WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND PROBABLY SEX.  IF YOU’RE 
UNDERAGE OR OFFENDED BY SAME, STOP READING IT.

Nerdmuscle 3: Musclemaniac

For My Lord and Master, the One and Only Jason

By Chip Masterson

After the revelations of Shawn’s midnight persona and the sight of him destroying a tank on the Marine 
base, I was glad to have a little time to myself to just work out and get back in groove with the ladies. That 
last trip had my head spinning seven ways from Sunday.  But nothing prepared me for what Shawn would 
do next.

Shawn showed up one day with a page torn out of a magazine.  As usual, during the day he was Clark 
Kenting it with the baggy clothes and his dork glasses.  Of course, anything off the rack would be baggy on 
him: guys with shoulders as wide as his usually also have guts to match; same with thighs that thick.  It’s 
such a perfect disguise because it’s so retarded.  Nobody who didn’t know his night side would ever guess 
it could exist.  He’d even stutter if some bully confronted him, cutting in line at the 7-11 buying Lotto 
tickets or something.  Shawn would just leave ... but the bully would come out to find his truck bumper 
twisted around a bigger truck’s bumper, and a bigger bully waiting.  

I looked at the ad: Musclemania was coming to town, with Ade Rai and Kevin Levrone doing guest 
routines.  Shawn was trembling with excitement, though I didn’t know exactly what kind at the time.  He 
told me to buy tickets immediately for the both of us.  He’d drive, of course.

I made sure the Chevelle was waxed and the tank topped off, just like he likes it.  He’s not a guy you want 
to disappoint, not after you’ve seen him find a flyspeck on the right rear mag and, holding a crowbar in his 
left hand, squeeze it until it bent up into his palm and then break as he kept palming it into a U shape.  Man, 
I went over the car with a magnifying glass, I don’t know how that got there, but he saw it soon as he 
walked into the garage.  I’m just glad he didn’t have his hand around a fire extinguisher or something really 
dangerous.

So the ride was perfect as we rumbled into the parking lot.  The full-throated roar of the engine always 
gives him a major boner, mostly ‘cause it’s intimidating and almost as powerful as his left arm.  He wore 
tight jeans stress-stretched around his thighs and calves and a black t-shirt that could have been a tattoo, the 
sleeves barely able to accommodate the cantaloupe breadth of his shoulders, leaving exposed the warhead-
point of ribbed muscle that sunk under the long, thick masses of his bi’s and tri’s.  Not pumped (yet), the 
veins of his arms rode just under his skin.  The gate guard took one look at the hairless forearm resting on 
the door and directed us to a special competitor’s parking section without a word.  That’s the kind of 
authority he exudes once he’s dropped the nerd act and exposed even a hint of his true virility.

Problem was, parking was almost full.  A gigantunormous black Eddie Bauer Explorer jacked up on off-
road mega-tires had backed in and taken up two handicapped spaces right next to the entrance.  Didn’t look 
like it had ever seen a dirt road in its life.  I could see Shawn’s jaw work as he wondered what kind of 
overbuilt musclehead thinks he’s so big he needs that much space.  He stopped along the red curb and got 
out, leaving the engine idling.  The SUV’s hood stood about chest height, a monolith compared to Shawn’s 
rangy, lean whip-like muscularity.  But I knew it didn’t stand a chance.  

His long, knuckly fingers reached into the grill and probed around in the engine compartment.  I heard the 
crinkling sound metal makes when it looses its cast shaped under tremendous pressure.  The cross-bars of 
the grill cracked as his forearm sprung to life, veins competing with finger-thick muscles and tendons.  He 
twisted his arm, his bicep popping up like a granite ridge, and suddenly the truck sank to left, the creaking 
of its suspension matched by the squeaking of the lycra stretching across the knobby terrain of his 
expanding lat.  The car continued to list deeper until the shocks blew with muffled pops and the front 
spring cracked, its compressed coils scraping and tangling.  But Shawn twisted farther, his sleeve riding up 
the steepening terrain of his delt until the massive vehicle shuddered and the wheels bent outward, the over-
inflated rubber bulging around the wheel wells like his muscle bulged out of his shirt.  The front fender bit 
too deeply and the tire exploded with a bitter rubber-dust wind, and the cracking of the nuts and screech of 
bending axles made me cross my legs with anxiety.  I gritted my teeth, wondering what he’d do next.  

Next he pulled sideways, into the bent-up wheels, and the nearly two-ton truck shivered and bounced as he 
dragged it toward the sidewalk.  The tires hit the curb and his arm pressed throbbing veins higher above the 
mounting muscle.  The wheels quivered and shoved up into the body, the rear tire blowing out as the body 
dragged over it, riding over the warped wheels and up onto the sidewalk.  Shawn walked sideways, 
dragging the truck with that one unyielding arm, until the other side’s tires hit the curb and began bending 
outward.  The screeching of tormented steel had begun to draw a crowd.  The other tires suddenly blew 
completely loose from the wheels and started warping the body.  The truck crept farther until it was all up, 
tilting drunkenly.

Shawn pondered a moment, a slight increase in his breathing and a stippling of sweat across his brow all 
the evidence he’d exerted any effort at all.  A groin-stirring musky smell emanated from his pits and my 
commitment to pussy was seriously undermined.  He pulled his arm out of the grill, breaking away bits of 
it, walked over to the “handicapped” sign sunk into the concrete, and grabbed it ... with the same hand.  His 
muscles bulged once and the sign erupted from the concrete, a ball of cement around the base.  Dust and 
small chunks of concrete shot up out of the hole.  He walked back to the truck and raising the sign-post, 
slammed it down into the hood, piercing the metal and hitting the engine block with a steel-cracking smack 
that broke it loose and knocked it into the sidewalk.  With his other hand he grabbed the steel post and bent 
it smoothly down until the “handicapped” sign rested flat against the windshield, facing in.  He turned to 
the gaping crowd around him and smiled at them for a long minute, letting them drink in his assurance, the 
breadth of his pecs hovering like porterhouses above the dark cavern of his belly, and the steel-mangling 
arms that served them, hanging loosely at his sides.  He broke the silence with a low mutter that everyone 
heard: “Now it’s handicapped.”

He parked the Chevelle in one of the empty places.  I gave Shawn our tickets and we strode into the 
auditorium through the regular entrance, turning heads and causing double-takes on the pumped-arm side.  
We had great seats.  Right in front of the photographers.  Not that those were our ticketed seats.  

Shawn walked up to where he wanted to sit and leaning down to look in the eyes of the bloated jock sitting 
there, said with a disturbing authority, “I think you’re sitting in our seats.”  He pressed our tickets into the 
man’s big hand, and closed his fingers around it, squeezing just enough to make a couple muscle fibers 
twitch and the man to yelp in pain and try to pull away.  “So go sit in ‘em already,” he added.  The off-
season hulk scrambled up, dragging his anorexic girlfriend protesting behind him.  

The show passed slowly, boring even, with Shawn sitting stock-still and absorbing everything about the 
competitors.  A shadow of contempt was all that colored his stone-chiseled features.  During the long 
breaks where nothing happened, his gaze went far away, his eyes narrowed, as if he were making 
calculations of some sort.  When we finally got to the big pose-down at the end, a queer look came into his 
eyes, and he nodded slightly to himself.  He seemed to relax a bit when suddenly the show stopped cold 
and one of the biggest super-heavyweights competing, a monster weighing 280 pounds at about 3% 
bodyfat, was called off stage.  He disappeared for about five minutes.  

Suddenly we heard a large metal door being wrenched off its hinges and volleys of curses coming out of 
the wings.  The behemoth stomped furiously on stage and scanned the crowd through the blinding glare, 
barking out orders to turn up the house lights.  The other competitors backed away from his fury and spittle 
flew from his glistening white teeth as he bellowed:

“Who the hell messed up my truck?  Be a man and face MEEEE!”  His mind-boggling muscles flexed into 
carved-boulder hardness as he launched an intimidating crab pose, grinding bulge against bulge until I 
thought they’d spark.

Without hesitation, in fact with a twitch of relish, Shawn rose and strode up to the stage.  The roid monster 
sneered at Shawn and heaved deep breaths, expanding his ribs and flexing mountainous pecs.  He easily 
had 75 pounds of beef on Shawn, and a couple inches as well.  This made him think he was superior.  It 
was his second mistake (the first being his parking job) ... but not his last.

Shawn effortlessly leapt onto the stage and the two stared each other down.  The bodybuilder was the first 
to crack.  “What the HELL is your damage, wimp?”

Shawn waited ten seconds and calmly explained the rules of parking.  “The only thing handicapped about 
your is your shrunken balls, which last I checked wasn’t....”

The freak cut him off and screamed “What kind of rig did you use to wreck my truck?  You take me to it!”

Shawn smiled broadly, his face lighting up bright enough to melt wax.  “This,” he said, and barely bending 
his elbow, flexed his arm into high relief.  The crowd gasped at the fibrous density of that arm.  With his 
free hand he pointed an index finger at the SUV-wrecking biceps and nodded.  “This,” he added for 
clarification.

“Bullshit!”  The man stamped in a tantrum.  “Right now, it’s you and me, right here!”

Shawn frowned and shook his head.  “That wouldn’t be fair at all.  Tell you what.  There are 35 
competitors in the heavy and middle categories.  I’ll take you all on for a tug-of-war.  Right here, right 
now, on this stage.  Get a chain or some bridge cable.  You’ll need it.”

The man stood confused a moment, then started laughing hysterically, almost maniacally.   Between 
guffaws he waved the other competitors over and said, “Come on, guys, let’s teach this punk ass a lesson.”

The stage was set ...  for disaster I would never have imagined.

I figured this Jupiter-class dude had planned on getting his pro card tonight, and now it looked like 
everything was pissed to shit.  Some of his buddies were competing and, shouting things about Shawn’s 
mother, they found a coiled rope about an inch and a half thick backstage and brought it out, flinging a 
knotted end at Shawn’s head and passing the rest down the line.  Shawn snatched it out of the air, walked 
back a bit to give the guys more room, and held the rope out in front of him in both hands.  And waited, 
with this annoyed, bored look.  He even whistled tunelessly and tapped his foot.

“Come on, ladies, let’s get going,” he muttered to himself.

“You the bitch!  You the pussy assed bitch!” shouted the would-be pro, poking the air with a finger that 
seemed too small for the giant arm behind it.  Even I could feel the waves of pent-up rage flowing off the 
stage.  Whatever it was made him want to get so goddam big was now super-charging his championship 
bod to exact revenge for a lifetime of wrongs, slights and whatever.  Shawn just looked confident and 
model-handsome in the gelled lights.

The men were set, some furious, some curious, all confident that 35 bodies that regularly move quarter-tons 
for reps and tirelessly curl the equivalent or two or three schoolchildren can take down this weirdo.  The 
furious ones wanted to pound and trample him bloody.  And none more than the wannabe pro.

“On three, guys, let’s haul this motherfucker IN!  One, Two, THREEEEAAAAHHHHH!”  he yelled as 
rope burns scorched his hands on the first pull.  The rope remained firmly rooted in Shawn’s fists, not 
moving so much as a hair, while the angry guys merely lost skin against it.  “Towels, we need some 
motherfuckin’ towels!” the un-pro shouted, blaming the baby oil and Jan Tana lotion for weakening his 
grip.

Flunkies came out with towels and chalk and the bloated men made an impressive show of preparing 
themselves for battle, complete with gorilla-like body slaps.  Shawn rolled his eyes and whistled like a 
bomb falling out of the sky, complete with exaggerated explosion noises.  The crowd tittered and began to 
sway in its allegiance to the kid who held his ground.

The men were ready again, hands white and twisted around the rope.  “We’re gonna tear you apart,” 
growled Mr. Almost.  He counted to three again through clenched teeth and suddenly the air was full of 
grunts.  But nothing appeared to be happening.  

My eyes were fixed between the center of the rope and Shawn’s awesome bod, taut and hard but not nearly 
fully deployed.  70 feet scrambled and stamped, flunkies threw chunks of chalk onto the stage for the guys 
to crush for traction, and the air quickly stank with the sweat that began bubbling out of the straining bodies 
and oversized legs chafing in place.  Straining in vain: the only movement the rope made was to twist.  
Shawn could have been cast in bronze.

Yet the statue slowly came to life.  He pulled his hands in until one rested against his brick-wall abs (for all 
his breathing it could have been a solid wall).  The eyes of the competitors widened as they felt the winch-
force of His Arms drag them inches across the floor.  I heard a few guys wonder “What the--” but the ex-
SUV owner just roared, twisted the rope tighter around his fist and really started yanking in hard short 
bursts.  Everyone started in harder, kicking at the ground and actually trying to hurl their bodies backward.  
Chalk dust, or possibly smoke, rose up from his rope-stroking hands.  It didn’t budge.  Just twanged a bit.

Shawn yawned and reached farther up the rope with one hand.  His long biceps was fully exposed to the 
crowd and one of the lighting guys put a baby spot on it.  The muscle twitched in a small contraction, and 
the rope drew further in ... then twitched again, growing fuller, denser, wider ... and the rope followed his 
arm.  The bodybuilders began leaning back, putting their combined tonnages to the task of at least trying to 
get back to a dead stop.  But that arm just kept pulling ... and growing ... and bending ... and flexing ... and 
with the bending, peaking higher, a gentle swell that separated into a thunderhead knot above a broad 
plateau with veins like lightning pulsing from one to the other, and the knot swelled farther east while the 
rope was dragged farther west, and the muscle-knot filled the space between the Indian-club forearm and 
the overripe melon of delts, controlling the rope that almost tried to twist out of his grasp on its own.  

Then his other hand shot forward, flashing a dazzlingly complex triceps that stretched its long thick fingers 
down into his forearm and stood straight out like some unborn twin clinging ferally to his arm.  The crowd 
leaned forward to watch that wild muscle ripple, split and dig into his arm as that arm bent, towing nearly 
four tons of adrenaline-fueled musclemen another inch forward ... another inch ... and one more inch 
toward that inexorable, unstoppable muscle.  Their faces began to tic with fear of the muscle they hadn’t 
the will or the strength to turn their eyes from.  

Shawn’s rock-strewn back thickened, the black lycra shining as its fibers began to snap and pull apart.  
Tiger-stripes of skin began to show through the shredding material as his sinew hardened past the 
material’s stretching point.  As that arm’s angle tightened and the broad biceps widened like the Mississippi 
in flood to release the power needed to best nearly three-dozen bodybuilders, a near riot broke out 
somewhere in the auditorium.  Feet stampeded out and others shouted “Down in front!”  Shawn smiled; his 
feet were as firmly planted as before, though his double-reinforced jeans (secretly resewn with high-test 
fishing line, the kind needed to land a marlin) were starting to creak.  

A confused murmur ran through the competitors as deep breaths became groaning heaves and, and pumped 
arms began to cramp and twitch.  Mr. Anger Issues barked hoarsely and his crew tugged harder, faster, in 
rope-torturing succession.  Blood began seeping from the fingers of the first men but the harder they 
tugged?  It made no difference.  Their bodies were levered up and forward by a compulsion they couldn’t 
find any way to brake.  To lean back meant shuffling feet forward, and more inches lost to this insane, and 
insanely strong, freak.  Shawn’s body had pumped up now to easily win the lightweights.  And he hadn’t 
stopped growing ... or pulling ... or winning.

The leader stomped, denting the hardwood of the stage with his heels, struggling to get a foothold, some 
traction, anything to counter the relentless tractoring force of Shawn’s arms.  His eyes rolled and froth spat 
out of his mouth as all his manly hormones when into overdrive.  With a vein-stressing 
“ARRRRGGGHHHHH!” he began to quiver and shake in one long hard draw.  His face became a kabuki 
mask, oblivious to what others nearby noticed and heard: things popping and tearing inside his shoulders, 
elbows.  He practically pressed himself up onto the rope, completely off the floor, only to sling himself 
down until the boards cracked.  That gave his bare heel something to dig against but it didn’t slow Shawn 
down one bit.  Nor did he speed up.  He just reached out another long arm, glanced at the audience with a 
grin and a cocked eyebrow to show he wasn’t even breathing hard, then cocked his head at the exposed 
biceps, glistening red and dripping with sweat.  

Curly veins stood higher than before across the fibers that now defied the existence of skin, trilling and 
firing as they sucked up more blood, and pounded it back into the flesh-engine again.  Now the battle was 
on between that arm and half-ton-squatter’s leg, which seemed at least six times as thick.  For a moment, 
everything froze: but only for the effect.  Shawn laughed to himself and made his forearm expand, tendons 
rising up that forced his opponent’s knee to bend down.  The arm moved like a piston while the dino-quad 
vibrated faster and faster, like the Flash trying to go through a wall.  But the only wall anyone saw was the 
one behind Shawn, growing steadily closer.  Even his masonry-abs were lost in the shadows.

Six security guards who looked like off-season gymrats decided enough was enough.  (As if it was their 
place to decide anything at this point.)  The head of the detail to talk to Shawn; they other guys looked 
skittish.  Shawn put up with their demands to stop for a bit, then turned to the goon and cut him off mid-
sentence: “Would you shut the fuck up, you stuffed gorilla?  I’m trying to concentrate here.”  He 
dismissively turned back to the men tangled at the other end of the rope and said to himself (the only man 
that mattered right now) “Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah.”  And pulling more of the spiraling rope onto his 
side of the stage, he blew out the denim around the seams of one leg, the cotton rocketing and his massive 
quad writhing and huge as a living glacier.

The security guys attacked, two grabbing his arms, two his legs and two a shoulder each.  But their weight-
trained grips couldn’t dent Shawn’s sculpted brawn.  Their fingers slid off with his sweat, could find no 
purchase on muscle that might as well have been polished marble.  They wrapped their arms up under his 
and around his child-sized waist, and tried to heave him up off the ground.  But you know what?  Shawn 
stayed put. 

For about three heaves.  Then he lowered his elbows, trapping a thick studly arm between each arm and his 
lats.  The men cried out.  He flared his lats against his tightening arms, his traps rising like Atlantean 
continents and his pecs mounding like the tombs of ancient kings, and the cries tore into high-pitched 
shrieks of panicky terror and pain.  Two humeruses shattered, the broken bones ground to dust in Shawn’s 
human vice.  The guys tried to jerk their arms out of the trap but flailed like fish on the line.  Two guys 
released his waist and tried to pry Shawn’s elbows up, only to find them sink tighter against his sides and 
spurt gouts of blood into their open mouths.  The trapped men howled and the others began punching 
Shawn all over his impregnable body ... until the leader desperately slammed his fist into Shawn’s jaw.  

Shawn’s head didn’t move, anchored as it was on his redwood neck.  But it hurt him, almost as much as it 
hurt the dude’s hand when his wrist snapped under its own force against that immovable obstacle.  But his 
howl of pain died in his throat when Shawn turned Antarctic eyes onto him.  “You better hope I don’t let go 
of this,” he said.  The guy backed away but the other three still tugged at his waist and legs.  Shawn half-
whispered, “Then again, it doesn’t really matter.”  

Shawn moved faster than most people could conceive possible and slammed four security studs against the 
wall, trapping them with his own back, while the two below he locked in a chest-to-chest leg scissors, 
breaking their braced legs against the wall.  The fishline of bodybuilders stuttered across the stage as the 
rope in Shawn’s hands pulled them off balance.  Their leader’s knee gave out with a crack and he too was 
propelled forward.

There was still about five feet of rope between the two sides, and Shawn again began hauling them in 
slowly, like a conveyor belt.  So many men stumbled in that one jerk that when they regained their footing, 
many faced away from Shawn, with the rope over their shoulders.  Now they could really dig their thighs 
into the action ... and not be intimidated by the sight of that one guy, humiliating them ALL.

Strongmen who had trained to haul semis across parking lots put their skills to work ... and all that 
happened was the rope bit deeper into their traps and tore their hands to the bone as it moved in its only 
possible direction.  Except that now, Shawn’s arms were immobilized, crushing the arms of the two guards 
and grinding the bone splinters into the muscle while they pleaded and tried to pull their own arms off at 
the shoulder to get away from this human death machine.  So now the rope was moving a little more 
slowly, as Shawn’s fingers alone dug into the rope’s taut fibers and proved stronger than the 35 howling, 
panting, cramping men slowly losing against their clawing power.

But Shawn wasn’t neglecting the guards.  The two caught behind his back groaned as they struggled to 
draw breaths under his compressing force.  Their arms swung out and their bodies bucked but they were 
steadily compacted tighter ... and tighter ... and groans became whines and whimpers as ribs began to bend.  
The two between his long hard thighs felt hysteria-inducing pressure blow all the air out of their lungs and 
trench into their layered, spine-protecting backs.  

Shawn raised his elbows and let fall the grotesquely-flattened arms, bloody with ruptured hypertrophied 
muscle -- but quickly swung them back, his triceps driving each man into the wall and holding him there.  
They had one arm to scratch and pound at his biceps and forearms, rippling now hypnotically with his 
fingers’ work.  Four big men, nearly half a ton of iron-slinging beef, screamed and begged, wedged 
between Shawn and the cinderblock wall.  And now Shawn’s arms were freer to keep pulling the rope ... 
and his prey ... toward him.

But now each pull forced his triceps to grind and crackle the sternums of the men behind them, and flexing  
of his lats and shoulders continued to savage the bones and tear the pecs of men caught there.  Blood spilled 
over their chins as Shawn slowed leaned back into them, writhing and grinding them like a pestle in a 
mortar: and their bodies splintered and pulverized like dried herbs being slowly blended into curry.  The 
SUV owner couldn’t stop staring, his egocentric fury short-circuiting any sense of impending doom and his 
own screeching injuries.  Flesh began falling off his fingers as clutched and tugged at the rope that 
remorselessly raked him forward like a fallen leaf.

Some of the bodybuilders were openly weeping now, and a few had quit, falling to the stage in exhaustion, 
agony or just dead faints.  The lighter classes came forward to stare, and some of them pitched in to relieve 
the fallen ones, sometimes two or three to one, so I lost count of how many men were actually caught like 
roaches in a motel by the time they got close enough to smell his cock-stirring man-scent.

The cracking of the bones behind and beneath Shawn provided an eerie counterpoint to the wheezing gasps 
of the fatiguing men, unaided in the least by all the fresh muscle now flexing and straining to stop the one-
man juggernaut. His triceps caved in chests that benched 500 lbs, forcing a sick crease that warped their 
blood-dribbling heads around over the killing arms and drizzle gore across the undulated hardscape.

The men becoming two-dimensional behind his shoulder-blades felt ribs snap, piercing soft organs and 
lungs or tearing out through the skin to grind jagged edges against Herculean muscle.  Their heads jerked as 
barrel-shaped torsos imploded again, and again, with a gravelly wetness.  The scissored two felt their asses 
flare backwards as vertebrae fractured, shrieked and scrabbled helplessly at those mighty legs as their 
sternums spilt against each other and their hearts raced higher and higher with torture and terror.  Some of 
the muscleheads on the rope vomited where they stood, and those in the audience who hadn’t fainted or 
fled in terror were pervertedly stroking off to a spectacle they’d never dreamed they could pay to see.  

The quarry were only three feet away now, close enough for Real Man and Puffed Man to stare eye to eye.  
Shawn’s arms were relentless, and his grin fed on the frustrated tantrums and sobs of the gigantic men who 
couldn’t overpower him.  Inch by inch his tumescent arms grew out, and drew in, the struggling mass of 
helpless he-men.  His shirt spit open in cats-eyes around every head of his delts and lats and the 
lengthening spikes of his nipples.  His pecs chewed the fabric apart as the striations of one meshed like 
alligator teeth into the other, chomping and squeezing with the flex and the stretch.  

Shawn straightened up and pulled his body free of the jittering men behind him with a heavy THWOCK.  
One arm and one back guy remained glued by their own smeared fat, muscle and broken skeletons into the 
cracks and mortar of the cinderblock wall, the ends of their limbs flinging off beads of blood as they 
twitched.  But two adhered to Shawn’s body, one curled around his upper arm, chest about two inches 
wide, the other smashed into the crevices of muscle in his back, his head jiggling with each flexion of 
Shawn’s body mercilessly dominating the entire stageful of weightlifting powerhouses.  He took a step 
forward, but the leg-guards’ ribs had interlaced like fingers, creating a drag: no problem.  His leg kept 
moving, propelling bone shards all around the stage and creaming the one man’s upper-body into a schmear 
of torn meat and frothed flesh encased in cheap cotton.

He spread his legs apart and the two engaged men were stuck more firmly into each other than into his legs, 
and tottered there.  He kicked them off the stage and the Shiva-like corpse flopped down into the front 
rows.  Camera flashes went off like fireworks.  He expanded his one triceps HARD and then extended the 
arm, which caused the stuck man to crack wider and fall in a heap.  He shrugged and worked his back to try 
to dislodge the other one but that guy remained stuck, like a huge slug.  But now the SUV owner was only 
inches away.  He said with the kind of quiet authority that makes women ovulate and men go queer on the 
spot: “You wanna do me a favor and remove your friend from my lat?”

The mind-boggled competitor spat in Shawn’s face.  There was blood in it too, from something that had 
torn open deep inside him. 

Shawn looked to the guy who had appeared to be Shawn’s best friend, and said “You want to die too?”  
The guy shook his head and Shawn closed his eyes and inclined his head.  The man tore his own trunks off, 
letting his semi-erect cock flop against his scrotumless thigh, and wiped Shawn’s face clean.  

“I’ll kill you for that,” said his former buddy.”  The guy just flushed in shame.  Shawn chucked his head 
back at the mashed man behind him.  The guy shook his head and turned green.  Shawn said “Then you 
will die.”  Then, louder: “The man who steps up lives.”  A dozen men let go of the rope and raced over to 
dig their fingers into the goo of the security goon and peel him away from Shawn’s cock-inspiring 
musculature, also stripping nude to clean away the blood and flesh from the wide, craggy back.  A dozen 
cocks, heedless of their owners’ imagined sexuality, strove to get closer to the God before them and offer 
their juicy oblations.  Some even erupted simply by being so near to Him.  Yet Shawn’s nemesis hung tight 
on the rope and his buddy stood nearby, terribly conflicted between loyalty and a wild urge to survive.  
Shawn again moved so fast it was impossible to actually see it.  

The rope didn’t have time to fall to the ground, then straining men to collapse in a heap, before Shawn had 
his big hands around the backs of the two renegades’ heads.  And palmed them up off the floor about two 
inches.  The men dangled there a moment, too shocked to realize what was about to befall them.  Shawn 
smiled so handsomely, so evilly that Satan himself would have dropped and rubbed his hoary cock into the 
dirt at his feet.  His blood-engorged biceps peaked suddenly and both men flew face-first into Shawn’s 
pecs.

Again there was a lag between the event and the victims’ brains capacity for response.  We heard distinct 
pops and cracks as the bones of their faces came into contact with all that piled-up pec muscle.  Muffled 
grunts accompanied the smack.  Shawn relaxed his pecs and let the thick acreage soften and flow round the 
men’s faces as his hands snuggled their heads tighter against his chest.  His pecs hardened a bit, 
surrounding and half-engulfing their heads.  Keeping his arms locked, he took a deep breath ... and his 
chest expanded ... and the heads caught between that expansion and the locked arms cracked like boiled 
eggs.

The pec-ed men shrieked, striking at Shawn with hands and feet. But soon their panic increased as their 
lungs had nothing to inhale so long as his semi-flexed pecs hermetically sealed them with a muscle 
vacuum-lock. Shawn exhaled, as if mocking their asphyxiation, and inhaled again, deeper, his chest filling 
with all the air deprived to them while their skull bones rubbed and slid against each other beneath their 
rubbery scalps, blood blisters welling all over, their screams almost inaudible except where the sound could 
emerge from their ears ... along with bubbles of blood.  

Shawn exhaled again, bathing their freakishly-sloping heads with a hot wind, and chuckled at their 
predicament, the motion of his chest bruising and rearranging the smashed face bones.  Desperate for air, 
the men sucked in their own teeth, choking and convulsing while Shawn inhaled again, his chest 
dramatically ballooning toward his tight arms, forcing their scaps to rip open so brains could ooze out in 
rivers of jelly.  Their once-powerful limbs seized up as their bodies finally surrendered all control to 
Shawn’s nerve-jamming superiority, becoming in their final moments the blind spastic puppets they’d 
refused to realize they were in life.  

He released his hands and flexed his pecs together, swallowing head fragments inside his splits and the 
deep central crevice, holding up over a quarter ton of dead meat by pure pec strength.  He turned toward the 
remaining audience to show off the hideous trophies, two elephantine limp bodies whose heads had 
somehow merged with Shawn’s chest.  Groans and screams erupted all over the auditorium as the scattered 
people jerked to orgasm and he ground his pecs together, making the bodies flop and dance until the brutal 
hardness of the pecs and their sharp-ridged striations literally chewed the bodies loose.  The headless 
corpses fell to the ground, jetting blood out of their ragged necks.  Then he bounced his pecs, in rhythm, 
faster and faster.  The remaining bits of brain, pulverized bone, skin, eye fluid and membrane tissue 
embedded in them pecs flew out in a fine stinging spray ... until wisps of smoke began to rise up from the 
friction, incinerating the blood staining them until it flaked away as ashes in a slow drift to the stage.  I 
SWEAR I saw actual sparks fly off when he banged his pecs together!

He looked around at the few remaining, kneeling and cowering bodybuilders and said “I’m still not 
zestfully clean.”  Immediately the men sprang to him, licking his body clean of all the gory refuse 
deposited by those who dared defy him.  The disintegrated bits of lycra were duly cleaned off as well, but 
his jeans, with one thigh blown out and the other a swiss cheese of rips, were off limits to these weaklings.  
When he’d had enough he flexed a crab shot he literally knocked the men away from him: they lost their 
balance and fell to the floor.  He left them there without a word or backward glance and, dropping off the 
stage, walked up to me with his eyes gleaming.  

I felt flushed and tried to hide the majorly leaking woodie in my pants with my program, but I couldn’t hide 
anything from Him.  He read it on my strained face.  “Let’s go to the club,” he said.  “After all the foreplay, 
I need me some REAL action.”

Suddenly my ‘mo cherry felt very wet.

The End.

    Source: geocities.com/westhollywood/park/4728

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