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

Dr. Irving moved quickly to another set of double doors that were marked “To the Showers”. He opened the door, and a red light next to it began to signal. “Come in, gentlemen,” he called.

A few moments passed. A few in the assembled ranks of waiting officers and adjutants shifted nervously from foot to foot.

The sound of distant footsteps, growing closer.

The Twenty entered the room in single file.

Their audience gasped involuntarily. The Twenty were an awesome sight.

All were dressed in tight white t-shirts with “Valhalla Labs” printed across the chest. All wore insanely tight white jeans, white socks and tightly laced black leather Army boots. The men marched across the room to the left in perfect cadence, snap-turned and faced the Officers at full attention.

The sight was ungodly to behold. The men were of different nationalities and ages, and they varied in height. One or two were of average height, and one was unusually short. Three were as tall as Casey. The black man at the head of the line was the tallest and biggest of all, nearly 7’-0”. Four others were black, two Asian, the rest Latin or white. Each man was unusually handsome and clear eyed. All boasted extreme mass and astonishing muscularity. Their shoulders were broad and wide, their traps sloped down from thick necks, and their powerful chests rippled with power in their tight t-shirts. They all held their heavily sinewed arms at their sides, again with thick thumbs slightly crooked inward, as if pointing at the looming, floor-pointing bulges pouting behind the flies of their skin-tight white jeans.

“Project Herculaneum reporting for inspection, Dr. Zaftig,” barked the tall black man.

“Thank you, Sergeant Moster,” said Zaftig. “I think we’re all here. Private Rockland, will you step forward, please?”

Sam looked down the line-up. There stood Casey in the flesh, the fifth man down. He looked over at Zaftig, and then shot a quick, questioning glance at Sergeant Moster. He seemed surprised and a touch uncertain to have been called out, looking slightly right and left at his fellow musclemen. No one else moved.

He stepped forward. “Sir,” he said, quietly.

“Come here, Private.” Casey started to cross the room when he caught sight of Sam, who was watching him evenly. His step never slowed, but eyes lingered a moment on Sam’s face.

Sam was all attention.

“Strip down for us, Casey.”

“Yes, sir.”

Unhesitatingly Casey stripped off his tight white Valhalla Labs t-shirt, which popped slightly and deflated with a rush of air when released from his mammoth shoulders. He turned away momentarily and bent over to unlace his boots. All were drawn to the mountainous glutes, the double pockets strained over rocks of muscle, the seam of his jeans sharply marking the likely deep butt crack beneath. Casey stood, turned back, and undid the top button of his jeans. He unzipped the looming zipper. With difficulty he pulled his pants down over his thick quads, looking up a little embarrassed at his clumsiness.

“Casey has troubles undressing sometimes,” explained Zaftig with a paternal smile.

“He needs clothes that vanish at the push of a button,” muttered General Needling.

“Boots next, Private,” said Moster.

“Yes, sir,” said Casey. Sam thrilled at the sound of his deep, resonant, mysteriously shy voice.

Casey stepped out of the boots, pulled the jeans down the rest of the way, and kicked everything away.

He was wearing the white Spandex poser, which fully revealed the top 6 inches of the shaft of his massive organ. His huge penis spilled forward a few inches before disappearing into the smooth synthetic mesh pouch. Now Sam could see that the fabric was translucent, and the shadows of heavy cock veins pressed outward. He wondered for a moment why Casey bothered to wear it at all, but conceded it was probably a pale gesture towards some feeble sense of modesty. Or perhaps more likely, his big baseball balls were just so damn heavy he could use the extra support.

Wow, he thought to himself.

“Show our guests some poses, Casey,” said Zaftig. Casey nodded, took a step away, and complied.

Standing before the Officers, Casey opened his huge arms wide. He balled his hands into fists and angled them toward the group and held the pose a moment. Then he slowly stepped right, and spreading his mammoth legs wide apart, he slowly curled his arms up into a freaky double biceps pose.

“Thank you. Hold that pose, please, Casey.”

“Yes sir.” Casey stood motionless, his arms steady and upright, his biceps flexing mightily. He didn’t quiver.

His eyes flicked back in Sam’s direction for an instant, and then he returned his gaze front.

Jesus H. Christ, thought Sam. He’s flexing for me.

He grinned lazily across the lab floor at Casey. Casey didn’t respond, but after a moment he pivoted ever so slightly towards Sam. He raised his square jaw just a mite. His massive biceps rippled a little, and grew even a little more, slowly gaining even more size, glowing more intensely, bulging all the more fiercely.

Sam smiled. Casey turned his eyes away and resumed his gaze straight ahead, as a single creek bed of sweat appeared in the split head of the flexing left biceps, making its molasses-slow, thick journey down the front of the rocky peak.

“Project Herculaneum has been entirely financed by a few private anonymous investors,” Zaftig was saying now. Sam roused himself back to attention. “No public moneys have been siphoned to create the magnificent specimen you see before you now. Casey – and indeed, all these other 19 men we have laboriously trained and developed here at Valhalla Labs – hasn’t cost the United States government so much as a thin nickel.”

“I’m interested in his other dimensions,” came a comment, seemingly from nowhere. Sam looked around, wondering who would dare at this moment to refer to the obvious. The other aides froze with tension, but it wasn’t clear who spoke.

“Who said that?” screamed Walrus. Two or three of the musclemen smiled a little, and one, an unusually short pretty boy, snorted. Sergeant Moster glared at them, and their smiles faded instantly.

Zaftig beamed. Dr. Irving pushed his heavy glasses up his nose, and fumbled with his clipboard.

Walrus turned back to Zaftig and then spluttered. “Damn it, no man should be this big! And why the hell are you showing him to us with no goddamn clothes on?” His aides twittered nervously. Emboldened by the ownerless comment, the room lit up with flashes from a few iPhone cameras.

“Goddamn it!” roared Walrus, turning around. “This is supposed to be a secure meeting! Turn those damn phones off!”

The phones promptly went dark.

I should have made them check their phones at the door, Zaftig thought with a sardonic inner smile.

He turned to his audience and smiled, all innocence. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice bubbling with feigned surprise and ill-concealed glee. It was all going just as he had hoped – that is, except for the question of Casey’s I.Q., a subject he fully wished to stonewall for the evening.

“I apologize. I didn’t consider the fact that you might be offended. I wanted to personally display Casey for you in his full magnificence.” His eyes glinted towards Dr. Shaft, who was pulling nervously at his tie. “What do you think, Dr. Shaft?” he asked.

“Impressive. Most impressive,” Shaft mumbled.

Zaftig took a few steps around Casey, who towered over him. “Casey, front lat spread,” he ordered quietly, and Casey’s pose shifted, his fists tucked in his sides, his pecs raising up, and his impossible lats flaring wide. He still gazed straight ahead.

“Side chest.” Casey pivoted sharply left on his heel and brought his left arm up behind him. He caught the wrist of his right arm at the small of his back and cocked the heel. His triceps ballooned as his pecs expanded. His cock had quivered a little with the turn, and it slowly swayed and came to rest.

“Casey’s chest measures 68 inches. Let’s see your back, Private,” Zaftig went on. Casey pivoted again, and there they were – the huge glutes, huge, hard and full. He tucked his hands into his obliques and his blew his lats to their widest expanse.

Next to Sam, Tyler was fumbling a little with his fly. Sam didn’t even bother now to arrange his package. His erection thumped in his slacks, poling outward. He glanced at the other aides. Growing bulges were appearing in all their trousers.

“Thank you, Casey, you can turn back now. As Casey turned around, Zaftig paced casually. “I see you all may have noticed Casey’s unusually large, well-developed organ,” Zaftig said offhandedly. “Casey, and indeed, all of the men you see here tonight have been blessed in much the same way. Do you feel blessed, Casey?”

Private Rockland, surprised to be spoken to again, snapped into attention. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said, his eyes straight ahead. Zaftig turned a little and winked at the group.

“And you’re blessed for what reason, Casey?” Zaftig asked.

“Sir, that I have a big penis, sir,” said Casey.

Holy Shit, Batman, thought Sam. Next to him he could see Tyler staring at Casey as if hypnotized.

Zaftig laughed. “An unusually big penis, Private Rockland. Sergeant Moster?” he boomed suddenly. From 1^st place in the line up, the Prototypes leader, the huge black super heavyweight, who had entered the room first, stood at sudden attention.

“Yes, Dr. Zaftig!” he barked.

“Are you blessed, too, Sergeant?”

“I am even more blessed than Private Casey, Sir!”

“And why is that?”

“I am more blessed because both my muscles and my penis are even bigger than Private Casey’s, Sir!”

“How much more blessed are you than Private Casey?”

“Much more blessed, Sir!” Moster shouted.

“Splendid. Thank you, Sergeant Moster. Men?”

“Yes, sir!” they shouted in unison.

“Are you all blessed, soldiers?”

“Yes, sir! We’re all blessed, sir!”

This is too much, thought Sam. I’ve died and gone to heaven. He shot a look to Walrus. The old man can’t take much more of this, he thought.

“Casey, please demonstrate with a full routine of mandatory poses. Start with front double biceps.”

“Yes, sir!” Casey complied, silently reeling off pose after pose.

“You should all be aware, gentlemen,” Zaftig went on, “that we have remanded Casey – and all of the men, in fact - from any sexual encounters of any kind.”

Behind the posing Casey, the musclemen stared straight ahead, and made no move. No one even snickered.

No sex? What was that? Hunh? Sam turned and stared at Casey. He hadn’t wavered, but again he turned his eyes full on Sam. His face was blank, his look impossible to read.

Was it an invitation? A threat? Or nothing at all? Sam just didn’t know. He glanced down at the impressive cock filling out the tight spandex posers, and brought his eyes back up. Casey, now in a most muscular crab pose, shot a quick look at him, and glanced down at his own package shyly. His gaze returned, quizzical, wondering.

“Sexual relationships are a distraction. Because the men all have needs, as do all humans, we have organized regularly scheduled periods of masturbation. Dr. Irving and Sergeant Moster lead these sessions, under the most extremely controlled laboratory settings. The necessary psychological stimulant material for each man varies, of course. The confidential information has been determined by Dr. Irving in collaboration with Sergeant Moster, and is applied to each subject through headphones and situational simulating helmets calibrated individually. These sessions are critical, as each man has an average ejaculation proponent of the equivalent of six quarts per week.”

“Okay, now I know that’s goddamn impossible,” grumbled Walrus.

Sam was dazzled. The rest of the group was too stunned to speak. Sweat was now pouring down Dr. Shaft’s face. Ensign Tyler turned beet red. Two or three aides were taking frantic notes. The others just stood and stared and tried to ignore their crotches.

“The men you see before you all have Casey’s extreme gifts. In different proportions, different heights, weights, and ages perhaps, and at different bodyweights. But all have the same superbly developed physiques and physical skills. Men!” he said suddenly, turning to the group. “Strip down, please.”

The men seemed to hesitate. All looked to Sergeant Moster. “You heard the man,” he growled. “Kick ‘em off!” He began to unbuckle his belt.

At his command, all of the men remaining the line-up began to strip. The tight t-shirts popped as if in unison as they were released from the massive upper body of each man. The boots were unlaced and pushed away. 19 belts hit the floor, and 19 pairs of skin tight white jeans followed.

Beneath, all wore the same barely restraining white Spandex posers. Cocks and balls bulged forth, each man spilling half a foot of visible cock into barely sheathed pouches.

Sam felt a dribble of precum shooting in his pants.

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

The Twenty placed their hands behind their lower backs.

“Spread legs!”

All spread their legs wide, shooting their right legs out in choreographed unison. In front, Casey did the same.

“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 Walrus. He fumbled with his watch a moment.

The lineup of 20 men stood before the small group, all flexing with massive front double biceps power.

“Sergeant Moster, step forward please,” said Zaftig. “Next to Casey. The rest of you, hold the biceps pose.”

The black muscle god brought his arms down strode slowly across the room. 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. Casey didn’t glance at Moster. He stood gazing straight ahead, his arms up and steadily holding biceps pose.

“You’ll note that Moster is taller than Casey. He is, in fact, far and away the biggest man here – so he has become this squadron’s de facto leader. Moster is the old man of the group – how old are you, Moster?”

“44, sir!” barked Moster. He stood beside Casey, flexing. His arms looked to top 29 inches in girth.

Sam reacted with some surprise. Moster appeared to be no more than 27.

“I have been working with Moster for more than a decade,” said Zaftig. “He weighs 390 pounds and is 7’ tall. When he first came to me a decade ago, in 2015, he was already an Olympian. It took us years to get the poison of those primitive muscle-enhancing drugs out of his system. But the results have enabled him to realize a depth of definition and a degree of strength unachieved as of yet in any of the other men. Moster,” he asked, turning to the sergeant, “let’s all see a little demonstration of your strength.”

“Yes, sir!”

Without hesitation, Moster brought his arms down and walked purposefully across the room to the doors marked ‘Showers’. He grabbed a single door and quite effortlessly ripped it from his hinges. Then he turned, door tucked under his right arm, and approached the group.

Everyone backed away just a little.

“This is circus stunt, Zaftig,” sneered a retreating Dr. Shaft. “Any circus strongman could do this. And how do we know the door was not prepared in advance?”

Moster said nothing, but walked straight to Dr. Shaft. “Good evening, Dr. Shaft,” he said, winking. “Nice to see you again.”

“Er – good evening, Rod – um, Sergeant. I didn’t mean anything personal…”

“I’m sure of it,” said Moster.

He flexed his left biceps for Shaft and smiled. Shaft stared at it and, not quite knowing what he was doing, licked his lips nervously. Moster rotated his fist back and forth and popped the biceps head a little. Then he brought his arm down, and offered the door. “Would you like to hold this, please?” He offered the door to Shaft. Shaft tried to take it, but the weight of it was too much for him. He dropped it to the floor, barely able to hold one corner.

“How heavy would you estimate this door to be?” he asked politely. The others watched, slightly stunned. The musclemen remained serene.

“I…I don’t know…. 80 pounds?”

“This door, with hardware, weighs 108 pounds. How thick would you say the wood to be?” Moster’s questions were politely posed.

“Two inches?”

“The door is actually 2-7/8s inches thick.” Moster took it back from him as if taking a feather. He held it up before him with both hands.

Zaftig suppressed a smile. He knew what Moster had planned.

Sergeant Rod Moster began ripping the door in two, just as if he was tearing paper. The wood roared in protest. Rrr-ii—ii-pppp! In 10 seconds he was done, each thick hand holding a splintered shard of door. In what seemed a single move, he suddenly hurled each section of the door away from him – in opposite directions. Each door half flew 20 feet across the room and slammed into the floor with echoing clatters.

It was too much for Zaftig’s audience. Ensign Tyler moaned, and Sam knew the jerk had just shot a load in his pants. He wasn’t alone. A few quiet cries rose from the group.

Sam held back. He always did have great control. He grinned and winked at Tyler, who at least had the class to grin back and shrug.

“Shit happens,” he murmured to Sam.

Sam chuckled. “Not to me,” he said.

The rest of the crowd was in something like mass hysteria. “Damn it, Zaftig,” shouted Walrus. “You’ve gone too far!”

“Why?” asked Zaftig calmly. “After all, it was our door.”

Behind him, the 19 other men did not move, frozen, legs spread wide, holding their mighty biceps pose. Sam knew they couldn’t have helped but realize that about 10 men watching them had just cum in their pants.

The men in the audience looked miserably down at the cream spreading across their uniformed trousers. Tyler glanced helplessly at Sam.

And still, Sam had not cum. He had more control. He grinned at Tyler. Tyler shrugged and smiled. Oh, well, he mouthed.

Admiral Walrus was not one of them, either. In fact, he had had it.

“Zaftig, I want to talk with you!” he screamed. “Now!! In your office. Gentlemen, you will accompany me.” He turned to the enlisted men. “Men, wait for us outside. And,” – he couldn’t help himself - “it would seem that a couple of you babies need to go clean yourselves up. Ensign Victor! You stay here.”

“Relax, Men,” said Zaftig. All brought their arms to their sides. “Men, get dressed. Sergeant Moster, take the men back to their rooms. We’re done for this evening.”

The shooters in the audience were humiliated but relieved at the same time, more than half of them looking around a little sheepishly. “The rest room is down the hall,” said Dr. Irving. Eight men, Dr. Shaft among them, headed to the door.

"Shaft, you're going nowhere," barked Walrus. Dr. Shaft stopped in the door and waited, shifting from foot to foot, the cream from his shriveled little cock melting into his skinny thighs.

“You heard the man,” ordered Moster. “Pick it up! Let’s get moving!” The musclemen relaxed, Bent and gathered their clothes. Adjusted huge cocks in posers.

Casey turned slowly and walked back to his own pile of discarded clothing. As he went, he absent-mindedly scratched the back of his head. Sam watched him go. His glutes rolled his boulders as he paddled, bow-legged, across the floor. Sam watched his mammoth, perfect butt as he went.

It’s all a little confusing, isn’t it, Casey boy? Sam thought to himself. Don’t you know what just happened? Is it all a little more than you can understand, son?

Casey picked up his clothes and shambled back into line with the others. He glanced again at Sam, and for the first time Sam noted that Casey was just a little bit cross-eyed.

“Why, you poor dumb baby,” Sam said softly to himself. “You’re just a kid, aren’t you?”

The musclemen filed out of the lab through the splintered empty doorway. Walrus grabbed Sam’s sleeve and took him aside.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I sure as hell intend to find out,” he snarled, looking back at Zaftig, who was conferring with Dr. Irving. He turned to the Ensign.

“Sam, you’re smart. I want you to slip away from the group and track down some of these guys. Start with that blond big boy. Find out his story. What the hell is he, a test tube baby? Zaftig’s lab rat? No grown man should be walking around this goddamn bunker wearing only a little white handkerchief with his fucking balls hanging out, flexing and posing for himself in the mirror.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t see any mirrors, sir.”

“Damn it, man, don’t take me so literally. That’s what this big bodybuilder guys do, just walk around all day long flexing their muscles for themselves in the mirror. It’s goddamn gay, that’s what it is. The military doesn’t need that –“

“Actually, sir –“

“Don’t interrupt me. Okay, it doesn’t matter if he’s gay or not, if you’re going to get all P.C. on me, but I want to know who the hell these men are and what Zaftig has them doing. These aren’t soldiers from any regular Army I know about. They’d be hopeless in the Navy.”

“I believe Zaftig is also in talks with the SEALS.”

“Is he now? Is he now? Fine, let it be their problem. But in the mean time I want to know what this so-called protocol is. It isn’t natural! It isn’t even human.”

“They looked pretty human to me, sir.”

“Project Herculaneum. My ass. Group discipline shot to hell. Go ahead, get moving. I want you to follow these men and find out something about them. Even if it isn’t taxpayer money, this facility ought to be shut down. Goddamn it!”

Sam wondered for a moment why the old man was so enraged. Old man sure has a bug up his butt. Hmmm. What’s that about? He let it go for the moment, filing it away as back-story, to be continued.

Zaftig approach. “Admiral Walrus. Shall we go to my office? I believe you want to discuss what you’ve just seen.” Behind him Dr. Irving was unlocking a drawer and pulling out files, checking them hurriedly. I wonder what he’s looking for, thought Sam.

“You’re goddamn right I want to discuss it. Men, follow me.” Half his retinue had already left the room for the nearest men's room, to take care of cleaning up - and perhaps more business. “Goddamn it!” he swore again. He started to head back to the auditorium. "Shaft, you're coming with me!"

"Yes, sir," said Dr. Shaft weakly.

“Admiral Walrus?” said Zaftig with preternatural sweetness. “This way.” He started toward a far door. “My office is just through here.” He walked to the door without looking back. The others hesitated and glanced at Walrus, who stared for a moment, and then stomped after Zaftig. Drs. Shaft and Irving followed hurriedly behind.

As Walrus went he turned back to Sam.

“Get moving, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir. With pleasure, sir.”

"I mean now!"

"I'm on my way, sir." And he went through the door down the long, white corridor, where only moments before, the twenty muscle giants had disappeared.

February 27, 2016

wow

building up nicely

love to see a full on worship session between sam and some of the twenty

cant wait for more chapters

June 14, 2016

omg

this is hot!!

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

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