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gym muscle Excerpt from "The Twenty - Chapter 7 - Good for Morale"

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Excerpt fro "The Twenty" 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.

The men’s powerful, over-developed glutes were fully exposed in back.   Moster’s policy was that shorts and sweatpants were unnecessarily encumbering, and 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.  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 not as big as Gunst at a mere 276 pounds of raw muscle.  He was the far more ripped bodybuilder, having been in the program 2 years longer.  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.  

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.



Click here to read the full chapter!

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