WARNING: THIS IS A GROTESQUE STORY OF SEXUAL VIOLENCE, DESIGNED TO SHOCK,
REPULSE AND AROUSE. IF THAT IS NOT IN YOUR BEST INTEREST, OR YOU ARE
UNDERAGE, STOP READING THIS STORY. THAT’S AN ORDER.
Jason Tries to Relax
As told to Chip Masterson by “Matt”
Dudes! Who’d have thunk I could ever learn Morse code? Not that witch Miss Spencer, that’s for sure.
But thank Jason for the Chipster, though. He taught me to blink in Morse so I can describe the honor and
misfortune of being Jason’s chosen guy. I gotta blink cause, you see, I’m on a respirator kinda full time.
It’s more like an iron lung. But with tubes and a few IVs.
Whoa! Pain wave, what a rush. It’s like you’re surfing with your brain over razor blades, dudes. But you
know, since Jason took over, you can’t even find aspirin anymore. Much less the good stuff.
Course He doesn’t need that sorta stuff. He’s a lot more relaxed these days, since He subdued the city
council and broke the police/fire stranglehold on the town. Now He can just be His divine Self. But that’s
Him … not us. He expects nothing less than one hundred percent effort, perfection and results from each
and every citizen of Jason, Idaho, every minute of every day. But that’s a natural for ol’ Matty, here,
dudes. ‘Course, that’s the name He gave me, and you’ll see why in a minute. I don’t really remember what
I used to be called.
So far nobody’s disappointed Him TOO much. His strong guiding hand keeps people in line, usually by
shaking cars or lamp posts at them until they straighten up. So things are tense, you bet, but I’ll tell you
what, since we don’t have TV or movies or any of that stuff anymore, or pot or cigarettes or booze, it kinda
concentrates your mind, you know? You really learn how to focus. Most of the mistakes people made
were during the chemical withdrawal phase and He understood that, as He understands everything about us,
better than we do. Not that I don’t miss a good buzz now and then. But I don’t even so much as think
about wanting one. He’d know it and I don’t want to feel the ground shaking harder and harder as He
approached.
Anyways, the Jason High Argonauts were facing against the Spokane Sphinctermonkeys or whatever they
are, and Jason was really looking forward to laying back and watching His team prove His superiority to
those Washington wimps. And the team knew it: one hundred percent concentration and effort. We were
totally psyched, dudes, let me tell ya.
Of course, for the entire town to turn out to cheer as He would expect, they had to work for about a week to
add the extra seating, but when He arrived just before the kick-off, you could tell how proud He was of all
of us, being there and in our seats and sitting up all straight ‘n all. The Chipster was there too, of course,
making sure His beer vendor was ready and all the snack guys were close and His seat nice and clean.
I was sitting close to Him ‘cause I was the MVP last year when I lead the, uh, the Argonauts to victory
before going off to Colorado State. ‘Course, when Jason took over He called us back to the town so I had
to dump my football scholarship but that was just great, man, I mean, what an honor, to serve Him. When
he looks at you with pride, christ, you just fill up like you wanna burst. So anyway I had a rockin’ seat,
right near his at the fifty yard line. So I felt extra proud, you know? Jason, man. Jason. Rhymes with
“gives a one-hundred-percent straight dude a monster woodie.”
Now, the high school stadium was built a long time back and has these nasty aluminum bench seats, which
aren’t all that comfortable so the boosters rent these snarky cushions for like a dollar a pop. You never
wanna smell those cushions, dudes, not even on a bet. Jason’s seat had been specially reinforced with extra
steel plating when we heard he was dropping by to chug some brewskies and relax, ‘cause we know how
excited he can get. Chip was getting the welders out of sight and standing at attention when He came down
the steps. You could feel the whole side of the stadium brace itself to withstand His feet. All the steel and
concrete creaked and settled to support him. It was so cool.
Chip’s little Chip was standing at attention too, but that was almost the case for the entire town. Did I
mention clothes were banned as well? We got nothing to hide from da Man. But it isn’t as fugly as you
might expect when you think about all the bankers and secretaries and their fat asses, ‘cause Jason has
everyone on a two hour a day workout/cardio program, so even the old people are looking a helluva lot
better. The only people with clothes on were the players and the Spokane fans. They were making cracks
about us until Jason entered. Then His radiating power made ‘em all shut the hell up.
The band was playing the Jason Anthem, which you might know as the old church hymn “How Great Thou
Art.” But Jason looked anything but pleased. He didn’t much like his seat. Now, it wasn’t the additional
supports, they were all underneath. It was still just a steel seat, and he wanted something cushiony to sit
on. He looked at me. And smiled His terrible smile. “That boy’s got some muscle on his bones,” He said.
My heart leaped at once with both fear and joy as He curled his finger and pointed down at the bench still
warm from the welders. I did not hesitate to obey, man. That’d take a whole lot stronger will than I have,
in spite of the fact I bench 325 for reps and run the hundred in a cunt’s-hair over nine seconds with a
hundred pound barbell across my shoulders. I got up and went over and knelt down to kiss His holy
Godhead (I knew my girl would be burning up … because she couldn’t kiss it!) and still feeling the salty
slime of it on my lips, lay face down on the bench. But He kept standing, there, man, and I started to sweat.
What had I done wrong?
I could see His boot tappin’ and it dawned on me – I knew He likes face-up. From that thing in the alley. I
knew it! How could I be so fuckin’ dumb? Quickly I turned over and my woodie sproinged up and waved
around. THEN He sat down, hard, on my chest, knocking the wind out of me a minute. He pressed down
too, with an unreal pressure making all my ribs pop. I started to panic, because I couldn’t breath back in,
and I could hear the blood in my ears start to press against my eardrums … and then He lightened up a bit
and I sucked in some quick air.
The beer guy came over and filled up a big frosty one and Jason said “Open your mouth, fuckface.” Is he
gonna give me some, I wondered? Fake! He used my mouth as a cup-holder. It was so awesome to be
useful like that, I thought I’d cry with happiness, even when my jaw started to cramp and it felt like spikes
were driving into my neck.
The globes of his glutes were harder than my pecs, and more striated too. Looking up the expanse of His
side I marveled at the complex interplay of planet-stopping muscle, so relaxed yet still hard enough to
bounce bullets, I bet. I heard a whistle and suddenly He rose, roaring a cheer, pumping His fist in the air
(that tricep, catching the sunlight, it wasn’t even a horseshoe anymore, the heads all crammed into each
other). Then He sat hard again and I felt my sternum give with a crack.
I had to keep my lats and upper back fully flexed the whole time to support Him, and some of the muscles
were starting to cramp and make my eyes water. My neck was getting stiff too and my abs trembled.
Everywhere I felt this burning, deep-itching scream of muscle fibers starting to tear apart under the strain.
But He seemed to be enjoying Himself, which is all that mattered … that is, until some freak fumbled and
Spokane took possession.
“Dammit!” He screamed in a way I bet made some of the players piss themselves, even on the other team.
Then He brought his fist down on my thigh. Pain blew through my head like a sandstorm as the bone
pulverized and His fist ripped my quads apart and smashed my hamstring muscles into the reinforced steel
seat, which dented into the shape of his knuckles. I could feel my thigh biceps burst open and I
spontaneously bit through the bottom of His beer cup. Terror seized me as I gagged on the beer and tried to
spit it out, forgetting my fear in the face of His anger, but He only gave me a dirty look and got another
beer. He could be so forgiving in the ugly face of our weaknesses that thankful praise stomped out the
explosions in my head and leg and I muttered, “Thank You, Sir,” before he filled my mouth with a new cup
of beer.
It was harder to breath through the searing agony so I was kind of panting when He growled to knock it off.
Flushed with joy at His merciful guidance away from error and the sheer pleasure of being His tool, I
slowed my breathing down and forced my mind to stay focused on the twin tasks of keeping myself alive
(to serve Him) and supporting Him with a stable muscle-cushion. Despite the piercing jolts from sharp
ends of my vertebrae bending and snapping off against the steel seat every time He breathed.
Just before half-time Spokane scored a touchdown. Jason didn’t say anything this time but His hand
clamped around my other thigh. I used to squat 650 but His long thick fingers practically wrapped all the
way around as He slowly strangled my thigh. I flexed hard as I could but His brute forearm power caused
my quads to spasm and jerk. I could feel the different muscles in His arm fire as power rippled down into
my helpless body. The pressure doubled and I could feel each finger conquering my strength, steadily
dominating my hardness. My muscles flared with pain as they mashed flat, rupturing into bloody mush as
He worked out his building annoyance against my feeble resistance. My humerus, thickened from a decade
of heavy iron, splintered as His fingers tightened. Needles of bone splayed out, slashing through the
crippled muscle as His had relentlessly TIGHTENED and began twisting the marrow out into the flaccid
mess. I passed out briefly, only to be revived by a gagging sheet of flame as He deepened the tightening to
constrict my entire thigh to no more than an inch in diameter. But out of obedience I thrust my jaw open,
against the blinding horror, so I wouldn’t spill His beer again.
The second half started up mighty quick. Jason didn’t want to wait. The pleasure of being his ass-matt
throbbed through my prick while the pain from my broken legs surged in waves up my body,
overwhelming my brain with conflicting commands. I almost jizzed, man, without His permission. But
His silent command, a stiffening of His glutes that tore my pec loose from my breastplate, stilled my
spasming legs and prick and kept my breathing strong. Everything in my body went rigid to steel my
discipline for His service, despite the cramps and needle-stabs everywhere.
He didn’t much like that though. He wanted a softer seat. He began shifting His weight, grinding into my
torso. His ass cheeks clenched and massaged my pecs, trapping them against my breastbone, then ripping
parts of them away again. I tried to relax but the muscles reacted on their own, tensing harder. So He
squeezed harder, rotated His hips and I felt my stressed ribs bend farther inward, my sternum crack in two
places. I heard a whistle and the crowd when hushed: Jason grabbed my knees in one huge hand and
SLAMMED them down into the bench, fragmenting every bone and my tibias to boot. Pain spiraled down
into my feet as large fragments of bone burst apart. He muttered softly, “You better pull this one out of
your asses fast, cocksuckers.” I bet the team was sweating blood by now. Blood, lymph, bile, the works.
But He still wasn’t comfortable. So he bounced once, cracking every rib where the glutes contacted them.
He wriggled himself deeper into the wound, and I could feel the sharp sting of his shit pressing into my
skin breaks. My pecs twitched uncontrollably a few times and suddenly went dead, while pieces of my ribs
worked loose and began pressing into my lungs and against my heart. He finally settled into the mushier
concavity where my chest had been. I could taste nickels in my mouth.
Maybe it was the pressure to perform but the team just kept bungling, apparently. I couldn’t see much, just
His fearfully tensing musculature that kept swelling and bulging in every direction with each breath. He
leapt up screaming “Shitheads!” and stamped His foot so hard the reinforced steel plate buckled nearly in
half and the stands groaned as they sagged inward from the thrust. People gasped but didn’t dare scream.
He pointed his finger at someone on field and then he plopped back down onto me so hard blood spurted up
against the bottom of his beer cup. He picked it up but instead of drinking, threw it onto the field. That’s a
bad thing and slammed His fist down into my abs. My guts melted and something tore loose in my side
above my hip and the pain made me groan helplessly.
His other hand now came down over my face and gripped it firmly. I could smell His sweat and feel the
pulsating power press in at five points around my head. My crackled ribs collapsed further beneath him,
the cracks radiating down their length toward my spine. The exquisite agony of being so enjoyed by Him
in His time of distress forced me to mouth the words “Praise You, Lord.” But I couldn’t work up the air to
say it. I just blew out a tiny dome of blood.
My head spun with blinding nerve-alarms speeding in from every point of my crushed body. Small
piercing pains as compound fractures broke into new body parts competed with the nauseating ache of my
cramping back muscles finally starting to shred. I heard a cheer from the far side as Spokane scored again,
and this time the flat of his hand rammed down onto my erect cock and splattered it straight down through
my pelvis. Blood and come and searing pain burst in all directions He flattened my dick like an beer can.
My balls pulled up inside my body where my clamping muscles crushed them, blurring all my senses into
one cry of adoration. His other hand tightened on my head and the pressure grew so unbearable a wail of
terrified anticipation of my skull’s collapse broke out of my blood-burbling throat. He let up, then,
standing to scream at the field. I could smell ammonia and heard shit plop all around me.
The Jason Argonauts made a rally and got a field goal, but that wasn’t enough to redeem them yet. I began
to HEAR my spinal erectors tear loose from my backbone. New dimensions of pain opened up as if all that
had just been foreplay. He pressed himself harder into my body and my heart raced, trapped underneath a
cracking wall of curled ribs and side of his impenetrable ass. I passed out as my shoulder blades snapped
and my arms flopped crazily down on either side of the bench.
The horn sounded the end of the game and woke me up. Jason stood up and turned around to look at me.
Blood dripped from his heroic hands and glutes. He reached down and began peeling me up out of the
dents and depressions in the steel bench, flaying the skin off my back in searing strips. I almost blacked
out again, dudes, it was like I was finally coming apart, my body just disintegrating, my soul dying, but I
didn’t want to miss the splendor of seeing Him one last time while He dislodged my shoulder from the
twisted metal, peeling down part of the bench with the heel of His hand to free the bones that jammed into
it.
He looked at Chip. “Old Matty there did a good job. See to it he survives, BOY.”
And now, the doctors are working round the clock to rebuild as much of my body as they can. For His
sake. It makes me so fuckin’ happy to alive and part of Jason’s world. He chose ME. This eyelid-batted
Morse Code story was a labor of love, man. An act of fuckin’ adoration to the greatest God ever.
Signed,
[blots of coughed blood]
chipmasterson@yahoo.com
(
geocities.com/westhollywood/Park) (
geocities.com/westhollywood)