Guest Posted November 2, 2014 Share Posted November 2, 2014 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Precis, Introduction, Chapters 1 & 2 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6 "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Part 1 / Tiffany's Talent "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11: Casey Meets the Muscle Squad "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match "The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped "The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - Inside Zaftig's Lab: The Musclemen Revealed Chapter 3: White Cap Training At the beginning, Zaftig had believed that the perfect man was Rod Moster. Now, 18 other enhanced candidates approached the successful muscular development levels Moster had already achieved. Moster’s edge was waning. On training days, the men could eat whatever they wished, as long as their diets included 5,000 daily grams of pure animal protein. After a “light” morning workout, a day of classes and small arms training, and between regularly scheduled sessions of long distance swimming, bicycling, sparring, wrestling, karate, tae kwon do, yoga, kickboxing, and extreme fighting technique skills, the men were set loose in the gym at 1730 hours. By then, of course, they were wild to lift heavy and lift hard. On muscle recovery days, the men were commanded to remain in or near their private quarters and barred from stressful activities. Maintaining proper diet in all six daily meals remained in effect, socializing was strictly limited, and long hours of meditation were advised. It was understood that their finely honed mechanisms required fresh air, a little light running, a mile-long swim or two, and long, stress-free, leisurely walks along the many compound park trails. Lights out on muscle recovery days was 2000 hours. The rest day protocols were strictly enforced. These rest days were always the dullest days imaginable for the energized squad of musclemen. Early morning the day after rest, they were filled once again with blinding zeal and unfettered ambition for the hours of brutal, strictly regimented workouts. Lately Sergeant Moster was even more vigilant than usual, making sure that the men stayed on point throughout the session. Once every few weeks, the men eagerly anticipated a ‘White Cap’ training session. White Cap Nights meant one thing - no holds barred. They were scheduled generally as an incentive following of long periods of recorded ‘good team behavior.’ The men ached for them. White Caps contained traces of concentrated undiluted P21 granules, blended carefully with powerfully lab-enhanced homeopathic supplements and pure, powdered oxygen. It was like muscle heroin, mainstreamed. Zaftig’s researchers had found that this compound powder form of P21, when taken orally, produced short-term jolts of strength stamina, and unrestrained energy that were, unlike the injectable form, only temporarily enjoyed. The workouts performed after a white cap had been consumed boasted over-the-top performance levels, which always resulted in new personal bests. The gains the men made on these nights, whether lifting, swimming, running, or fighting, provided benchmarks for future optimal training. There was a drawback. The few remaining social restraints the men still had from their former lives had all but faded to nothingness. Just as the men were moved to achieve new highs on the workout floor, the few remaining inhibitors they did still maintain all but vanished. While scheduling White Cap nights was becoming an increasing necessity in order to keep the men focused on pure muscle growth, Dr. Zaftig had become highly concerned that as the team continued to surpass previously-considered “impossible” training goals, the squad’s standards of good behavior, or even basic societal standards of decency, were becoming increasingly rare. And while Zaftig continued to allow Moster control the group, he was aware of his probable own long-term foolishness in this decision. For under Moster’s direction, the squad was separating itself little by little from standards of common social boundaries. To say nothing of military discipline. How could Zaftig hope to impress the brass if his muscle monsters, for all of their nearly inhuman development, were out of control? And how could Project Herculaneum continue if the military removed its nearly decade-long support? Moreover, a Joint Chiefs review was scheduled for November. Zaftig was worried. In effect, his chief inmate was now running the asylum. It made for fantastic achievements in muscle size, strength, and accomplishment. It did little or nothing to contain the burgeoning sexual psyches of musclemen who craved to exhibit, show-off, pose, tease, and flex with abandon. Three years before, when the Nineteen were still the Twelve, a White Cap night had been introduced as a lab experiment. The men ended up in such a muscles-entangled in a spectacularly muscle-flexing, cum-spurting locker room orgy after the workout that the program was almost abandoned. Sheepish and humiliated the next day, the Twelve went back to the gym to set new benchmarks in strength, endurance, and lifting. With some persuasion, Moster argued to Zaftig that occasional white cap nights, strongly regulated and following firm procedures might inspire the men further to new heights. Distributed in the wrong hands, White Caps could be dangerous, and perhaps lethal. They were highly stimulating drugs, and the enlarged pupils, deep breathing, increased body heat and volumes of sweat they produced required careful monitoring. For the Project Herculaneum men, white caps were like crack. Zaftig had been against them from the start, until over time it became apparent that no organic harm had ever resulted, nor certifiable addiction issues. Moreover, the men remained inspired by White Cap workouts in the months to come. And they understood that for them to be most effective, these nights could come only 4 or 5 times a year. Zaftig reluctantly agreed, on the condition that the nights were videotaped by no less than six cameras. The tapes would be closely reviewed for infractions and sexually aggressive behavior. In exchange, Moster bargained that during shower time, they men could indulge as they wished. Zaftig, sincerely hoping no long-term hospitalizations would result, gave the go-ahead for periodic white cap nights. And so they began. On these nights, for two hours, it was only Moster’s grim domination of the men that prevent them from brutally fucking each other right there on the workout floor. That would wait, as he faithfully promised them all, for the shower room afterwards, when, fuck each other, they did, and with relish. Of late, however, not a little of the sexual acting out had made its way to the gym floor. One by one, the video cameras were shut down and put away, leaving no record. And the men grew more unrestrained. October 19th had been a required rest and muscle recovery day, for October 20th‘s workout was scheduled as a White Cap Night. After all, later that night in the mess, the men were scheduled to meet the so-called young ‘muscle genius’ Casey Rockland for the first time. Another recruit from Miles Donovan’s San Jose hardcore gym Raw Weight. Just a kid, really. Only 18. But with real promise, or so it seemed. Moster determined to think about Casey Rockland a little later. He couldn’t afford to have split attention when the men were on the floor and under the influence of the pure, undiluted stuff. And it was too late to turn back now. As long as P21 continued to produce almost miraculous results, and the men grew exponentially large and become stronger beyond all projected imagining, and Project Herculaneum approached its 10-year anniversary, Zaftig had finally been forced to turn a blind eye to both the benefits of White Cap Nights, and the now-nightly after-hours sexual behavior. Moster distributed the capsules personally to the men as they filed onto the floor. The bodybuilders gobbled them down immediately, already chuckling and winking at one another. Then Moster stood back and allowed their raging hormones their full force. Watchful and ever ready to impose his strict discipline as needed, he nevertheless understood the basic benefits of weight-room bonding. He let them go. He did not take one himself. He stood watchfully to one side. He was dressed, as he generally was, in his spotless oversized white sweats. He had completed his own workout privately an hour before while his squad was going through their abs training in the enclosed hot room just next to the workout floor. It was generally unnecessary for him to display his physical superiority to his squad of muscle freaks, except privately, and only when warranted. And tonight in particular, he chose to remain fully covered as if to encourage the men to pay attention to their own bodies. Upon occasion, however, he would strip down to his jock and join the men in their training to maintain bonding, and supply ongoing inspiration, however he determined it might be needed. Those nights had become increasingly rare, however, as the complicated, competitive reactions of the men to Moster’s detailed muscularity had begun to inhibit the workflow. From the sidelines, watching his squad’s training with laser focus, he made sure his men strictly maintained dead-on correct form with each grueling lift. Moster made careful notes in the margins of the evening training session report filled out in advance for him daily by meek, balding little Dr. Irving, Zaftig’s nearly silent civilian lab assistant. Never disappointed at either their stamina or their passion during normal workouts, the results achieved on white cap nights amazed even him. The effects always began gradually. Divided into their usual smaller training teams of 2 and 3 men each, the soldier-bodybuilders of Project Herculaneum took turns spotting one another and blasting alternate muscle groups. Tonight, teams one and two were working back and lats, teams three and four delts, traps and triceps, teams five and six legs, team seven chest and biceps. An hour of punishing abdominal work preceded the heavy lifting. The men grimaced, grunted, spat, cursed, shouted and groaned with ecstatic agony as, all around the room, each man pumped his super-sized, vein-exploding muscles to their greatest potential. Their dirty army regulation wife-beater t-shirts were grimy with dirt and drenched with water and sweat. Beneath the t-shirts, each man displayed blinding, awesomely ripped physiques, packed with dense, intricate, vascular cables of tendons, ligaments, river-thick veins and mountainously large, round, popping muscle bellies. Abs rippled with cobblestone washboard 8-packs on waistlines that grew no larger than 32 inches. Lats flared. Pecs pumped. Biceps bulged ferociously as the men aggressively lifted and posed for one another in between sets, each man confident that he was bigger than his training partner. Some of the men kept their bodies shaved. Others let their body hair grow. Moster demanded shaved physiques only once a month for company inspection, and over time he had come to respect the fact that some of the furrier musclemen were proud of their sprouting masses of thick, healthy chest, asshole, and pubic hair. Short, regulation haircuts were required, though some of the older men were allowed beards and mustaches. After all, personal vanity, as long as it didn’t supplant regulations, was to be encouraged. It also kept the men unique from one another. While they were all extraordinarily developed bodybuilders, Moster knew the value of each man maintaining his own identity and special tastes. It was all part of his plan. Moster's vision, if you will. After all, later on, new cadet Casey would be presented to the group. For it appeared that Casey Rockland might possess the rare organic gifts that were even more sympathetic. Moster wanted the men to be aching with rage and pain from their blazingly cruel workout when they first encountered Muscle Cadet Casey Rockland at precisely 2200 hours. He wished he could also prevent the men from the usual hardcore White Cap Night after-workout showers free-for-all, but he knew that was impossible. Then again, P21 worked in mysterious ways. Maybe the men would be feeling replenished and reloaded? White Cap Night workouts were tougher, true, but the floor activity and the post-show group release in the showers meant the men would be drained. So maybe not quite as spot-on impassioned (envious? turned on?) at their first meeting of the impressively swole 18-year muscle monster. In any event, Moster would enforce no-touch rules on Casey for the first few weeks. At least. Zaftig had recently confided in Moster that Rockland might indeed be that long-sought P21 perfect recipient. The men already sensed that Rockland was different. For almost two years, they’d all glimpsed the fully-covered teenage cadet Rockland periodically training with the program’s other young cadets in their own, smaller gym in an auxiliary building in the compound. He was unaccountably huge, and the cadets were increasingly intimidated by his size and strength. It was way past time to move him up into the ranks. Most of the cadets still lived off-campus in discreetly rented apartments in nearby San Jose. Vans picked them up early each morning and returned them to their front doors each early evening. There was no socializing with The Nineteen. A few of the more promising cadets were assigned cadet housing in the facility’s dormitory. And Rockland had been moved into the dorm at the outset. And from what the men could tell from a distance, he was mammoth beyond imaging for a teenager. Rockland was said to be a genetic marvel, even amongst these men, though none of them had yet had the occasion to closely inspect the young man’s physique. Zaftig had made sure of that. Even Sergeant Moster had not yet interviewed the young man. He was amused (if just a little irritated) that Zaftig had purposefully held back on presenting Rockland to him, instead encouraging Rockland to bond with the other cadets in their own comparatively unsupervised weight training. The point was to see what the teen cadets would do on their own recognizance. Junior to Moster, but reporting only to Zaftig, Casey’s handlers were required to keep their notes confidential – that is to say, away from Moster. So far, Rockland had little inkling of the plans that were in place for his future. In time, Moster had come to accept the set up. In the 10 years since he first began to assemble the men of Project Herculaneum, Zaftig had always been successful in presenting a finely honed candidate worthy of the grueling responsibilities of membership. He had an eye for talent, Moster had to acknowledge, finding gold in a man he himself might have passed on. Moster assumed, correctly as it happened, that at this very moment in another part of the compound, Zaftig was preparing young Casey Rockland for his first presentation to The Nineteen. For it was only after long-term study of the effects on a so-called control “perfect specimen” that the kinks of the formula could finally be identified, and eliminated. After that, it would be ready for general release to the public – and ready to earn billions for Zaftig. For even in the true believer Zaftig, at the end of the day, it was still all about the money. What Moster didn’t know was that Zaftig, sure of Rockland’s gifts and unparalleled fast-track progress, had been injecting him from day one as a cadet with P21. It was possible that young Casey Rockland was the man that Zaftig had long been searching for. He’d been on the protocol for two years now, ever since that night Zaftig found him, lonely and alone, and prompted by a hurried call from Miles Donovan, in the San Jose Greyhound bus station. Chapter 4: A Brief History of Casey Rockland 2002-2021 Even as a baby, he was unusually large and healthy. He had appeared one night in Fall, 2002, delivered anonymously just inside chilly porticoes of City Hall. He was carefully tucked in a battered little crib, which had been wheeled and abandoned in the shadows of the Rockland Avenue entrance. Snugly covered with a warm blanket, the baby had a bottle that he sucked on pensively. A note pinned to the cradle read: Take care of our boy. He is a good boy even if he is big. We just cant feed him no more. PS His birthday is April 23. He is six months old today. We call him Casey. Goodbye and thank u and God bless u. No one knew who his parents were. And now he was no more than just another foundling in the city system. City social services responded quickly. Baby Casey’s birth certificate being untraceable, his social worker hurriedly gave him the surname ‘Rockland’, and the smiling, big-eyed, big-bodied baby went directly into foster care. Passed from home to home, prospective parents seemed to give up very quickly. At first charmed by his beauty, sweetness, clear eyes and blond hair, all gave up rather promptly after discovering just how much baby Casey ate. In time he was transferred into the San Jose Catholic Boys’ Home. There he was looked after by a small platoon of the devoted nuns of the Benedictine Order. Something about him touched the normally cold-hearted sisters, and in short order, they began to feed him as much as he required. Which was a lot. Baby Casey was growing before their eyes. Casey didn’t start to talk until he was nearly 3 years old. His vocabulary consisted of “Yes”, “No”, “Okay”, “Please”, “I’m hungry”, and “I’m still hungry.” By the time he was 4, the sisters sadly noted that Casey was slower than the other boys his age, if much bigger, and generally in need of twice as much food. By age 5, he was already as big and strong as a 10-year old, which required some special clothing and a certain amount of care that he didn’t accidently break things. Even so, Casey was shy and sweet natured, if withdrawn. He always tried to do the right thing and not worry the nuns. The boy had an uncommonly beautiful face, with long, thick lustrous blond hair, and deep set violet eyes with heavy black eyebrows and eyelashes. The kind-hearted Sisters told him quietly about what a handsome man he was going to be when he grew up. “Just be patient,” said Sister Mary Christopher. “Your day will come.” His day hadn’t come yet. The other boys didn’t like him. By the time Casey was 11, his blend of dopey sweetness and a rapidly maturing pre-adolescent body forced unwanted attention onto him. Still the favorite of the sisters, he got the biggest dinners and seemed to receive the most privileges. Even his relative slowness in class didn’t daunt the Sisters’ devotion. He never asked for any special treatment. It just came to him. His size added to his troubles. He knew he could hurt the other boys without meaning to, unless he was very careful, and soon enough, the older, meaner gangs in the home learned that in spite of his size and superior strength, he wouldn’t fight back. The sisters, after all, told him not to. It was more blessed to turn the other cheek. In fact, as Casey grew, it became apparent that he had four cheeks that he could turn. Four of the bigger boys loved to pin him down and administer bare-bottom spankings. And Casey’s supple little butt was nice and ripe for such punishment. In fact, he could take any punishment, feeling somehow that it was his due. And he never told tales. In spite of his increasing size and strength, he was open season for bullies. Over the years, he became a punching bag, a repository for the other boys’ fears and anger. The years passed. Casey went into puberty early. He grew exponentially fast, and the other boys became more wary of him. His strength was already an issue, and often the nuns would catch him testing his strength by lifting tables and bending the iron bars that lined the dank little playground. A bigger problem, however, developed out of the group showers in gym class. Casey’s penis was growing fast, even faster than his strong body. His pants never seemed to fit any more, and it grew harder to hide the developing bulge. To make matters worse, when he was 9 he had started having erections and wet dreams, and sometimes would get excited in class or on the playground or at mess hall. The other boys stared at the growing bulge in his pants, whispered, and pointed, secretly unsure and intimidated. Casey was always baffled by their snickering, half-heard, never-understood jokes. One day one of the older boys had an inspiration on the playground. Staring at Casey’s looming young fly, he called out. “Hey. Banana Man! You getting’ another hard-on?” The other boys roared nastily. “Seems you’re always gittin’ hard-ons, Banana Man! You queer or somethin’?” The name stuck. That was the worst. Casey was now ashamed of his penis. Ashamed and embarrassed. He was always getting hard at the wrong times. He was always being called out by the other boys. It was too big. He couldn’t hide it. And he certainly couldn’t discuss this with the nuns. “Banana Man, Banana Man!” Casey knew they were mocking him, mocking his embarrassingly oversized manhood. He was ashamed and tried to hide himself. And that made the boys laugh even more. When Casey was 12, he had had enough. He was too big, too pretty, ungainly, awkward, lonely, slow-witted and alone. Although he never let the other boys see it, he cried a lot, usually under his bed sheets late at night, stifling his sobs so that the other boys in the dorm room wouldn’t hear him. One night he thumbed through a community free handout magazine he picked up at the corner market to see if he could find – well, anything. The sisters never let the boys use the office computers for mere webs surfing, but he was desperate, and he knew there had to be a place – somewhere – where he could go to vent his frustrations, anxiety, and deep loneliness. He knew he was a freak, but he suspected there might be a place where there were other freaks, like him, where he could find some comfort. There it was. The ad that changed everything. The ad that changed his life. MILES DONOVAN’S RAW WEIGHT GYM HARDCORE BODYBUILDING REASONABLE RATES COME TRAIN WITH THE CHAMPIONS And there was a picture, too, an old one of bodybuilder Lee Labrada. It was enough for Casey. This is what he wanted to look like. This was what he wanted to be. The next morning he begged Sister Mary Alice for extra yard work duty so that he could earn the money to join Raw Weight Gym. He worked all fall late into the evening washing dishes, sweeping floors, emptying the teeming garbage pails in the kitchen. The sisters saw to it that he was paid $125 weekly for his work. “He’s learning responsibility,” said Sister Mary Alice. “He’s preparing to jump the wall,” said Sister Agatha. “Freak….teacher’s pet…..queer,” said the boys. And on day in the spring of 2016, after classes were over for the day at precisely 2:30 PM, he took a bus downtown to join Raw Weight Gym, the hardcore gym owned by the 50-year old retired pro bodybuilder legend Miles Donovan. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. The nuns knew he was venturing out, however. They trusted that wherever Casey was bound to go, as long as he was quiet, stuck to his chores, was well behaved and responsible, and was back at the rectory in time for dinner, they were not about to get involved. He would be on his own in a few years anyway, the sisters reasoned. Better he began to learn the world now. And secretly, he remained the favorite of all in the order. Chapter 5: Raw Weight Gym Once upon a time, retired pro bodybuilder Miles Donovan might have qualified as one of The Nineteen. But at 55 years of age, with almost 40 years spent in the ranks of competitive bodybuilding, Miles had seen too much the world of competitive muscle up close and personal for way too long. He was done with the competitive end of the iron game. Handsome, cleft-chinned, grey-haired and grizzled with an ever-present two-day growth of beard, and sporting the powerfully thick musculature of a superheavyweight competitor, Miles was still a national phenomenon. His big, hard body was graced with a half dozen fading 1970s-era tattoos, and at 255 pounds, the man proudly boasted the rocky 34-inch waist of a 20-year old. His veined, iron super-abs still served as impressive midsection body armor, his hard pecs still loomed with impressive cuts, and his oversized nipples still sported the brass nipple rings he’d first put on when he hung up his posing trunks for the last time, 15 years before. Better still, Miles had long since stopped shaving his body, and his hardcore daddy physique was lined with a matting of soft black body hair. Miles was stronger than all of the men at his gym, effortlessly curling 225 pounds, squatting 600 and benching 500. His bodyfat index never got much higher than 3%. No, he’d never stop lifting, never stop training as if the contest of his life was just next week. But Miles knew all about the favoritism of the judges and alpha-male insecurities of most other pro bodybuilders. He had been through the health problems, the staggering personal toll taken on most competitive bodybuilders with their litanies of failed relationships, bad business decisions, drugs and violence. A survivor of three scorched-earth divorces, Miles had long since turned his back on blissful domesticity. Now, it was all about his gym – and the private sex games his muscles could still inspire. Always a hustler, Miles had a different magic formula for his survival in the world of muscle. Why not let the muscle fans work for him, he reasoned to himself. Miles was all too familiar with the viciousness of the confidence-challenged muscle worshippers, whose mean-spirited online backstabbing masked profound, unfixable fears, physical inferiority, and personal emotional agonies. He’d seen too many talented, hapless, dog-dumb young musclemen, eager for fame and recognition in the world of competitive muscle, get their hopes and dreams dashed on the rocks of life, their fine physiques spiraling into decay as the years of being used and abused caught up with them and the despair of association with the seedier elements of bodybuilding began to take its inexorable toll. Not for him this downward spiral. And he had no inclination of spending his retirement years in a lab complex headed up by his crazy old friend, Dr. Ira Zaftig, inspiring muscle project or not. After all, he could still get the better any man on the workout floor or take him down in the free-for-all boxing ring; he was known to have a mighty punch. And below the belt he was nicely endowed with a 9-inch penis that liked to come out to play often, for he was well known to particularly enjoy the discreet worship of his teen members. There wasn’t much Miles liked better than when a handsome 18-year old muscletwink pulled down the man’s outward poling sweatpants and enveloped his always-tumescent, thick member between pouty teenage lips. Miles’ Gym, Raw Weight, was cavernous. It sprawled over three floors in a large former warehouse located at the end of an alley in downtown San Jose. Plate glass windows on floors one and two showed lines of cardio machines and stacks of weights. Raw Weight was his baby. He’d carved it out of the world and made it all his own. He had bought the building for a song 20 years before, in 1997, where it had stood, a nearly forgotten emblem to bodybuilding history for nearly 40 years. In it, some of the greats of bodybuilding had once trained at the beginning of their careers. Most had long since retired or moved on to the slick strip mall gym chains that had cropped up across the country since the early 1980s, which now catered to the legends and the weekend bodybuilding hopefuls alike. The steroided goons that had dominated the competition stages for more than three decades may have created their own little scattered fiefdoms, but all the same most who had survived returned (quietly) once or twice a year to the rarefied muscle environment that was Raw Weight Gym. For the first few years he was in business, Miles was always barely one step away from creditors, foreclosure, IRS audits. Then one afternoon, while grimly watching an annoying old gym rat hitting on an unresponsive 22-year old Mexican muscleboy, he hit on a marketing strategy that was, for inner sanctum muscle lovers, just about flawless. All were welcome at Miles’ gym – at least on the first two floors. There, at all hours of the day and night were the teens, the rock-solid gay guys, the strapping young executives, the boxers and the runners and the middle-aged and the muscle wannabes and the flabby former high school athletes and even the merely curious. The vast gym floor clanged with the sound of weights and the whirring of the treadmills, and the house music echoed resoundingly throughout its depths. The showers were always hot, the equipment was dust-free, the machines were new and shiny and well tended, and the floor mats were scrubbed and clean. From a clerestory row at the height of the 16-foot walls large, lines of faded color posters of the bodybuilding legends of the 20th and 21st centuries promised the results of years of muscle-building dedication and discipline. Few lifters on these two floors could ever hope to achieve anything like the muscle density and mass of the gods that beamed down upon them with smug superiority, but spirits were undaunted, and the air was charged with the serious endeavors of those who trained beneath the glare of the merciless fluorescent lights. And then there was the 3rd floor. It was an exclusive and private membership-only club, and it was Miles’ own world of muscle, where he was the unchallenged director and Chairman of the Board. Miles Donovan A passkey, only issued by Miles personally, was available to a very few elite members. The 3rd floor was resolutely men-only. It too was clean and scrubbed, but it was quiet, music-less, and unadorned by the posters of proudly flexing past contest winners. No more than five men trained there at any given time. There was a private entrance through an unmarked door on the street level with an elevator that went directly to 3, so the passkey members didn’t have to be bothered by the stares and curiosity of the comparative plebes found on floors 1 and 2. The rules were clear. The Men of 3, as Miles called them, were required to train, at least during business hours, in tight posing trunks. After hours, they could train naked if they chose. They were even allowed to bring in occasional training partners and visitors of their own choosing, as long as they either a) kept up with the grueling training, or, their non-training guests remained silent, respectful, discreet, observed the rules, remained dressed in a suitable sweatsuit and gym shoes, and paid appropriately. But that wasn’t all. Miles also admitted floor access to a few privately selected well-heeled subscribers. They paid dearly for the privilege. For a few thousand dollars a shot, the subscribing visitors were allowed to indulge in discreet muscle worship while the bodybuilders trained. The rules were clear here, as well. The full-time muscle members who were worshipped were required to train past their pain thresholds on a regular basis. Their progress was reported in weekly time sheets that listed current dimensions, gains, possible injuries, and reported income earned while on the floor. The money was 90% theirs to keep: Miles took the rest of his cut from the paying guests. As keys and membership could be revoked at any time, both musclemen and muscle worshippers were all conscientiously engaged in maintaining their good standing. The specs of the muscle members were clearly understood. All had to have superior muscular development for their weight – Miles did not discriminate in favor of age or the super-huge, and several of the men were either older or bantams. A few men were silver daddies well into their sixties, who looked as if they might have another decade of solid growth ahead of them. The only area where Miles had to lay down a firm law of size requirement was relative to penis length, girth, and weight. Only the well hung were admitted, and although it wasn’t spelled out per se in any charter, the Men of 3 all knew that any new member was unquestionably packing – and talented. Butt fucking was generally discouraged on the workout floor on 3, although there were no active rules against it. Butt fucking tended to be louder and distracting to the men at work, and besides, few had the inclination to offer their well-honed glutes for the pleasure of the visitors – at least, during training hours. What the men did after hours was, of course, their own business, but Miles suspected few wanted to be known as available butt buddies, and that alone kept actual fucking to a minimum. Butt worship, however, wasn’t uncommon, and once or twice a week some lucky guest might be spotted on his knees near the squat rack, his face pressed into the hardened musclebutt of a seasoned member, who might appear to a casual observer to be completely ignoring him. Once Miles was amused to see two muscle members deeply engaged in a serious conversation about quad training while, beneath them and on either side, two eager visitors had their faces deeply buried in their well-rounded glutes. The men were ignoring them. After all, they expected no less. Overall, the system worked surprisingly well. The ranks of the Men of 3 were few, but well chosen. It was also an urban legend to the scores of gay guys on 1 and 2 who might hope and dream, but did not yet have the money or tact to be considered for the occasional foray upstairs. Only the longtime muscle members themselves were allowed in the 3rd floor locker room and showers. The locker room, of course, was a different story, for there the naked musclemen were free to take their pleasure of one another as often as they liked, sucking cock, fucking butt, worshipping the muscles of their training partners, and even engaging in water sports, as long as they mopped up after themselves. Muscle members were not allowed to exchange favors with one another on the floor at any time during the gym’s open hours, but late at night after all visitors had departed for the day, muscle members could train naked if they liked, or in leather, or thongs, or wearing masks – or whatever they preferred. Generally the newer members, once initiated, made use of the free-for-all spirit of after hours, finding other like-minded newbies overwhelmed with personal pride over the honor of having been accepted. However, all the men of 3 made frequent use of the locker room. It was strictly observed that at no time were water sports acceptable on the gym floor, but it wasn’t uncommon to see a smiling, exhausted, fulfilled muscle member pissing a powerful jet stream onto the face and pecs of another satisfied muscle member kneeling before him while they showered. Miles auditioned the men of the 3rd floor himself. He rarely sucked cock – he’d had enough of all that years before, although for a particularly gifted candidate he’d loosen up his own rules, if he happened to be in the mood. His test was far more cut and dried, and, in effect, far more exclusive, even to the point of cruelty. Applicants were subjected to a simple test: Miles would put a bodybuilder through an after-hours grueling workout, and stopping it short without warning just as the man appeared about to drop from pain and exhaustion, demand he immediately drop his shorts. Miles would then measure the flaccid penis, and if it passed the dimension test, take it in his tough, calloused palm and, with a stopwatch in hand, determine the time it took the man to get fully hard. Then, he would measure again to see the full erection length, and demand an ejaculation on the spot. Only one in ten men might make it, although the candidates who displayed promising size and ability, if not able to make the full distance on the first audition, were free to come back and try again whenever they felt up to it. If the men were big enough and hung enough, Miles didn’t mind testing and retesting. If not, no further audition was available, although Miles saw to it that the flunkees were treated with respect and discretion. After all, upon occasion, a hopeful 4F might gain access as a visitor, although he would not be allowed into the ranks of the talented muscle beneficiaries. Of course, he’d also have to pay for access privileges. And the muscle hopefuls, wannabes, worshippers, trainers, pros and future pros came from all over the world just to get a shot at membership at that 3rd floor exclusive aerie of muscle and muscle lovers. And years later, it would have the added notoriety of being the gym where the legendary muscle giant Casey Rockland got his start. -- To be continued -- Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Strengthlover Posted November 2, 2014 Share Posted November 2, 2014 Love it!!!!! Such a great story. Keeps me wanting more! 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted December 22, 2014 Share Posted December 22, 2014 Chapter 11 is on the way tonight.....Casey meets the Muscle Squad! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
TonitruiLupus1 Posted December 29, 2014 Share Posted December 29, 2014 Great novel so far been through chapter 1,2, 3, 4, 5 you got great natural talent to writing storys and novels keep it up :-). Hope my encouragement move's the mountains away to clear a path for the popular road to be smoother for you. I can get creative with my words most of the time when writing or messaging hope it didn't go over your head like a speeding bullet joeysilverado :-). Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted December 29, 2014 Share Posted December 29, 2014 Nope, didn't go over my head at all!! Much thanks for your good wishes and respects. Always interested in comments and suggestions! THANK YOU. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted December 29, 2014 Share Posted December 29, 2014 image removed by request Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted March 10, 2015 Share Posted March 10, 2015 A new chapter update is on the way! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted April 5, 2015 Share Posted April 5, 2015 The wrestling chapter on the way! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted September 30, 2015 Share Posted September 30, 2015 Chapter 13 has been added! Click here... Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted October 1, 2015 Share Posted October 1, 2015 New images uploaded to this chapter. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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