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


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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

 

 

Precis:

 
Valhalla Labs is a remote mountaintop Northern California military facility, overseen by genius muscle growth scientist Dr. Ira Zaftig and CO Staff Sergeant Rod Moster, a 7'-0" ripped and hung 395-pound black muscle giant.  
 
There, 18 extraordinary bodybuilder-soldiers live, train, and play together, overseen by Moster's  strict rules and brutal regimen for muscular perfection.
 
Known as Project Herculaneum,  the men serve as Dr. Zaftig's lab rats, receiving regular injections of P-21, a specially developed enzyme that facilitates muscle and strength growth in the very few bodybuilders whose systems can withstand it.  
 
The goal: to create an army of supermen, whose strength, size, and combat skills are unparalleled in the modern military.
 
Unfortunately for the Project, the soldiers' enhanced strength and dramatically increased muscular size is accompanied by a corresponding increase in priapic size as well, along with a rapidly diminishing sense of social restraint and inhibitions. And along the way, the men's extraordinary physiques prompt their own extreme muscle fantasies into a daily acting-out sexual reality.
 
Into the mix comes 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.

 

 

 

Chapter 19:

Further Encounters, Part 1

February 10th, 2022

2050 Hours

Sam moved quickly along the corridor. Only a few minutes before, The Twenty had walked this way. Probably still marching in single file, too.

 

He paused for a moment. Which way? He strained to hear something. Beneath him the low rumbling of the compound generators churned the stillness the night. No other sound.

 

To his left was a men’s room. He went in. It was vast and cold and institutional, but strangely it featured - or perhaps it was not so strange - a 20' wall of floor to ceiling, full length mirrors. 

 

He gazed at his reflection. “You need a shave, pretty boy,” he said to himself, rubbing his day old stubble. He grinned at himself.

 

Sam Victor was an uncommonly handsome young man. His easy masculinity was accented by his graceful, lean swimmer’s physique. Stripped naked, he was all sinew, abs, tendons, and light, lean muscle. On the street he was used to turning heads, and when he visited his sister in LA a year ago everyone he encountered thought he was a young television star whose name they just couldn’t place. He enjoyed watching them stammer and pretend they recognized him. A trained athlete and all flexibility and power himself, Sam knew full well where his urges led him.

 

He didn’t care, really. Neither did anyone else.

 

A few years back, just 16 and an Annapolis cadet, Sam had learned that what he liked to do just about better than anything on earth was destined both to make him devoted new friends, and at the same time, just might advance his career in the Navy. 

 

Sam liked to suck cock.

 

No, he loved to suck cock.

 

He loved the feeling of a man’s erect penis plunging and exploding in his mouth. And he was spectacularly good at sucking cock, too.

 

I’m just a cocksucking pig, he thought with a self-satisfied smile. And he had no compunction about using his dazzling good looks and slightly self-effacing charm to go about getting what he wanted.

 

What he needed, that is.

 

At first furtive and choosy about his partners in the dorm rooms back in his campus days, the word quietly spread that the winning young Junior Varsity swim team captain was unusually talented. Far from creating poisonous issues or problems, his fellow cadets were are first curious, then appreciative, then driven to frenzy when experiencing Sam’s delicately pouting young lips sliding down the poles of their burgeoning manhood for the first time. After swim practice, he could regularly plan on an hour or more of a selection of the Academy’s largest and finest young chlorine-soaked penises plunging powerfully down his throat. Sam’s square young jaw became as strong as his swimmer’s stroke. He could suck steadily and powerfully for hours, and had been known on a number of occasions to steadily service a roomful of 30 of the dorm’s biggest, eagerest cocks for hours into the night.

 

Oddly, it never interfered with his studies. In fact, it helped him to focus.

 

He dreamed at his own reflection. There before him just minutes ago he had been confronted with 20 of the largest cocks he had ever seen in his life, all lined up in a row.  And then, there was Casey’s dick.  Now there, there, there was a penis one could really get down with. This was a man’s penis. Sam’s mouth watered. In his uniform officer slacks his beautiful blond tool was still rigid with keen and specific intention.

 

He closed his eyes. He envisioned himself working the line-up of those 20 musclemen, moving slowly down the line as he sampled the goods, taking each new man’s heavy penis into his mouth and sucking him languorously to full throated climax – and then moving on to the next.

 

He’d save Casey for last.

 

*****

 

The officers and Admiral Walrus were gathered at a large conference table in Zaftig’s spacious outer office. The door was closed.

 

“You’re saying, gentlemen,” Zaftig said evenly, “that the United States Government has no investment interest in Project Herculaneum? A revolutionary anti-terrorist program? You astonish me.”

 

Admiral Walrus had regained his composure. He smiled slightly, as if at a private joke. “We don’t see the effectiveness of this project. It’s expensive, time-consuming, a waste of personnel and resources, and, I might add, not just a little weird. To say nothing of the scientific bullshit of it all. Genetic encoding as secret weapon development is the stuff of speculation.” His smile grew a little conciliatory, but his eyes remained hard. “The Pentagon has felt enough public flak about taxpayer cost to know when to back off on initiatives that are both speculative and dubious at best.”

 

“So you’re recommending shutting us down.”

 

“That is my plan.”

 

“Do you concur, Dr. Shaft?”

 

“Well –“  Shaft paused.

 

“Oh, don’t worry, Milton, we’re not closing the doors. Not just yet. You can still come for your monthly personal inspection. The men are always glad to see you.”

 

“We don’t see how we can go anymore with this,” said General Needling. Admiral Walrus shot a look at 1-star Needling.  Needling remained still and serene, but said no more. Behind him, Needling’s aide turned beet red and looked down into his lap.

 

“Are these men your personal lab rats?” demanded Walrus.

 

“These men are warriors. They’d do any army proud. They’re skilled in extreme fighting. They can withstand any climate. They follow orders without question.”

 

And they cum three quarts a week, thought Dr. Shaft. Wonder what they'd make of that?

 

“I suspect they’re dumb as rocks.” Walrus said, finishing up. He got to his feet. “We’re done here.”

 

“Not so fast, Admiral."

 

"What else can be said, Zaftig? You've wasted my time. Our time."

"I have something to say. You can sit a moment while your cars are called. Can't you?" Zaftig was still serenely confident, as if talking to particularly slow children.  "Dr. Shaft?" he added. "I know you don't want to leave. You see the value of the project. Don't you?"

 

Dr. Shaft nodded dumbly. The chiefs sat. Walrus waited impatiently.

 

"Well?"

 

"I didn’t think you’d be willing to see the fighting value of The Twenty," began Zaftig. "As I have said, this project is privately funded. We can keep our doors open for some time to come. In Pentagon terms, of course, our budget is miniscule. Operating costs are about $20 million a year.”

 

“One million per man,” said General Wampum.

 

“Yes, General Wampum, one million per man. At current funding levels, we can stay operative for the next ten years. Our staff is relatively small: the tech security guys you saw along the way, the office staff, admins, medical, reception.”

 

“What about perimeter security?” 

 

Zaftig smiled. “Gentlemen, you saw the specimens. The Twenty act as their own security team. No more is needed. Heaven help the Watergate burglar – or burglars - who try to crash our gates. The Twenty would ball them up into scrap paper and shoot baskets.” He turned to Dr. Shaft. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

 

Shaft nodded weakly. He remembered a punch he had received from Abdul when his fingers strayed too low and without invitation. He was in bed for a week, his jaw wired closed for three months.

 

“So what is it you want?” Walrus demanded to know.

 

“Give me five more minutes, gentlemen, and then I think we’re all ready to retire for the evening. I’ll let you sleep on it. In fact, take a week. Take two.” He leaned in.  “Here’s the beauty part of the Twenty.”

 

And the officers listened.

 

**********

 

Sergeant Rod Moster lay back on his bed in his private quarters, his powerful hands cupped behind his head. He reviewed what had just happened a half-hour before.

 

From what he could see, the first unveiling of Project Herculaneum had been a disaster.

 

The men from the Pentagon were awestruck, yes, but confused, and the brass was dismayed. No doubt basic homophobia triggered. Responses they couldn’t calibrate or predict or understand. Most of them had cum in their trousers, too, at the easy show of strength he’d demonstrated, which couldn’t bode well for the future of the Project. Military men of this rank didn’t acknowledge weakness, and the recognition of probable gayness was probably particularly troubling. He was sure they were all confronting Zaftig with their displeasure in his private office just about now. Zaftig, Moster knew, would be serene and untroubled. He believed in the Project.  And he’d probably disclose to them what it was all for. Exactly where it was headed.

 

The moron. He’d fuck the whole thing up. Moster was sure of that.

 

Which was just exactly what he wanted.

 

He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.  This was his moment. He had his own plans. Dr. Shaft was his own personal tool. He’d get what he wanted, what was best for the men, and for himself in particular. It was all going just fine. He felt pretty good.

 

He glanced at his watch. 10:30. Hmmm. Speaking of tool……he hadn’t jacked off for the day yet. A few hours behind schedule.  Better get to it.

 

He stood up, slipped out of his t-shirt, unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants to his ankles. His quads bloomed with fierce power. God, he was ripped. He stepped in front of his three-paneled mirror and gazed at himself appreciatively, his hands at his side.

 

My God, I am fucking awesome, he thought, entirely satisfied with what he was seeing. He especially liked the view with his pants down around his ankles.

 

When a bodybuilder pulls his pants down, it’s not just because he wants to show his legs. He wants to show his cock, too.

 

And his was a fearsome machine, barely sheathed in the spandex poser, the sidestraps straining, the string in the back completely exposing granite buttcheeks of extraordinary shape and power.

 

His black physique gleamed with superhuman strength and power. He popped his right pec, then the left, then the right again, in a little dance of muscle joy. He flexed his biceps, two black volleyballs of burgeoning power topped with baseball-hard peaks. He ran the fingers of his left hand down the cables of heavy, thick veins that crisscrossed his right forearm. Not bad. Pretty fucking good, in fact. In fact, the best in the world.

 

No one had muscles like he did.

 

Perfect. He was perfect.

 

He tucked his fists into his abdominal obliques and slowly expanded into a full front lat spread, watching himself appreciatively as he fanned out into full Cinemascope size. Good work. Then he gazed down at his heavy quadriceps, and began to weave the right one back and forth. The mass swayed powerfully, heavily, lazily, right and left, until, Bam! He hardened it into solid ripped muscle. The veins bulged. Each muscle fiber stood out, powerfully feathered. The muscles gleamed.

 

“Nice wheels,” he murmured to himself. He had to admit it. He chuckled softly.

 

His poser, already groaning with the heavy weight of his dick and balls, began to pole outward.  His muscles always made him hard – even now, he knew that he was no better than his men, always ready to shoot at the sight of his own muscles.  He was ready to grab that pole of his and pump away. He liked to pump his dick while watching himself flex and bloom with huge muscle.

 

He started to slip out of the trunks. His cock popped forth.

 

“Boom,” he said. Time to play.

 

There was a soft knock at the door.

 

He wasn’t expecting any of the men tonight. He paused, the posers taut around his quads, his still flaccid 14-inch penis bobbing heavily outward now, ready for the strong manipulation of his pleasing fingers, ready to expand to its full angry 20 inches.

 

“Who’s there?” he commanded.

 

“It’s us, Sergeant Moster,” called out a timid voice from outside. “Cadets Banks and Taylor, sir.”

 

What the fuck.  “What do you want, Cadets?”  Moster demanded through the door.

 

“Sir, permission to speak with you a moment,” came a muffled second voice.

 

Moster angrily jerked his posers back up and stuffed his protesting cock back into the pouch. He squatted deeply for a moment, making sure his balls were adequately covered. Then he smiled a little, and slightly pulled down the tops of trunks. The curve of the Spandex hem dipped so that the top 6 inches of his vein-pulsing erect shaft was exposed.

 

Then he reflected. Hmmm. This could be fun after all. That cadet Banks needed some butt discipline, as he recalled.

 

He glanced at his burgeoning manhood in the mirror for a moment. He grabbed a large bath towel and draped it around his iron-forged 29” waist.  He took a last glance. Somewhat hidden. But poling outward. Good.

 

Satisfied, Moster crossed the room and opened the door.

 

He stared sternly at two younger cadets.

 

On the threshold of the corridor outside, handsome young Muscle Cadets Brian Banks and Danny Taylor stood respectfully at ease. They were wearing the tight, pale green Valhalla labs t-shirt, the slightly snug regulation khakis and army boots. The two lean young musclemen were just 17, and though their training was going well, they had not yet entered into the ranks of The Twenty.

 

Both trembled slightly at the sudden sight of a mountain of huge black ripped and ready muscle in front of them. But this is what they came for.

 

Each cadet weighed about 198 pounds. Strapping, black-haired Brian Banks, with his greaser’s sideburns trimmed to the bare standard of military propriety, was naturally hairy and overly tattooed. He also smoked. These were things of which Moster definitely did not approve – any covering of muscle was a sin to him, and smoking anathema – and Banks had only been permitted into the program based upon his superb symmetry, round muscle bellies, natural leanness, and firm little butt. In his favor, he had become concerned about his tats, once a source of much pride, and as a result he was usually heavily covered in sweatsuit baggies all through the punishing workouts he was propelling himself through. He kept his body shaved as closely and as often as he could, but it wasn’t enough to stop the black stubbles of body hair from sprouting anew all over his thick chest and washboard abs by the end of every evening. If he missed a day shaving, by night of the second day he was covered once again with short, black, soft fur. Even so, the hair wasn’t enough to cover the rippling, hard-trained muscles.

 

He smoked whenever he could, usually alone. Moster knew this. He knew everything about these men. He made sure of that.

 

Banks was unusually good looking, and looking unusually good. While no huge bodybuilder, he was big, ripped, muscular, masculine, vascular, and packing some power in his khakis. He had been making nice progress. He also clearly hadn’t shaved his body for a few days.  Moster could see a thick crop of black curly chest hair poking over the top of his crew neck collar. But not enough hair to obscure his deep pec cleavage. 

 

Prettty good.

 

Taylor, no less disciplined, and looking no less than his buddy Banks, was all the same a different story. Lifting from the age of 14 and yet a rich boy by birth, the surfer-blond bland California pretty boy Taylor had rebelled against his Santa Barbara-entrenched mom and dad, who were shocked by their son’s growing muscles, having foreseen a very different life for him. By the time he was inducted into The Program, he had been living woefully in his car for almost six months on a street behind Raw Weight Gym in the heart of San Jose, 30 miles south.  He lived only for training. Sometimes he hustled when he had to.

 

Zaftig had come looking for him on a tip from the gym manager Miles Donovan, always on the payroll looking out for new talent. Superheavyweight Taylor, he told Zaftig, sports serious quads for one so young, and has impressively hard, round gluteus muscles, which he pumps endlessly at the end of his punishing leg workouts. Donovan ended his report with an observation that the dreamy-eyed muscleboy appeared to be trying to find something, feel something new, as he went through his deep squat routines.

 

Zaftig had him off the streets and in the program within 24 hours.

 

In no time the two young cadets had befriended one another. They trained together, showered together, and often were seen having lunch together privately in the cafeteria, respectfully apart from the other cadets. It was generally known that there were many after-hours visits as well.

 

And though it was generally not known, on a few occasions, they had even been permitted to join their heroes, Alvarez and Lang, in their late night pose-and-approve sessions.

 

“What is it, cadets?” Moster demanded. He towered over them.

 

They glanced at one another nervously.  Banks, far brighter than the dim, uncertain Taylor, spoke.

 

“Sir, we’re friends with Casey Rockland, sir, and we were….uh….”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Sir, we heard in the barracks you might have been a little upset by this evening’s presentation, sir, and we wanted to come by to pay our respects. And express our belief and dedication in the project. Sir. For. In.” He paused, confused.

 

“Yeah.  That’s it,” added Tayler.

 

“Do I look upset?”

 

He whipped the towel away.

 

The cadets each glanced down involuntarily and took in Sergeant Moster’s hugely protruding erection, poling out stiff and heavy and now less than a quarter covered by the straining poser Spandex. They stared. Taylor gulped. “God-damn!” he breathed, taking an involuntary step forward.  “It’s even bigger than you said!”

Banks nudged him hard. Taylor stepped back.

“No, sir, you do not look upset, sir.” Banks’ eyes flickered down again timidly at Moster’s manmeat for an instant, and he spoke again, lifting his eyes and staring steadily with respectful determination into his CO’s eyes. “In fact, I would say you appear to be very relaxed, sir.”

 

“Relaxed?” Moster let out a huge laugh. “You call this relaxed?” he asked mockingly, one hand sweeping wide presentationally before his heavy stiff penis. He shifted his weight onto one knee, leaned on the doorframe, and placed a fist on his hip, tilting his body powerfully. He rotated his lower body in a small semi-circle, and the throbbing 20-inch cock waggled pendulously from side to side inside his sagging posers.

 

“Well, no sir, not really….” Banks stared hungrily at the pumping veins of Moster’s exposed cock shaft, dipping powerfully into the translucent Spandex.

 

“What would you two boys say this looks like?”

 

“Sir, it looks as if you have an uncommonly large hard-on, sir.”

“It’s quite a woody, sir.” Taylor finally managed to get out.

 

“Yes, it is. I was just about to get to work on it when you boys both come back banging on my door after hours and prevented me from doing so.”

 

“Sir, we’re sorry, sir. Shall we go, sir?”

 

Moster leaned on the doorframe, considering a moment. He raised a finger and twirled it. “Turn around,” he commanded.

 

The cadets glanced at one another, and both turned clockwise. Moster looked them over appraisingly. Hmmmm.  Two fine young butts. As if both boys could read Moster’s thoughts, both Taylor and Banks arched their backs slightly and pushed their inviting round blue-jeanned rears out an inch or two, as if pleading. 

 

Please. Fuck our butts. Or so it seemed.

 

It was an appealing sight. And tonight, Banks also knew that Sergeant Moster’s massive, calloused palm would be itching. Ready to apply some special, deserved punishment to their aching bottoms.

 

Moster reached out and grabbed Banks by the shoulders, who lost his balance and stumbled backward into the room. “Get in here, both of you,” he commanded. He hauled Taylor into the room as well and slammed the door.

 

He turned to them, noting they were now trembling with fear and excitement.

 

“Now suppose you tell me why you’re really here.”

 

*********

 

I’m going to suck those musclemen’s cocks like there’s no tomorrow, Sam thought dreamily. I’ll give them all something they’ll never forget…

 

Then he remembered the left hook comment. Suddenly his jaw ached from an imagined shattering punch of retribution from a stern Casey.

 

“And there might be no tomorrow,” he acknowledged to himself, shuddering with a little giddy fear. He’d weather two black eyes and a broken jaw – and his jaw wired shut and no cocksucking for months - for a chance to get his lips wrapped around that monster, even if only for a moment.

 

Well, for maybe more than just a moment. Maybe longer. An hour?

 

And Casey had stared back at him. Suddenly Sam understood it.

 

My God, thought Sam. No one has had him yet. This boy’s cherry. He couldn’t believe it, but it must be true.

 

And what’s more, he believed that Casey had figured out in his dim brain just what Sam knew. That look had been too telltale. Casey massive organ had never yet been sucked, nor found a home in a delightfully yielding butt.  And a good man’s mouth and warm, enveloping butthole were just what this musclepup needed.

 

Sam, of course, was just the ticket. If he was no longer choosy about whose cock he sucked, and where, or when – he had sucked off a whole motorcycle gang in a dank bar just last month, and walked out calmly when they started to fight over who was next – he was very particular about the cock that entered his butthole. He was no cherry himself, to be sure, but in his 22 years he’d only allowed five men to fuck him.

 

No, six. Seven? Nine?

 

Fourteen?

 

Okay, so he couldn’t remember. Years back he’d lost count of how many cocks he’d sucked. 700? 1,523? Probably more. Sam just couldn’t get enough of a good thing. But if he’d give it up for life for that one stupendously big cock. Casey Rockland. Man.

 

What a god this kid was. And – 20?

 

He walked over to the urinal, unzipped, and pulled out his own dick. He pissed thick ropes, inspecting his own golden machine. Not huge. Just big. Only about 8 inches at full attention. True, bigger than most. But – beautiful? Beautiful was not even the word. Sam’s dick was perfect. It was a work of art. And he was choosy here, too, about who got to suck his gorgeous tool. So far he’d only allowed six men the privilege.

 

Fourteen?

 

Okay, maybe more.

 

He shook the last dribbles of piss from his magnificent cock and tucked it back into his pants.  He zipped up. It bloomed nicely in the fly and folded alluringly in the folds of his slacks. Hmmm. Eight inches? Not tonight. More like nine and a half. He turned and walked to the door, and in his pants, his bulge swaying confidently in his trousers in happy anticipation.

 

He was a man on a mission.

 

What’s more, he was even under orders.

 

Sweet. It was all so sweet.

 

He pushed the door open and returned to the corridor.

 

Casey was standing outside, just 10 feet away. Clearly, he was waiting for the Ensign.

 

He shuffled his feet, looked uncertain. The two men stared at each other.

 

A moment passed.

 

“Um. Hi,” Casey said shyly.

 

"Hello," said Sam, completely confident.

 

This was going to be fun.

 

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

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We're going to sidetrack first - I have a whole Pose and Approve chapter in the works - that's what's next! Alvarez, Lang, and Hension - and then onto Moster's super session with Banks and Taylor....before we get back to Casey.  45 pages of super muscle sex, worship and posing - on the way. There's still more than 150 pages after that - and I'm still writing.....

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