Olympia 2011 : Triumph of the last Olympian


By Musclebuff

Somehow the impending drama had noised itself abroad and every seat of the new 3000-seater Las Vegas Opera House (replacing the Mandalay as the annual venue) was filled with anticipation, both muscular and sexual. Little did anyone know this was likely to be The Last Olympia. The noise before the show was tumultuous and even the ex-Governor of California could hardly make himself heard above the raucously excited din.

Of course, the new rules which demanded annual new-blood at the Olympia had regenerated public interest in what had become a boring annual self-satisfying Federation event. The new dress code had also loosened things up considerably and this could be seen to be reflected in the attire of the audience, both male and female. Difficult for the female section to be any more vulgarly on view than before, but the muscled male now wore little but thongs and cut-off helanca tees: the more the muscle, the less the coverage seemed to be the order of the day. And the larger the 'equipment' the less it was hidden. All the nation's muscle seemed to be there, wild and ready. Altogether a friggin' hot assembly.

Finally, after all the boring welcome speeches, the announcements of the incredible prize moneys (every one of the twelve contestants would receive twenty-five thousand dollars while the actual prize money was in the high hundreds of thousands), came the introduction of this year's judging panel. The huge guys, in the regulation judges' uniform of ultramarine one-piece leotards which adequately displayed their all, waved to the noisy, salacious crowd as they took their places in the Judges' Box. Chief judge was the fabulous Cutler and he was accompanied by an Italian god and a Brazilian ditto (both recent winners themselves). All three displayed fabulous shape, as was now required of all judges.

A live fanfare of twelve trumpets blasted the crowd into silence and signaled the rise of the plush red-velvet curtain. One trumpet for each of the superb contestants who now stood flexing for the audience's pleasure, each on his own plinth under his own three spotlights artfully focused optimally to display his talents, each perfectly oiled and perfectly naked. Every striation, mountain and valley of muscle stood out to perfection. As did each hungry cock hungry for success and all that would follow it.

A wave of sensuality swept through the huge audience and a heavy scent of musk was released into the air as the twelve men, who could have been described as the most handsome men in the Universe and the most qualified to be accepted as true Muscle-Gods, were revealed. In front of artfully arranged mirrors which managed to show each man from every angle, their plinths revolved slowly to display their flexing perfection as the roar of the crowd increased. The roar did not take long for three thousand, mostly masculine throats to develop an incessant chant of "DEM, DEM, DEM, DEM, DEM!"

The person in question had been allotted a position at the very end of the line: maybe someone among the Federation organizers knew, at last, what he were doing. Or maybe it was just the luck of the draw. The chant, however, seemed to galvanize the other eleven muscular phenomena into the most spectacular and intense posing session of their career. Veins popped, striations crackled, biceps split, pecs swelled, quads swept, calves inflated, abs condensed (not a steroid stomach to be seen), dicks rose to amazing heights. All shining with a tinted posing oil especially constituted with niacin to encourage a major effect of healthy glow. Not that Dem needed any such enhancement: a gentle and nutritious sun oil was all he needed to show himself to perfection in the lights.

After a few minutes of this, a dark red curtain slowly descended to hide the mirrors and the twelve gods were invited to step down from their plinths to mount a single, long low platform which stretched to each end of the stage. At first all twelve were to display the compulsory poses (now twelve of them), front and back; then they were examined in four groups of three according to the numerical "draw'. The three judges mounted the stage to inspect each man at close range. They were not allowed to pose at this point: quality of skin tone, condition of hair, required absence of tattoos (not allowed to be disguised with make-up), condition of teeth and, finally, weight of "equipment". Each man had his crown-jewels hefted by each of the three judges who made notes accordingly.

After lengthy comparisons had been made, each duo orn trio exacting passionate cries from the crowd, each man displayed his personal best in a five-minute posing routine to music. For years the posing routine had been discounted by the judges who had only been interested in the bulk, not in the aesthetics; now the artistry displayed in the posing routine was of almost top priority, after the size and condition of the muscle.

Eleven of these muscle gods had engaged choreographers to assist them with their routines. The enormous expense of time and money had been well-rewarded by the artfully exciting display each man presented as pose flowed from pose, superb muscles shown in every possible good light and position. Gone were the days of standard poses being crudely clumped together with no reference to the music that accompanied them. Now both audience and competitor enjoyed a truly amazing and joyfully exciting display of man's best assets.

Underlying the entire effort was a new atmosphere of sensuality which had been missing for years. One could feel the sap rising in the audience as each muscle-god, driven by a supremely high sex-charge, made his way through the five minutes of sexuo-musculo sensual flexing. The excitement rose to a screaming pitch when the Twelfth Man among Gods, now magnificently erect, appeared for his solo effort. Yes, maybe that official *did* know what he was doing after all.

Dem was the only guy who had not relied on a choreographer to show him off or on cosmetics to improve his appearance. He was also, as in the previous year, a head taller in every way over the other contestants.

He stood there with his back to the audience, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Slowly, so slowly, as the passionately slow music gathered momentum, he straightened up, his shoulders began to square, then, little by little, he seemed to grow and grow and grow until his muscle seemed to fill the entire stage, every boulder swelling into magnificently impossible proportions. His deltoids seemed to pull his lats out to impossible widths while the rest of his back muscles seemed to grow muscle upon muscle. Glutes and hams hardened and magnified. Slowly one arm was raised straight out to the side, observed impassively by that most handsome profile, then it slowly, slowly flexed until a woman in the crowd screamed and fainted at the sight of the huge, split cantaloupe of a muscle.

That seemed to be the signal for Dem to launch into the main body of his routine. As the portentous opening music slammed into an exhilarating allegro (a specially recorded full symphony orchestra), he whipped around to the front and gave the audience all he had. Each amazing pose was greeted by more screams and yells as the incredible superiority of his physique galvanized the entire assembly.

Even the Great Cutler who, in his day, had displayed similar qualities, was stunned. Even Brad, who sat glowering among the multitude was forced to admit what no one could deny: while Dem's muscularity was unquestionably the best-ever, the sensuality of his muscular aesthetic was utterly mind-blowing. Every man and woman in the three thousand plus desired him, wanted to be him, yearned to be fucked by this undisputed muscle-god.

The other eleven, for all their magnificence, never stood a chance. Even the politics of body-building never stood a chance. Demetrius was the genuine Olympian muscle-god.

The Ex-Governor, in announcing the inevitable in his inimitably accented way, called upon last year's (defective) judges to come on stage to award the considerable prizes. This year's judges, sensibly urged by the Great Cutler who sensed all too well what was about to happen, took the opportunity of making their way out of the building via an underground passage to a side exit.

As Kris, Red and Siewgfried (their Judges' uniforms distorted by the abnormal swelling of their crotches and the damp patches) appeared to shake the hands of the losers and to present them with enormous cheques, the Ex-Governor seized the opportunity of a brief lull in the storm to raise his hands for silence to make the inevitable final announcement. Immediately a lone voice, dark, male and very loud, yelled "Who're you gonna fuck first, Dem?"

The delighted crowd took up the challenge: "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Even Dem was embarrassed until Red raised one of the Winner's arms and took the opportunity to yell in his ear under the cover of the furore; "Me first!" But Kris grabbed hold of Dem's excited dick to claim his right of way. Siegfried, who had been making eyes at the sexy #2 from Brazil, saw what was happening and grabbed Dem's pecs from behind, yelling "No, no! *I've *got him! Me first!"

To the Ex-Gov's disappointment, his aides swept him out to his stretch limo before the storm could quite break.

"You really want to do this in public?" Demetrius asked Red.

"Da! Horoscho!" was the determined answer.

Even Kris was forced to say "No way out of it now, boss!"

Siegfried, who was now clamped on to Kris, yelled "Not for you neither!"

And so battle was joined. Dem ripped open Red's helanca and grabbed his weeping dick.

"How d'you want it, Big Boy?"

"Anyway, Dem, just fark me!"

"Standing up, I think! They'll all see better!"

Demetrius turned them both into profile ("They'll all be able to see better!") and it only took seconds for them to oblige and the two huge physiques were joined where it mattered most.

"Keep your legs tight together and SQUEEZE!" yelled Dem as he started to pound an exhibition fuck into his Russian love.

Meanwhile the audience, unable to hear what was being uttered by these four, could not believe their eyes when the tight helanca was ripped off the Russian god. It only took seconds, however, for many of them to follow suit. Women ran screaming from the theatre (those who were not already on their knees servicing their chosen men) as all inhibitions seemed, unaided, to flee with them. Macho muscle fell on macho muscle, much of it getting what they most needed for the first time in their lives. Brad, if he couldn't reach Dem to have his way with him, made sure that some other super-muscular stud was gonna satisfy his lusts.

Muscle-queens and muscular queens were leaping rows of seats to mark down their quarries and the plush carpeted aisles were soon full of copulating couples, hardly a single "normal" pairing among them, though there were a few. Muscle squeezed muscle, and cocks invaded butts and throats. The other eleven contestants took one look in Dem's direction and either piled on top of him and Red or grabbed each other to satisfy their own individual leanings.

Dem plugged Red with enthusiasm until the Russian spurted his huge load, then he plunged into Kris's butt while he was fucking Siegfried. Released by Demetrius, Red was soon fucking a luscious Italian Eros. Once Kris had exploded, Dem dragged Sig over to a prone Red who, before he had time to notice what was going on, found himself being fucked in the rear by both Dem and Siegfried simultaneously. They sat there, rampant crotch jammed against rampant crotch, while Kris lowered the Russian onto both dicks. He then "assisted" him to bounce up and down, fully stretched, until both invaders' nuts were satisfied enough to explode torrentially within him.

By then, Dem had savored his triumph and his revenge sufficiently to drag Fyodor home with him. While Red was sleeping some of it off, Dem took a long and satisfying shower (by himself), enjoying a luxurious solo-soaping as he relished the day's events and his well-deserved triumph and revenge.

After all, things would not have been half as satisfying if I'd won last year! he mused as he sat on his couch contemplating the staggering cheque he had brought home. After a while he burrowed under the covers with the sleeping Russian who was not allowed to sleep for long, you can be sure.

*Footnotes: *

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*1 This was indeed the Final Olympia. After all the publicity and furore caused by Dem's undoubted and well-deserved triumph (or revenge), the NOC took exception to the use of their Olympic title and governmental pressure was exerted on the Federation to find some other outlet for their champion athletes. Preferably fully clothed.*

*2 Dem made his cheque over entirely to a couple of favorite and deserving charities and took the Red Russian off to Italy where they spent a long holiday at his Villa Segreta. How long? History doesn't relate, but as long as they both needed for whatever. What happened there? Mind your own business, Brad!*

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*3 Thanks and homage as always to ManOfSteel for his incredible and unsurpassable creation and for the inspiration he gives for this Tale.* •

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