Jump to content

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1


Guest

Recommended Posts

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.”

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Below is an excerpt from an early chapter on the muscle growth benefits of P21. "The Twenty" is a novel of muscle monsters enhanced in laboratory settings.....this excerpt is combined from Chapters 1 and 2.

 

Want more excerpts? Let me know! I have nearly 400 pages written now - online? only 200.....that's 200 pages to go - and i am still writing! I respond to requests...

 

****

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.  He was also the largest man in the gym that night, although his size was soon to be equaled by two of the soldiers, Corporal Karim Abdul and Private Gunst.

 

In the distant corners of the room, a few normal-sized Valhalla lab assistants scurried silently in the shadows with video equipment, towels, heavy water jugs, cleaning equipment.  The musclemen on the floor never paid any attention to the lab rats, as they called them, though occasionally one might meekly approach Sgt. Moster with a question.  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.  And the lab rats were not, after all, muscle worshippers.  Their applications for their employment were most thorough in determining both their dedication to science, and their lack of sexual interest in the project subjects.

 

In any event, past circumstances had indicated that the men were unusually vulnerable when it came to the possibilities implied by muscle worship. The less of that from outsiders, the better.  Besides, there was real money to be made with the advent of worship. That would come later.  And Moster didn’t want to water down the future possibilities.

 

Under Moster’s 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 huge, hard, striated and shredded muscle.  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 serious, ripped, dominant, clean, overpowering muscle, muscle like the world had never seen before. 

 

Moster’s muscular perfection was unequalled even in this room of freakishly huge men.  Squared-jawed and blindingly handsome, 44-year old Rod Moster was 7’- 0” tall, and weighed 395 pounds.  He was a black mountain of solid, deeply separated, profoundly ridged and striated muscle mass, with a body fat index of 1.2%.  

 

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.

 

His 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.

 

Since Zaftig was seeking the creation of a God, he had appropriately named his ever-growing facility Valhalla Labs.

 

Years before, 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 100,000 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 pro bodybuilder 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, one that Moster would soon relish.  Where he would become, at least for a time, the undisputed muscle monster emperor king.

 

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. On Rod Moster, muscle bloomed atop muscle. Strength quadrupled. Veins exploded into black snakes, thick rivers climbing over paper-thin, steel-strong skin.

 

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, teamwork, 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, veins, 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, consumed 7,000 grams of pure protein in one form or another, slept at least 6 hours, 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. 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 10 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 2017, 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 16 inches.  When erect, it approached 24 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, rapid-fire machine. 

 

Rod Moster’s penis had become a weapon.

 

While he was delighted with his newly gargantuan cock, it presented him no end of new 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 down the length of his quads to just above his kneecap, 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…..

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 3 weeks later...

Things are starting coming together for Dr. Zaftig, according to his expectations with his Project Herculaneum going the way he wanted into achieving his goal of making Millions if not Billions of Dollars in making super weapons out of men built for P21's formula's and they will live for many many decades to come or maybe they'll never age and stay young forever as they age and never die, The immortality thing with the fountain of youth isn't much clear enough for me to claim that theory for myself yet, but i might be wrong, and i wonder what Dr. Zaftig meant in making God's out of these men then they already are when he's trying to achieve Earth-bound God status or whatever his careless and soulless goals are, and the connection between Sam and Casey is very interesting in what will happen between those two, and the growing Gay fantasy's the other 19 are doing is growing ever onward, and the Rod Modster's plans is coming ever closer to reality and it's getting me really more curious then Dr.Zaftig's one, but both of them are very interesting, and what will happen next with "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 22 - Field Trips for Worship, Part 1?.

No disrespect for the Head Scientist, but i think Dr Zaftig is an cooled hearted asshole to me that only thinks about himself, he never treats them human what so ever even if they are a new breed of human beings they still need to be treated like human beings to fit in a civilized world completely, but he only sees them as money in his progress to making the best super weapons ever and get billions and highly dislikes anything less then that or any different add-on's to it like The Twenty's sexual activity's, witch is super hot by the way and so inviting to become one of them, and i know Dr. Zaftig is like that because he devoted his life to make P21 possible and the white caps and the New P21a he gave to these 20 men (Soon to be more then 20?), and he never pend time to have a social life or any sexual experience to speak of through out the years to understand human things, but God dame is he a hard ass when it comes to trying at least be human in his life you know, and treating his 20 men test subject's like they don't have a brain in there head is equally down right disrespectful, making Dr.Zaftig almost inhuman monster himself in the long run in my opinion, Dr, Zaftig needs a wake up call of a life time before i'm satisfied with him.

As for Sargent Rod Modster, i have no clue in what he's after in his master plan is weather or not it involves a complete take over of the experiments of P21 of Project Herculaneum and making Dr. Zaftig his fuck toy or world domination of making every man in the world equal to his own 19 men in his own way as a human being in his long maybe eternal life, but all in all i have no clue what the fuck he wants from Dr, Zaftig.

And lastly Casey Rockland, is he gonna be the very man that's gonna change the ways of Project Herculaneum works in the near future by taking it himself and be in charge?, or is he going to destroy it and make anew with his life? or both of those things? or none of the above?, the way you said Casey is gonna upset the balance and progress of P21 experiments and change everything that would bring down Project Herculaneum down to it's knees still remain unanswered, but i know you'll not disappoint us all with it and what the endgame will hold for all of them and there futures and hopefully it's a excellently good ending for all of them as well.

And another thing what is the full extent of Casey's Dream in wanting to have happen when it comes to making every man in the world his to use and become just as manly as he is and to obey him completely with no questions asked?.

Let me know what you think of that joeysliverado???.

 

 

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Much meat on the table here with your analysis - THANKS - and all pretty damn close to my basic conception! You'd be surprised - for what I have in plan (and have 150 pages more yet to share - based entirely upon readership and interest) bears this out - but part of the whole concept of "The Twenty" is reader participation. The more readers actually comment on the evolving story, the more I reveal.

 

Note: it's not a casual read. It may be muscle porn, yeah, but it is character driven. What does Casey want? What does Moster want? What really makes Alvarez tick? Will Hension find true happiness? Will Gunst and Abdul ever get together? What's behind Tiffany's plans?...

 

and who's biceps are the BIGGEST....and who can fuck the LONGEST.....? and who likes worship BEST? and where will that lead?

 

Only increased readership will tell.

 

Thanks, TonitruiLupus!! (did I get that right? or even close....?)

 

PS a great worship session is on the block here....it'll come....with more comments and readership! If I don't get readers, well,....it takes longer...

Link to comment
Share on other sites

1 hour ago, joeysilverado said:

Much meat on the table here with your analysis - THANKS - and all pretty damn close to my basic conception! You'd be surprised - for what I have in plan (and have 150 pages more yet to share - based entirely upon readership and interest) bears this out - but part of the whole concept of "The Twenty" is reader participation. The more readers actually comment on the evolving story, the more I reveal.

 

Note: it's not a casual read. It may be muscle porn, yeah, but it is character driven. What does Casey want? What does Moster want? What really makes Alvarez tick? Will Hension find true happiness? Will Gunst and Abdul ever get together? What's behind Tiffany's plans?...

 

and who's biceps are the BIGGEST....and who can fuck the LONGEST.....? and who likes worship BEST? and where will that lead?

 

Only increased readership will tell.

 

Thanks, TonitruiLupus!! (did I get that right? or even close....?)

 

PS a great worship session is on the block here....it'll come....with more comments and readership! If I don't get readers, well,....it takes longer...

You did get my name right, just add the number 1 all together with TonitruiLupus and you'll get TonitruiLupus1, it ok you didn't know you weren't at fault, just as much as making errors in your characters body and weight stats through out the Story of The Twenty half way through out the 22 chapters, you tried to remember there stats and did your best with them to keep moving forward with the story and we all forgive you for all them faults in your memory ;-), so don't fell bad about it at all my friend ;-). 

And i can't wait to see what happen's next, keep up the writing, you have a lot of talent in your own style, just make sure there's a good ending in there ;-).

  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Guidelines, Terms of Use, & Privacy Policy.
We have placed cookies on your device to help make this website better. You can adjust your cookie settings, otherwise we'll assume you're okay to continue..