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gym-muscle-sex "The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After

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Previous chapter: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster


Chapter 16:

Hardcore Training Part 2:
Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and

What Happened After


Casey’s first workout demonstration for The Nineteen that afternoon promised to be brutal – and awesome - as he had hoped it would be. He knew he would love every moment of it. He knew it would almost make up for the confusion and fear he had felt the night before. He would be as strong as a god, sailing through every lift, every rep, every set with strength he didn’t know he had.


Almost make up for it. Not quite.


But maybe afterwards, he could pose for them? Just a little?


In the locker room, alone, and about to go before these crazy huge guys once again, he ruminated. He was, if he admitted it to himself, not a little leery about these guys. After all, he had a big black eye. And just about 12 hours ago, thick, creamy jets of cum had shot from18 firehose cocks and plopped down on him while he lay tangled in a sweaty muscle mass mess with Karim Abdul, both of them with swelling black eyes and bloody noses. Kind of a strange introduction to the world of supreme muscle he had been looking forward to for two years – and had been fantasizing about for far longer.


“I wonder what Miles would say,” he thought to himself. He had glanced at his black eye in the mirror in the locker room. It was fully open, not bloodshot, just rimmed with black and blue. Not too bad.


Actually, it looked fucking hot. He quickly did a side chest.  




Nips high. Rivers of striations. Yeah. Lookin good. He was hot. He knew it, too.


Or, rather, was beginning to know it.


He found his old sweats, thoughtfully hanging up and waiting for him in a large locker with his name on it, which he assumed was his. He noted that the lockers themselves were almost like storage units, not the shameful, small individual skinny things most gyms had.


He looked up, slightly startled. Musclemen Gunst and Obatu were suddenly there at the end of the locker row, waiting for them. At first he barely noticed what they were wearing.


But then he saw.


“What the fuck?”


“You ready?”


“Uh. Yeah.”


“Let’s go, then.”


He stripped down fast, found his old jock in the locker, and grabbing his huge cock and balls, shoveled his heavy machine into the pouch. As always, it sagged heavily, groaning softly from the weight of his manhood. He glanced down the row. Gunst and Obatu were blankfaced. Casey threw his sweats on.




“…..yeah.” Casey slammed the door and waddled towards them, throwing a bathsheet towel over his broad shoulders. “Let’s go lift.”


Gunst and Obatu brought Casey onto the workout floor.  All of the musclemen in the squad were in attendance, naturally wanting to see how much weight the pretty muscle boy Casey could handle. After all, he may be huge, and all realized he was pretty fucking strong in the ring.  He could move fast, and his mandatory poses last night were impressive. But could the dude lift? Could he train??

Dr. Irving stood by with the video camera, fussily taking his precise notes. And Zaftig was there, of course, hanging back, saying nothing, just watching, watching. And now, at least, Casey could remember the dude’s name. Dr. Zaftig. After all, this was the dude who was going to make him huge.


He nodded shyly to him.  “Good afternoon, Dr. Zaftig.”

“Good afternoon, Casey. Welcome to Valhalla.”

“Thank you…”

“Let’s get going, Casey,” said Sergeant Moster. “You’re keeping us waiting. Again.”


“I’m sorry,” Casey said.  Moster frowned.


No signs of reaction to all the White Caps swimming around in his bloodstream.


There were, inevitably, more moments of muscle awkwardness to be had first.


First off, Casey was entirely unprepared for the men’s workout gear.  His usual workout clothes fully covered him, a ripped and worn outfit of dirty, sweaty baggies, a sloppy oversized sweatshirt that seemed to have been made for a man of 600 pounds, and full-length sweatpants, ragged and much the worse for wear.  Even in these baggies, his bulge loomed heavily, swaying from side to side as he came onto the floor.


Moster had changed into his full-dress spotlessly clean green uniform slacks, boots, and a skin-tight regulation t-shirt. His mammoth black muscles gleamed with ferocious power, and his crisp, clinging t-shirt outlined every peak, valley, cut, bulge, thick vein and crevice of his astonishing physique.

Casey tried not to stare at him. He was oddly drawn to this black mountain of muscle.

“I wanna be as big as you someday,” he said softly to himself.


The squad, on the other hand, he nervously noted, were all dressed in White Cap Night Valhalla regulation gym gear: ripped, torn and ragged wife-beaters with muscles bulging every which way. Dripping sweat, muscles red and inflamed, their workouts over. No shorts, Army boots, heavy cable socks, and sweaty, swollen, looming Army-green mesh jocks.


Bulging packages protruded, looming cocks, also swaying heavily with each muscleman movement, all around the gym floor.


“This is how you guys dress to work out?” asked Casey timidly.


Okay, so it was still weird.


His question was ignored. There was a lot of barely sheathed bulging heavy duty muscleman dick on this gym floor. His own was more modestly covered.


If just as bulging.


And just as evident. And no one’s on the floor appeared to be as big as Moster’s. Once again he stared for a moment at the man’s obviously huge, looming penis, outlined clearly in his green trousers. He could see the penis corona, even the deep piss slit through the thick dark khaki fabric.

Moster sure wasn’t ashamed of his cock. So maybe Casey shouldn’t be ashamed, either.


And what Casey couldn’t know is that the men, just having finished their workouts, were delaying their shower sports. White Caps racing in their bloodstreams. And holding back. Not 10 minutes before Moster had sternly separated Blankenship and Lang from some foreplay, giving each man a quick spanking on their bare bottoms before all the other men.  Afterward Alvarez pulled Lang back and eyed him dangerously. There would be words between them tonight. Lang was staring at the floor. Blankenship, of course, was grinning. Toothlessly.


“How about starting off with some incline flyes?” said Moster.  “You need a warm-up set?”


“I wanna stretch first,” said Casey. Miles had always taught him the necessity of proper technique. Light warm-ups were part of that, though once he actually started lifting, what constituted a warm-up for Casey might be a final blasted set for another man.


“Always smart.”

The men stood watching Casey intently.


“Don’t you guys wanna go workout somewhere?” he blurted out.

“We’re done,” said Alvarez. “We’re waiting for you.”


Abdul was staring at him with undisguised hatred. Tiffany was smiling sweetly, butter not melting in his mouth. Schumacher was blank-faced, and all the scarier for it. The others were intent, if blank-faced. Even Hension, whose thoughts were usually betrayed on his handsome face, wasn’t reacting much. He just was staring.


They were all staring.


Casey shuffled off to a corner of the Marley mat and began his stretch routine, arms swinging, legs kicking, gentle but firm.


The men watched him.


“He’s bow-legged!” whispered Hension. Loudly.


“Yes, we see that,” said Alvarez, mocking the whisper.


“I think that’s so hot….!”

Casey heard a resounding 
smack!  echoing through the room.



Someone had hit Hension again. Casey, his face turned away, had to smile. Apparently the pretty boy got hit a lot.


“Um. This takes 20 minutes,” Casey said.  Suddenly he didn’t care what they thought. He was going to stretch. He started torso turns, his hands behind his head.

Moster spoke. “Casey, we don’t have all day.”


Casey turned back to him and repeated himself firmly. “This takes 20 minutes. I stretch for 20 minutes. If you don’t want to watch, don’t.” And he turned back, cupping his big hands together, continuing his torso turns.


Moster smiled slightly. Good. The White Caps had obviously kicked in after all. It seems Casey required more White Caps for an effect, and the societal restrictions weren’t so easily abandoned. But the boy was asserting himself, and quite naturally.


Zaftig was suddenly next to Moster. “He’s not so easily bullied,” he whispered. “Not like your other men. You won’t have your way with him so easily.”


“You don’t think so?”


“No, I don’t.”


“Well, we’ll see, then, won’t we?”


Zaftig frowned. Clearly, Moster wasn’t concerned about Casey digging in his heels at his first workout, doing it his way, defying the Sergeant. “What do you know?” Zaftig hissed at Moster.


Moster, never taking his eyes off the teen muscle giant now doing rapid pushups, turned to Zaftig, laid his cards on the table.


“The kid has never been worshipped before. He wants it, he needs it. He needs someone to tell him how amazing he is. And he needs musclesex. Badly. He doesn’t know how much.”

“I see. It’s your musclesex thing again. Goddammit, Sergeant. This project is about youth and strength and creating the most fearsome army the planet has ever seen. It’s not about sex. It never was. It was about creating the perfect physical specimen. The most extraordinary physiques the world has ever known.”


Moster smiled sardonically. “You’ve forgotten, Dr. Zaftig, or perhaps you never knew. Even when you were a young man. Were you ever young?”

Zaftig smiled. “Amazing to consider, isn’t it?”

Moster continued. “Everything for men is about sex. And bodybuilders? Even more so. And for these bodybuilders? All that times about 200.  500. All these guys want is to be admired. Worshipped. Sucked off. Felt up. Fuck. And, I might add, get fucked. Train, lift, eat, sleep, shit, fight, suck, get sucked, fuck, train some more, fight some more, fuck some more, suck some more, eat, shit, sleep. And,” he added sweetly, “…that’s about it.”


“Fuck you, Sergeant.” But now Zaftig was smiling. He knew there was more to it. Wasn’t there?

Moster sighed. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zaftig. But that’s what you’ve created here. Millions of dollars poured into fucking machines. But look at the bright side.” He leaned in. “It’s going to make you millions, as well. All of us.”


“I already have millions. I don’t care.”

“Well, I don’t, and I do.”


“By the way, how did the boy get that black eye?”

“Looks pretty hot, don’t it?”


“Less than 24 hours in the compound and already someone’s slugged him.”

“Don’t look too closely at Abdul or Blankenship.” Zaftig glanced over at Abdul, sporting a shiner of his own, and noted the missing teeth of the blond bomber beauty Blankenship.


Zaftig groaned inwardly. Another trip to the dentist. He hated having to take the men off the mountain. But there was a dentist in San Jose who fixed up the men regularly, regular hygiene, capping, replaced teeth, crowns, implants, the works, and charged nothing, content merely with big biceps flexed in his face while he sat in the chair playing with his tiny dentist dick.


Then, Moster to Casey, “You about done there, boy?”

“No, sir.”


“All right, then.” The men were getting restless, shifting from foot to foot, now staring at Zaftig and the ever-cool Moster. Alvarez was the only man on the squad who seemed calm and in control of himself. A fact not unnoticed by Moster.


Or Casey, for that matter, now secretly watching all this play out for himself. He was beginning to catch on that there was even more to these big dudes than just training, taking this crazy drug, and spanking their monkeys.


“Men, time for some biceps curls,” Moster announced. “All of you go do 15 sets of light reps. 25 reps per set per arm. No ball busting, now. Get to it. No more than 25 pounds. I mean it.”  He turned back and smiled at Casey. “We’ll wait until The Boy is ready.”


Okay, so he was The Boy again.


Zaftig wasn’t done. “In a few months the Joint Chiefs will be here for review. I want Casey ready and I want the men at their sharpest, and no funny business. Intensify their training.” He turned away.

“You leaving?”


Zaftig turned back. “Hell, no” he smiled. “I want to see my latest boy wipe your men all over the floor. Maybe you’ll listen to me then.”


Moster nodded. Inwardly he had to admit he respected Zaftig deeply. The man may have been a puny genius with no body, but he wasn’t dishonest, and he was clearly unafraid of Moster. He had no personal need for muscle worship, and never bothered the men. He was, at the end of the day, a partner Moster could trust, if never take advantage of. He admired that. Moreover, Zaftig had never indicated another other than scientific curiosity about Moster’s treetrunk tool. That was a plus on his side, too.


Moster turned to Casey and called out. “Okay, you’re done,” he said, brooking no denial. “What’s your starting weight for inclines?”




Hension, 20 feet away and now doing the ordered biceps curls, stared at Casey.  “Damn!” he squeaked.  He put the dumbbell down and scratched his barely covered balls. “180?? To start?”


Casey looked away, trying not to notice. That boy certainly was pretty. A perfect face. Without realizing it, Casey licked his lips, staring a little at Hension, who, gawking at the muscle monster, inadvertently smiled back, absently scratching his balls. The exchange did not go unnoticed. Lang nudged Alvarez, who nodded sagely.


“180 it is. Let’s see what you got.” Moster strode to the bench, grabbed two 180-pound dumbbells as if they were sacks of feathers, and handed them to Casey.


Casey took them without a blink, two sacks of feathers.


And so the workout began. One by one, the men re-racked their light weights, approached the bench where the giant Casey lay, ready to lift.


Casey’s perfect technique was evident from the start. He smoothly lowered his huge bulk onto an incline bench.  He raised his arms into position, the two dumbbells easily held aloft overhead. In no time he reeled off twenty reps of perfectly calibrated incline flyes, then peeling off into overhead presses, gently touching the dumbbells one another, then down to the tips of his big brown nipples, outlined in his oversized sweats. His chest bloomed, rivers of sweaty muscle flowed, the pumped pecs seemed to reach to the ceiling as he pumped.


Pow, pow, pow, pow,”  he breathed to himself with each rep. Light stains of pec milk appeared on his sweats.


“Wow….” breathed Hension. “Do you see that??”


“What’s next?”


“Do it again.”




He reeled off another set. The men watched him stonily, now all gathered around the bench. More pec milk appeared.




“Do another.”


“Sure.” He did another set. Finishing, he clanged the weights to the floor.


“Can I work with something heavy now?”


Moster smiled. The White Caps had taken effect. He shot a look over at Zaftig, who merely raised an eyebrow and smiled.


“Certainly, boy.  Take it to 220.”


So he was still Boy. “Anyone have gloves?”


“Sure, Case!” Lang reached into his bag and tossed a pair to Casey.  Casey smiled a little, hearing Lang call him by the same nickname the cadets down the mountain did.


“Thanks.” He caught the gloves and slipped them on. Everyone was watching now. The red light of the video cam continued to blink.


Standing next to Lang, Alvarez was blank-faced, but not unapproving. In the corner, Dr. Zaftig now had his head tilted back, musing.


This boy will go the limit, he thought. No matter what Moster says about what the men really want. This boy is different. He’s pure muscle, and nothing else.


No, that was not right. He was muscle, cock, and butt. This boy would be worth millions. And very, very soon. An uncommon sex machine of the first power.


Innocent Casey, unaware of the plans being made around him, rose, took the two 180 pound dumbbells, and re-racked them, two sacks of feathers back to the their featherbed. He strode down the line and grabbed two 220s, returned to the incline, lowered his bulk, and reeled off another set of 20 reps, grunting loudly and blowing out air with each rep. More milk flecks appeared on his shirt. He blew sweat and spit, began to groan mightily.


“ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh….”


When he was finished he set the dumbbells down gently on the marley floor, and looked up at Moster. Absently he wiped the milk away from his nipples with thumb and forefinger.


“Nicely done, boy,” said Moster. He spoke loudly to the group. “Notice that Casey does not drop the weights.” He looked pointedly at Jin, who was famous for throwing the weights to the floor after the punishing final set of any lift he did, excepting squats – where he re-racked as noisily as possible, all while screaming. Jin looked back, defiant. “Why do you do it that way, boy?”


Casey shrugged.


“Way that Miles taught me, I guess. It’s harder.”




“Miles Donovan, Raw Weight Gym.”


So that was it, thought Gunst. Miles Donovan. He should have known. Donovan was a biceps freak, and hosted many others in his gym, taking their pay-offs for private posing from men who liked to blast big guns in the faces of the hapless, endlessly paying schmoes. No doubt Casey had been a major revenue stream for the notorious Donovan gym, he reasoned to himself. Of course he had to have huge guns. Miles would have seen to it.


Blankenship grinned, a front tooth missing and looking all the hotter for it. “Yeah, makes sense, he came from that old horn dog Donovan’s gym. You worked out on the 3rd floor yet?”


Casey looked at Blankenship a little blankly. “Um. No.”


Obatu spoke up. “Casey is still too young and green for the 3rd floor. Besides, he has been training at the cadet gym down the mountain for the last several months. Haven’t you, Casey?”


“Yeah, I guess. What’s next?”


“You flat bench?”


“Sure. How much weight?”


“Let’s see what you can do.”  The squad backed away a little as Casey, gripping each elbow and stretching his arms over his head, walked towards a row of flat benches.


Gunst despaired a little. He was wrong. Casey wasn’t posing and being paid for it at Donovan’s. Which meant he’d built those mountainous biceps on his own.


“Lose the shirt!” squawked Hension. “I want to see your nips milk!”


“’Kay,” said Casey. He stopped, slipping out of his sweatshirt, folding it up carefully. Underneath he wore a baggy green t-shirt, which may probably have been at one time a pup tent.


“My nipples always make a little milk when I train,” he explained. “See?” He reached under his soaked t-shirt to a nipple, gathered some white liquid, held out a finger dripping with milk droplets. “But it looks like I’m making a little more today.”


In spite of himself, Moster was touched by Casey’s innocent neatness with his sweatshirt.  And his explanation.


“T-shirt too,” said Waring.


“Not yet,” said Casey. Moster’s eyebrow raised a little. He glanced over at Zaftig, who nodded.


Good. Good. It was all good. The White Caps were claiming his ego. Casey was showing signs he could stand up on his own.


“Load up a starting weight of 360 pounds,” directed Moster. “You can handle 300, can’t you, Casey?”

“Sure, easy.” Casey laid his bulk down on the flat bench while Waring and Lang placed eight 45-pound plates on either end of the bar. He began to suck in air in preparation.


“Hey, can someone wrap my elbows?” he suddenly asked.


“Sure.  Washington, grab some heavy wraps for Cadet Rockland. Get to it. The man has to lift.”


He lifted the bar off the bench and began to bench, pumping his enormous pecs.  Now he was working his hardest. He was now more determined than ever to fit in with these huge men. He was going to show them now.


The workout continued. Flat bench, declines, more flyes.  All pecs stuff. More milk. Throughout the workout Hension, Lang, Jin, Bogarde, Washington, Meyer, Waring, Duncan, Chad, and Corporal Blankenship were cheerful and approving. They howled their encouragement and counted the reps.


“10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!"


Throw the weights, Casey!”


"Okay to throw them?" Casey asked Moster, holding 600 pounds aloft, just about to bring it down to his milky nipples. He was calm.


"If the men want. This time. Throw it when you're done."


"Okay." He finished pumping, and instead of reracking...


Clang! Casey threw the weight on the floor, sat up, grabbed the plastic bottle and chugged a half-gallon of water. Water poured from the side of his mouth onto his shirt.  


The men whooped and hollered. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and strode forcefully to the next weight.


Immediately the men were counting again.


“10! 11! 12! 13! 14! 15!”


Clang! Wipe.




And on it went for 45 minutes of grueling, punishing lifting.  Corporals Schumacher, Obatu, LeFevre, and Alvarez and Private McIntyre seemed more reserved. Corporal Abdul just grunted. But he was impressed, in spite of himself. The boy was training harder than he had ever seen. His muscles were blooming, seeming to grow as he watched.


Gunst was quiet and watchful.


Zaftig was beaming with professional pride. Moster remained aloof and keenly observant.  And all the while, Dr. Irving followed every move with the video cam.


The cocksure little Private Joe Tiffany cheered him on just as loudly. Casey pretended not to see the evil glint in the muscleboy’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it. He’d learned at the Home how to read signals.


The Home…..hmmm. A memory appeared dimly, and, just as quickly, was gone.


While resting between two punishing sets, Casey was still silently agog at the size of Moster’s muscles. Occasionally he found himself staring at the improbably large mound resting atop his CO’s left quad. The tip of the mound reached to just above the giant’s knee. He noted the other men seemed to be avoiding looking directly at Moster’s leg.  Even though they all seemed to be sporting packages of similar size.


Damn, their dicks are big, Casey thought.  Are they real?


And deep inside Casey, a little voice proudly squeaked…..”Wait until they see MINE…”  Then he remembered –


…..oh yeah....


They’d already seen it. And he had seen theirs, too. Sorta. Between his half-closed black eye.  His hand went up, and he rubbed the black eye. Looked at Abdul, and his black eye. Adbul was smiling a little now. Not friendly, but hard - but still, a smile.


Casey grinned wearily as he finally finished up with the last set of triceps pulldowns.


Private Meyer, a big toothy grinning lighting up his handsome, beaming face, burst forward from the group, and pumped the newcomer’s hand.


“Thanks,” said Casey. Meyer nodded enthusiastically. “He can’t hear you,” said Private Waring. Casey looked at Meyer, stricken for having forgotten that Meyer was a deaf mute.  “It’s okay, he doesn’t mind.”


Casey, touched, shook Meyer’s hand vigorously. Meyer shook his head cheerfully, touching his lips, and shrugged his shoulders to show that indeed he didn’t care that he couldn’t speak. Then he stepped back and proudly flexed his own powerful, round right biceps, smacking them with his left hand, and reached down to grab Casey’s wrists. He pulled his arms up encouragingly and Casey, getting the message, proudly brought his huge guns up and flexed mightily.


“Mother fucker!” yelled Lang and Hension simultaneously. The men roared with laughter, and Casey colored a deep red, smiling sheepishly. Alvarez clamped that affectionate paw of his around Lang’s shoulders and hugged him close. But he looked worried. Something was on his mind.


Behind them Hension eyed them both steadily, with longing.


Meyer kept his hands on Casey’s obliques as if he was rotating his upper body for all to see.


“It’s okay, plebe,” said Jin, laughing. “You’ll get to know us all.”


While all through the devastating workout he had been stronger than he could ever remember, now he felt – well, almost frail – as if something, suddenly, was missing.


“All right, men,” said Moster calmly. “Rec room in 15 minutes. Casey, shower up.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Men, file out. Casey, come here a moment first.”  He glanced at the men, who leaned in, curious as to what Moster might be saying.


“Well, Cadet Casey, it looks as if you’ve made it.” Moster spoke quietly. Casey looked up at him, and grinned wearily.


“Thanks, Sergeant Moster.” The men gave him a round of applause, Casey noted that even Corporal Schumacher seemed to approve. He lowered his head, modestly grateful.


Then Moster turned back to the group.  They were still applauding. Casey was embarrassed, turning to go. He didn’t see Moster’s stone face shift into a slight smile.


“Men, get dressed. Shower up. No play time. Get to it. I expect you all in uniform, neat and clean, in the rec room, in 10 minutes. Hop to it. Get a move on.” Then, to Casey, “Casey, use my private locker room to shower.” He pointed to a door across the floor. “You’ll find clean sweats in there. They’ll fit. Grab them after you shower. And no jerking off, boy.”


Casey, embarrassed that Moster seemed to be reading his mind, nodded dumbly and headed to the door. He was worried again. He had only masturbated once today so far, and on a day like today, he needed a lot more….especially after that worship session with the cadets this morning. He was discovering….something….and his huge cock wanted to know more.


But he went, dutifully, into the private locker room, showered, and changed into the clean sweats he found there.


Before he left, he checked his guns and his pecs in the full length mirror. Flexing, he breathed to himself.


“Damn. I’m fucking awesome.”


And with the capsules still not in apparent full-force effect, dressed in baggy trunks and a clean, white light tee, he stumbled his way to the rec room.  For what, he couldn’t tell. Probably more weirdness. But now, he was ready.


Dr. Irving was there ahead of them all. He had set up chairs for all the bodybuilders in a semi-circle, with the inevitable video cam set up.  There was a chair in the center, obviously meant for him. He glanced over at Moster, who nodded and gestured towards the chair.  Casey waddled with his bodybuilder’s walk towards it slowly and sat.  He looked around with anticipation.


“So now what?” he asked.

Zaftig took Moster aside.


“This boy is gentle. We don’t want to break his spirit. He’s had a tough time and he just wants to make friends. Go easy on him.”


Moster’s shoulders stiffened. The veins in his neck popped a little. He looked Zaftig dead in the eye, and said, “Being sweet to him now will kill him later. Is that what you want?”




“Then let me handle it. I know what is best.”


“Did you at least give him a capsule?”


“Sure,” answered Moster. “He’ll be just fine.”


“Doesn’t seem to have taken effect yet.”

“He’s a big boy. Blood volume and all. It takes time.”

“Fuck you, Moster.”


Moster’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he knew not to protest. Zaftig was properly proud of his discovery. “You know fucking well that White Caps P-21 take effect immediately regardless of ‘blood volume’, if you want to put it that way.”


“Dr. Zaftig, it’s my turn now.”


“It’s always your turn.” Zaftig turned on his heel and left the rec room without further comment.


Moster watched him go. The men were sitting impatiently. “All right, men. Let’s get to it.” He turned to Casey.


“All right, Casey. Welcome. You’re one of the group now. We’re now….The Twenty.”


“Yeah, baby!”


“Bout fucking time.”


“Tell him what that really means….” said Alvarez.


“Spank him!” yelled Hension, and then, before Chad, sitting next to him, could swat him, he said, “Don’t you fucking hit me!”


Chad did anyway. “Ow!” yelled Hension.


Casey chuckled. “That’s gotta hurt. These dudes seem to hit you a lot.”

“You will too, in time,” said Waring.


“What did …he….”….um…”


“Alvarez,” said Alvarez.


“What did Alvarez – sorry – mean – when he said “tell him what that really means?”


Silence. Casey continued.  “I mean, what does it mean to be one of The Twenty?”


Moster smiled. “Yes, let’s talk about that, Casey. Men, why don’t we show Casey what it’s all about?”


Then he paused a moment. Casey wasn't reacting. He was just sitting quietly, albeit with great body tension. His muscles were hugely pumped, and Moster could see the fabric shifting as Casey's enormous cock began to uncoil in his sweats. Soon he would be hard. But the boy wasn't moving. Odd.


Quietly, he asked, leaning in, “Casey, level with me.” He looked the teen in the eye.


Casey couldn’t look away. Inwardly he was stammering. He was looking at Moster's crotch.


“No, look me in the eye. Look up. Not down there. Up. How many White Caps have you taken?”


“White Caps?”


“The capsules. The pills. How many?” He gazed at him levelly.


A pause.  “Four, I think. Five?” He shrugged, weakly. "i don't remember."

"Where did you get them? I gave you one...."


"Uh..." Casey didn't want to indict the men on his first day. Weirdness notwithstanding.


“Never mind. I can guess." Moster looked back at the group, all standing still, attentive, neatly dressed in their uniforms. And every cock seeming at attention, poling out hugely in their khakis.


The men were ready to play. Past ready.


Mmmmm. Not much effect on Casey, though, for 5 White Caps. A few moments of assertiveness and a powerful workout, but…..not much.


"Are you feeling anything…unusual?”


“Well….”  Casey paused and looked away. He found himself staring at the men and their looming erections. Jesus. Here it came.


Strong societal blockers, Moster thought.


"Do you want to have sex? Like now?"


No answer. Casey just stared at the cocks in the room.


The men were deadly quiet.


Then it hit Moster. Of course.


“Casey, are you hypoglycemic?”


Not so much to his surprise, even the dimwitted Casey knew exactly what that meant. Still staring the the men's rocket crotches, he spoke softly.


“......I need oranges or candy bars sometimes.....”


“They told you this when you were growing up?”


“They told me in the Boys Home. My blood sugar. I have problems.”

Of course. That was it.  It happened sometimes. He reminded himself he had to mention it to Zaftig. It was the same for Obatu when he first checked in, and then, years later, for Eli Meyer. Since Meyer could neither speak nor hear and his sign language didn't encompass the subject of hypoglycemia, it took them a few days to realize that a cup of chocolate milk worked wonders on the tight glutes of the hot little muscle fuckee Meyer. Give the boy some cocoa and he'd take massive tool after tool up his butt for hours.


He called over his shoulder. “Dr. Irving, please step into my office and get an orange. You’ll find a bowl of fruit on my conference table.”  He turned back to Casey and smiled a little. “It’ll be just a moment. Then we’ll tell you what The Twenty is all about.”  Irving left the room, used to being invisible except when ordered about.


Moster stood up, in front of Casey. "It will only be a minute now."


The men, behind him, were now pawing the floor like racehorses, ready to rock and roll.


Casey, sitting, was now eye-to-crotch to Moster, in front of him. He stared openly at Moster’s enormous bulge in the fly of his uniform khakis, a thick pylon of sheathed cock snaking heavily along the edge of huge quad muscle, and gulped, looking up. Though Moster was the only man in the room without an erection, his penis yet appeared to be the biggest.


“Yes, sir,” he stammered. And stared again. His heart was pounding.


Moster put a hand on Casey’s beefy shoulder, kneading his fingers slightly into the thick muscle.


“Hang on. It won’t be long now.” He turned to the men behind him.


“Men? Drop trou.”


Zippers unzipped, belts slipped out of belt loops and went to the floor, as the 18 bodybuilders – even Abdul – dropped their uniform slacks to their ankles. Pants down. Around the room.


Now all the men were in micro posers. Those massive bulges were unleashed. Looming, heavy, hard, all already pointing straight out. Their cocks almost fully exposed except for the bulging, straining fabric barely covering cockheads. Some of the posers were ready to snap.


Casey stared at them all. "Wow...." he breathed.


"Men why don't you do some posing for Casey? You've seen his muscles. I don't think he's had the opportunity to see yours."

"You, too, Sergeant," said Abdul.


Moster looked at him. He paused. "All right, then." He unbuttoned his bulging dress shirt and slipped it off.  Casey could almost imagine he could hear the groan of relief of the fabric, suddenly relieved of the need to stretch over the man's massive muscles.


But he wasn't prepared for the massive musculature of Moster.


Cocks and balls bulged forth, each man spilling half a foot of visible cock into barely sheathed pouches.


Casey felt a dribble of precum shooting in his posers.


“Arms behind backs!” barked Moster, clearly now the leader of the group. He turned to Casey and became one with his men.


The Nineteen placed their hands behind their lower backs.


“Spread legs!”


All spread their legs wide, shooting their right legs out in choreographed unison.


“Prepare!” Fists clenched, crammed in solid obliques. “Front double biceps!”


All arms slowly rose. And 40 cannonballs of enormous power ball biceps snapped into ungodly peaks. The men faced straight ahead, all eyes high and level, as if gazing into infinity.


“Jesus,” breathed Casey. He fumbled with his crotch a moment. His head was spinning.


The lineup of 19 men stood before him, all flexing with massive front double biceps power.


The black muscle god brought his arms down strode slowly across the room back to Casey. As he moved, his half-covered organ swayed heavily from side to side in his posing pouch.  Behind him, the lineup of men continued to flex without wavering. He stood next to Casey, and impossibly, appeared to tower over even him. 

Dr. Irving returned with the orange.


“Chow down on this, Casey,” said Moster as Irving handed it to him wordlessly. "Men, drop the biceps pose."


The men relaxed. Hension snickered.  "Yeah, chow down, Casey." Then, warning Chad...."Don't you hit me...."


“Dr. Irving, would you get back to your camera, please?”


Dr. Irving went back to the video cam, checking his clipboard, and began to tape.


The men circled around Casey as he took a big bite out of the orange, and then another, and then another.


A moment passed. Casey began to flush, a deep crimson red – and then, just as quickly – the flush faded.


He looked up at Moster, and smiled. Broadly.


“I’m fine now,” he said.


“Casey,” asked Moster evenly, “have you ever sucked cock before?”


“No, sir.”


“Would you like to?”


“Yes, sir. I think I would.”


Snap! Snap! Gunst's and Blankenship's posers snapped. Their cocks bloomed free, swaying heavily, ready for service.  Gunst stepped forward, but Blankenship elbowed him heavily out of the way. Gunst looked at him threateningly, raised his fist, ready to punch face.


Moster stood back. "Easy, men. There's time for everyone. Who should he start with?” he asked the group.


“I think he starts with ME,” said Abdul, striding forward, his hands on the straps of his bulging posers. The 14 inch shaft was fully exposed, the tendrils of Abdul's thick pubic hair shining in the rec room light.


“Fine with me,” Casey said, still smiling. “How do I do this?”


“Don’t worry. It’ll come naturally. Just let it happen.”


Abdul took his position in front of Casey and pushed out his powerful hips. As Casey leaned in, Abdul roughly cupped the back of the teen’s head, and pulled him in close.


"Get to work, boy..."


Casey open his mouth. Wide. "Sorry about last night, " he said up to Abdul, who loomed over him, taking his mammoth cock out of his posers and aiming it.


"Wider," said Abdul.


"Can I pose for you guys later?" Casey asked.


"Sure thing!" squeaked Hension.




"Ow! What did I say??"


"I said OPEN WIDER," commanded Abdul.


"Sure thing," said Casey. He opened his mouth wider. "Let's go."


And so.... it began.





Want to read "The Twenty" from the start?

Links to chapters of "The Twenty":

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

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapters 3, 4, 5 - White Cap Training / Hardcore Muscle / A Brief History of Casey Rockland

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 6

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

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapters 9, 10 - Good for Morale

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

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

"The Twenty" - Chapter 12: Part 2 Casey vs. Karim Abdul: A Very Turkish Wrestling Match

"The Twenty" - Chapter 13: After the Match

"The Twenty" - Chapter 14: In Which Casey Discovers He Likes to Get Worshipped

"The Twenty" - Chapter 15: Casey's First Interview with Sergeant Moster

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress. Chapter 16 - Hardcore Training Part 2: Casey’s First Herculaneum Workout, and What Happened After

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 17 - The Presentation

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 18 - The Musclemen Revealed: Inside Zaftig's Lab

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress - Chapter 19 - Further Encounters, Part 1

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 20 - Pose and Approve: Further Encounters, Part 2

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 21 - Sam and Casey

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

"The Twenty" - Chapter 23 - Field Trips, Part 2 – Casey Rediscovers Muscle Worship, and Makes a New Friend

"The Twenty" - A Muscle Novel in Progress: Chapter 24 - Further Encounters 5: Sam and Casey Again, and Moster and the Cadets




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Yet another fantastic chapter in the continuing story of Casey Rockland and the adventures of "The Twenty".


Thank you so much to Joeysilverado for such a wonderful imagination, great dialogue and such incredibly horny material - superb !!!!

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just gets better hotter and so horny!!

post more chapters please!!!

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Updated with full links to other chapters at the end. Will be posting Chapter 25 within a few days.

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