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gym-muscle-sex "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2

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The first two chapters of my muscle novel-in-progress, The Twenty.

 

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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

 

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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.

 

 

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

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To be continued.....

Moster.jpg

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This is absolutely an amazing story. Can't wait for more. Can't wait to hear how strong these guys become. Very awesome. Thanks for sharing it. :)

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Thanks! I have been working on it for years....there are 18 chapters so far....about to post Chapters 3 and 4.  I am a newbie here, so thank you!  Very gracious!

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Thanks! I have been working on it for years....there are 18 chapters so far....about to post Chapters 3 and 4.  I am a newbie here, so thank you!  Very gracious!

 

You won't have much to publish if you post all your chapters! D:

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Good point! But I thought I'd step out with the first 4...and see what the response is.....

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Awesome story. However being in the army, your ranks and other acronyms are confusing. It is your story and world, so keep the system as is. If you would like to make it more realistic, PM me and I would gladly help you edit.

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Yep, such help would be appreciated.  My military background is nil and the whole rank thing is something I ignored - I don't even know why it is there (I started writing this years ago and I am always fiddling with it)....it may be major surgery to the story but it can't hurt to try....

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This is an outstanding start to a story - excellent reading !!!! I am looking forward very much to how this develops and the muscle action which will develop within the compound.

 

If only real places like this existed !!!! ;)

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Well...they sorta do....in my head.....your privately PMed suggestion to me to include a wrestling scene is a great idea.  Not sure where I would put it and it takes a long time to write....but I will start drafting it. Thanks.

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This is an intricate and richly textured story. It's so well crafted, and the vision is so intense and detailed.

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