, do you ever get out?” “Away from here? Sometimes. We’re told to stay away from town, but some of the guys go sometimes. At night. And sometimes we head down to LA.” “LA? Why?” “Some of the men who fund us live there. We show up and demonstrate our progress.” “I see. In a group? All of you at once?” “Occasionally. Usually we, you know, split up. Into smaller groups. And we’re allowed, if we’re discreet, to make private appointments, and we can keep the all money, too.” He stopped, proud. “I’ve made about $30,000. Just in the last six months. They’re keeping it for me.” Sam tried to keep a straight face. “$30,000?” He coughed. “Okay. So ….you hustle?” Casey colored, looked down, and seemed a little mortified. “No, not really. Is it? I guess it is. But some men like to see our muscles in private sessions, and ask us to do….um, things…to them…to show off our strength.” “I can imagine. And they pay you?” “Well, they contribute. And if they want to, um, suck our cocks, or fuck us, or have fuck them, or kiss our buttholes or something, then they have to contribute more.” “Isn’t that hustling?” “Okay, I guess it is. You see, I hadn’t had much experience before then.” “Experience? You mean you’d never had sex with a man before?” “No. Never. Not with anyone. Not until I got here. I still haven’t fucked a girl. They won’t let me. I want to, I guess. I mean, if she likes muscles, I mean, why not? But no, no sex. Not before I got here. But …then…after that – WOW. Like, every day! And I like sucking cock, I guess. And fucking. And I really like fucking tight bubblebutts. And I go nuts when I get worshipped. When littler guys, like you, tell me how big I am. How strong. How muscular. When guys….” He stopped, suddenly mortified. The words had come out in a rush. Maybe he was revealing too much. But Sam was calm. “Go on.” He plunged back in. “I just go crazy. You see…” he paused, now completely beet red with embarrasment, “getting my cock sucked while guys talk about my muscles takes me to……another planet, I guess. I lose all control.” “How?” Sam’s tone was warm, understanding. “I……I guess I get mean. Happy. Nasty. Mean. I mean, I like it. No, that’s not right. I crave it. I crave getting my cock sucked. And I like to show them how strong I am. You know, throw them around a bit. Pick them up. Carry them around, throw them down on the floor, step on them, sit on them. Sit on their faces. It’s easy. And they pay more, too.” Sam leaned in, his voice sympathetic. “You sit on them?” “Yeah….” Casey’s voice was low. “Tell me all about it,” he said. “Okay,” said Casey. He thought back. “It started when they made me start to suck cock. To see if I liked it. And….I did. I do.” And he remembered back to that first night – when he’d first sucked cock. When he’d first sucked all of their cocks, as it happened. He leaned in, and began to talk. How exciting it all was at first…but then how he longed for something more. He 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.
  22. Hi guys, here’s the background story of Jeff. I warn you: there’s no much muscle, just at the end, but I think you would enjoy the whole chapter. BTW, sorry for making it so long!!! Here’s the link to the previous chapter: Hope you all like it!!! -------- He laid there, exhausted but satisfied, playing with Robert’s cum in his biceps, thinking about his life, and how he ended up being such a freak, as he heard Bob closing the door and walking away, still crying. ****** Jeff was born on May 13th, 1987, in the Mount Sinai Hospital of NYC. Son of Ahmad, an Iranian immigrant; and Sun, a beautiful (and quite rich) girl with Korean origins, he raised up in a nice and loving environment. His father, Ahmad, was a simple guy back in Teheran, who worked as a transport guy. Quite gifted physically, the man was also quite a handsome man, who ended up being such a hunk (mainly thanks to his work) and got an offer to move to the US and do some modeling. There she met Sun, an awesomely interesting and beautiful girl, part of the family who held the Samsung empire, who never was really interested in the family business, but more into clothes, travelling, and the easy life in general. They met in one of Ahmad’s modeling jobs, got interested in each other immediately, started meeting, fell in love (obviously with the opposition of Sun’s family), got married and finally she gave birth to Jin Firuz (but he was always called Jeff) on that day of May. Childhood Jeff, in his childhood, had always been very active, much into sports, but he somehow especially loved athletics and running, what always gave him an athletic but very skinny look, too skinny in fact, even though he ate like a bull. His parents never really got worried about that, because he always showed an excellent health. But, at the age of 14, with a height of 5’7, he just weighed 120lb, and had a really sick appearance. Although he had quite developed legs, for all that running when he was a child, the rest of his body was really thin, something that was often subject of jokes and mocks from his friends. At first he laughed at all that stuff (well, they’re just joking, and maybe thy’re just envious because they are overweighed and I’m not), but after some time, and especially when the rest of his friends got dates, girlfriends, and he didn’t, he started to get a bit obsessed with his appearance, his looks, but especially with being really sick, and having some kind of illness who gave him that appearance, and made people kind of reject him. He told his parents at the age of 16 but again, he wasn’t sick at all, on the contrary, all his medical revisions gave him an excellent status of health, everything was perfect, every level just where it should be, though his looks didn’t show that fact at all. But that didn’t comfort him at all. That obsession only got worse over the years. Teen years During his teen years, he turned into quite a handsome guy, that mix of Arabian and Korean facials gave him a really manly beautiful, but skinny face, although he had quite a squared jawline, maybe for eating so much, obsessed with getting a bit more fat and start to look more healthy. But as much as he ate, he still remained thin as an spaghetti, although his legs still were pretty developed. During those teen years, in the brief interludes of his depression, when he took the strength to try to meet any girl, they always asked him the, with a total lack of fineness, the same thing: “Hey are you ok? Have you been ill recently?”. All that had led him to become quite a lonely person, gave up on the possibility of being loved someday, and shut himself away from everyone. He had always admired his father, he had such a beautiful and proportioned physique (remember the fact that he came to the US for becoming a professional model), also admired his friends who were pretty big, and ended up developing a real attraction to big guys. At first he thought it was just because of his obsession for being thick himself, but later he discovered that it was a sexual attraction. So, as he wrongly though “If I had not enough with being a walking skeleton, I’m not ever going to be with such big guys, they’d want a big guy as well”. His truth At the age of 21, he had grown to 5’11 but he just weighted 130lbs, 10 lbs more. At this point, their parents, very worried about that situation and Jeff’s depression, decided to take him to get new tests to see what really happened to Jeff, if there were something wrong that the doctors hadn’t detected. After lots of visits to many specialists, they finally found one who offered to do a genetic test, and see if there was something unusual on this analysis. They agreed, but were really scared about finding out something really bad inside of him, but it was that or letting the depression get worse. After the first genetic analysis, he was called for some new tests, some running, a body scan, and some other stuff that Jeff was really scared of. After some weeks, they were called to meet the doctor and explain what they had discovered. And then they knew the strange truth. “Jeff, the first thing you have to know, and your parents, of course, is that you’re perfectly ok”, the doctor started. That comfort them quite a lot, but then he continued. “… but… there is something, let’s call it… strange with you”. Jeff’s face changed to horror. “Jeff, take it easy, I didn’t say that it was something WRONG, just something STRANGE, and as I have said at first, you’re perfectly ok. It’s just that your body works in a different way than the others. Let me ask you something: have you been a runner in your early years?”. Jeff got surprised, because he had never told him that to the doctor. “Yes, I have. I used to run when I was a child. But that was like ages ago”, Jeff replied. “Ok, and since then, I guess you’ve not been doing any special physical activity, right? I mean, just walking, am I right?” His mother intervened in the conversation: “Well, doctor, Jeff have been quite depressive the last 5 years, and he has not really done almost anything”. “Ok, this explain our findings. Let’s see if I can explain it in a way you can understand it”. The doctor tried to explain to Ahmad, Sun and Jeff that the latter had a genetic “disorder” that, somehow, didn’t allow his body to save more fat than the necessary. They didn’t understand a word. What was that supposed to mean? The doctor tried to explain it in more “street” word and finally managed to let them know that the result of his disorder is that his skin and muscles didn’t held any fat on them, but his internal organs did, that’s the reason for his perfect health but his kind of sick looks. “There is not any documented case of this disorder”, said the doctor “but, apparently, there’s nothing to worry about Jeff. Your health is excellent; your only ‘problem’ is that you won’t ever be a fat guy, hahhaha”. The doctor was laughing, but Jeff didn’t laught at all, in fact he got really angry and looked mad at the doctor. “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s something awesome for someone like you, doctor”, Jeff replied, given that the doctor was obviously obese, “but you have just killed me. So, are you saying that I’m always going to look like a skeleton?” “No no no, I haven’t said that, Jeff. You look skinny because you’re not a muscular guy. Your condition affects to your fat, even more, your external fat, but not to the rest of your body. In fact, remember what I’ve asked you before, if you were a runner. I asked you that because on the body scan we noticed that your lower body was a bit muscled, still with an extremely low fat rate, but well toned, we could even say muscular. I’m sure that, if you had been a gym guy you wouldn’t look so thin. In fact, there’s another strange point in your case…” The doctor continued explaining that Jeff should have lost all the muscular mass in his legs due to the lack of physical activity in the last years, but he hadn’t. They didn’t know if it was related to the other “disorder”, but somehow he had a good genetics. The doctor continued talking directly to Jeff: “Anyway, Jeff, it seems pretty obvious that you have really important self-esteem issues with your looks, but your ‘disorder’ doesn’t have to interfere with it. You should treat this with some psychologist, but I recommend to start doing some heavy sports, gym, weight lifting, this like that, to try to change your looks adding some muscle. Just try it, you don’t have anything to lose!”. First weeks After the shock of his “disorder” (what a horrible word for him) and after dealing with his psychologist, they decided that he would start training, but since he had such a big depression at the moment, it was more safe for him not to go to a place with guys in a average or built condition. So, their parents decided to install a gym in their flat, hire a personal trainer for Jeff and see how it went. After a couple of weeks, Jeff started training with Andy. Andy was specifically chosen by Ahmad, his father, since he was a former colleague in his modeling agency, and he had a similar problem than Jeff, he started as a really thin model, and after some time, he got a bit more hunky, but not much, he didn’t want that his trainer’s looks made Jeff more depressed. First days were quite terrible. Jeff still felt depressed, but Andy, was really a nice guy, and helped him a lot dealing with his “disorder”. “Come on Jeff, you don’t really know how lucky you are. Guys I’ve trained would kill to gain mass and not gain any fat. You don’t have to worry about it. All the muscle you build, it will be clean, so in fact I envy you a lot too”. “Well, take it for yourself, take it as a present”, Jeff said ironically. “Fuck, no one understand how terrible it is to be my age and look so fucking skinny? I just wished I were normal”. “Don’t ever say that again”, Andy shouted. “You’re a normal guy, you just have to train and we’ll see where it leads to, ok? Reluctantly, Jeff agreed, hardly trying to give it an opportunity. Jeff’s training started with a soft routine for two weeks and a high carbs diet. “Since you won’t save it, you can eat as much as you want, and let’s see how your body reacts”. In the first weeks, he got quite toned, lost his cramps in just one day, and was able to dedicate 2 hours, 4 days per week. He looked at himself every day in the mirror, trying to see any gain. Yes he felt a bit more hard, but still as skinny as he was. After one month, gains were already visible, he just gained 5lbs which of course was quite a lot for a starter, but since he could eat as much as he wanted, it was quite a good progress. He started feeling more confident with Andy, but he still weren’t satisfied about it. He fell down deeper into his depression and talked to Andy: “Andy, this is not working, let’s face it, I won’t change, I’m an error of nature and I just wish I wasn’t born”. Andy got really worried about that, because he saw a shred of a suicidal threat in his eyes. Then he remembered something and took Jeff to the living room. “Ok, I’m going to show you something”. Andy got some muscle magazines he had left in Jeff’s house and started looking into them. After that, he got three pictures and handled them to Jeff. “Ok, this guy is called Dorian Yates. He is a professional bodybuilder which, as you may see, it’s an awesome beast”. The picture was in off season look, bulking like a beast, about 300lbs or more. Then he handled another one to Jeff. “Ok, this is the same guy, but in different moments of his competitions. The first one is in off-season. As you may see, he is big, but he looks fat, doesn’t he?” “Sure, truth be told, looks quite fat, but he looks strong as hell!” “I agree, but what about the second picture? In this picture, he is competing the same year, just two months later, and weighing 50lbs less, just to look hotter, more defined, and so on. Now, Jeff, tell me, if you could choose, which one of these two looks would you like for yourself?”. “The second one, of course! He looks much better”. Andy laughed. “Yeah, that’s a matter of tastes BUT, to get to this status, this guy had to run more than two hours every day, have a completely clean diet, for two months”. Jeff opened his eyes in awe. “Fuck, that’s even worse than training”, he replied. “Of course it is, everybody hates cardio, but we all need it to stay in a good shape. Well, this guy, Yates, had a bodyfat percentage of a 7% in this picture, which is a really really low one”. Then he took the third picture and showed it to Jeff and asked: “What do you think of this one?” Jeff opened his eyes and mouth, shocked. “Fuck, this guy looks incredible! Who is he??”. The picture was of Andreas Munzer, in his most famous picture, his freaky most muscular picture where he was shredded all the way up. Andy smiled. “Ok, now tell me why do you think he looks better than the last one I showed you”, asked. “Well, his looks are quite hot, don’t you think? I mean, look at him, he looks strong, he’s just…” “… he’s just muscle, right?”, Andy finished the sentence. Jeff looked up at Andy and then he started realizing what he was trying to teach him. “Yes, he’s looking like he’s just muscle”. “… and not fat at all, right?”, Andy went on Jeff’s mind was changing. “Yes…”, he said stumbling. “Well, Jeff. This guy was Andreas Munzer. He was considered the most shredded bodybuilder ever. In this picture, he was just 4% bodyfat. He died some time later due to health problems derived from his obsession to remove all his fat from his body”. Jeff got a scary look. “Well, if this guy would have had your “disorder”, as you call it, he would still be alive”. “Really? Why so?”, Jeff asked “You know, when you dry out for competition, you have a strict diet, that removes ALL his fat, both his inner and his outer fat. I you lose too many inner fat, you just die. BUT, if he hadn’t needed to remove his external fat, he wouldn’t have needed to remove his internal one, and he would still be alive”. Jeff started to process all that information. “And, Jeff, to make it really clear to you”, Andy continued, “you have ZERO external body fat. You don’t have to worry about that. Which means that, if you really wish, you can get like this guy, without risking your life AT ALL”. Andy made a pause “Now, I’ll ask you: do you still think you’re an unlucky guy?” Jeff got quiet for a moment, really scared at the idea of someone dying because of trying to get in such a dry condition but, at the same time, mesmerized at that picture of Munzer. Andy was looking at him carefully, trying to find out what he was thinking. Jeff suddenly lost a lot of his self-hate for his condition, knowing that he could get like this, and regretting for having had such a deep depression, for having given his parents such bad years of regretting, tests, psychologists, and so on. He smiled, raise his eyes up to Andy and self-confidently said: “No, in fact I should be grateful for it”. Andy was really happy. He always loved to help guys in trouble with his self looks. Jeff went on talking and asked “Andy, are you serious when you say that I can get like this guy?” referring to Munzer’s picture. “Jeff, I can’t ensure you that so soon”, he laughed, “BUT you have the genetics, look at your father, he got hunky with very little effort and you, in just one month, gaining 5lbs is a really good progress, so I could say that, if you really wish it, you can get as muscular as you want!!! Give me another month, and let’s talk by then, ok?” Jeff smiled liked he had never done in his whole life and replied “Deal!” 22nd birthday The next month was really intense. Since he wasn’t working (why the need, his mother was rich and he didn’t need it), he dedicated 3 hours per day with Andy. Andy couldn’t believe it, the guy was able to workout as much as he wanted. But it was such a normal thing: Jeff ate 6 times per day, mainly based on carbs, but with lots of proteins too, he had the fuel to workout, and an unusual ability to not getting tired. Every exercise hurted him like hell, but after just one minute he was fresh again, and able to repeat. Every day he was looking bigger, but yet defined. They concentrated on his upper body, since the lower one was in a better condition, and in just ONE MONTH! Jeff got completely proportioned. On the morning of May 13th, 2009, on his 22nd birthday, Andy weighed Jeff and he was in 160lbs. “In just 6 weeks you’ve gained 35lbs. NO ONE that I know has ever done this. Look at you in the mirror”. Jeff looked at himself, still thin, with a definitely healthy look, he was a thin ripped and handsome guy, and the last shred of his depression just disappeared in this moment. “Happy birthday Jeff, now you’re a normal guy”, Andy told him with a huge smile and gave a big hug to his friend. Summer of 2009: The change The summer of 2009 was just AMAZING, one of the greatest memories of Jeff. He finally got out of home, started walking the streets of NYC, he even went to have some walks with Andy by Central Park, who had become his only friend. He started noticing how girls looked at him. He didn’t like them, but FUCK, it was incredible that he wasn’t invisible to them. He even thought that some guys were looking at him too, but he didn’t kept that thought much time, he still felt that no guys would ever get interested in him. But anyway he loved the feeling of not being the sick guy. During the summer, he went on training like hell. On August, Andy and Jeff stopped his training and both of them took some holidays. By then, Jeff had reached 180bs and got a really hunky looks. Andy went to Europe with his wife, and Jeff went to the Hamptons with his parents, and there he signed into a nearby gym, something that just 4 months ago, he would have thought it was impossible. His newly rising confidence made him go everyday and spend there most of the day, working out like hell and even eating during the workout. Guys in the gym started to say hello to him, though he always seemed like a serious guy, focused on the training and nothing more. Anyway he love that new social life. There he met Jimmy, a quite hunky guy who Jeff especially loved because he was the one with the best developed legs in the gym. Apart from that, both had the same proportions and complexion, but Jeff looked (and in fact he was) extremely ripped, and Jimmy wasn’t. “You’re suck a fucker Jeff”, Jimmy used to joke with Jeff, “how the hell can you stay so shredded and keep pumping like there was nothing else in the world?”. “Well, I guess I run a lot at the beach, Jeff laughed. Both guys got quite confident and started training together, getting quite close friends. One day, at the gym, after the long heavy usual workout, both of them weighed. Jimmy was at 190 and Jeff 185. “I won, so you pay the beers”, Jimmy joked to Jeff, which replied: “Oh no no no, no way, you may weigh a bit more, but you don’t look this good”, Jeff raised his arm and flexed the bicep and it just popped up in front of Jimmy. Jimmy opened his eyes wide and stared at that thin guy with such a PEAKY SHREDDED biceps in his arm. “Wow”, he stuttered as he swallowed some saliva, really amazed at Jeff’s look. “Man, that must be pretty hard”, he said as he gave him a nice slap in the peaky muscle. The feeling of that guy’s hand in his muscle, even though it wasn’t nice at all, switched something on inside of Jeff’s head. He suddenly got his heartbeat increased, his breath accelerated and, still not knowing how, he got a serious look, he raised the other arm and hit a double biceps pose. Those 18’’ arms, obviously not huge, but incredibly defined looked incredible. The definition of the arm was just completely unusual for a guy who was training as if it were off-season. His forearms looked veiny all over, bulging in every part of it. His biceps were completely cut out from his triceps, there was a slight separation on his biceps head and the fibers in the hanging triceps were pretty visible. Jimmy got hard at that pose of his buddy, and started laughing nervously: “Come on buddy, don’t you want me to touch them?... right?” Jeff kept silent, no words coming out of his mouth, all he did was crunch them harder, making them get even more defined, the peaks getting a bit higher, the insertion in the delts freaky visible, tendons everywhere. His friend Jimmy slowly got serious too and placed both hands in his friend’s biceps, saying a very low “Fuck...”, and slowly running the hands all over Jeff’s biceps. Jeff had no idea of what was going on in his mind, but he felt like he was another person. A feeling of self-pride for having turned, in just 5 months, from a skinny shy guy, to a hunky man whose friend was worshipping his biceps, there in a gym, got him to a level of self-esteem that overpassed the levels of depression he had in his teen years. He looked at Jimmy’s eyes, mesmerized with his muscles, even though he was also a pretty bulky guy, and then he heard him say: “… I was dying to do this, you’ve got the most awesome body I’ve ever seen”. What the fuck??? Was he serious??? Him, Jeff, had the most awesome body that Jimmy had ever seen? That got him hard as fuck, his cock started growing in his pants, forming a huge bulge on them, which Jimmy quickly noticed and got on his knees, lowering Jeff’s shorts and started sucking on his cock, yet a bit soft, but was getting thicker and longer with each suck. Jeff was high, high for the situation, fucking proud of making a guy like Jimmy suck him off. He let his mind go, kept flexing his biceps, that were hurting as hell, feeling them cramping, burning, but he didn’t matter that, all he wanted in that very moment was to become a beast, a freak, a monster. He kept flexing harder and harder and then he looked down to Jimmy, who was still sucking him off. Jeff lowered his arms, got Jimmy’s head between his hands, separated from his cock, looked into his eyes and without saying a word turned his head so he could see his right leg, which he was already extending. In a sudden, he shook it and crunched it hard, as if it were something he had been doing his whole life. His right quad got freaky ripped in Jimmy’s face. Even though Jimmy had bigger legs, they were really fat, all he could get from a crunch was some bulges on them, but this guy, those weren’t legs, but freaks of nature. Even considering that they weren’t as thick as Jimmy’s, those legs looked as if they were carved out of stone. Cut from the groin to the knee, the quads bulged pretty thick but so freaky cut it was hard to keep the eyes off from them. Jeff still had Jimmy’s head in his hands, and so he made him reach his quad and with a single word he changed the whole experience: “LICK”. Jimmy got crazy. He started running his tongue all over the freaky cuts, tasting his skin, squeezing them with his hands, licking like a dog, moaning with every lick. Jeff crunched it harder, moved it so he could lick every part of it. Jimmy started licking his inner thigh, which was even more ripped than the front part, showing some freaky veins. He run those veins with his tongue up to his groin, eating Jeff’s balls, sucking his cock again. But Jeff took him from his hair again, raised his t-shirt and showed him his washboard abs, forcing him to go up and lick his stomach. Jimmy was in such a frenzy licking job, but Jeff was in a higher level, he was in a trance, flexing his abs so that Jimmy would enjoy them more, but then he wanted more, and so he extended his arm making his triceps contract. Jimmy wasn’t even aware of that movement, and Jeff didn’t care, he wasn’t doing it for Jimmy, he was doing it for himself. He felt the explosion of strength in the tricep, the quads that were still burning from the intense crunch and his abs that Jimmy was licking as if the world were going to end. And then he came. With a huge and load shout, he cum all over Jimmy’s tank top, “OH FUUUUUUCK YESSSSSSSS”. Jeff got freaky aroused in the moment he felt the warm cream, and shot a huge load right onto the floor with a loud moan, while his mouth was still stuck to Jeff’s stomach. They stopped, exhausted. Jimmy was a bit embarrassed, he had never done something like this. But Jeff, once his real mind came back, was absolutely shocked, but not in a bad way. He just felt amazed, surprised, trying to analyze what his mind was experiencing with this worship. He just put his shorts on again, still silent, trying to process everything, he got his stuff and walked away, without even saying goodbye to Jimmy. He was pretty sure this experience was going to change his whole life. ****** And so he did. By then, he didn’t know that was a muscle worship (a really bad one, but his first one), and now, back at his room, still playing with Robert’s cum, recalling those early years and that first worship he experienced, with just 195lbs, he felt happy again for having met that guy. If that hadn’t happened, he hadn’t got obsessed with his growth and hadn’t become the freak he is now. He looked at the clock. 11:58 pm. He got up and went to the bathroom, to get the scale and weigh. He placed his feet and looked at the result: 385lbs. He finally surpassed his goal, that one he put himself on almost 7 years ago. The clock buzzed: It was 0:00 of May 13th, 2016. “Happy birthday, Jeff. Now you’re the real monster you always really wanted to be” ---- Next chapter: Muscle Frenzy: