WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS EXTREMES OF VIOLENCE AND QUEER MAN-MAN SEX
INVOLVING US MILITARY PERSONNEL AND HARDWARE. IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE,
UNDERAGE, OFFENDED BY SEXUAL VIOLENCE STORIES OR HOMOS, THEN DON’T READ IT.
Jason Squeezes in the Seals
By Chip Masterson
The plan worked so perfectly, nobody in Jason, Idaho would ever doubt Him again. His ability to foresee,
predict, individual actions, and constellate that into a booby trap so swift and effective, that even the most
stubborn hold-outs smothered the last embers of hope deep in their hearts. There could be no way to stop
Him. He was Inevitability itself. The best anyone could hope for is to not be caught in His way.
The complete disappearance of an entire squad of Marines produced results even a child could predict.
Jason’s restless eyes scanned the sky for satellites. When one crept towards its zenith, a look would creep
onto His face as if He actually heard the shutter clicking, transmitting town layouts and landscapes to
command centers far away. I’ll be straining through a telescope to identify the point of light in the dazzling
jewelry of the night sky that His naked eyes captured, when I’ll hear the familiar scrape of bumper on
pavement, the creak and snap-snap-crack as a suddenly levitated Buick or Chevy’s frame sags under the
unaccustomed task of supporting its own tonnage while He levers it from a point just under the engine. I’ll
turn to see the starlight-traced bulge of steel-humiliating biceps erect and throbbing, effortlessly holding a
ton off the ground while the other hand balances and guides its aim: and my heart never stops thrilling to
the sight of that biceps unleashing its full power, his lats rippling down into his ass as his abs twist like
meshing crocodile teeth, hurling the fully-laden mid-century automobile off the earth’s surface, propelling
it with such force the planet’s gravity shreds and tatters away behind it. I catch the retreating car in my
scope as the velocity strips off the antenna and cracks the windshield. Chrome peels away and paint ignites
into fluttering blazes all along the shuddering frame as the space-bound vehicle flies true to smash into that
billion-dollar camera and scatter its carefully engineered pieces along the debris-ring His efforts are
causing to grow faster than ever around the planet soon to quake in His grasp. But the impact doesn’t slow
the Buick down at all, and it keeps sailing in the near-frictionless vacuum beyond the moon’s orbit, to
disappear or crash spectacularly into the clouds of Saturn or Jupiter and leave the dark stain of His power
behind.
Then I’d vomit, trembling, unable to maintain the most basic human dignity before such unquenchable
muscle; and hope the government would soon redirect the space traffic to leave us alone.
Instead, in broad daylight, they sent unmanned spy planes. The kind we “never” sent over the USSR or
China. Apparently, the few seconds these doomed vehicles had to send pictures was enough to slowly
build the lay of our land. My mind reeled at the cost to US taxpayers of these follies, though parking was
increasingly easy to find downtown. And my gut wrenched when even I heard the low thrum of a stealth
bomber sweeping up the valley.
He heard it long before I did, and had a ship’s anchor and chain spinning like a giant lasso over his head
when it came near the town’s border. The deep whoosh whoosh of a quarter ton of iron spinning faster and
faster provided the eerie background to the staticky transmissions He tapped into on the commandeered
ham radio for my entertainment. I heard the pilot reporting his position against the internal roar of the
plane’s engines. Suddenly the radio crackled and the pilot shouted in disbelief “Good Christ, what the hell
is that?!”
The flying wing immediately tried to pull up but there was no way a supersonic jet could outfly anything
thrown by Jason’s arm. Wordless yelling rattled the radio as the anchor outpaced the jet, wrapped around
the nose and sunk into the underside of the cockpit. The long chain immediately went taut in Jason’s
unflinching hands and the plane literally blew into pieces from the sudden halt in its flight. The seconds it
took for the fuel to ignite were enough for the pilots to jettison out. Jason’s brawny arms yanked hard to
bring at least a portion of the jet to the ground while the rest streamed like fireworks into the noonday sky,
and then he disappeared. I had no doubt that, calculating wind velocity and the ejection’s trajectory faster
than any supercomputer, he was off to welcome the pilots to Jason, Idaho.
***
The disappearance of the Marines could have been anything. The loss of satellites and spy planes could
have other causes as well. But the visible destruction of a war plane, without any traceable weaponry being
employed, and the disappearance of the pilots had only one possible response: invasion.
The pilots were placed in the old frontier-town’s two-cell city jail that’s mostly used for Mayberry RFD
postcard moments, to keep company with the ham radio operator. So far, nothing had happened to Ham
besides the incarceration, and the suspense had unraveled his sense so all he could tell the pilots seemed
mystical gibberish. Of course, much of it was true, but there was no way they would believe him, what
with the drool and all.
The Navy SEALs came up the river under cover of night in rubber rafts, three men fanning out from
downstream into covering positions on the nearby hills. Jason, needing no night-vision goggles to clearly
mark their progress, counted two dozen in all plus the leader. Five groups of four men moved through the
silent, sleeping town. (Jason strictly enforced a lights-out of 10:00pm to ensure proper rest for the
residents’ continued physical regimen.) The leader and his radio guy directed them from a vantage point
on a hill near the end of Jason Avenue. They were clearly following a signal from the pilots that led them
straight to the jail.
Two teams ventured inside the unlocked, unguarded building while one covered the front and two covered
the rear. It only took a minute to get the antique cell open with a small C-4 charge. It seemed too perfect,
too easy. Their hackles raised just as the whole fuckin’ floor caved in.
Jason had ripped out the main supports beneath the floor so that it barely supported the weight of the men
in the cell; four more plus the concussive wave from the tiniest of explosives was enough to crack it
through. The dazed men found themselves in a deep basement, with nothing left above them. One man
clung to the bars but He’d though of that too, and the bars pulled loose from the ceiling and clattered down.
They radioed for help and surveyed the damage.
A (carefully deployed) broken post had stuck through the leg of one of the Seals; a couple others had minor
sprains. Ham broke his leg in the fifteen foot drop. The basement floor was littered with furniture and
splintered, termite-eaten lumber. They gaped in amazement how the entire floor was gone, and warned the
other teams to be careful. It was wrong, all wrong.
But also much too late. One team rappelled down into the basement while another team set up pulleys; the
third team took to the roof. Despite His size, Jason moved so silently, so fast, the leader never saw Him
dart behind the jail and place His hands at strategic points in the load-bearing wall. And start pushing.
At first, it was a small push ... by His standards. But to the wall, Richter-scale stresses shocked mortar into
gravel and forced the bricks inward. A couple men heard the dry shifting crunch, and the guys on the roof
felt the building tremble ... and then lurch as His pecs drove His hands THROUGH the wall with a sudden
jolt. Bricks shot straight across the open space, pulverizing against the far wall as the rest of the bricks
rained down on the men below. The roof sagged, knocking three men off their feet. Jason leapt into the
air, grabbed the edge of the bowing roof, and YANKED it down, opening a crack that caused all four men
to funnel straight down onto the brick pile.
The leader gaped in amazement at the building’s collapse, only to see Jason emerge from the plume of dust
to look straight into his eyes. The leader dropped his night-vision binoculars and ordered the three flanking
men to fire. Bullets whizzed through the night but Jason simply reappeared a few feet away, moving so
quickly they couldn’t aim, outpacing the bullets themselves. Then he just disappeared entirely.
One of the snipers screamed and the leader saw him arc through the air to land in jail-pit. Only a few
seconds later, the next sniper, nearly a quarter-mile of forested hillsides away, found himself likewise
airborne by arms more powerful than he’d ever imagined, and with an unerring aim. The third man began
firing wildly all around him ... until Jason landed straight down on his shoulders, breaking his knees and
driving him three feet into the wet soil. When Jason pulled him loose, he kept going, earth exploding
around him. The leader barely had time to register the rout when he felt a hot wind rush down behind him
and the earth compact at a crazy angle. The two men fell, the radio guy getting off a single shot point blank
into Jason’s right pec. Jason didn’t even flinch. What he did do made the leader spew urine down his leg.
Jason growled from the pain; the bullet couldn’t begin to penetrate the dense muscle fibers in that pectoral,
but it got far enough in to sting. A small trickle of blood leaked from the hole and the fact that He
withstood the impact without even shifting made the shooter drop his gun in confusion. Jason rippled His
pec around the bullet hole and then FLEXED the bullet straight back out faster than the gun had shot it,
straight into the private’s ... privates. The man grabbed his blood-blooming crotch and shrieked in pain,
rolling in the dirt of the impact crater. The leader fainted and shit himself in the act. He woke with the
sensation of falling: from the sky into the jail pit. Radio guy landed right on top of him with a sickening
crack. Now He had them all.
When He landed on the lip of the ruin, the shock cracked the street for three blocks and made the men in
the pit scramble and scream. The force of Him jolted some of the unreality of the situation into their heads.
He jumped down onto the brick pile, eliciting groans from those still trapped beneath, and ordered
everyone to get up and prepare to move out in a voice so commanding it took every fiber of will for a few
to disobey. They charged Him with bull roars and landed kicks, blows, and chops on his body that only
sprained their own joints and snapped bones. He walked though them like they were ghosts and paused
before a cinderblock wall they mistook for the foundation. Raising a fist that gave them a shadowy glimpse
of the enormity of his bicep, he punched the wall. Chunks of shattered cinderblocks blew into the darkness
beyond, leaving a blast hole ten feet in diameter. Lights flickered on as the fragments sailed past sensors.
Jason turned, and raised that fist again. The men instinctively flinched and cowered back. He pointed out
the crumbled bits of fired brick embedded in His knuckles. In the spectral backlight, He flexed the bicep
that destroyed a block wall with a single blow. Slowly He straightened his arm, allowing these battle-
hardened he-men the opportunity to goggle at every long, thick sinew, its immensity even when fully
stretched, and the slow mountain-growth of its peak as He contracted it, making it swell, twitch, bulge,
expand, redden and then .. get bigger. And bigger still. And bigger yet. He squeezed His fist and the
wall-crumbs fell and ricocheted off its obscene, purple peak that rose even higher: and He flared His
fingers into a claw and forced that peak half-way up His trunk-thick forearm. He smiled and tapped His
finger against something no sleeve has ever been cut large enough to contain, that no wild beast would ever
dare to challenge. Something that seemed to belittle the mightiest nuclear warhead. “And that’s one of the
smaller muscles, as you all well know,” He chuckled.
In rapid deployment He then went through a hair-raising posing routine that pumped and engorged His
musculature beyond any possibility these men had ever imagined. The absolute control, speed, and
breathtaking sweep of steer-thick lats and pecs and tank-defying quads. It was over in seconds, but
imprinted on their minds His utter invincibility, swallowed whole the last instinct to flee or even think of
disobeying. He walked into the brightly lit chamber, kicking the base of the wall out of His way. The men
scrambled to follow, abandoning the injured and half-buried to make their own way. “Tonight,
gentlemen!” He bellowed over His shoulder, forcing men with shattered limbs to break off fingernails
pulling themselves out of the tumbled brickwork, hobbling and bobbing in agony but unwilling to even
contemplate any alternative.
In the center of the dim, cavernous space stood a cage, the iron bars one inch apart. A large door stood
open and the Jason cleared His throat to indicate they should all file in. “Clothes outside,” He commanded.
Twenty-five Navy Seals, two Air Force pilots and one limping, fat would-be renegade ham radiolatrist
stripped like zombies and slumped naked into their new home. Jason slammed the door shut with an ear-
splitting clang and I dragged the clothing out of sight. The men were surprised at what they found inside.
There wasn’t much room to move around, but enough to allay claustrophobic tension. Laid out on the
clean floor of the cage were medical supplies (disinfectant, splints, bandages), strips of jerky, and pails of
water. Jason left the area; I stayed guard, not that there was anything to guard against. I just wanted to see
what they did.
Still stunned from the superhuman conquest of their entire force in a few minutes’ time, the men shambled
about, some lapping the water from the pails, others absently chewing on the tough, bitter jerky. The leader
was the first to come around and started shaking the men gently, dressing wounds and beginning to
organize a plan.
“Villarreal, check the lock on the door. The hinges, anything.”
Villarreal investigated, reporting that the welds were still warm, but not warm enough to do any good. The
bars were too close together to get his hand through, so the smallest guy, the castrated private, recovered
himself enough to slide his slim fingers around to check.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t think there’s any opening. The plate feels solid.”
“Must be magnetic, some electronic signal, all welded in place. Very smart.” Then he paused, and another
man had the same thought.
“Unless it’s not meant to ever open again.”
That caused an immediate panic to flash through the men. “But why the water? Why provisions? If we’re
just going to die, why not leave us in there?”
“We’re NOT going to die, sergeant, remember that!” snapped the lieutenant. “Stay focused. Let me have
one of those things.” Someone handed him a slice of jerky and he sniffed it, wrinkling his nose, and then
bit into it. The substance resisted his teeth so he softened it with his tongue and clenching his jaw, worked
a piece loose. The weaker men had just been sucking on it.
“I don’t know what this is but it appears to be alright. That water fresh, Perkins?”
Perkins looked up, his chin wet. “Seems okay, sir, but there’s a kind of aftertaste, a light tang I can’t quite
place.”
The Lieutenant snorted. “Probably sulfur. These inland aquifers are laden with the stuff. I’m a Sooner
myself, and the water around Enid tastes like it rose straight from Lucifer’s pisspipe.”
The men laughed, and seemed to shake together a little more. The pilots remained aloof, having seen that
ship’s anchor chase, catch and bring down their plane; one having landed in His arms (He didn’t budge
from the impact) and the other brought to earth from the tree he got snagged in by Jason grabbing the four-
foot thick trunk and heaving the whole fucking pine up out of the earth. Roots ripped gashes in the soil for
ten feet and when the blinding spray of earth finally settled, He just stood there with the whole thing in His
arms, lowering it slowly until the pilot could scramble out of his chute. Then He heaved the tree overhead
and brought it down against His knee, cracking the green wood into splinters. “Always need more
firewood in these parts,” He said as the pilots both fainted.
Ham was trying to cozy up to the lieutenant and give him the inside dope on what the town was all about,
but it was clear they thought he was insane, despite their own immediate experiences. I watched them
scurry about that cage like bugs for a couple hours, but they couldn’t find a single weakness. The
frustration wore into them like the water drip echoing somewhere in the darkness, and the scurrying sounds
that ran over pipes up above, and the distant lap of raw sewage. The lieutenant ordered them all to eat and
drink, to keep their strength up and their minds sharp. Exactly what He had known they would do.
A clinking sound broke into their thoughts; that is, they recognized it as the clink a chain makes, but a
chain much larger than they had ever seen before. The pilots freaked, clamoring on the bars until the skin
tore off their hands. The other men crowded the inch-wide gaps to see what on earth could be coming at
them from the dank tunnel. Some weird serpentine movement, something approaching, something
immense scraping on the concrete. The privateless private saw it first and screamed, flinging himself into
the farthest corner and landing in a pail of water.
Jason, of course. He came into the light carrying in His arms a chain that reduced the ship’s anchor chain
to a kind of anklet. The links were as long as man’s forearm, the steel as thick, but the links were twisted
oddly. The end pulled into sight behind Him, a giant ring of carbon steel six inches in diameter, bent and
set into shape by the cold fire His brawn.
It looked like nothing other than Godzilla’s choke chain. I went hard at the thought of Jason keeping a
monster like that for a pet … and on a short leash.
The mound of coiled steel dwarfed Him, yet He carried it without effort or strain. The soldiers gaped at
His strength, too confused by His intentions to even raise questions among themselves. They watched as
He lay the hundred-foot length of hand-twisted steel links in a loop around the cage and thread one end of it
through the giant ring. He pulled the chain tight and then walked to each corner, lifting the taut links half-
way up the bars. Sparks flew from the steel-on-steel scrape and set the soldier’s teeth on edge. Jason
walked back to the great ring, adjusted its position, and keeping the chain tight with arms bulging in too
many directions at once, walked about ten feet away.
“What are you going to do,” demanded the lieutenant. “Drag us around the room?”
Jason turned to me. “You’re certain the cage is built to my EXACT specifications?”
The implied threat in His voice made even my trusting soul quake, but I knew that I had done everything
He asked, so I nodded. “Yes, Sir. The carbon steel foundation posts are sunk 500 feet into the bedrock.
The bars of the cage are simple pig iron.”
“Good puppy,” He said, and I grinned happily at His praise. He turned to the lieutenant and answered him.
“No, I’m not.”
Holding the immense chain in one extended hand, He pulled back on it. That implacable arm moved
according to His will, and the chain twisted as three links popped through the ring in short bursts. The bars
of the cage immediately creaked at the strangling pressure. His elbow moved farther back, bringing His
hand against the impenetrable wall of His lat, dragging more protesting links through the ringing loop. The
corners of the cage visible caved in and the sheet-iron roof actually popped up in the center as its edges
were forced out of shape.
“Lieutenant,” muttered one man, “can He really do it?”
“No,” the officer said unconvincingly. “This is just a game to freak us out. Stay strong and focused,
Billy.” The creaking stopped and Jason cleared His throat again, spitting a huge wad onto the floor.
“You might be interested to know something about the Man who so handily defeated you. Part of my
strength comes from my body’s absolute utilization of all nutrients I consume. Thus, my piss is simply
clear water with a few trace minerals of no consequence. I hope you found it refreshing. It’s cleaner than
alpine spring water.”
The men grew pale and slumped into each other; a couple fell to their hands and knees retching. The
lieutenant said in a tight, shaky voice, “That’s your urine?!”
Jason ignored the question. “I can’t say the same for my shit. I excrete only waste, insoluble fiber laden
solely with the natural toxins my body instinctively rejects. I really wouldn’t have recommended eating it,
as you all did.”
The lieutenant’s face grew mottled and drawn with panic, and his body convulsed as vomit surged up and
out of his mouth, spraying brown chunks onto his men and smearing down into his deeply squared, hairy
pecs as his legs quivering uncontrollably. Every man there began heaving and twisting, their gagging cries
of distress and revulsion filling the space as the acidic reek of Jason’s partially-digested shitcakes clouded
the air. Some of the men even started swishing their mouths with more water until they remembered what
it was, and they spewed it out onto each other. Soon the floor was slick with shit-vomit and regurgitated
piss, and the men slipped and sprawled and tangled into each other, smearing the mess all over their naked
bodies. Ham sat in the corner, mewling like a sick opossum, too stupid to move. The soldiers burned with
the humiliation which now coated them toe to buzz-cut hair, and the lieutenant himself took a step and slid,
landing flat on his ass in a pile of his own shit-puke.
Jason’s peals of laughter ranged down the tunnels and filled the cavern with oppressive mockery. The acid
of their own gastric juices burned their eyes, forcing tears from more than one, and He laughed all the
harder. “You fucking big babies thought you could handle ME?!!!” He suddenly roared with unbridled
rage. The men quailed away, sliding across the shitty floor to press themselves against the far wall of bars.
“Nothing your puny military minds have ever conceived of can begin to handle this real Man.
NOTHING!” His fury caused virtually every man there to bemire himself further with his own shit and
piss, both helplessly released as their guts turned to mush with terror. With a grimace of pure contempt,
Jason yanked HARD on the chain, drawing five more links through and collapsing the corners inches more.
The floor shuddered but held firm. The roof didn’t. It bent down, beginning to crease from one corner to
the other. Jason snarled, His lip curled against the meager resistance, and yanked again, forcing the bars to
bend more steeply. The great steel ring vibrated with each link that shot through it, steel that throttled the
softer iron, corrupting its forged straightness with molecule-shattering power.
The soldiers crowded into the center, back to back, using their own bodies to create resistance. The outside
men put their hands and feet against the bending rods and tried to hold them back, but Jason brought His
other arm into the action and pulled three times, hand over hand, threading two feet of links through the
steel sphincter. They felt the iron deform in their hands, felt their own weakness to affect it at all, felt His
strength channeling into each of their bodies as the space constricted around them.
A knot of men in the center began screaming, raving in the claws of total panic. The men straining futiley
against the collapsing iron responded more directly to the pull of His gravity, their cocks hardening
between their straining thighs, lubed against their skin with the piss-shit-barf that coated them. These men
wept to feel their manly pride cracking, their homophobic fears emerging into full-fledged adoration of a
true Man. Even the hard-bodied lieutenant sprang an enormous boner, and in savage rejection of his body’s
betrayal he scrambled up the bodies of his men and began pounding against the bowing roof, as if his
bloody fists could pierce the iron. His cock kept landing on someone’s mouth and got spit out again while
he shattered every bone in his hand, but that didn’t slow him down a bit. He actually convinced himself he
was making progress because the iron did continue to rise: but it was Jason contracting His creation-
defying muscles, not the lieutenant’s feeble blows.
Jason paused only long enough to let a little more hope fuel the strength of their resistance. He set His legs,
thighs bursting with fibrous density, their elliptical shape growing more globular as the quads and striped
hams peaked. His calves rose inches off the iron-bones, stretching the skin around them and pressing it
into ripped valleys and around unflinching tendons. His perfect glutes sank thick roots into His legs and
sprouted round and striated into perfect spheres. His impossibly narrow waist channeled all that power
through armor-plate abs into the taut base of His lats, which winged out and braced each other amidst the
jumble of boulder-like muscles of His lower and upper back. His delts stretched veins into obscene angles
as they joined those waist-thick arms to mountainous traps, and His pecs alternated between bowling balls
of mounded strength to stretched-square sheets thicker than a battleship’s hull, and infinitely harder. His
thick long neck carried His proud head like a general above His unbeatable forces, and He began pulling
now in earnest.
Hand over hand He slowly strangled the iron-bound men. The ring bucked as the hard links caught and
burst through it. The pressure began to lengthen the ring into an ellipse, six-inches of steel warping under
His muscle compulsion.
Inside the hour-glass shaped cage men’s legs snapped and all the bars bit into their bodies. The soldiers
pressed more tightly into each other, while Ham remained cowering in a corner, the bars crushing into his
soft flesh and driving his head down against his chest. Their shrieks competed with the screams and groans
of the dying cage and the clanking strain of the twisted steel, the death-moans of iron reverberating against
their own cries of despair. The roof now formed a kind of distorted canopy over them as the inch-thick
plate wrapped down around them, catching the first blood-jet that shot up and reflecting it back into their
shit-streaked hair. A little blood ejaculated through cracks that opened up in the creased iron roof. Not
much was visible through the narrowing gaps of the bars anymor. Then the floor began to break away with
a loud report.
The foundation still held, though it sent vibrations through the bedrock that every resident of Jason, Idaho
felt in his teeth. But the floor itself, another inch-thick iron plate, began pulling up at the corners, and the
men’s feet scrambled to find they were pinned by the bent bars, hanging in mid-air. They moaned and
sobbed, and one, Villarreal I think, began pleading with his god and begging Jason to stop. Jason looked
him in the one eye that pressed against the bars, acknowledged his attention with a nod, then grinned and
pulled the chain TIGHTER, His pecs mounding and flexing, His biceps crowding His arms and trembling
with blood-engorged ferocity. The gap closed as the bars were pressed together.
The men now wailed as one, groaning and sobbing with the voice of Legion as every iron bar compressed
their bodies, bending ribs and dislodging vertebrae against other jutting vertebrae, dislocated shoulders
tearing ligaments and ripping tendons apart. Jason’s massive God-cock rose to annoint each approaching
link with the ambrosia of His precum, and the tense steel against His cockhead thrilled Jason with electric
pleasure. His muscles tingled and tremored and He pulled one more time with everything He had, His back
shuddering to stifle the orgasm and savaging the chain in His hands into malformed wads of steel.
It was too much, HE was too much even for His own hand-forged steel, and one of the links snapped as it
bent against the distorted ring. The chain flew back and slapped against His pecs with such force it
shattered as if made of glass, spraying shrapnel that embedded itself into the concrete walls and ceiling
with puffs of cement dust. Only His cock and the overhanging muscle of His thighs protected me as I
crouched at His feet, gazing in rapt adoration of His manliness and spraying my own thin come while
grasping His calves behind me with each hand.
Immediately I sprang out of the way and saw the chain had actually left a red mark across His pecs and
some minute scratches in the outermost dermis. He half-growled, half-grinned and said out of the corner of
His mouth, “Man wants a job done, gotta do it Hisself.”
He walked up to the cage were the remaining chain-length lay against the slope of the lower bars, and with
one arm flung it away so hard it sank into the cement in a long line, disappearing from view and radiating
cracks in all directions. The bend around the middle wasn’t quite small enough for Him to get His arms
around … so He leapt into the air and fastened His thighs around it. And squeezed.
His thighs barely strained to press dozens of inch-thick iron rods together with one burst of raw muscle
power. His abs held His torso in the air nearly upright as His legs clung to the cage and tightened against
it. The men inside coughed blood and uttered barks of pure wide-eyed agony. The bars crushed them into
each other, pressing their skeletons together until they could feel bones scraping bones through flattened
layers of muscle and skin. He gave another leg-squeeze and collapsed the space further, driving iron
wedges into pierced abs and bellies, shattering hips and splaying legs outward into the slanting spaces as
the moaning metal floor pulled up, popping welds and rivets that couldn’t hold out against His muscle.
Tallest of the men, the lieutenant managed to speak, though blood seeped from his eye sockets and burbled
out of his mouth. “Why?” he sighed … and managed to draw a labored breath and opened his scarlet-
stained mouth to say again, “Why … are you doing this?”
Jason narrowed His eyes and muttered, barely audibly, “As if you deserve to know.” And a final leg-
squeeze forced even the lieutenant’s race to redden and he blurted out a gasp of agony, broken limbs
jabbing into every surface of his once-strong body.
By now the men’s whimpers revealed their dying strength, and Jason gripped the lid of the iron coffin and
holding Himself in a one-armed iron cross, pulled His legs away from the cage and slowly lowered them
back to the ground. My cock responded to such a display by rising hot and itchy despite coming only
moments before, a painful ache stretching its length of fiery skin. The imprint of a network of veins and
sinews lay in the compressed ironwork, and now the cage remained anchored to the ground only by the
thick center post, blood dripping and running into a deep pool in the central cavity and limbs twitching
wherever there was a little room to do so.
A deep sawing groan accompanied Jason’s prying the cage off that (human)-leg-thick piling. Bloody filth
sloshed out of the bucket-shaped floor as he twisted and peeled the cage away and raised it off the ground,
a ton of iron and 28 men inside, levered up by the heaviest equipment ever created by anyone: His arms.
As He tilted the waist of the cage onto His shoulder, it emptied a flood of human juices onto the floor; the
men groaned and He wrapped an arm around it and carried it over to a wall laid directly into the bedrock.
He squeezed it as He walked, steadying it with His neck and allowing His bicep to peak into the iron,
jerking rapid, desperate screams from the men still alive as that bicep pulverized bone beneath it.
Ham was curled up into a ball in one of the corners, now tilted nearly onto his head and sucking fast
shallow breaths. The soldiers hung horizontal, trapped, dizzy and mad with pain. Gravity increased spinal
stresses with the force of two dozen upper bodies and twice as many legs cramming down onto the bottom
few. Some tried to vomit but there was no room for the convulsions, iron Vs cut off access to their gullets
and the stomachs heaved and ripped and ulcerated in their guts. Jason relished the scale of helplessness He
created so easily, and turned to me while one arm held the cage suspended against the wall to say
something He’d never previously acknowledged.
“You fetishize biceps, boy. Why is that?”
I gulped, feeling exposed, weak and scrawny despite my new Jason-built physique. But I had to answer,
quickly and without reservation or stuttering, so I gathered all my presence of mind and said, “A man
exerts his will onto the world with his arms. His legs make a stand, his back and chest strengthen the arms,
but his hands are what reach out to grab, and it is a manly arm that draws the world to him or shoves it out
of the way. Biceps sit on that arm like crown and generator both; perfect in shape, and primal in their
expression of masculine strength.”
He shook His head with a wry smile. “I’m going to teach you that a Man, a real Man, can do whatever He
wants, arms or no. Just watch this.”
He removed His arm from the cage but before it could fall He slammed His pecs against it, making the
entire structure squeak. He put His arms behind His back, making those triceps that looked ripe enough to
split the skin bulge out in crazy curves, and moved His feet beneath the cage so that His body was at a 45
degree angle. His toes pressed down, cobwebbing the cement with hairline cracks that also spread out from
His heels, and began finishing the job.
Instantly His pecs began popping into the bulbous inch-thick iron plate like a fucking aluminum can. The
iron rang and dented, and the top began to flatten with a grinding scrape against the wall. The bars were so
angled they could now only bend one way, but they only shifted position a little for now. He wasn’t using
His arms at all: He contracted His abs, ridged like men’s forearms across His flat belly, and leveraged
himself against the squealing iron and mass of humanity inside it.
The iron plates began pressing into the men’s feet and the lieutenant’s skull at the same time. Ham’s legs
snapped beneath him as his own skull caved in, sending his arms jittering against the compressing space.
The lieutenant shrieked like a woman as he realized what this meant. His feet flexed uselessly, unable to
kick, as the pec-dented iron told his knees to bend when there was no room to bend. Breathless hysteria fed
the soldier’s remaining reserves of strength and fingers began searching for gaps in the bars, childishly
trying to move what only He could move.
He flexed His abs and rolled His pecs, and the rolling made the iron ripple like clay. The cage flattened
further and the bent bars sank deeper into their bodies, spraying blood that could only emerge as a fine
mist. Fingers were snipped off to howls of pain as the last gaps closed. The bottom plate shattered legs
that had no way to bend, while heads craned away from the approaching wall even as the lieutenant’s
exploded with a wet thwok. Gasps and gags fluttered out of the cage as men began to choke on their own
lungs being forced up into their throats, and still He was merely pulling himself upright.
The cage jerked and the men went silent: the bent bars had severed most in half and I heard the scrape of
the edges meet. But that didn’t stop Him. He kept crushing it, using only His legs and torso. Iron meeting
iron held for a moment before one side slid over the other and the entire cage lurched inward half a foot.
Pinkish biological matter began squeezing out of the very edges where triangular gaps still existed,
plopping onto the floor in indiscriminate dollops studded with bone fragments and the occasional deflated
eyeball or toe nail. Jason’s can-crushing continued until the two ends were only about four feet apart, when
the doubled-over bars met the wall and provided four times as much resistance as before.
Jason took a couple deep breaths as He felt His efforts fail, the iron stop compressing. He was fully upright
now. He didn’t like anything that challenged Him, even if it’s purely mechanical. Especially then. Even
nature should know to obey His slightest whim. On the third breath I saw His delts tense, while His arms
remained semi-relaxed and held behind His back. Not changing their position at all, His thighs bunched
and His feet turned the floor into loose chunks of previously-solid poured concrete. His lats bulged around
His arms and all emotion left His face. He leaned into the shuddering mass of steel and all those bars
began bending back outward in a seamless wave of utter weakness before Him. Their deformation caused
new gaps to open and gravity dragged larger, stringier nuggets of pulped soldier meat out of the slaughter-
cage. His body simply rotated forward like a pressure gauge nearing the critical zone. The iron bars
spiraled outward, the plates neared each other, the bars began to snap with hard twangs and suddenly the
plates met with a gluey muted clang. Bloody fresh man-butter shot out of the iron sandwich. He held it
there, bars bent and torn and radiating away or else trapped and flattened like pennies on a railroad track
between the two plates, the earth’s bedrock and His pecs. His cock began fucking the wall, crumbling the
concrete beneath it until gallons of opaque Godcome shot out, up against the squashed cage and into the
radiating cracks in the wall.
He pulled away and I could see His nipple-prints deep in the iron that had molded around His torso. It
hung on the wall like art, embedded in the cement and sealed with His seed; even gravity couldn’t pull that
tonnage out. I think Jason hated gravity more than almost anything. He loved humiliating it every chance
He got. Well, that and everything else.
He walked back to the jail pit and I ran alongside Him. His cock was still hard and I jumped onto His arm,
swung around and lowered myself down onto it, wrapping my legs around His waist (I could lock my feet,
it was so tight) and I came again just from His presence inside me. He effortlessly leapt out of the jail ruins
and as we strolled home through the brilliant, silent night, He tousled my hair and hummed a happy little
tune to Himself.
The End.
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