By AbsMan420


It's bliss. That's all the Cop really knows now. His concept of time, thoughts beyond the moment, all are alterred until he knows only the need to serve. And when he's at his Master's feet, like he is now, worshipping, he feels nothing but complete.

The Bodybuilder sits on his throne, while the rest of his Stable attends him. The Athlete stands behind him, massaging his magnificent traps -- the Athlete had been trained in massage and physical therapy before he'd been recruited by the Bodybuilder -- and since the improvement of his transformation, all the Athlete's physical abilities have been enhanced, including his massage technique. The Cop lies at the Bodybuilder's feet, gently kissing and murmuring praises, while the Kid -- the hot little wrestler -- sits curled in his lap, masterfully suckling the Bodybuilder's nipple.

"This is very nice," says the Bodybuilder, laying his head back into the Athlete's supportive hands, "but don't you think I deserve more?"

All of the Stable-boys, concerned, step up their efforts. If there's the slightest chance their Master isn't satisfied, they're failures. No one wants to fail their Master, not when the rewards are so good.

The Bodybuilder smiles. "No, no boys. You're fine. Kneel before me."

The all leap to obey. In a row before their Master, their hands behind their backs, these three beautiful specimens await their orders. "You three are incredible," the Bodybuilder says, "but I need more. I deserve more. You agree?"

Of course they agree. Anything the Bodybuilder utters became their firm belief.

"I want to fill out the Stable a bit more, so you'll each be responsible for bringing me a new recruit."

"But, Master," says the Athlete, "only the Cop knows how to do The Voice. The Kid and I don't know how."

The Bodybuilder carresses the Cop's face, holding him by the jaw. "Yes," he says. "You were remarkably clever to figure that out by yourself." The Cop smiles, proud. The Bodybuilder continues, "So, let me reward you as I teach the others." He leans into the Cop's ear and whispers, "SUSTAINED, EUPHORIC ORGASM" in The Voice, and the Cop's eyes glaze over, and he collapses on the floor, cock instantly hard, blowing load after load, his hips involuntarily bucking, a weak smile plastered on his face.

The Bodybuilder turns to the other two. "Now," he says, "to teach you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------

They each have their assignments, though the Bodybuilder insists they think of them more as guidelines, with the freedom to work within a loose set of parameters. The Kid thinks it's gonna be easy. Too easy. There isn't any kind of challenge in his target -- well, in ANY of their intended targets, but his especially. He suggests that they swap with each other, and though the Athlete doesn't care, the Cop stresses how important it is to obey the Master -- even though the Kid thinks that the Cop just likes his own target too much to give it up.

The Kid rides his bike to campus, in a pair of heather gray spandex bike shorts and a tight muscle shirt. He wears a thong underneath the shorts -- only for the extra support when biking -- and when he's bent over the handlebars, one can clearly see the ass strap below the thin spandex. His body is a study of cut perfection, and the bike ride has just given his legs enough of a pump to show their potential. He smiles when he sees himself in the reflection on the glass door. Damn, he's hot. His target doesn't stand a chance.

He wanders through the empty physical education building -- summer break, not even the athletes are back -- and barely sees a single person. Of course, if anyone did see him, just by looking at him, they'd know he belongs here. Someone with a body like that certainly belongs in the phys ed building. He lets himself into the wrestling room, where he'd spend many sweat-filled hours before being recruited by the Master -- strange how he doesn't miss it at all -- wrestling used to be so important to him -- now all that matters is the contact of flesh, not the athletics. Now is so much better.

The lights are off in the main room, though the Kid makes his way effortlessly across the familiar mats. He walks toward the office at the far side of the room, next to the locker room entrance. The frosted glass door is lit, backlighting the word "COACH" hand-painted on the glass. The Kid knocks.

"Yeah," comes the gruff voice from inside, barking. "C'mon in!"

The kid opens the door. "Hey, Coach," he says, entering, closing the door behind him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Cop -- like the Kid -- has known who his target is going to be the minute the Master told him the type, that's really why he doesn't want to trade off with the others. One of his neighbors, before the Cop had gone to live at the Stable, they used to belong to the same gym, before the Cop had gone to lift at the Muscle-Head place.

It takes only a phone call and a few seconds of small talk before they've agreed to meet at the lake for a run. The Cop pulls into the parking lot only to see his target already there, stretching against the railing. The guy's dressed in a loose pair of cotton shorts and a greenish-brown "USMC" t-shirt. Tight and compact, he's only been a little bigger than the Cop had been before the Cop had been recruited. Still, in magnificent shape. The Cop had envied him his stomach, before...

When the Cop gets out of his car, in his spandex shorts and muscle shirt, his target actually gasps. He hasn't seen the Cop since the Cop had just up and sold his house a couple of months ago. A neighborhood mystery, the way the Cop had vanished like that. And then to turn up here, out of the blue, at least a hundred pounds heavier than his last appearance, buff, tan, sportin' those sleek shades and that heavy gold chain, the mystery suddenly deepens.

"Hey, Crewcut!" the Cop yells, raising his massive arm and waving, grinning happily -- even his TEETH are perfect!

"Holy Mother Fuck. What's happened to you?"

The Cop shruggs him off. "Ah, I've taken a little time and focused on my body. How ya been, Crewcut?"

"Fine. Except I hate when you call me that."

The Cop smiles. "Sorry... 'Sarge.'"

"Ah, fuck you,'" the guy with the crewcut says.

"You've been a marine as long as I've been a Cop," says the Cop. "And you've always had that stupid haircut."

Sarge smiles. "Only got a little less than you. But you got plenty of muscle on me. Seriously," he says, as they walk to the jogging path, "what happened?"

The Cop does a few passes at stretching and takes off easily down the path. He says, "C'mon. I'll tell you about it."

Sarge watches him jog lightly away, the halves of his massive ass flexing back and forth under the spandex -- like the Cop he used to know would've ever worn something like that. The Cop's legs are so big, he looks like a horse from the rear. Sarge hasn't noticed if he's hung like one -- he doesn't pay attention to stuff like that -- only that there's a mystery to solve.

Sarge has to hustle to catch up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Athlete can't decide. So many types. They've already have a Cop, so uniform types are covered. Both he and the little wrestler deal with all the sports fantasies, so there's no need for him to recruit any of his fellow athletes -- although he gives long thought to the nose tackle on his football team. THAT guy's hot. And big. But then again, the MASTER is already huge, followed closely by the Cop, and the Stable needs no more big muscle.

So, who? Construction worker? Leatherman? Native American Chief? Why did the whole concept of "types" bring him back to images of the Village People? Maybe an underwear model, he thinks. Someone tight and ripped and hung.

He's feeling mischievous when he gets to the gym -- the fag gym, not the Muscle Head gym where he belongs. This one is right in the heart of the gay section of the city. Rainbow flags and ads for waxing are stapled to the door, so he knows he has the right place. Dressed in spandex shorts and a wife-beater, the Athlete fits right in -- they don't even make him pay the ten-dollar guest fee!

He isn't sure how many necks crane as he walks through the cardio area to the free weights, but he knows he's caused whiplash -- and he loves it! The Athlete has become the piece of meat he's always secretly dreamed of being, the kind of man every other kind of man envies. He remembers his one-time love of sports, and spending his gym-time with sports conditioning, but now he loves the vanity, the macho posturing of bodybuilding, the incessant need to show off. And get off.

He's stretching when the first aggressive gym bunny asks for a spot. He follows the swishy assed thing back to the flat bench, where he swings up a couple of fifty pounders. The Athlete amuses himself with the show, as the guy growls and struggles with what the Athlete uses as warm-up weights.

Finally, on his very last rep -- his greatest drama -- the Athlete, with a sudden spur of devilry, whispers The Words in the queer's ears.

The guy drops the weights -- which bounce on the rubber-matted floor -- and sits up quickly, his erection painfully obvious. He darts for the locker room without even so much as a glance back toward the Athlete, such is his sudden need.

The Athlete wanders over to the squat rack, where a thick-legged, well-gutted man groans while doing half-reps with 95 pounds. The Athlete whispers The Words to him as the Athlete supports him for his last rep. This guy's shorts are baggy enough that they almost hide his nothing-to-brag-about erection, and the Athlete almost laughs aloud as that guy wanders off in a purposeful daze to the locker room.

The dude doing situps. The teens training triceps. The lantern-jawed, plastic-surgery-good-look of a man on the lat pulldowns. He even toys with the idea of popping on a headset and leading the step-aerobics class down a new path. Instead, he waits until the class is about to begin, and whispers The Words to the instructor just as the music is gearing up. The look on THAT guy's face is almost priceless as the Athlete leaves the cardio area and goes back to his workout.

Thinking about the scene in the locker room keeps his humor up, and he's fully involved in carrying the joke too far, so he speaks to two of the floor trainers and the guy at the juice bar, too.

When the floor seems almost fully deserted, almost everybody in the locker room, the Athlete gets the last laugh.

He leaves the building. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, look at you."

The Kid knows how good he looks -- his legs alone are magnificent, and now, pumped from the bike ride, they're almost art -- though he feins modesty and only flexes a little for the Coach.

The Wrestling Coach is not a big man, height-wise -- maybe 5'8" or 9" -- but he's packed with so much dense, mature muscle that he more closely resembles a fire-plug than a bodybuilder. And now, before the sweaty, weight-losing time of wrestling season, the Coach carries only little bodyfat, which gives his muscle the illusion of being even fuller. Though the rigors of being in shape keep him looking younger, the Kid is pretty certain the Coach is in his early fifties. Always a hardass, his stern, chiseled face -- his one cauliflower ear -- his big, square chin, his short, but always disheveled gray hair, the tiny bit of hair whisping out from the collar of his school izod, all combine to make the Coach look tougher than he is with his team. Any outsider looking in would think the Coach a sadistic slave-driver. His boys know he only wants the best.

"What have you been into, Kid?" he asks in his usual gruff, gravely voice. He still hasn't stood from behind his desk, but offers the Kid his hand, at least. The Kid shakes it from across the desk, firmly. Manly. The mere touch of the rough, coach's hand almost instantly makes the Kid horny. He fights to control his cock, blatantly obvious in his singlet.

"Trainin' over the summer," says the Kid. "Got off a plateau I was stuck on."

"Clearly," says the Coach. "What are you weighing?" Always the first question out of a wrestler's mouth.

"Around 190," says the Kid. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" asks the Coach. "You're a fuckin' wrestler!" With that, he stands, and the Kid's eyes are almost instantly drawn to the Coach's package, snuggled comfortably in his polyester coach's shorts. The Kid has to stop himself from licking his lips. Funny how he'd never noticed how hot the Coach was before he'd been recruited. "Get to the scales, Kid," the Coach barks, and the Kid instantly obeys, the model of submission.

The scale reads 192. Even as the Coach gasps, the Kid smiles -- he'd wrestled at 155 last season. "That's almost forty pounds," yells the Coach.

The Kid strips off his shirt, showing his ripped upper body. "And not an ounce of fat on me," he says, smiling and flexing. His stomach -- abs and obliques -- are clearly defined. Gorgeous.

"What are you on, boy?" asks the Coach, quietly and forcefully. He expects an answer.

"You'll understand soon enough," says the Kid, leaning into the Coach's ear and whispering, "ONCE YOU SUBMIT TO MUSCLE."

The Kid straightens up and steps off the scale, watching the Coach in wonderous delight as the Coach's cock hardens beneath his polyester shorts, thickening. The Coach stands frozen, glassy-eyed, when a small grin creeps into the corner of his mouth. His hand instinctively reaches for his package.

The Kid's smile broadens. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The path around the lake is just a hair under three miles. Usually, they'll do it in thirty minutes, jogging and chatting. Today, the Cop pushes the pace a little, and if Sarge hadn't been in the shape he's in, he'd have a hard time keeping up. For a man so huge, thinks Sarge, the Cop sure can move. Finally, around the second bend, they run into the forrested side of the lake, the shade almost welcome, and the Cop slows a bit, to make conversation. "How's that pace?" he asks, barely breathing hard.

"Fine," says Sarge, sweating at his brow. "A little faster than normal."

The Cop says, "I'm a little stronger than normal," and pulls his muscle shirt off over his head, exposing his massive, hairless upper body, his skin tan and smooth, not a single blemish, not a single zit. It almost glows with health. If he's doing steroids, thinks Sarge, he doesn't show it.

"So, you gonna tell me about that?" asks Sarge, jerking his thumb at the Cop's torso. The Cop instinctively flexes.

"It's gonna sound dumb," says the Cop. "But, uh, I learned a secret. The secret of masculanity."

Sarge stops. The Cop doesn't realize it until two or three steps later, but suddenly he doesn't have a running partner anymore. He turns his head and sees Sarge, stopped dead in the path, staring at him, hands on his hips. The Cop jogs back to him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" asks Sarge. "What kind of fantasy land, juvenile bullshit are you selling?"

"It's no bullshit, man," says the Cop, plainly, without emotion. "I learned the secret. And it changed me. It made me... well, look at me! I'm like, the ultimate man." He flexes himself a little, as if Sarge needs convincing.

Sarge is skeptical. If the Marines have done nothing else for him, they've made him wary of guys with schemes. "And how'd you learn this 'secret?'" he asks.

"Someone told me," answers the Cop, so matter-of-factly that it's throwing the Sargeant. But Cops are good at playing games, he knows, and making you think they know things they really didn't. "It's an oral thing," he continues. "One guy tells another guy who brings another guy into the fold. You know what I mean?"

"So, you wanna bring me into the fold."

The Cop smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. "See?" he says. "I knew you were the right choice."

Sarge smiles, patronizing -- the Cop can tell -- and sarcastically says, "So what is this big secret?"

The Cop leans into his ear, and whispers it to him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Athlete drives the little sports car his Friday client has given him -- a big exec who comes into town once a month to do some kind of business the Athlete doesn't care about. But the john has cash that twangs the Athlete's strings, and an easy fantasy about a Texas football player in a cowboy hat, so the Athlete never minds when the guy's in town. And the sports car is nicer than the one this guy has given his wife! The Athlete likes that even more.

He's still having his fun, using The Voice on the high school kid who takes his money at the gas station, and the fast-food server at the drive-through window. Sitting at a red light now, he almost has to shout to the guy in the truck on his passenger's side. Just before the light turns, a motorcycle cop pulls up next to him, in the left turn only lane. He resists the urge -- one Cop's enough, he thinks -- but when the motorcycle cop inadvertantly makes eye contact, and they nod to each other, the Athlete just blurts it out, and tickles himself watching the motorcycle cop swerve through the intersection.

When he arrives at the football field, he sees some of his teammates already there, stretching. The Athlete has been playing full-contact flag on Saturdays for years, a haven for ex-jocks who aren't quite over the need for gym class. Of course, the Athlete hasn't played since his transformation, but today feels the spirit. He parks amidst the other cars, popping his trunk and searching out his football gear. He slips his football pants on over his spandex shorts -- and the thong beneath them -- and laces the pants loosely, allowing his package a little freedom. While he sits on the bumper and puts on his cleats, he remembers the times when he'd come here to do a little damage. He smiles at his own joke. He grabs his jersey, but doesn't put it on -- he wants his teammates to see his impressive upper body. Maybe psych out the opposing team a little. Hell, just show off.

His teammates give him the usual shit. A lot of, "Well, look who shows up for a game!" "Nice to see ya, thought you were scared off." kind shit that the straight boys give each other. After the athlete says a few, "Fuck you"-s, the comments become about his body -- which he flexes ever so discreetly. "Fuckin' diesel, man." "Gonna hit hard, bro." "He's on the juice!" etc.

"Nope," says the Athlete, "not quite." And he tells them while he and the team captain lead the stretch drill. He watches their cocks harden in the jocks, under cups, pressing against the laced poly-blend of their game pants. Without words, they walk en masse back into the locker room, and beat off positioned in the same circle as outside.

The moment of orgasm comes in unison, as well. Some actually holding off until all the guys are ready. The team captain barks the order, and all the guys shoot, their orgasms equally amazing.

Pumped, they adjust themselves again in their uniforms, leave the locker room wordlessly, and have the best game in the team's history. Everyone is connected, and of a singular winning mind.

The Athlete himself, a defensive end, scores a touchdown in a forced turnover. He hasn't felt this fulfilled in a long time. The whole team-idea intrigues him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Kid rolls around on the mats outside of the Coach's office, remembering his old love of wrestling and the hunger that drove him. A different hunger drives him now, and he realizes he doesn't miss the sport at all. He misses the contact of the flesh. The two muscled bodies locked in competition. Hot and sweaty.

He hears the Coach's orgasm all the way out in the wrestling room, almost roaring from its intensity. The Kid smiles. He remembers well the first time the Cop had told him the secret. He can still feel that orgasm himself. Unmatched in power until he got fucked by the Bodybuilder, his new GOD and MASTER. The Kid will do anything for that again.

The Kid lies on the floor, stretching, his legs open in a side split, pressing his torso down to stretch his groin, his incredible ass an invitation -- the strap from his thong clearly evident beneath his spandex -- when the Coach opens his office door and steps into the wrestling room. He's removed his shirt, exposing his big barrel chest, his huge quarter sized nipples, his cock still clearly half-hard in his polyester shorts. The look of lust still caught in his half-smile. As the Kid watches, the Coach saunters over to him, kneels down, and wordlessly starts to wrestle him.

The Kid enjoys the bodies rolling around, the heat, the breaking of a sweat. Finally, the Kid allows himself to be put on his back, the Coach over him, and he wraps his legs around the Coach's hips, slipping his feet between the Coach's hamstrings. The Coach moans low in his throat. "Feels good, boy," he grumbles, slowly beginning to grind his hips into the Kid's firm ass, enjoying a sensation he's never had with another man before, even with all his years as a wrestler, then a Coach.

"Gonna feel better and better," says the Kid, pulling the Coach down on top of him, 'til he's almost crushed by the Coach's weight. "ONCE YOU SUBMIT..."

The Coach growls. And at once, his face becomes lusty and aggressive.

The true wrestling match is on. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Cop stands in the sun and casually tosses stones into the lake, teasing the geese. His massive body glistens with sweat, shining, and his thick legs are pumped from the run. If anyone were to round the corner of the path and see him standing here, they would surely be more apt to focus on him, instead of the sounds coming from just inside the edge of the woods. The sounds of Sarge jerking off.

But no one comes along. At this time of day, no one will-- the Cop knows that. He hasn't picked this spot by accident. Throwing stones, he's trying to NOT listen to his friend, trying NOT to be attracted and turned on, but it's a battle. And his cock is winning -- it always does. It sits half-hard in his spandex, plump and demanding.

But he can't masturbate now. Sarge would freak. He isn't ready, yet. Sarge is still straight, and would be until he's ready to submit, like the Cop himself had been. So when the Cop had initially spoken in The Voice to him, and Sarge's shorts began to tent, Sarge had looked around frantically for a place to go. A place of privacy. He wasn't ready to jerk off in front of another man.

The Cop had pointed to where Sarge is now, behind a small deadfall just inside the perimeter of the forest. No one on the path could see him there. But, man, thinks the Cop, you sure can hear his climax! His own cock leaps to the call, and he spends the next few seconds supressing it. Sarge howls, echoing through the forest, and when he finally reappears on the running path, led by his spent cock, he has a lusty smile on his face. "Holy shit," he says. "That was fuckin' awesome!"

Sarge notices then that the Cop is half-hard himself, the Cop's prick emphasized by his spandex shorts, amplified by his massive thighs. He's clearly trying to restrain himself, and Sarge has a flash of guilt at denying the Cop the pleasure that he had just felt. The Cop, catching Sarge checking out his package, smiles a modest grin. "Can't help it, man," the Cop says. "What you just felt is like ten times more intense for me."

"Oh, that's cool," says Sarge, suddenly finding other things to look at, but continually taking peeks of the Cop. So big. And he's NEVER seen a cock that size.

"You obviously enjoyed yourself," the Cop says, hands on his hips, so confident in his masculanity. Sarge smiles sheepishly. It's almost like the Cop is showing off his big dick. Well, if mine were that size, Sarge thinks, I'd show it off, too. Then, reality: why is he thinking about the Cop's dick? He's as straight as the next guy -- he's engaged, for God's sake -- but he finds himself almost drawn back again and again.

Maybe because it's half-hard, he thinks. Maybe THAT'S why it looks so big. Then another thought occurs to him: Maybe THAT'S what'll happen to ME if I go through this... transformation. Maybe MY cock will look like THAT!

"Like what you see?" the Cop asks, in his deep, but mocking voice.

"I'm sorry, man," Sarge says, looking away. "I just couldn't help but notice... I mean..." He struggles.

The Cop says, "Go on. You can say it. It's cool."

Sarge sighs, almost relieved. The truth comes out plainly. "I can't help but notice... I mean, your dick is pretty big." He smiles. Confession made. And it actually feels good.

The Cop nods, flicking his eyebrows like, "Yeah. I know." He barks a laugh, and says, "You should see it when it's hard." His hand easily finds his package and unconciously traces the length of cock. He adjusts himself like a football player.

"Um..." the REAL question: "Will MINE...?"

"Get this big?" finishes the Cop. After a moment, like a game show host waiting to reveal the big prize, he pauses before nodding. "Yeah."

This time Sarge nods, accepting the knowledge.

"You wanna hear The Words again?" asks the Cop, stepping closer.

"Yeah." Sarge finds himself saying that more quickly than expected, his own cock starting to harden. Soon a much bigger cock. "Yeah," he says again.

"Okay," says the Cop. "But this time, you gotta let me... I can't just listen. It drives me... Look, bud, it doesn't have to MEAN anything. I know you're straight, and that's cool, but you're gonna NEED to, and I'm gonna WANT to, so we might as well just... you know?"

And Sarge savagely nods, taking it all in, and is suprised at how easily he says, "Sure. Cool. Whatever." It doesn't have to mean anything: two guys, getting off. Besides, he IS curious about how big the Cop's dick is. Rather -- his rationalizing mind already re-words -- how big HIS dick is gonna get.

He's fully erect before the Cop even whispers into his ear. And he doesn't mind the proximity of the Cop's massive body -- the heat. What do muscles that big FEEL like? he wonders idly. And will he soon know?

The Words are again a-buzz in his ear, a low-baritone chant that he can almost make out. Thinking about it, concentrating on it, stimulates him, just like before -- only better, if that's possible. Will it keep getting better? His cock aches to be touched, and he doesn't deny it. He reaches into his shorts there, on the path, right in front of the Cop, and begins masturbating. He doesn't care. The Cop suggested it, after all. What are The Words? Why can't he focus on The Words?

He blindly follows the Cop back into the forest, stroking himself, anxious to see the Cop fully hard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

It all becomes about the football team. They're all still riding the buzz of their Saturday slaughter when Tuesday's practice comes around. One by one they realize -- usually upon their arrival -- that they've actually MISSED seeing the guys, and feel better now that they're all together. Physically feel better.

The team captain tries to berate them, reminding them that the only time everybody shows up for practice is after a big win. But he, too, is in the mood to play football, pumped to be with his boys, so he lets them off easy. They've begun stretching when the Athlete arrives. How funny, the Athlete thinks, that he should always come to them when they were already in a circle.

"Truly a miracle," the team captain says loudly, as the Athlete takes his place and joins in the stretch, "that YOU should actually show up to a practice."

The Athlete smiles, pretending to be hurt. "Aw, well..." he sniffs theatrically, "I've missed you guys." They all laugh then, a release. "And I've got more stuff I want to tell you."

This time, they jerk off right there on the field. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the Coach, the come-around time is relatively short. At first, it's the energy alone -- the drive, the focus, the NEED to train. And the sexual energy! He's getting hard at the drop of a hat, like a buck in his twenties. Training's like sex, better every time he pushes, and his body responds immediately. Right before all this, he'd been complaining that his body had begun deteriorating -- like an old man! -- and he's only fifty! Even his big, barrel chest had been commanding less authority.

Suddenly, within the last week, everything's changed. It's like he de-evolved. Like he youthened. He wakes in the morning, and categorizes the changes -- which inevitabley gets him hard, and he ends up beating off to the improvements in himself.

That he doesn't understand it, or fear it, should be reason enough for him to question it, but it feels so good, and he so likes what he sees that he doesn't. He just accepts it. More every day. And each acceptance heightens the pleasure that much more, so it's a vicious circle.

He also realizes that he's looking at men less as competition, less with the discerning eye of a Coach, and more with regard to their sexual potential. He finds himself attracted to the guys at the gym, the guys on his team, any guy with masculine power and a nice looking ass. He's never considered himself gay, although he's never really been in any significant relationship with a woman. If he was gay, he's never acted on it, and would never have looked upon it with approval -- especially never the calm acceptance he experiences now.

So then, what is it? When he wrestles the Kid, when he's dominating a match and has the Kid's incredible body pinned helplessly beneath him, he gets hard -- because his body knows what his mind is trying to accept -- because he wants to fuck the Kid into true submission. At first, that thought freaked him out, all of the ramifications with it. Now, he just masturbates to it.

When the Kid shows up to their match, he finds the Coach already stretching, dressed only in his age-old, worn singlet and shoes. When he stands to greet the Kid, the Kid notices that he isn't wearing underwear, and his hardening cock shifts with his steps.

And they wrestle. Slowly at first, letting each other stretch, warming up, and then in earnest. The Kid can feel the Coach's constant erection -- knows the Coach's time is soon. And when the Coach puts the Kid on his back, easily pinning him, the Kid wraps his legs around the Coach's hips as the Coach, his eyes closed, aggressively starts to thrust, dry humping the Kid. "Fuck me, Coach," the Kid begs. "Please fuck me."

The Coach pulls away from him, his eyes half-lidded, and sits back on his haunches. He looks at the Kid as if the Kid is nothing more than his prey, then purposefully reaches down and tears a hole in the crotch of his own ratty singlet, and pulls his big cock out, ready to do the job.

The Kid approaches him on hands and knees, crawling across the gym mats to take that overhard cock in his mouth. If the Coach feels any resistance now, it's momentary. The Kid's mouth on his dick is all the convincing he'll ever need. If this is how good it feels to be gay, then he's gay. He looks down at the Kid, eargerly sucking his great cock, and begins to touch the Kid's body -- the very strong back, that pert little ass. He leans over the Kid from the top and, reaching over him, takes one ass cheek in each strong hand, and squeezes. THIS was the prize he wants.

His strong fingers tear open a hole over the Kid's crack. The Kid giggles for a moment, with the Coach's cock in his mouth, then quickly laps on a little more spit before he spins around, to give the Coach what he so obviously wants. The Kid goes down on his elbows, waving his ass in the air, the hole in his singlet a target.

And the Coach fucks him. Plows him. Slams him. With each thrust, the Coach feels more powerful. More masculine. Youthful. And the Kid loves it. He rides the Coach's big cock like a bronco bull at a rodeo. Every now and then, the spandex of the Coach's singlet tightens around the base of his dick, and he'll hold the lunge that much longer, enjoying the rub of material between them. It's in one of those moments that he cums, deep inside the Kid. And the Kid, as if waiting for just the right moment, cums himself, the Coach can feel it against his own cock, the pulse of their climaxes syncronizing, beating together. One-ness. In that moment, he has understanding. Acceptance. He pulls himself out of the Kid and says, "'I must submit to muscle." He smiles, as if he solved a puzzle. "THAT'S what you were saying."

The Kid is immediately facing him, elated. "You heard The Words!" he says, grinning. "You're ready!"

"Ready for what?" asks the Coach, who's beginning to feel a kind of itch in his ass, a kind of need.

"To meet the MASTER!" shouts the Kid, clapping his hands before him.

The Coach is glad, because he doesn't really want it to be the Kid. When the Coach submits, he wants the cock up his ass to belong to a MAN. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon retrospect, Sarge knew it that very first day. That day he'd gotten home after his first time... running... with the Cop. Watching the Cop beat his monstrous cock. It was so incredible, being WITH someone like that.

That night, in bed with his girlfriend, getting excited is easy, maintaining is not. His thoughts go back again and again to the image of the Cop beating his big meat. The Cop's obvious potency. And when he tries to get his head back in the game, when he tries to get involved again with his girlfriend, Sarge's thoughts drift again to the Cop and the Cop's muscular dick. Finally, to get it over with, he allows himself to visualize, and to fantasize, and he cums like a demon inside his girlfriend, thinking of the Cop.

His body improves. His training improves. The frequency of masturbation rises every day. It's difficult to think of anything BUT sexual fulfillment -- hadn't the Cop mentioned something about how hard it was...? -- thoughts of the Cop make him flash on the Cop's big dick, which gets HIM hard. And before he knows it, he's beating off again.

He's always subscribed to military training -- pushups, situps, pullups, running in boots -- but lately he's attracted to the gym. It takes too long for pushups to do their work -- he has to do hundreds before he'll feel a pump -- and his back needs more attention than just pullups. He likes the gym. He likes how many guys wear spandex.

It's seeing the other guys in spandex that gets him over that inhibition. He's in just as good -- if not better -- shape than most of the guys there, and he's seen that his own cock is bigger than almost anybody else's, too. He's never had the desire to show himself off like that before, but why not take the honor of being the biggest? Why not let them see?

So he buys and wears spandex shorts to the gym the next day -- they're camouflage, which tickles his irony -- and his package looks magnificent! He can feel the eyes on him, and he enjoys the feeling.

His girlfriend thinks he's nuts, the sudden obsessive training, the body-shaving, the sexual overdrive. She thinks he's on drugs -- she all but accuses him of it -- as if he'd take some drug! When she teases him about the spandex shorts, and the thong he's wearing beneath it -- which he thinks looks sexy, holding his big cock out on display -- he leaves her, telling her to fuck off. Women don't fucking understand.

When he and the Cop go running the next day, he wears his new shorts then, too. The Cop shows up in the same football shorts he wore last time. He sports his cock proudly. "Hey," the Cop says as he approaches. "You're lookin' good!"

THAT'S the kind of reaction he deserves. He looks incredible -- people need to recognize that. Sarge faces the Cop, smiling, thrusting his package forward. "Almost as big as you," he says. He sees the Cop's cock twitch and he knows he's struck a chord. He feels a similar stirring in himself.

"We better be careful," says the Cop, "or we might not get to the run."

They never do. They beat off together in the cab of Sarge's 4x4. At one point, the Cop casually reaches over and begins pulling on Sarge's cock. Sarge cautiously allows this, taken by the rough hand and the strong new rhythm. The Cop motions to his own cock; slowly, tentatively, Sarge reaches over and grabs it himself. So big. So hard. He begins rubbing it, jacking the big tool in his hand. It feels so good to do this.

When he finally leans over and takes the Cop's cock in his mouth, tasting the pre-cum, he realizes his purpose -- simple -- to suck, and suck, and suck.

He wouldn't even mind if this is the first cock to fuck him once he submits....

"That's it!" he said suddenly, raising his head in the Cop's lap. "'I must submit to muscle.'"

The Cop only says, "You've heard The Words," before he starts the truck and drives them out of the park. One hand keeps Sarge's head in his lap. Sarge fights to talk, to resist sucking this incredible dick, and he manages little more than, "Where are we going?" before he wants his mouth back where it had been.

"Time for you to meet your MASTER," says the Cop calmly. "Now keep sucking."

Sarge does, happily, for the whole ride.

The Cop doesn't allow himself to cum, though Sarge certainly deserves a reward for his efforts -- then the Cop remembers the reward Sarge is ABOUT to get, and he doesn't feel so bad. He parks the truck outside the Stable, and pulls Sarge off his cock. Sarge mumbles, "...must submit to muscle..." with a dreamy far-away look in his eye.

Sarge gets out of the truck, adjusting his plump, half-hard cock back in his camouflage spandex shorts. He quickly flexes his abs and bounces his pecs -- When had he lost his shirt? drifts through his mind, only to be quickly forgotten -- doesn't matter. He looks fuckin' awesome. And he feels good, like just before a big game, or military drill. When the Cop comes around the front of the truck, Sarge's eyes go immediately to the Cop's package, swollen in his football shorts. It takes most of Sarge's will to not fall to his knees and start sucking it again.

They go into the house -- the mansion, Sarge fleetingly thinks -- it's so hard to think -- must submit -- and briefly stop in the main room. An older man is wrestling a hot, young kid on the matted section of the floor, behind the lounge area. The two split apart and the old man kneels, sitting back on his heels. White haired, gruff and heavily jawed, he looks about fifty, but has the body of a twenty-five year old, thick and ripped with mature muscle, but with the tight, healthy skin of a boy. His cock is magnificent, Sarge thinks, staring at it beneath the old man's worn singlet. His dick is so big that Sarge wonders if -- hopes that -- THAT'S the cock he'll submit to.

"Hey," the Cop says, greeting them with a slight wave, interrupting their match.

The Kid continues to lay on his stomach, his chin resting on his folded arms, his legs bent at the knee, kicking in the air. He wears only a jock, and it curves around the halves of his pert little muscle ass. Sarge knows the Kid is for fucking, and not the one he's going to submit to, so he dismisses the Kid and goes back to eyeing the older man. "Hey, bro," the Kid says, adressing the Cop. "Meet the Coach."

"Welcome," says the Cop.

The Coach nods, eyeing the Cop up and down. "You wrestle?" he asks the Cop, his voice gruff and darkly sexy.

The Cop chuckles. "I'll take you on," he says. "But lemme take care of this first." He puts his hand on Sarge's back. "This is Sarge," he says. "He's just heard The Words."

"I must submit to muscle," Sarge mumbles, staring at the old man's cock.

They all laugh lightly. They've all been there. "Yeah," says the Coach. "You will, but it won't be to this one." He squeezes his hefty cock with his paw of a hand. "The one you're goin' to is even better than mine." Then, as if by some unspoken cue, the conversation's over. He puts a move on the Kid, and the two begin languidly wrestling again. "Come back when you're ready for a match," the Coach says as he pins the Kid. "Winner gets top. I think the Kid loses on purpose."

The Kid smiles from his back, looking up at them, and wraps his legs around the Coach's torso, the Coach slowly beginning to dry-hump him, rubbing his growning erection into the Kid's crack, testing the limits of the spandex. The Cop leads Sarge away, Sarge suddenly envying the Kid. Where's a cock for HIM?

When the enter the throne room, when Sarge sees the Bodybuilder seated there, on his chair, huge and thickly muscled, hypermasculine, when he sees the outline of the Bodybuilder's magnificent cock in the posing trunks he barely wears, he inherently knows that this is the man -- the GOD -- that he's meant for. Then, when he speaks the words of submission and feels the Bodybuilder's perfect cock press into his ass, he knows everything. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's the moment that the Bodybuilder cums into Sarge's fine, disciplined ass that it happens. Sarge slowly collapses, slipping off the Bodybuilder's softening cock, unconcious into a pool of his own cum, already changing, already enhancing. The Bodybuilder is just about to order the Cop to lick his cock clean when the door bursts open, and The Team enters, led by the Athlete, dressed for a game in their football pants and "Away" jerseys.

THEY see the Bodybuilder before THEM and instincively know what must be done, what play must be made. As one, THEY descend on the Bodybuilder, each with their own purpose, each with unspoken duty, and together begin to worship. Tongues and hands on every inch, THEY move together, pleasuring. The Bodybuilder relaxes into the attention, waves of excitement rippling up and down his body.

A handsome man (#34) is suddenly before him, materializing from the group, square-jawed and stubble-chinned. "This is the ass that is chosen for you," he says, matter-of-factly, as if talking about someone else, "so The Team may submit." He spins around before the Bodybuilder, displaying a magnificent ass -- HIS magnificent ass -- round and muscular, connected to thick hamstrings and powerful legs.

"Nice," the Bodybuilder says.

"This is the best ass on The Team," he says, patting it, "which is why WE chose it for you."

Suddenly, every mouth lifts from the Bodybuilder's skin. THEY speak. "We must submit to muscle," THEY chant in unison. "Please fuck OUR ass."

What is this? thinks the Bodybuilder. They're a HIVE MIND!

Curiously, he plunges his cock into #34's beautiful ass, and he's suddenly fucking them ALL.... •

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