WARNING: THIS IS A STORY OF VIOLENT SEXUAL FICTION. IF YOU ARE
UNDERAGE OR OFFENDED BY ATHEISTIC PORNOGRAPHY, THEN PLEASE,
FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, DON’T READ IT.
Jason, Idaho
By Chip Masterson
For Jason
It had been like some Twilight Zone episode for a while now. This morning it turned into Tales from the
Crypt.
I live in the town of Jason, Idaho. It used to have another name, but we’ve been ordered to forget it. I
don’t, I won’t remember my own name either. I’m afraid to even try to think of them, afraid he’ll see it in
my eyes and know I’ve disobeyed. You’ll see why you don’t want to disobey Him.
I had a bad feeling when he first came to high school as a freshman. First day he walked up to the captain
of the football team, this gigantoid senior who benched two plates as a warm-up, and asked him if the girl
hanging all over him was his girlfriend. She said she was the head cheerleader and yeah, she was. Captain
just smirked.
“Not anymore,” said Jason. In one quick move, he pried them apart, ripped the captain’s jeans in fuckin’
half and butt-fucked him right there in the quad until the captain stopped screaming and moaned so hard
slobber fell into the come that spurted out of his dick. He’d tried to struggle in the beginning but Jason was
too fast, and too strong, and everyone who grabbed at him gasped at the hardness of his muscles. Jason let
the man drop and pumped his nuts dry over the guy’s letterman jacket. “You’re my girlfriend now, Cap.
And you better win Friday night or you’ll know why you shoulda in the worst way.” Turning to the
squealing, squirming cheerleader squad, he said “Better go lezbo, girls. The team is mine.”
Ever since that day the whole town had been his. He took what he wanted, anywhere. The police tangled
with him a little but after watching him snap billy clubs and doubled-handcuffs with ease, they made an
uneasy peace with him. But they never liked it. You gotta know they were plotting revenge. Twenty-six
grown men unable to stop a teenager from committing any crime he wanted? You gotta know it.
Things came to a head today. He’d turned 18 recently and disappeared into the Sawtooth Range for some
R&R. Don’t know what he did up there in the mountains but he came back eager and willing to increase
his domination of the town. I was at the bank when he walked up this morning and shoved people out of
the ATM line.
His hands gripped the side of the machine and he tugged. His heavy plaid shirt split up the middle and
around the sides of his lats but the ATM stayed in the wall. “Son of a cunt!” he swore and his fingertips
pressed into the metal and he pulled again. His bicep peaks split up through the shirt fabric and lightning-
bolt tears opened all over his delts. The machine moaned and popped but the anchor held. I got a horrible
feeling in my stomach. This time he didn’t swear but his impossibly handsome face darkened like a storm
about to burst.
He let out one little grunt and YANKED the ATM right out of the fucking wall, sending pulverized brick
and mortar and shrapnel-like broken bolts flying into the parking lot. The machine uttered a screeching
wail and he staggered back a couple steps, holding it in his arms in front of him. Shit! What’s he gonna do
for an encore?
He turned his head and stared straight into my eyes AS IF HE READ MY FUCKIN’ MIND and got this
evil smile on his face. But his eyes didn’t smile, they coldly appraised me top to bottom, registered my
entire worth to him. The only worth I was ever to have again.
His hand crumpled the steel beneath his fingers as he held it in the air with one arm, and his other began
peeling the steel plating off the back like it was a goddam banana. The steel armor squealed as it distorted
under the strength of his hands. Finally he punched into the cashbox and ripped that steel open like it was a
cereal box. He pulled out handfuls of twenties – and at 6’7”, you can imagine how big this kid’s hands are
– and held them out to me. “You. Hold this for me. It ain’t enough.”
When he’d emptied the cash reservoir, he looked at the measly deposits and saw they weren’t worth the
time it would take to breath in once. He dropped it on the sidewalk, which cracked under the weight he’d
so effortlessly held in front of him, and with one hand pushed in the doors of the bank, shattering the glass
and setting off an alarm.
The sleepy guard dropped his Starbucks and fumbled for his gun and Jason said quietly, “Don’t even try it,
old man. Just shut that fuckin’ alarm off before it gets on my nerves.” The alarm went off and the bank
manager, a squirrelly little bald thing, approached Jason and looked up to the heights of his glory.
“Hello, Jason, w-what brings you here? I th-thought money was only for us lesser b-beings—“
Jason rather gently shoved him aside and ignored him. In a soft voice that everyone heard, he announced:
“Up to now I’ve pretty much lived according to my own rules. But the world outside this town’s a pretty
big place. I climbed straight up the sheer face of Warbonnet Peak without gear, just my hands on the wall
of rock, and saw just how big. I decided I need to make my move. Before I can take my rightful place in
charge of the planet, I’ll need to play a little bit by its rules. It’ll suffer later because of that, but for now,
it’s the best strategy. So I need money.”
“H-how much?” stuttered the manager.
“All of it.”
There was a moment of silence as this sunk in. Finally the manager scratched out with a voice as dry as the
Badlands, “Th-the vault doesn’t open until eleven. It’s on a timer.”
Jason looked at the little creature as if he’d gone insane. With almost comical contempt, he said “Timer?”
He punched the security door protecting the tellers from the public and the heavy oak split in half and flew
inward. He walked back to the vault and ran his fingers over the satiny steel. It ought to have trembled.
He grabbed the wheel-like mechanism and pulled. Instantly a horrible sound like a gear skipping over teeth
filled the air as the steel works put up a feeble resistance. Buttons burst across Jason’s chest as his body
moved closer to the wall of steel and an eerie whine, the sound of heavy steel being stretched apart, made
everyone wince. With a bang the wheel came off in his hands, and he stood there, thoughtfully folding it
up in his hands, relentlessly working the steel into itself like some sort of bizarre sculpture. I heard him
mutter, “This door thinks it’s better’n me.”
Without another word, Jason stomped and smashed a dent into the concrete floor beneath the cheap
carpeting near the corner of the vault door. Placing one hand about a foot up and in, he dug his fingers
underneath the lip and I could hear the concrete growling as his knuckles ground it down. He
simultaneously began to push in and pull out.
At first nothing happened. Soon though you could see the reflection of the light slowly swirl up and out
around his hand as it forced the metal to change shape. Then you heard it: like a mineral grunting sound, a
high quick series of creaks that could only be awesomely thick cold, chromium steel being destroyed by
forces it never dreamed could exist outside an explosion. Then you saw it, quarter inch by quarter inch, the
heavy corner of the safe door rising out from the wall until one of the two-inch thick shafts sunk into the
wall providing some back-up to its losing battle. No matter: Jason had more than enough steel now to work
with.
Grabbing both edges of the pulled-out door and wedging his fingers deeper inside, he contracted his pecs to
tighten his grip. You could hear the thickness of steel creak again under the boy’s compressive power.
Filling his mighty lungs with air, he bellowed and YANKED outward. Steel screamed and a thunder-crack
sounded and his shirt blew off his exploding musculature as the bottom corner of the door pulled loose
from the wall that cracked along the length of the bottom bolt deep within it. He heaved breaths at the
effort and his chest and back rose and fell in sweaty freedom: all that remained of his shirt were strips of
the reinforced sleeves that hung around his shoulders and wavered as he breathed.
The alarm sounded and a terrified clerk hastily shut it off.
The door was now hideously distorted but still sealed. About three feet from the floor he stuck both hands
into the gap and while pressing outward with one hand, the other began to work the door back and forth
like he was trying to break off the pop-top of a can of Coke. You could hear the steel squiggle as the
beautiful muscles of his arm worked it harder and faster, weakening and loosening the locking mechanisms,
widening the grooves and stressing the lock-bolts with his insistent conquering strength. His triceps rippled
and swelled and meshed with his bi’s and finger-thick delts, his upper back and rotators interlocked like the
superior machine they are, the door wiggled looser and feet-thick steel warped beneath his orderly,
relentless muscle-assault.
He worked that one arm deeper into the gap until he could feel the far side of the door beneath his curved
fingertips. Below it he shoved his other arm and grasped the wall. You could something skitter down
inside the vault, crumbled masonry as he secured his grip.
The awful silence that followed the stomach-crawling sounds of solid steel being beaten by warm muscle
was broken by his sudden bark. Pressing his one shoulder into the wall and pulling that arm outward, he
pulled backward hard with his other arm and a series of parallel cracks opened in the wall as all the lock-
bars were yanked against their moorings. Another hoarse bark and the vault door boomed across its width
as that savage arm bent it further and the bolts twisted inside the wall. The door yielded a few more inches
outward and now he stopped pussy-footing around. Raging like some caged gorilla he began jerking and
screaming and yanking on the door. Concrete dust blew out of the wall cracks as they bulged out wider and
the vibrating lock bars pressed outward against the vertical grid of reinforcing steel imbedded in the
crackling concrete, making a checkerboard of crumbling cracks. The door began to vibrate and hum as his
arm mercilessly tore at it, ripping it farther and farther from the wall as a huge mourning sigh like a
steamship dying filled the air. The steel actually began to CREASE where his arm reformed it as it still
vainly struggled to remain lodged in the wall. Veins stuck out over his traps and his delts snapped the shirt-
remains around them. He curled his knees up against the wall and it crumbled inward as his single arm
jammed backward against the groaning door until the entire thing fucking EXPLODED outward and he
flew back amid chunks of rebar-bristled concrete. The vault door swung back on its twisted hinges and
imbedded itself in the other wall so hard the hinges themselves cracked open.
As the dust settled you could see the grooves his fingers and forearm had pressed into the warped steel, two
feet of steel rippled and sprouting bent lock-bolts except for the one that broke off and hung in a cavity in
the window-paned wall. “Yeah!” he screamed. “Fuck with ME!” And Jason entered the vault.
At first he started loading the exposed money into canvass bags, but quickly changed his mind. Why
should he have to do all the hard work? “Yo, manager-fuck!” he cried and the little man scurried in, a tiny
angry tent working in his pants. “Have all this delivered to my house. And no skimming. I’ll know.”
He grabbed the money I was holding and flung it in the manager-fuck’s face. “That too. I want it there by
the time I get home and I run pretty quick so you better get a move on. All of you!” And everyone flooded
into the vault to do His bidding.
He fixed my gaze with his riveting own again and said “You’re my shadow now.” He left with me right
behind him.
The cops had obviously heard about this by now and gathered near the bank, all 25 guys and the sheriff.
Sheriff Twatstench had been this big rodeo star, stayed on an ornery bull about 8 seconds (about as long as
it would take Jason to squeeze the life out of its chest with his long arms) and was a master of the lariat.
When we walked out into the morning street, Sheriff Cumlunch (these are His names, not mine, honest)
stood there, pig-eyes glinting, twirling this big rope lazily over his head like some sort of halo. The guys
sort of moved back behind him as Jason walked past, ignoring them like the ants they are. When he was
about ten feet away, Sheriff Smegma hurled the rope and looped it right around Jason’s shoulders, cinched
it tight and tugged.
Jason felt the tug and jerked his shoulder forward as he kept walking, and Sheriff Analwart pitched forward
onto his Krispy-Kreme belly. And got dragged along behind Him. I stayed the requisite three steps behind
but I could see Him smiling in the reflections of the shop windows. I saw him slow infinitesimally: only
when you were watching him as closely as I was could you even have seen it. I turned around and saw a
few more guys had grabbed hold of the rope. The sheriff was still dragging but the others jammed their
boots against the sidewalk – and skidded. Jason picked up his step a little bit and the squealing of leather
against cement got louder
The rope twisted and the men cried out from the burn as it ran through their hands so they wound it around
their fists and more men piled on. Soon ten men were losing sole-rubber and Jason was barely breathing
hard, the rope unable to press into the muscles of his arms, chest or back. Seeing their colleagues bested by
a punk who hadn’t even bothered to graduate, just aced all the tests and butt-fucked the football team every
day, the rest of the police force jumped on board and 26 grown, mostly fat but strong men now tugged
helplessly against Jason.
Jason labored slightly to keep up speed and I could see sweat bead up on his tanned skin. (He’d never had
acne, every ounce of testosterone went directly into muscle.) He’d just put out a major effort in ripping the
bank vault open, so now even 26 moderately strong, heavy men could cause him to strain just a little. But
not as much as he was: his thighs were shaking and the rivets of his jeans shot out as the fabric burst around
the heads of the muscle. His calves forced the seams apart. I looked back and gasped.
They’d anchored the end of the rope to window-strut of a cruiser and Jason was not only dragging the
entire police force, but one of their cars SIDEWAYS! The wheels skidded on the pavement and the front
end scraped against the curb and snagged on a sapling planted there, bending it until it split as Jason
refused to stop or even look back at the tonnage his legs were now besting. He leaned into the weight, the
rope fibers still not able to dent his muscles but in fact STARTING TO FRAY against the hard ends of his
delts. As he breathed in greater gulps of air the rope stretched and more fibers started to pop from his
lungs’ expansion against them. And still the policemen pulled and stamped and skidded while the cruiser
started to bounce against Jason’s thrust.
One of the officers let go and climbed through the window, attempting to start the cruiser and try to stop
Jason but Jason had an itch, and raising his arm to scratch his nose caused his bicep to bulge against the
rope and strain it past the breaking point. Jason scratched as if he’d never noticed what had happened.
But the rope didn’t fall: his other hand whipped back and grapped it, twisting it around his wrist once and
flaring his tricep up into the air like the death-fin of a giant shark.
One of the cops gulped.
Turning slowly around, Jason revealed he HAD noticed them. And suddenly they all wished he hadn’t.
Leaning slightly backwards, his bicep now taught and peaked, he jerked savagely with a snarl and the men
skittered forward. The cruiser BANGED against a lightpost. His bicep grew even harder, dense striations
forming a sand-dune-like ripple over the peak and the dimple between the two heads near the delt
attachment deepened. Rootlike veins stretched over the rising outer peak and bulging inner belly as he
pulled harder. The men began to heave backward in a useless rhythm. Blood spread from between their
fingers and spattered onto the sidewalk. An immense whining shudder made a couple look back as they
saw the cruiser twist around against the lightpost, which was beginning to bend right before their eyes. The
fender was crushing inward. They gaped anew at his arm.
Jason’s forearm surged and flexed like a python swallowing boulders. More veins than the cops knew even
existed throbbed like ropes straining to keep those muscles from bursting off the arm. And still he used
only the one hand. Slowly he began to wrap the rope again and again around his wrist, stretching it tighter
and tighter. For added support his other hand grabbed hold of a parking meter next to him. The glass
immediately cracked and the thick post bent. High fast twangs sounded and the heavy rope finally
shattered in the middle, sending the cops flying back against the cruiser, piling into each other against its
immobile surface. The release torqued through Jason’s body and the parking meter bent fully down to the
sidewalk, his hand smashing the metal flat against the cracked concrete. Change rolled out into the street.
Jason waited for the cops to stagger to their feet and face him, jaws dropped, fuming mad. He broke into
an easy smile, like the sun rising, and raising his arm, kissed his bicep. Then he turned his back and walked
away.
Now that really pissed those weaker “men” off.
Racing back to the stationhouse they piled into their cruisers and raced around to head him off at the end of
the main drag. Jason could hear they’re scampering little feet but didn’t alter his plans one bit. Why
should he? He was over six and a half feet tall, 265 pounds of hard, lean, still-growing teen muscle. He
didn’t need to concern himself with them.
Until they buzzed into his face like flies.
Two cruisers and three SUVs blocked the end of the street, and the cops all got out and trained pistols on
him. Trouble is, he was clearly unarmed. He was practically naked, except for the shredded jeans that
flapped around his Tommys and the steel-toed size 15 Justins. There was no way they could shoot, and
intimidate Him? He just smiled and kept moving.
Sheriff Skidmark called into a bullhorn for him to stop, but refused to come out from behind the two
cruisers parked end to end across the street and sidewalks. Jason acted like he didn’t hear. He kept
walking, and when his thighs contacted the fenders of the Chevies, the fenders crunched in and both cars
rose up on their side wheels. The men backed away and Jason reached down to the underside of the
vehicles and lifted them up into the air, not just the front in but LEVERING them in his hands so the rear
ends rose up as well. He stood there, one fucking cruiser in each hand, the metal grunting as their own
weight bent their frames, and he swung them apart (knocking holes in the brick walls on either side) and
then bashed the front ends together so hard the hoods crumpled and the engine dropped out of one; the
other engine broke through the firewall and smashed into the front seat. The windshields cracked from the
force and he stood there a moment, curling the cars up and down to pump up his bi’s, making them even
bigger as they mocked gravity and Detroit steel. Then I had to duck as he tossed them over his shoulder
and they went clattering down the street, end over end a few times.
By then every cop who hadn’t pissed or shit himself (and a couple who had) piled into the SUVs and they
roared to life. One jumped toward Jason and he shoved back and it skidded backward on forward racing
wheels into the other one. They kept racing forward only to meet his fist: he was too fast, kept punching
and shoving them around as they clutched and ground the gears. Each truck ran at him and then skidded or
bounced backward as he just kept moving forward, causing the motors to stall and smoke. Finally he
shoved them all so hard they found themselves arranged in sequence, one behind the other, about twenty
yards away from him. He stood there with his hands on his hips, daring them. Curled his fingers a bit in a
“come on” gesture. They took the bait.
Sheriff Wadstain was driving the first one and Jason met it, and stopped it. Wheels spun until the second
one locked bumpers and started pushing forward. Even Jason (dare I say such blasphemy?) had to give a
little to that. Not his feet, though: just his back bent a little to absorb the new force. The third one locked
on and using their radios to synchronize, all at once they hit the gas with a squeal of rubber.
Jason grimaced as more force than he expected piled into him from those three engines. He had to step
backward, and then his feet started to skid. They could only muster about one mile per hour against his
strength but the three screaming SUVs WERE slowly pushing him backward. White tire smoke began to
turn black and the trucks began to fishtail as Jason pushed forward—and kept sliding back.
He realized this would be murder on his boots.
Jason snarled and his head sank between his shoulders. I looked up into his face between his knobby arms
and saw mute determination and a steely glint worse than the one he attacked the overgrown safe with. My
cock HURT it throbbed so hard. The SUVs ground to a halt and the tires flung gravel into the air along
with ear-piercing squeals. Jason drove forward and his abs rippled and meshed. His glutes burst out the
pockets on his shredded jeans and looked hard enough to take a meteor impact and send the fucker back
into outer space. The trucks wriggled backwards. I didn’t dare grab my cock without His permission but
come began spurting down my leg into my sock as one wheel buckled on the rear vehicle and the entire line
veered into the side of a building. Jason’s thighs kept churning, one step after another, all the power and
might of three SUVs meaningless to him. Jason shoved the entire caravan into the wall and kept
compressing. The wall collapsed and the vehicles twisted backward through it and the men screamed and
killed the motors as ceilings and lights sparked down on top of them. He shoved again and sent them all
through that room into the next room of the now-collapsing real estate office. Then he ordered them out in
a voice that force a redwood to uproot itself and bow fuckin’ down to him. When he took on the
COMMAND tone, the earth would stop revolving and I swear the sun would reverse course.
They lined up on their knees on the sidewalk with a grossly quivering Sheriff Pudwacker out front. “Look
at this mess,” he said. “It’s your own fault. This senseless destruction of private and public property. How
are you boys ever going to afford it with your savings, now that you’re all fired? All trying - pitifully, I
might add – to prevent me from having what is mine.” Suddenly he stopped, as if thinking it for the first
time.
Louder now, so everyone gathered could here, he looked Sheriff Lipchancre in the eye and said “From now
on this town is named Jason. None of you who live here are permitted to ever leave without my
permission, and none of you have names which you will use in any way. You’ll wait for me to name you.
This town WILL be the nucleus of my global domination, the new capital of Planet Earth. You are granted
the extreme privilege of being my first subjects. And anyone who thinks differently can answer to this,” he
said, flexing a huge bicep and pointing at it rhythmically, hypnotically. Pungent wafts of ammonia
revealed a few more bladders releasing in awe and terror.
Smelling their fear, their sharp reverence, their instant unconscious bodily adulation, he made the muscle
bounce. He relaxed it so it lay like a python lying on a thick branch, then suddenly it PEAKED something
like half a foot high, leaping up like some kind of fuckin’ earthquake, then dropping languidly again.
Again it jutted up, its hugeness only matched by the twitching depth of his pecs. They all stared, entranced,
shivering as drool slid heedlessly down their faces and come darkened their crotches.
But now the noble firemen came to the rescue of their brothers. Bad move.
An enormous, brand new firetruck now blocked off the street and Fire Chief His Head Is So Far Up His
Ass He’s Sucking His Own Tonsils was aiming a firehose at him, supported by three awfully strong (for
not being Jason, that is) guys. Jason turned to them and Chief Zit opened ‘er up.
The water shot out and broke apart against Jason’s chest. He stood a moment, then walked through the
stream, like Superman against some laser gun. The force didn’t even make him lean forward and the
firemen’s faces fell in fear as he reached out with one BIG hand and choked off the flow by squeeeeeezing
the heavy hose shut in his fist. He gritted his teeth in anger, shoved the heavy brass nozzle into his armpit
and brought his triceps, pec and lat to bear against it. One firm grunt that made something go POP and a
short, incredibly sexy grind of his shoulder up and around and he dropped it on the ground: the nozzle had
been flattened and the end of it crushed and reformed into the ball-shape of his armpit, completely sealed
off. The hose writhed and rose in the air as high-pressure water sought the escape that Jason’s muscle had
denied it. “Turn that thing off before it puts someone’s eye out,” he commanded, and a guy with a dark
stain on the seat of his pants obeyed.
“Now, you cops and fire fucks, line up against that wall.” He indicated the wall of the old bottling factory
at the end of the street. The cops and fireman did as they were told. “Not you two,” he said to the sheriff
and the fire chief. “You two watch.”
Jason grabbed the enormous fire engine, sinking his fingers into the hard metal surface, and twisted. The
huge vehicle skidded around, the back wheels bucking against the pavement. Now it was parallel to the
men. Twisting his elbows a little, Jason teetered it up and lifted the side wheels onto the curb. He picked
up the other side and pumped it a couple of times to get a feel for its tonnage. “This is it,” he said. “Beat
me or die.”
The men screamed as the heavy metal slammed into them. The inside wheels collapsed under the truck as
their arms strained and broke, legs snapped, and tons pressed into them and the reinforced wall that
withstood it all behind them. They felt their bodies flatten as His piston-arms wrangled the towering red
vehicle against them: and then he started shoving FOR REAL. The steel of the truck groaned and
screeched in agony as He spread his arms wide and drove his hardened pecs directly into its crumpling steel
body. The windshield shattered and the outer wheels splayed up and outward as his body concussed the
imploding truck frame. The water tank sighed with a strained cracking and burst into a flood that jetted out
of various tears ripping open in the armored body, mixing with the blood and guts flowing from underneath
it. The entire trucked folded into itself and flattened in the middle, vee-ing outward beyond the ends of his
arms as he controlled the steel and destroyed the shape and power of the truck with his driving glutes and
impregnable pecs. The last man’s dying gasps were barely heard as the foot-thick brick and concrete wall
tremored and caved inward, tearing out a chunk of the second floor as the entire structure of truck and
smashed corpses flew into the barren space beyond. Jason stood there, triumphant, wet, panting. He turned
His face toward the townspeople who’d come to witness the godlike spectacle. And come they did.
“You all work for me now. I’m tired and I’m going home. See to it that my every need is met before I
have to ask.” He grabbed the sheriff and fire chief by the tops of their heads and dragged them behind him
back to his house outside town. They flopped and struggled, trying to dig their fingers into his forearms’
sinews, but it was no use. He didn’t even notice.
At the house Jason threw the men into a corner and growled at them to stay. When they each moved an
arm he spun, yelled and flexed his hard, knotted biceps. Their faces went slack and the fire chief pissed
himself. I thought by now he’d be perfectly dry. Jason brought his arms down into a crab, nodding and
grinning as they witnessed the thickness of his traps, the muscle control as he rippled his delts and rolled
his pecs, the unbelievable living rock-like shape and density of his arms. He stared at his own beauty and
could feel their personalities being destroyed by the sight of his superiority. The sheriff spouted bubbles of
drool. Jason rose to his full height and stared down at them contemptuously over the thick planes of his
pecs. The former men looked up from where they sprawled, unable to take their eyes off his despite their
increasing difficulty to focus at all. Yet His eyes refused to let their consciousness go, and as he stared at
them, lips parted in a silent growl that revealed his perfect savage teeth, he could sense their sanity
shredding apart like tissue from the strain of the battle. Their sense of self, of identity itself, tore apart. He
heaved a breath and their chests seemed to cave inward. He flicked his lip and their fingers twitched in
response. He raised one eyebrow menacingly and firechief’s eyes rolled back into his head, then snapped
back to attention like caged, wild animals chained too tight. He twitched his pecs ever so slightly and the
cowering unmen whimpered out strangled gurgles. They’d lost the power of speech, even of intelligent
thought. Nothing was left of their brains at all but the reptilian part, and it was completely enslaved to
Jason’s slightest whim.
“Stay. No move.” Then he left them for two hours. I sat and watched them and for Christ’s sake, they
didn’t move. Fire guy had an itch that was killing him but he didn’t so much as flinch. They were like sick
dolls.
He returned naked with a chair and a well-worn newspaper. This was the first time I’d ever seen His
manhood bare. It wagged with a heavy sway that rivaled the firehose he had earlier humiliated. I thought
of that firehose bucking, seeking release, unable to break through where he’d sealed it off: and realized no
power on earth could stop His flow once he turned it on.
The paper was an account of some kid somewhere, not an athlete, who’d beaten his entire football team in a
tug-of-war. Jason sat in the chair, the steel tubes creaking under his weight. He spread his long anaconda
legs and curled a finger at the men, then pointed at the heavy foot-long dick thickening between those
terror-inducing quads. They crawled over, never taking their eyes off His one wet cyclopean slit, and
instantly began worshipping it with their tongues. They didn’t need to be warned about stubble or teeth.
He held the paper in one glorious arm before him and I gazed raptly at the heavy, long biceps that reclined
on that arm like some cruel military emperor of ancient Rome. His other arm hung limply at his side, the
long muscles relaxed and shockingly beautiful. As he read, his cock got harder and the men had to take
turns gagging on it while the other cleaned and sucked his ball-sac, hanging like two big limes four inches
below his thighs. Slowly, so slowly they couldn’t even notice at first, his thighs began to draw together.
Compressing their head space. Forcing them into new positions to try to comply with his unspoken orders
never to stop.
By now his cock was trying to stand upright as he slouched in the chair and the sheriff had it in his mouth.
Jason moved his thighs to indicate they were to stay between them. Sheriff Suck needed to use his full
body weight to keep that cock from rising, and he clutched at Jason’s diamond-spread calves for support as
he contracted his flabby gut. But the cock was stronger than he and started dragging him up. I could see
every muscle in his bulky body strain in panic to try to restrain Jason’s manmeat, but it actually lifted the
fat fuck off the ground. Jason frowned and the fireman, who by now was practically hanging from the balls
by his lips, fumbled around and got his mouth around the cockshaft and sagged his own weight against it.
The meat grudgingly lowered, unable to resist the gravity of two full if not over-grown males, and Jason
moaned with pleasure. His quads broke into separate heads and surged like a storm at sea. He moaned
again and now muted screams faintly emerged from the wall of flesh engulfing the suckers’ heads. I heard
horrible cracking sounds as their skulls cracked and Jason kept reading and moaning with pleasure. The
pressure increased so incrementally the skull-fractures rubbed against each other and the men shrieked with
pain. But increase it did, ever so slowly, ever so relentlessly.
One hit his flailing arm so hard against Jason’s calves that his arm snapped. Still the legs closed but not
enough to kill them yet. Blood began to spurt out and Jason smiled as one of the men spasmodically bit
down on Jason’s monster only to have his teeth break off. His jaw dislocate. Blood-soaked sobs worked
their way out between Jason’s beautifully writhing quads. Jason got to the part of the story he liked best.
His cock spasmed and the dying men’s legs and arms jerked and slapped, breaking in new places against
His legs. Suddenly a huge jet of sperm mixed with pinkish brains and blood shot out the back of the
sheriff’s flattened head through the now two-inch gap between Jason’s knees, striking the wall like a
paintball. Except it didn’t splatter much. It held together pretty well and slid down with aching, hypnotic
slowness.
Jason kept grinding the pulping skulls and brains between his thighs, massaging his come-shooting
manhood and feeling their bone fragments snap against his cock-hardness. Only his own manliness was
strong enough to take the insane pressure of his thighs, to revel in the squeezing and shoot load and
impossible load of salty ambrosia that would soon become my primary staple. Anything else caught
between those barriers would collapse, but his virile shaft merely begged him to bring it on.
After about ten minutes the orgasm began to subside and his body tensed for one final spasm of pleasure.
A lava-like river of come flowed down his legs and dripped off in heavy streams. He opened his legs and
the slithery headless corpses dropped. Nothing was left above the corpses’ shoulders but shredded hair and
flaps of skin. Their heads had been squeezed out of existence.
Jason milked the last few clear liquid drops of come with his hand, caught one pure droplet on the end of
his fuckfinger and held it out for me. I crawled over, extended my tongue and let it drop, its briny power
overwhelming my brain. He looked down at me and smiled the most glorious smile I’ve ever seen and
said, “Couldn’t have those two fugly trolls stinking the place up.” Then he stopped smiling and with a hard
look in his eyes that made my stomach twist, he pointed at the mess dripping from his still-turgid virility.
As I crawled over to begin my service, I thought briefly that I’d only gone out this morning to get forty
dollars in fastcash for lunch, but got a God instead. And that was the last thought that had an “I” in it that
would ever float through my inferior brain.
The end. Until He says different.
Chipmasterson@yahoo.com
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