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 Incorporates
By Chip Masterson
For Lord Jason
Turns out, Jason is a lot smarter than we first thought. I make such a presumptuous statement only because
Jason ordered me to reveal how dumb we all were to underestimate him.
He didn’t abolish the town council and he allowed money to keep the town running and the people fed. It
was all subsidiary to his needs and amassing the fortune he would require to storm the world, but he knew
he couldn’t be bothered with every piddly-shit little problem like people starving and things breaking
down. The piddly-shits themselves can sort all that out, and they require mayors and crap for all that. Of
course they answer to him on the big questions, like where his sex toys (formerly known as “men”) are and
how fast his investments are growing. Every decision he makes is wise beyond question. And anyone who
questions is most unwise. He even commissioned a new police force to replace the one he broke in order to
keep order amongst the lower beings.
So He roams the streets at will, and people get out of his way. I follow behind, of course, in order to
provide any service he needs. And also to record his exploits for posterity. This particular night, he was
having a late night workout at the gym. Nobody else worked out there, though he’d permit a few special
people to watch him. Tonight it was just the two of us. My head was spinning with the honor.
One reason nobody else works out in His gym, other than the obvious one, is that there wouldn’t be
anything for them to use. He’s created his own workout equipment that normal men couldn’t budge. What
plates there are he needs all of, and I get a good workout just loading and unloading the plates for drop sets
and supersets and trisets that blast his titanic muscles into even greater dimensions. I think we’re out of the
ordinary four now and getting into some of those extra super-string dimensions they always talk about.
Jason says I wouldn’t understand it if he explained it to me.
We were finishing up with squats. For these the standard Olympic bar wasn’t nearly enough: that was for
one-arm curls and stuff. The I-beam he used was in its rack, the indentations of his traps pressed up into
the cross-bar in the middle. Four engine blocks had been welded to each end, and a length of steamship
anchor chain lay over the ends and coiled up on the ground. That way the resistance increases the higher he
goes, and he squats his ass an inch from the floor. Barefoot. Altogether a ton of steel waited to feel his
power.
He ducked under the beam and extended his arms along the length to secure his grip. The mass of iron
teetered up on his shoulders as he rose and stepped back to clear the bent-in-half I-beams he’d sunk into the
concrete to serve as a rack. Then he lowered himself down and shot back up, the huge rusty chains rattling.
Down he went again, his quads swelling with blood, his cock beginning to harden in exultation of his own
strength, and he mocked the hole again as he rose back up. The bar remained so level it could have been on
a track. His form was perfect, like he was a machine himself. Up and down he went twelve times, then
stepped forward and reracked it.
He kicked out his leg and shook the quads, which flowed like raging horses until he hardened them into
dense petrification. He stretched his legs out both ways, bridge-cables bulging in his hams and the quads.
He did another set of twelve and I rushed over to wipe the sweat off his face. And squeeze the cloth into
my mouth.
“That’s it for the warm-up. Let’s cut to the worksets.”
That was another part of the warehouse he’d converted into his gym. Swinging slightly from the vibrations
of Jason dropping the warm-up bar into place was the work-set weight: a city bus, hanging from chains. As
Jason’s strength grew, we filled the seats with engine blocks and compressed cars from the auto-yard. I
can’t even estimate how many tons where crammed there now. I think the ceiling will cave in before
Jason’s thighs give out. He’s already had to brace the ceiling with extra beamage.
Jason moved into position and grabbed the chassis from below. I released the gear that allowed the chain
to feed out and started the light motor that retracted the slack, and no more. Jason held the vast vehicle
above his head, his wrists perfectly controlling the weight so it swayed less than it had hanging free, and
slowly lowered himself down to the ground. He paused, and then the mass rose so perfectly it could have
been God’s Smith machine.
Again and again he sank and rose, sank and rose, his delts blooming into thick lobes, his triceps crowding
out of his arms as Pop-eye forearms held the bus steady. His pistoning muscle body tearing gravity to
shreds. His cock wagging up and down like it wanted something to heave around as well. Twelve perfect
reps and I locked it up. Two more sets followed, and on the final set, he crouched down in the hole on the
twelfth rep and heard his quads beg for mercy. They had to be kidding: mercy is something you show to
the weak. He rose up slowly, extending their agony, but instead of locking out he sank again, rose and
sank, rose and sank, pumping out three additional reps to show them who’s boss.
As he neared the top of the final rep he suddenly bellowed so loud three windows in the bus cracked and
the iron rafters rattled. I locked the bus and he shouted and shook out his quads in all their immense glory.
I walked up to him, with a clean towel, and bestowed a smile upon me: “I’ll be benching that mofo by next
month. You wait.”
Guess he was getting tired of benching the armored truck.
As we walked out he said, “Remind me to go the wrecking yard. We need some big boys compressed into
cubes to give this sucker some real weight to challenge me. A couple Dodge Ram’s ought to be a good
start.” I quivered as I entered the note in my mental pad. He forbids note-taking. It means I’m not really
paying attention, if I have to write it down to remember to do it.
Now, you wouldn’t think he’d need to lock the gym. Anyone would have to have a deathwish to so much
as walk by the door. But Jason knows human nature better than us mere humans do. He knows we are
weak, and in our weakness prone to crave strength. He knows an open door to such a shrine, with spattered
sweat droplets and the scent of old come and grease, would be too much for some to resist, and they would
endanger their lives simply to go and commune with the space where He had been. Like moths to a fuckin’
flame.
So he locked it. He’d punched two holes in the sliding steel doors. He took an I-beam and beeeeeent it
into a U with biceps that loooved the feel of hard steel giving in to their contractions. He stuck the prongs
through the holes, and closed the doors tight. Then he twisted the ends of the steel construction beam
together like a giant twist-tie. Most I-beams could stand up to the punishment of his arms and surging lats
three or four times before cracking or breaking. As his miracle biceps bent the singing steel around and
reforged it according to His will, I said “This one looked like it’ll split next time. This is just the second
time you’ve used it.”
Stepping back, he nodded. “We need to talk to the foreman. Damn cheap beams.”
By “we” he meant me: it was an order that he did not want to ever have to think about again.
On the way out of the warehouse district he cut down an unlit alley. He had no fear of the dark, or anything
that might lurk there. Once in the woods we’d been out hunting, and an horny male grizzly smelled the
testosterone boiling in Jason’s nuts and came charging through the forest toward his rival. Jason kept his
back to the bear until it was a foot away, then faster than any human eye could register he spun and
slammed his fist into the bear’s skull. The roaring creature made a sudden “urk” sound as its near-half-ton
body flew backward and hit HARD against a redwood. It shook its head but Jason was upon in faster than
the fog could clear.
“Teach you who’s king of the forest, you overgrown lapdog.”
Instinctively the bear tried to close its arms around Jason and claw him but he caught those arms and began
shoving them back. The bear raged but Jason’s legs pressed the beast firmly against the tree, his head
trapping the bear’s head back and up so it couldn’t bite: it could barely scream as Jason’s arms overcame
the bear’s superior leverage and in short hard jerks kept forcing the bear’s arms backward, ripping the
pectoral attachments and tearing joint ligaments. The shoulder joints splintered. The bear shrieked in
terror and fury but Jason couldn’t take a chance with the claws: so his fists tightened around the bear’s
forelimbs. The bones took as much of Jason’s grip as they could, but they’d never been evolved for this
kind of punishment. The bones fragmented and the spasming limbs fell limp. Jason reached up and
grabbed the bear’s muzzle with both hands, muscling its mouth closed.
“Shut the hell UP!”
I heard a muffled scream almost as loud as the sounds of the bear’s muzzle and teeth cracking, splintering
as Jason squeezed the jawbones into pulp. Its legs clawed the ground and in its spasms one claw managed
to scrape the skin of His flexing calf. Jason pulled the head down and stared into its eyes:
“I was going to let you die slowly off on your own, but not now.”
Bending down, Jason grabbed the offending leg and twisted it around until the knee cracked and all the
flexing muscles tore apart. He gripped the other ankle in one hand. Holding the bear out, he began scaling
the fuckin’ redwood with one hand, his toes clinging to the thick bark as ascended higher and higher, the
immense weight effortlessly dangling beside him and smacking into branches. Blood rained from the bear
into the needles below and Jason kept climbing higher. And higher. And dizzyingly higher.
He got about as high as he could before the tree itself would snap in his hand’s grasp. Then he began to
sway. Back and forth. Back and forth. Increasing his velocity. The redwood creaked and popped as Jason
turned it into a giant catapult, rocking it harder and harder, faster and faster so that bark began flying off at
the bend, only to have the bend travel farther down as Jason’s power increased.
The treetop’s arc passed twenty feet, then thirty. The noise of the feet-thick wood twisting and bending
was somehow more horrible than the sound of the bear’s body breaking in Jason’s crushing hands. The
immensity of the power Jason was generating to bend this giant redwood was more than my puny brain
could handle. I began to cry just out of some primordial awe. Just when it seemed the mighty tree would
split into pieces under His grueling insistence, Jason let go of the bear and launched it so many miles into
the surrounding mountains that even his his eagle eyes lost it. He leapt to nearby tree and dropped a
hundred feet to the ground while the totemic giant beside us slowly rocked itself to a harsh creaking stop.
I gazed up at its ruined length, and the lengths of torn bark and hanging branches. Spurting sap appeared
along its wounded length and filled the air with its fragrance. Jason almost disappeared into the mound of
needles that had fallen to the forest floor. He shook himself out and looked at me, saying “Damn. I really
wanted to eat that bear too.”
So after that, I was hardly afraid of what we’d find in a dark alley in the homey town of Jason, Idaho.
Jason, however, was always prepared for how stupid we Normals could be.
We heard a click and then a sudden flash of light. A road flare burned pinkish and dropped to the ground.
Four punk bodybuilders from out of town stood there, trying hard to look grim. They were covered with
cheap home-designed tattoos and they tried to mound their pecs by crossing their arms. If I’d never met
Jason, I might have thought a couple of ‘em were hot. Two were kind of chunky, clearly off-season. None
of them looked as bright as the flare.
“We heard you were the tough shit around here,” said the short one, a guy about five-four and two hundred
crammed-in pounds. “We’re hear to teach you the meaning of tough, dude.”
Jason sized them up as quickly as he did everyone, and rolled some words around his mouth before he
responded. After a long glare-filled pause, he said softly, casually, “You couldn’t teach me the shit part.”
The biggest one growled and lunged forward to punch him in the face. Jason waited until the last second
and whipped away, tripping the oaf as his own momentum carried him into the side of a dumpster. Another
six-footer raced up and hammered his fist into Jason’s abs: and cried in agony as his wrist broke. Jason
reached down around his arm, jerked it out of its socket and kicked the guys’ feet out from under him. The
other two yelled high like they’d seen too many Bruce Lee movies and aimed blows at Jason’s face: but he
caught their fists in his open hands hand and raised his arms so they dangled in the air. Jason then slowly
squeezed his fingers together and the guys shrieked like the pussies they were. Jason’s forearms bulged
and writhed with the power that smashed the bones of their hands, compacting and snapping them into
themselves, pulping them into a tighter and tighter space. Blood squirted out from the sides of his fists.
Their own bloated muscle-bulk strained their shoulders as they flung themselves around, flailing and trying
to find some vulnerable spot in Jason’s armor of muscle. All they ended up doing was scratching him as
their nails pulled loose against his corded forearms. Remembered the bear? Drawing blood means no
turning back.
The dumpster guy came to and heard his buddies moaning and sobbing in pain. He leapt up on Jason’s
back and gasped at how hard, how much denser than possible the muscle flexing beneath him was. Jason
dropped the two bloody-stumped guys and with one swift move, grabbed the guy by his sweatshirt and
hauled him off His back, flipped him over and slammed him down into the pavement.
Swiftly, before they could even comprehend how someone as big and heavy as Jason could move so
freakin’ fast, he slung the smallest onto his back in the middle of the alley, put the five-ten guy on his back
on top of the short one, then grabbed the two big boys and added them to the pile. He held them in place
by pressing his hands down on the sternum of the top guy, and the small guy at the bottom, trapped under
seven hundred pounds of meat and fat, groaned. Blood tricked out of his ears.
Jason thought a minute. “You toys are too big for your britches. I’m gonna take you down to your proper
size.” And his arms THRUST down, flattening them into each other and causing screams of pain to echo
off the bricks.
Another pressdown THRUST that exposed his triceps like cave overhangs in the lurid glow of the flare
crushed another foot from their total size; the creatures (I cannot call them “men”) coughed and gagged,
and now they were flat enough for Jason to straddle with his legs. He turned his head to me with a wicked
smile.
“I don’t think I properly finished that leg workout. We didn’t really work my hams.”
He squatted. The men groaned as incredible pressures built against their heavy muscles and rounded
ribcages. Jason braced himself against nothing, simply kept his feet on the pavement and contracted his
legs. His thigh biceps bruised the men’s bodies and they clutched at him vainly with their crippled arms.
Their wails got eerily louder and ululating. A spotlight filled the alley as bones CRUUUUUNCHED.
The cops, ever fearful of any disturbance of the peace that might reflect poorly on them in Jason’s eyes,
made the misstep of actually blinding him. At first they just saw carnage so they leapt out and approached,
weapons drawn. Jason stared at them, squishing the bodies beneath him. Guns dropped from limp hands.
“Oh, sorry, my Lord,” said one, who used to be a Catholic priest. “We didn’t know it was you.”
Jason stared him down until he looked at his shoes and trembled.
“You couldn’t tell it was me?”
The other, a former cop who’d scandalized the entire country with his racist antics in a western city during
a hugely publicized celebrity trial and been forced into an early northern retirement, actually burst into
tears, his once-handsome face distorted with terror. The cops sank to their knees and bowed their heads to
the pavement. Blubbering, they seemed to be praying for forgiveness, but it was hard to make out the
words distinctly.
Not that it mattered.
With a heavy sigh, Jason bent over, which caused moans and even greater compression into the pile, and
grabbed the former father in one hand and Officer Klansman in the other, and pulled them into the air as he
rose to his full six feet seven inches. Snot, tears and drool stained their uniforms as they hung in his grasp.
Jason stood as if considering options, then muttered “Fuck it.”
He threw the priest and then the cop onto the pile and started over. Straddling them all, he put his arms in
the air and simply SAT, sinking a whole foot into the mass. The two cops bulged and squished as their
organs ruptured. Ribs snapped and popped through skin. Blood jetted in all directions, and darker stuff
oozed and flowed from the center of the mass. Their screams joined the horrid moans from the four
bodybuilders being bodily unbuilt by Jason’s workout. Except the cops, even in their agony, didn’t dare
touch Jason’s body with their hands. Jason smiled at their obedience even in death.
Now Jason turned up the heat and began twisting and grinding the bodies down. His abs and intercostals
meshed and tightened in a dense skein of pure teen muscle power. He heard bones bend backward and it
made his cock bend up. He heard someone’s spine dislocate with a wet muffled “thwock” and his cock
throbbed up. Two pelvises cracked as his long quads sank past parallel and his godhead pulsed and slapped
up against his abs, flopping back and drawing a bridge of precum from one undercurled nipple when Jason
rotated his hips and pancaked the living beings more densely. The angle of his knees grew steeper as the
bubbling mess surged out around his prison-bar calves. He crooked his finger and I rushed over to suck
him off while his thighs creamed six live adult males helpless to stop them. At least three were dead by
now but three continued to gasp for breath, their flopping heads moaning through blood-drenched teeth.
Jason grabbed my head (he touched me!) and impaled my throat with his living cock. The final stuttering
cram drove a last banshee-shriek from the one survivor until the grisly grinding of bone fragments against
soupy pavement shut it up forever. Now, a mere six inches from the ground, his cock jerked and pulled a
muscle in my traps. I held onto His thighs and the Source graced my belly with heavy, blinding come. I
drank as much as I could until I began to pass out, and He pulled me free of Himself. Spurting come fell
down over my face but I couldn’t manage to breath in! My eyes flew open, unseeing, in panic, and He,
mindless of his own ferocious orgasm, placed his mouth over mine.
I could feel the heat and eternal comfort of his life-giving strength surround me. He sucked his own cum
out of my throat and swallowed it: then forced his living breath to fill my collapsing lungs. My chest
expanded with power it had never known and stars blazed through my brain. He pulled away, a thread of
saliva-come still connecting his lips with mine, and the concern in his eyes and continued disregard of his
flowing ejaculate almost made me pass out anew. He slapped my cheek lightly and smiled, and while
smiling, pressed his ass further into the slime beneath him, melding the six former beings into one hideous
monster of torn and twisted flesh.
He stood up and let me go, and I staggered back and found my balance. I gazed at him and realized my
own prick had emptied itself and was dry-heaving through a hole it tore in my gym shorts. I watched in
adoration as He fetched a deep breath, expanding those impossibly thick pecs in the failing light of the
flare. I breathed in his exhalation. He laughed happily.
“Now that’s what I call a good finisher.”
The end. Until He says different.
Chipmasterson@yahoo.com
(
geocities.com/westhollywood/park) (
geocities.com/westhollywood)