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m/m "The Twenty" Chapter 12, Part 1: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match

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Hello, is the long-awaited Wrestling catch up where you were before, I highly recommend you look at the other chapters first.....



Links to other chapters:



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


"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / A Brief History of Casey Rockland / Miles Donovan's Gym


"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 6 - Casey is Discovered at Miles Donovan's Gym


"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 7, 8 - Hardcore Training, Pt. 1 / Tiffany's Talent


"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale, Continued / The Men Hit the Showers


"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 11 - Casey Meets the Muscle Squad



Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant.  
There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's  strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection.
Known as Project Herculaneum,  the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it.  
The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military.
Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality.
Into the mix comes young Casey Rockland, a lonely, handsome, super-hung 18-year old bodybuilding giant.  Inducted by Dr. Zaftig into the top-secret government muscle strength and growth project, Casey comes to learn the ropes amongst the muscle giants, whose hunger for hardcore training is matched only by their sexual appetites and growing fantasies, including their insatiable need to receive muscle worship.
Casey's innocence, simplicity, and his growing need to receive both love and muscle worship threaten the very core of the decade-long Project, itself only now approaching its full potential.






A Government Issue

Adult Cartoon


Muscle Fantasy


By Joey Silverado




This book is dedicated to Tiny Yokum –

and to all his fans, past, present, and future.






Chapter 12:  Part 1

Casey vs. Karim Abdul:

A Very Turkish Wrestling Match




Five minutes later, Karim Abdul was striding down the corridor, pecs bouncing, headed for the wrestling room.  Still carrying his clothes from Casey’s presentation, he was now dressed only in his red Lycra wrestling singlet.  His step was deliberate, his gait powerful.  As he walked he grumbled to himself, ignoring the low clamor of the rest of muscle squad, who followed eagerly behind.  His cock, loose in the singlet, swayed heavily from side to side as he walked, his balls pushed forward.


“Asswipe kid.”   The rest of his thoughts were a little too vague for words.   Thoughtlessly he grabbed his cock and got it momentarily out of the way of his quads, pumping as he walked.


Most of the squad was keeping a good 20 yards of distance between themselves and Karim Abdul.   No one wanted to be on the receiving end of a wild Abdul punch at this moment.  Even Schumacher, McIntyre, and Duncan, men who could well defend themselves and were used to Abdul’s occasional wild swings, were keeping themselves at a cautious distance.


Karim knew he had to mark his territory.  Now, tonight, and fast.  No questions asked.  Leaving nothing to second-guessing.  After all, even he had to admit it - this kid was fucking unbelievable.  He was huge, he was cut, he was raw, he was handsome, he was young, he was unbelievably hung. And at only 18 years of age, he was still growing. Karim wouldn’t rest until he’d smashed the kid’s handsome face into the mat.


And maybe pissed in his mouth, too. Something.  Something like that.  Yeah.  Show him who was in charge.


But - it was all – well, a little unformed.  Even to him.


He passed the door leading to the back of the kitchen.  He bashed the door open with his fist, smashing the frame and cracking the thick glass.  Inside, Pedro, Abdul’s handsome little kitchen cocksucking buttboy, was sweeping up. 


“Your ass in the wrestling room. Bring that 10-pound canister of olive oil. MOVE!!! NOW!” commanded Abdul. Pedro jumped a mile. Then Abdul was gone, continuing on down the corridor.


Pedro immediately put the broom away, washed his hands  - his musclegod demanded clean fingernails -  climbed up a little ladder to one of the shelf larders, and grabbed a 10 gallon jug of olive oil.  Carrying it with some difficulty, he nevertheless  darted out the door and ran excitedly after Abdul.


"Wait for me!" the eager boy squeaked.  He was about to get an awesome muscle show.  Maybe suck some massive cock.  Wow!


Further ahead, Abdul was a man on a mission. And coming up behind him and running by was Private Tiffany. Abdul didn’t like that asswipe, either.  Great glutes, though.  Perfect glutes.  Big, hard, striated boulders. Yeah. Fuckable. Most inviting. He’d fuck the little asswipe’s butt one day and then push his face in the toilet.  Yeah.


He continued on, paying little notice, though he did allow himself a quick, cool glance at the muscleboy’s rolling, muscular boybutt as he scampered by.


From the corridor somewhere behind Abdul, Schumacher was shouting to Tiffany. “Where you going?” he demanded to know.


“Getting Dr. Irving!”




Tiffany turned back, running backwards, explaining patiently as if to a child.


“The dude with the camera. Ever notice him? Probably not…” He waved Schumacher off with easy, grinning contempt, turned back and scooted happily up the corridor towards Dr. Irving’s office.


Schumacher swore to himself. He had to acknowledge he had no idea who Tiffany was talking about. He rarely noticed the lab workers or other doctors, barely paying attention to even Dr. Zaftig himself.  He returned his gaze to Karim, striding purposefully up the hall ahead of him.  Karim Abdul’s rocky man glutes rumbled darkly as he walked, and Schumacher gazed into the impenetrable deep butt crack outlined in the red Lycra.  Excepting only the cloaked, anonymous butt fucking nights, no one other than powerfucker Schumacher had yet penetrated Karim’s magnificent asshole. Ever.


“At least I have that much,” Schumacher muttered. By now he was passing the open office door.  Tiffany, his back to the corridor, was hurriedly explaining to some geeky lab coat doctor who Schumacher had never noticed before, saying something about Get the camera out, asshole, and Come with me now….

Schumacher paused for a moment in the office doorway to admire Tiffany’s butt sweep in his tight regulation khakis.   His full, hard, rounded glutes were a most enticing display in his slacks, the rear pockets rounded with the curvature of pure muscle, promising the pleasures that lay beneath.




Joe Tiffany



Now there was a butt to fuck.  He grunted and continued down the corridor, following Karim.


In truth he didn’t know why he was heading off with the others to the wrestling ring, and especially at this hour. He should be headed off to bed, a quick JO instant replay of the group shower suck / group butt lick he’d enjoyed just 40 minutes earlier, and then plenty of shuteye for another brutal workout tomorrow.  That was the life.


And another day to plan on getting into Tiffany’s butt.  Another day to strategize some deep cock / muscleboybutt frottage sessions.  Another day to –


“Hey, Schumacher.”  It was McIntyre. “Where you going? This way.”


He’d walked right past the wrestling room door. 


“Oh.”  He retraced his steps.  As he came back, a little sheepishly, Alvarez and Lang were in the doorway.  Lang’s tongue was practically lolling out of his head in anticipation, and even cool customer Alvarez had an excited gleam in his eye.


“What do you assholes think is gonna happen?” snarled Schumacher as he strode by, pushing past them into the wrestling room.


Alvarez put his hands up in mock defensiveness.  “Oh, nothing, nothing.  We just thought we might want to watch.”


“Yeah, we wanna watch nothing happen,” smirked Lang.  Both men mockingly bowed as Schumacher went by, Alvarez of course taking the lead, with puppydog Lang following suit.


Schumacher glanced down at their packed flies bulging out of their khakis as he strode by.


“You both sure got big enough hard-ons, just to watch nothing happen.”


Lang looked defensive. Alvarez just laughed, and gently patted Lang’s growing bulge.


“Yeah, guess we do.”  He nodded and winked, and went inside the wrestling room. Lang followed, and even had the temerity to wink at Schumacher as he went by.  Alvarez threw his arm around Lang and playfully squeezed his ass.


Faggots, thought Schumacher.  His own cock roared to life in his pants and was soon poling straight out and upward. He glanced back down the corridor.


Moster and Casey were rounding the corner. Moster had changed out of his sweats, and was now in the regulation Valhalla Labs green t-shirt and tight khakis. Casey still had only his micro posing trunks on.  Behind them scurried Dr. Irving, carrying Casey’s sweats and his video equipment.  He was babbling on his cellphone.  Probably talking to the insane dude who ran the place. Zaftig.


Moster noted the ruined kitchen door and sighed.  “Another door,” he grumbled.  These dudes, when they got pissed off.  It’s not like Valhalla Labs was a bottomless money source.  Close, but not bottomless.


He nodded at Schumacher and gestured briefly for him to go into the wrestling room ahead of them. Schumacher scowled, but did as he was directed.


“Dr. Irving?”


“Yes, Sergeant Moster?”  Irving scurried to catch up to them.


“Do you have a white cap on you?”




Moster knew he would.  The little doctor had long since learned that anything could happen when the men gathered, and he made it a point to carry extra medication with him at all times. 


And there was no sense in irritating Moster with a “Why, no.”  He wouldn’t put it past the giant black muscle monster to deck him with one mighty punch in the nose if displeased, which would no doubt kill him.  He scrambled and produced a small medication bottle.


Moster turned to Casey, struggling a little to keep up, halfway between a walk and a run, his black shiny micro poser barely covering his steadily bobbing cock as he ran.


“Here,” said Moster. “Take this.”


“Hunh?”  Casey stopped full.


“Take it. Don’t ask questions.”


“What—what is it?”


“Extra confidence.”


“Drugs?”  Casey was momentarily stumped. He remembered that the boys in the Home were always experimenting. It made them silly and weak. He wanted no part of it.


“I don’t do drugs.”


Moster motioned to Irving. “Go on and set up, we’ll meet you there.” He turned to Casey. “It’s not a drug. Not like you think.”


“I don’t do no steroids, neither.”


“Not a ‘roid.  There is no man in this facility on the juice. We have to do something about your grammar, by the way.”


“Then how –“


“Shut up and take it.  I will explain later. You will be fine.”


Casey gulped, put his faith in Moster, and did as he was told. He popped the pill in his mouth, and smiled with weak subservience at Moster.  “Okay, sir.”

“What was that?”


“I..I mean, Yes, Sir!”

“That’s better.”  Moster turned and continued down the corridor, Casey scampering after him.


Good thing the men still do what I tell them to do, thought Moster.  And how long is that gonna last with this boy? Once he finds his power?  Moster tucked that thought away.


“Let’s go watch you wrestle.  You do wrestle, you said?”


“Yeah, but I’m scared…”


“No need to be.”


“…no..…scared I’ll hurt him. I always do….”  Except, of course, Ramon Ramon, the much smaller wrestler at Raw Weight Gym who never failed to thoroughly pin the muscleboy. 


But of course, that was a long time ago.


Inside the wrestling room Karim had already snapped on the overhead lights and was doing deep knee bends in the middle of the 20 sq foot wrestling ring, which dominated the center of the room.  The thick blue mat of the ring gleamed in the overhead lights, with the VALHALLA LABS logo in the center.  Around the ring on two raised platforms were about 40 folding chairs, all affording perfect, elevated views of any wrestling action.  Pedro stood eagerly on the side, now holding towels and a water bottle.


“Getting limbered up to better meet the kid?” called out Blankenship. He had already grabbed his ringside seat, he too adjusting his crotch as he sat.


“Shut the fuck up,” said Karim, squatting.  To Pedro he shot out, “Where the fuck is the oil? Get the oil.”  Pedro shot off into a storage room and returned with a 5-gallon jug of olive oil.


“Goin’ for Turkish wrestling, hunh, Karim?”  Chad was grabbing a seat ringside.  He nudged Waring. “This is gonna be good.”


No answer from Karim.


“The kid’s got an iron grip, I’m told,” called out Waring, nudging Eli Meyer’s ribs as he took a seat next to him.  Meyer’s mouth hung open in a perennial smile. He pointed to his mouth so Meyer could read his lips.  “I said, Casey Rockland’s got an iron grip.”


“I heard you.”


Obatu was next, leaning against the ropes.  “And those quads be killers.  He gets you in a lock hold, you gonna be dead in the water.  What’re ya gonna do about that, Mr. Abdul, sir?”


Karim didn’t answer, regarding them all stonily. Obatu lazily returned his gaze, smiling, unintimidated. Blankenship had started this. But Blankenship had easily dodged the intended receiving end of a few near-miss wild roundhouse punches in the past.  He was too fast and too alert to be caught unawares, and Karim Abdul had learned not to waste his energy on him.  So Karim suffered the men’s ready comments stoically.


“This kid got veins like this?” he asked, flexing his 25-inch biceps, showing off half-inch thick rivers of veins, pulsing with power.


“Yeah, I think, actually, he does,” said Blankenship with a smile.  “Here he is now. Let’s see. Kid, you got veins like his?”


Moster and Casey had appeared at the opposite door, the darkened end of the wrestling room.  Both giants approached, in black silhouette against the framed light from the corridor, getting larger as they quietly walked toward the ring.  Casey looked up quizzically at the question.


“Flex your biceps,” whispered Moster.




“Flex, man. Don’t ask stupid questions. Flex it up. Now.”


“ ’kay.”   Casey stopped and hammered out a front double bi.  25 inches of his own, in response to Abdul. As always, he felt compelled to go on, adding side chest, front lats, quads, and sent a hand probingly down rippled, hardrock abs.


“That good?”


“Good, good,” muttered Moster.  “You catch on fast. You ever compete, kid?”


“Uh………should I? Other guys are so much bigger than me….”


Moster smiled. They all think that, at the beginning.


“Get over here, plebe,” Abdul called out from the center of the ring.  Pedro was standing on a stool, pouring the olive oil over his massive physique, worshipfully slathering him up.

Casey in Silhouette




Casey stared.  “What’s all that….?” he stammered. Moster noted that the white cap hadn’t taken effect yet, but then it had only been a few minutes.


“Now, Karim,” said Moster patiently, coming into the light as they approached the ring.  “You know Casey is not a plebe.” Abdul started to speak. “Nor is he a cadet. He is now one of you. He makes us The Twenty. You need to accept this,” he continued, walking and speaking easily now as he pulled up the ropes and stepped into the wrestling ring.  He approached the angry giant muscle Arab. “And he isn’t threatening you. Casey isn’t going to pull your power away from you.”


“That’s not what this is about.”


“Bullshit,” one of the men yelled. The others laughed.


Abdul glared at them and went on. “Whatever you say, Sergeant Moster, sir,” said Abdul. “I just want to make sure he’s going to be worth my time to train with.” He smiled easily. “That’s all.”  The oil was dripping off him onto the mat.  Moster said nothing.


Casey was now visibly nervous.  Still outside the ropes, he leaned in to Moster.


“They gonna reject me?” he whispered loudly. “I mean, now?”


“No one’s rejecting you,” said Moster loudly.  He then turned to the waiting group of musclemen. “Are you, boys?”


Something about that ‘boys’ rankled Abdul even further, though Alvarez and Gunst just smiled. The others looked perplexed.


“Since when are we boys?” squealed Hension.


“Shut up, Hension,” said Chad.


“You ever wrestle, boy?” Abdul called out.


“His name is Casey. Or Private Rockland.”


“I asked you a question, boy. Ever wrestled? Get your butt into the ring.”


“You really want all this oil?” sighed Moster.


“We’re gonna wrestle Turkish style.”


“It’s messy.”


“I’ll clean it up, sir!” squeaked Pedro.


“Bet your ass you will.”


“Yeah, you don’t want a spanking, now, do you?” yelled Lang.  He adjusted in his chair, his glutes still smarting from the paddling he’d received earlier that evening.


Moster’s cock twitched a little at the suggestion of paddling handsome young Pedro’s hard, receiving little boybutt, a pleasure he had not yet allowed himself, although the teenage boy’s firm little butt cheeks had always been particularly inviting in his kitchen whites. He ignored it for now, however. Later, he thought.


Casey shot a look at Moster. “What’s this about spankings?” he asked.


Moster ignored the question. “Get in there.”


“Yes, sir.”  Casey climbed obediently into the ring. 


Moster watched him closely.  The white cap should be taking effect in a moment….


“Oil him up,” commanded Abdul.  Pedro ran over to him with the stool and the olive oil, climbed up, and began to pour it all over Casey’s massive physique.  The sheer size and beauty of his muscles was overwhelming to the little Mexican, and his own powerful little cock began to bulge in his pants.


After a moment, Casey was drenched in the shiny, thick liquid.


The two musclemen stood face to face, Abdul in his tight singlet, fearsome muscles gleaming in the light, looming with threatening power. Casey was still in his micro, bulging posers, wet now with slick oil, the top 6 inches of his massive, meaty cockshaft fully exposed, blond tendrils of pubic hair curling with thick radiance.  He was embarrassed, humiliated that his huge penis was twitching outwards in anticipation of what-was-coming-next.  But then he noticed – Abdul’s oily, pylon-thick tool was also clearly coming to life in the thin singlet.


“Good. Now, you got some mighty fancy muscles. But that doesn’t mean much here.  We all got fancy muscles.”


“You’re not being very polite, Corporal Abdul, “ said Moster, moving to the sidelines. “I think the men ought to introduce themselves before we get into any personal demonstrations of our manhood.  Don’t you agree?” Even the ever-present log in lying against Moster’s pants leg was firmly outlined and appeared to be twitching a little, and the thin khaki fabric of his slacks covering it was now smooth and tight.


Slowly the 17 others bodybuilders rose from their seats around the ring, one by one.  38 pairs of eyes stared at Casey intently. He glanced at the cocky little Joe Tiffany, and then over at Corporal Schumacher, who was now looking at him expectantly.


“Okay, now, boy. This is Turkish wrestling. There are clear rules, but they’re different from American collegiate.”


“Hang on,” said Moster. “We’ll get to the Turkish rules of wrestling in a moment.  He stepped into the ring and approached Casey, now thick and dripping with oil.


The men were now gathered on two sides of the ring, leaning on the ropes, leaning in to see what was coming next. For any other cadet introduced into the ranks, Sergeant Moster would have generally proceeded to paddle Casey’s hard young butt as the formal ritual of initiation. Last had been Private Tiffany receiving the red-hot butt cheek welcome, which he had borne stoically and proudly, displaying the twin globes of burnt-cherry perfection under the paddling.  And after all, they had all gone through it, excepting Abdul, of course.  Even Schumacher had known the firm, unrelenting hand of Moster on his butt. Hazing was hazing.  But tonight, that didn’t seem to be happening. Abdul’s interesting wrestling challenge has precluded that.  All were watchful.


“Men, introduce yourselves.  I was going to do this tomorrow, at Casey’s first workout, but now seems as good a time as any.” He turned to Casey and smiled. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to remember all their names just yet,” he added.




“That’s good. I’m not very good with names.”


“You’ll know them all, in time.”


One by one, each man introduced himself. “My name is Private Leo Jin,” said the Asian man. “I’m 25 and from San Diego. I have been in the Project 8 years. My best bodypart is my forearms.” To prove it, the handsome Asian brought his beefy, fetchingly oversized forearms, walloping with solid muscle and veins, and squeezed the muscles hard.


“I’m Private Dan Gunst, and until today, I had the biggest biceps here – except for Sergeant Moster’s.” Gunst flexed his mighty guns and then gave Casey a half-cocked smile. “Guess yours are bigger,” he proffered, respectfully. “I saw that this afternoon.”


Moster glanced at him questioningly. “Oh, yeah,” he added. “I’m from Milwaukee, I’m 27, and I have been in the program 3 years. Hi, Casey. Welcome again.”


“Hi, Dan!” Gunst sat back down.


Moster eyed Casey carefully, wondering when the little capsule might take effect. Casey seemed cheerful and happy.


Around the circle they went, each muscleman getting to his feet, politely introducing himself, offering basic information, and then showing him his best bodypart.


“I’m Steve Waring, and my best bodypart is my traps.”  Bulge. Flex.





Steve Waring



“I’m Rene LeFevre, and my best bodypart are my pecs.”  Surge.  Bloom. Bulge.


“I’m David Duncan, and my best bodypart are my triceps.”  Rip. Bulge. Bloom. Flex.


“I’m Schumacher.” He said nothing else but grudgingly offered a front lat spread.  Casey nodded without expression. This guy was not to be messed with.


Eli Meyer signed with ASL.  Casey nodded, showing some intelligence.  Moster was pleased.  Then Meyer turned around, bent over, grabbed his ankles, and showed off his hams, bulging through the khakis.  He turned back and Casey gave him the OK and thumbs up sign.


“I’m Chris Hension, and my best bodypart – “


“Is my FACE!” shouted Corporal LeFevre. “I’m a refugee from a lost episode of ’21 Jump Street’!”


“Smack me around a little and I’ll follow you forever!” added Chad.


“He’s our little boyband musclepup,” explained Blankenship.


“Shut up,” yelled Hension, visibly embarrassed once again to be labeled the squad pretty boy. All the men were laughing now. “My best body part is my quads.” He started to rotate them.


“And my baby blue eyes,” shouted LeFevre again. Hension was confused and humiliated but continued to show his quads, blooming in his tight khakis.


“I think it’s his butt!” said Waring.


“It’s okay, Chris,” said Casey. “Your quads are awesome.” Hension looked up, hopefully, and Casey felt compelled to go on. “And I think you’re very handsome indeed.”


Hension smiled hugely at Casey, his heart beating a little faster. Gee, he thought. Wow. He gazed at Casey, who was now turning his attention to Private Waring.


“I’m Private Ryan Waring, and my best bodypart are my delts.” He extended a powerful arm and began to rotate it.


Suddenly Hension spoke up again. “I’m 22,” he blurted out, “and I’m from Toledo!”


The men laughed again, and Hension hung his head a little and stuck out his lower lip.


Next to him, Chad patted his thigh comfortingly. Casey saw him wink at Hension, who straightened up a little and smiled weakly.


Casey’s head was spinning. He was inspired past all understanding by the mind-boggling panorama of muscle before him. And he was part of it.


About then, he noticed that the room seemed to be getting a little brighter and a little hotter. He was staring again at Moster’s leg log.


“Private Lang,” said Lang. “I’m 28, I’m from Lansing, Michigan, and….” He looked a little helplessly at Alvarez, sitting next to him. “My best body part is……um….”


“Your back. Your lats are your best body part,” said Alvarez with quiet encouragement.


“Yeah, I guess it’s my lats.” He turned and flared his lats wide. Alvarez clapped him approvingly on his butt. Lang smiled and sat, and Alvarez got up.


“I’m Corporal Julio Alvarez, I’m 32, I’m from El Paso, and my best bodypart are my biceps.” He flexed. “Gunst’s are bigger but mine have sick peaks.” He popped them back and forth. “See?”


Casey was indeed impressed. “Nice. Sick.”


Gunst yelled in good-humored protest and flexed his own guns.


Casey looked between Alvarez and Lang.


Alvarez glanced over at Lang. “No, we’re not related,” he said.


“They’re just joined at the wrist and ankles,” called out Gunst.


“More like mouth and cock,” muttered Blankenship loudly, winking at Casey.


It was Private Tiffany’s turn.


“Casey and I will be meeting privately soon,” he boasted, and made a show of wiping the corner of his lips with his index finger. The men laughed knowingly – all but Corporal Schumacher, who looked down into his lap and seethed a little.


Moster watched him intently. Something has to be done about Tiffany. But he didn’t worry. Though Tiffany didn’t know it yet, something was already happening.


Casey felt a touch flushed, but his head was suddenly amazingly clear. Suddenly he spoke.


“And what’s your best bodypart?” he asked. The stammer was gone, but only Moster noticed it.


“What do you think?” Joe Tiffany turned around, bent over and grabbed his ankles. He pulled his gym shorts tight at the crack of his butt and proudly displayed his magnificent bodybuilder glutes.


“Cupcakes!” said Gunst gleefully. The men howled. Schumacher made a show of laughing, but all he could do was glare.


“Wow,” said Casey calmly. “Very pretty.” 


Tiffany's Butt after Squats




Moster smiled inwardly.  Good.  He’s responded. And this boy responds well to White Caps, he thought.


“No one’s had it yet,” said Tiffany confidingly as he straightened up and turned around, tucking his t-shirt back into his shorts. Then he winked. “Except in group.”


“Group?” Casey was obviously perplexed.


The men shouted with laughter, which died down sheepishly as, looking around the room, each man eventually shrugged and acknowledged it was probably true. None of them had had Tiffany yet.


“I haven’t, anyway,” grumbled Schumacher, and the men laughed again.


Tiffany sat back down and ignored Schumacher’s look.


“Too bad,” said Casey.  “Shame to waste such a pretty little behind.”


The laughter died down and the men stared at Casey.  No one knew what to say.


“What’s ‘group’?” repeated Casey.




On the sidelines, Alvarez raised his head a little. He exchanged looks with Moster.


White cap? he mouthed.  Moster looked away.  Alvarez smiled and leaned in. He nudged Lang in the ribs.


“Ow,” said Lang.


“This is gonna be good,” said Alvarez in a low voice.


“And I’m Karim Abdul.  My best bodypart?  My whole fucking physique is my best bodypart. As you are about to find out.”


He flexed, whipping through pose after pose, his heavy cock bulge, dripping with oil, whipping left to right in his wrestling singlet. 


Snap. Snap. Snap.  Casey could hear it slapping against his thighs through the man’s singlet.


“All very impressive,” said Casey, looking pointedly at it.  Moster smiled again. The cap had taken effect.


“Okay. Turkish wrestling.  Rules. One: there are few rules.” Abdul ticked off the rules on his fingers. “Submission: the “crush.” A fighter can get his opponent onto his stomach and then trap him by sprawling on top. If I can keep you down with your face, I can then turn you on a half-nelson for a pin.”


“What if you can’t do it?” asked Casey bluntly.


“If I can’t crush you, the referee has to begin us again from a standing position.”

He ticked off another finger and looked Casey right in the eye. “I am not restricted from placing my hands inside my opponent’s kispet…”




“Your poser. I can also use the waistband to hold you in place. If I yank your poser so far below your hips that you are exposed, I win. Okay. If I can lift you entirely off the ground …


“Fat fucking chance.”


“Whoa,” breathed Hension.  The temperature in the room seemed to raise 15º.


Abdul paused, tense, and continued.  “…and carry you five paces in any direction, that is a “carrying” pin. Got it?”




“Okay.” Abdul looked at Casey. “You wanna go?”


“What are we waiting for?”

“Let’s wrestle,” said Abdul. He clapped his hands together and strode into the center of the ring.  Ever since the mention of ‘group’, Abdul had been a touch shaky – or so Moster thought.


Still can’t acknowledge how much he likes musclebutt. To say nothing of getting pissed on,” thought Moster.


“Sure thing,” Casey answered, slick with oil and now quietly confident. Pedro scampered to the side of the ring and squatted eagerly to watch.


Abdul began to bounce around, heel-toe, heel-toe, flexing his fingers, stretching his arms behind his head, limbering up. “Let’s go, man.”


“You got it, man.”  Casey hunkered down.


“Center of the ring, gents,” said Moster.


The men began to circle one another.


“You wrestle till one of you gets a pin,” Moster instructed, now in the ring and getting between them.


Casey flexed his biceps.  “Big peaks, man.  Like ‘em?”


“Seen bigger,” said Abdul.  He crunched forward, did a most muscular, his veins popping like railroad tracks.  “How ‘bout you? Like what you see, faggot?” he asked.

Casey just smiled, hunkered lower.   Abdul palmed the crotch of his singlet.  Casey smiled and refused to look down. He grabbed his own crotch, pendulously looming in his bulging posers.


“Big handful, man.”


“Watch it, boys,” said Moster. “This is a friendly get-to-know-you match.”


“I already know him,” said Abdul.


Moster snapped his fingers to Dr. Irving, now on the unpopulated side of the mat and with his ever-present video camera whirring. He dug in the pocket of his white lab jacket, wordlessly tossing him a whistle. 


Casey and Abdul met each other in the center of the mat and stared one another down.  Their noses touched. Abdul grinned, ear to ear.  Casey followed suit. Both began to gleam with anticipatory sweat.


“Wow…..” breathed Hension.  His hand shot down into his pants and he began massaging his stiffening tool.


Moster pushed the two apart and blew his whistle to start the match.









Edited by Guest

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Can't read the text

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Sorry, I never realized - posted months ago - that the text was white.....!!

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Chapter 13 has been added!  Click here...

chapter 13 is hot!!

the progression awsome, cant wait for chapter 14

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Chapter 14 is on the way!!! and for me, it is the hottest one yet.....shorter, sweeter....more'll see...

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sounds hot  !!!!!

cant wait to see it here

hope the worship involves casey!!!

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