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New World Order WARNING: EXTREME MUSCLE DOMINATION SNUFF Author's Note As a horny teenager, I was most turned on by Chip Masterson's muscle snuff stories. I would go to bed touching myself, imagining my own. I imagined a race of bodybuilder gods brutally taking over the world and crushing everyone in their path. Effortlessly ripping apart superheroes, flexing and posing over their enemies. Merciless. Unstoppable. I've decided to put my imaginations into writing and revive the old-school Masterson-styled muscle snuff stories. It uses an un-named writing technique (at least I don't know if it has such a term). I call it "prosetry" which combines elements of prose and poetry. I weave in and out of poetry, and it's sometimes difficult to distinguish but it seems to flow together. It might be uncanny at first but I think you'll enjoy it. Chapter 1. The State of the World. In the future, the world is filled with punks, snowflakes, and girly men. The proud nations of Earth, once titans of ambition and industry, had crumbled into pitiful shadows of their former glory. A new creed had emerged—one that exalted weakness and vilified strength. Fragility was glorified as virtue, and power condemned as oppression. The architects of empires had become soft and docile, their ambition suffocated beneath the weight of entitlement and despair. A new creed had emerged from the wreckage. It glorified fragility and decried resilience, elevating weakness to a perverse idol and condemning strength as a moral failing. Once, architects of empires rose with bare hands and iron wills to shape continents and chart the stars. Now, their descendants wore sloth and self-pity like crowns. Self-entitlement smothered their will to strive. They no longer built; they simply consumed. Their bodies reflected this hollow transformation. Gorged on convenience, their flesh softened and sagged, their minds dulled by an unending feast of hollow praise and trivial amusements. Discipline became an alien concept; adversity a distant myth. The virtues of fortitude, determination, and honor had been swept into the dustbin of memory, replaced by an unquenchable thirst for comfort and validation. Even the pillars of order had collapsed into grotesque caricatures of themselves. The police—once a firm hand keeping chaos at bay—now waddled through the streets in uniforms stretched tight over swollen torsos. Their hands, greasy with the residue of snacks, clutched not batons but self-help pamphlets. Rigorous training had been abandoned. Enforcement had given way to appeasement, replaced with hollow seminars on de-escalation. Once symbols of security, their badges now dangled like relics of a forgotten age. The military, once a beacon of power and might, a testament to the nation's strength, was now a hollow shell. The soldiers, once strong and disciplined, were now a different breed of warriors—social justice warriors. Delicate beings who bore no scars beyond their wounded pride and offended sensibilities. They did not march onto battlefields of steel and smoke, but into echo chambers thick with ideological incense. There they waged wars of rhetoric and censorship, congratulating themselves for victories over unseen enemies who dared question the prevailing dogma. The legacy of true warriors—those who had once guarded the gates of civilization—was mocked by this feeble pageant of self-congratulation. Weak pathetic girly men. Even nature had turned in silent judgment. The forests, seas, and skies seemed to recoil in quiet scorn. The strong had been silenced, the natural balance inverted. In this new age, people glorified frailty as strength and wielded their weakness like a weapon. They preached tolerance while wielding intolerance as a blade to silence truth. They called for unity, but their actions only sowed chaos and division. Cowardice wore the robes of false courage, and no one dared to challenge the prevailing madness. This fractured realm, once a world of vision and purpose, teetered over the edge of collapse. Its people had forgotten how to strive, how to endure, how to rise above hardship. Yet in the hidden corners, where old virtues smoldered like banked embers, a quiet presence remained. Those who remembered strength and courage and honor waited, patient and unbroken. They bided their time in the shadows, gathering their resolve, certain that the hour would come to reclaim what had been lost. Chapter 2: A New World Order. But then, they arrived. No one knew from where. No one knew how. No one saw their approach. No armies heralded their coming. No storms foretold their arrival. They appeared suddenly, as though summoned by the world's decay—a force of judgment rising from the ashes of a crumbling civilization. Brutus, the Iron King, stood at the forefront—a towering colossus of muscle and power. His body was a masterpiece of perfection, a shrine to discipline and dominance. Each slab of His impenetrable muscle seemed chiseled from divine granite, His veins pulsing like rivers of molten iron. His presence alone was suffocating, His sheer size a testament to power that defied comprehension. They had one purpose. To dominate. Brutus stood naked and unashamed, his form glistening with oil that caught the sunlight. Every ridge of His body was illuminated, from his broad, rippling chest to His massive thighs, which stood like unyielding tree trunks. Veins snaked across His biceps, surging with vitality, their peaks swelling like mountains ready to burst. His body radiated a divine masculinity that consumed everything in its wake. Behind Him stood His brethren, the bodybuilder gods—a legion of perfection. Each one was colossal, their physiques adorned with dense, unrelenting muscle. Their faces were calm, yet their eyes burned with anticipation, their silence more threatening than any war cry. They were sculpted for domination, forged in the fires of eternal discipline. Brutus raised His arms high, His biceps flexing into impossible peaks, His voice erupting like thunder. "My brothers," He began, His tone sharp and commanding, reverberating across the barren expanse. "Today, we bring order." The gods roared in unison, their voices shaking the earth. Their bodies flexed instinctively, their monstrous physiques casting shadows over the land. Their veins pulsed with life, their movements exuding raw, unrelenting power. "We'll crush them!" one shouted. "They'll submit to THIS!" bellowed another, flexing a bicep. The bodybuilder gods erupted into a frenzy—some doing motions for a headlock, some grabbing an imaginary head and forcing cock into it, some violently, vigorously, vehemently fucking the air—each graphically gesturing their plan to dominate. Brutus silenced the chaos with a single motion, raising His arms higher. His biceps bulged like mountains, veins snaking across their peaks. His gaze burned with authority as His voice cut through the uproar. "Yes," Brutus declared, His tone steady and unyielding. "ALL WILL WORSHIP THESE BICEPS!" He inhaled deeply, His chest expanding to impossible proportions. His body was a living demonstration of His words as He flexed with controlled fury. "THESE QUADS!" He roared, His legs pumping like pistons, Their sheer size enough to crush steel. "THIS CHEST!" His pecs rippled with power, each flex sending waves through His skin. The bodybuilders watched their leader flex in all of His glory. They all began to flex, each immaculate physique bulging under the skin. Everywhere you looked, gargantuan physiques in various bodybuilder poses. A front double bicep. A lat spread. Side chest. Most muscular. Brutus turned His gaze toward the city in the distance, its skyline a decayed relic of forgotten greatness. His lip curled into a sneer. "It's time," He said, His voice filled with purpose. With a single command, Brutus led His brethren forward, their charge shaking the earth. The gods, a tidal wave of sculpted power, marched toward the city. Their naked forms glistened in the sunlight, their bodies a force of nature, their presence undeniable. This was not just an invasion. This was His judgment. Chapter 3: The First Line of Defense. Gone were the days when police academies forged warriors. Where once stood obstacle courses and weight rooms, now sat counseling offices and sensitivity training centers. Physical standards had been slowly chipped away—first the running requirements, then the strength tests, finally the combat qualifications. Each compromise justified in the name of "inclusion," each weakening of standards celebrated as progress. Training manuals that once taught decisive action now preached hesitation and restraint. Chapter after chapter warned against "excessive force," while saying nothing of excessive weakness. Medals were given not for acts of courage, but for avoiding confrontation. Promotions went to those who best navigated politics, not those who best protected the streets. The result was inevitable: a police force that had forgotten its warrior heritage. Officers who couldn't do a single pullup patrolled in vehicles rather than on foot. Those who feared physical combat were armed with forms and procedures instead of strength and skill. The thin blue line had become paper-thin. This was what waited for the gods. They came like a storm of flesh and power, their arrival heralded by tremors that shook the city to its foundations. The morning mist parted before them, unable to touch their divine forms, dissipating in the heat radiating from their massive bodies. Each footstep left the concrete cracked and smoking, the earth itself groaning under the weight of true power. Brutus led them, His body a masterwork of muscle and might. Morning sun caught the sweat on His skin, making each striation gleam like bands of steel cable beneath bronze flesh. His chest rose and fell with deliberate breaths, each expansion threatening to burst through skin stretched tight over impossible mass. Behind Him, His brethren moved as one unstoppable tide of masculine perfection, their combined presence blotting out the sun and casting the street into shadow. The air grew thick and electric around them, carrying the scent of oil and dominance. Windows rattled in their frames, car alarms screamed and died, and the very atmosphere seemed to bow before their advance. Birds fled the sky, and stray dogs whimpered and ran at their approach—nature itself acknowledging supreme power. The police response was everything wrong with modern authority made manifest. Cruisers screeched to hasty stops, forming a barricade that seemed pathetically fragile before the approaching gods. Officers scrambled out, their movements betraying bodies softened by years of sitting and bureaucracy. Their weapons seemed to shrink in their hands—modern tools designed more to avoid liability than to exert force. The first officer raised his taser, hands trembling as he followed department procedure for non-lethal engagement. "S-stop! This is your final warning—" His words died in his throat as a god's massive hand seized his face. "WARNING?" the god sneered, his bicep swelling with terrible purpose. The officer's skull compressed between divine fingers, brain matter spraying across his colleague's horrified faces. Three officers opened fire from behind their cruiser doors, their department-approved hollow points designed to minimize casualties. The bullets struck another god's chest and died, unable to penetrate muscle hardened by iron discipline. "YOUR BULLETS ARE AS SOFT AS YOUR SPIRITS!" His pecs danced with contemptuous power as he seized the cruiser's hood. The metal screamed as he lifted the entire vehicle, his delts and traps exploding with definition. The officers tried to flee—their training emphasizing tactical retreat over engagement—but he brought the car down upon them like a hammer of judgment, crushing them into red paste against the asphalt. A god caught two officers desperately reading from their conflict de-escalation cards. His forearms writhed with vascularity as he grabbed them by their throats. "TRYING TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT?" He pressed them together against his abs, each block of muscle becoming harder than steel. Their bodies compressed against his midsection, bones cracking as he flexed deeper. Blood sprayed in arterial arcs as his eight-pack pulverized them into oblivion. "HOLD THE LINE!" barked the captain from behind his men, his voice carrying all the authority of a substitute teacher. He clutched his megaphone like a shield, years of administrative duties evident in his soft frame and tentative stance. The badge on his chest—once earned through courage and strength—now marked him as nothing more than a manager who'd passed the right tests. The captain fumbled with his radio, following protocol instead of instinct. "Request immediate backup! We need crisis negotiators and—" His words died as Brutus closed the distance in one earth-shattering stride. "NEGOTIATION?" Brutus seized him by the throat, lifting the captain's soft body high. "YOU THINK GODS NEGOTIATE?" The captain's feet kicked uselessly as Brutus's fingers tightened, veins snaking down His forearm like black rivers of power. With one contemptuous flex, He crushed the man's throat to pulp, letting the body fall among its scattered citation books and regulation manuals. The police line shattered—not in tactical retreat, but in pure panic. Officers dropped their weapons, their training in "controlled response" forgotten in the face of true power. Some tried to hide behind their cruisers, clutching bodycams as if documentation would save them. Others fumbled with pepper spray—tools meant for subduing drunks now faced with divine might. A god caught four officers trying to form a defensive circle—a textbook maneuver that meant nothing against unstoppable strength. "CIRCLE UP LIKE PREY!" He spread his arms wide, his lats flaring like wings of doom. His massive arms closed around them, biceps swelling with cruel purpose. Their bones cracked in sequence as he compressed them together, blood spraying between his fingers as their bodies merged into one pulverized mass. As the street ran red with the consequences of weakness, Brutus's divine gaze fixed upon the precinct building itself. Behind its modern glass facade lay the true heart of authority's decay—the place where warriors were transformed into bureaucrats, where strength was sacrificed on the altar of procedure. "THE SOURCE OF THE SICKNESS," He growled, His muscles tensing with anticipation. The other gods gathered around Him, their massive frames casting long shadows across the carnage-strewn street. Through the windows, they could see officers scrambling to barricade themselves inside—seeking refuge in the very temple that had made them weak. Some officers tried one final, desperate stand at the precinct steps. They formed a line with riot shields—plastic barriers meant for controlling crowds now raised against divine power. A god's laughter shook the building's windows as he approached. "HIDING BEHIND PLASTIC?" His fist punched through the center shield, shattering both it and the officer behind it. He seized two more officers before they could flee, crushing them together until their equipment and bones became one mangled mass. The precinct's front doors—automatic sliding glass set in a modern frame—seemed to mock everything authority should be. Brutus didn't break stride as He approached. The doors tried to slide open but jammed in terror at His presence. His chest expansion alone shattered the glass as He entered, sending crystalline shards raining across the lobby's polished floor. "SHOW ME," His voice made the building's foundation tremble, "WHERE YOU BREED THIS WEAKNESS." The gods burst through the entrance like an unstoppable tide of judgment, their massive bodies filling corridors designed for lesser beings. Each god moved with terrible purpose, drawn to different sectors of this fortress of false authority. Here, in these halls, they would discover just how deep the rot had spread. The precinct—mankind's temple of borrowed authority—became an arena of divine judgment. Officers scattered before them like roaches exposed to light, fleeing deeper into their maze of bureaucracy. A god cornered three officers by the lobby's security checkpoint—a station designed for comfort rather than vigilance, complete with ergonomic chairs and coffee warmers. "SCANNING FOR THREATS?" he sneered, watching them fumble with their handheld metal detectors. His traps rose like mountains as he seized the security gate itself, ripping it from its moorings. The officers screamed as he bent the metal around them, his forearms writhing with power as he twisted their modern security measures into an improvised coffin. "LET'S SEE WHAT YOUR SCANNERS DETECT NOW!" He compressed the metal cage with one explosive flex, blood spraying through the gaps as their bodies were pulverized along with their equipment. Another god discovered the lobby's wall of valor—once displaying medals for courage, now showcasing commendations for "community engagement" and "de-escalation excellence." His chest heaved with disgust as he caught five officers trying to hide behind a desk. "HIDING FROM GLORY?" His pecs danced with anticipated violence as he seized both them and their desk. "LET'S ADD TO YOUR WALL!" He pressed them against the display, their bones cracking against their own worthless awards as his muscles flexed with divine purpose. Brutus watched His brethren begin their work, His gaze already fixed on the corridors ahead. The building's layout spread before Him—each floor a new level of weakness to purge, each room a fresh temple of failure to cleanse. His muscles tensed with anticipation, veins rising beneath His skin like rivers of judgment. The gods moved deeper into the precinct, their massive frames filling hallways designed for comfort rather than command. The real cleansing was about to begin. A god discovered the shooting range first, where paper targets displayed "non-lethal zones" in friendly colors. Reduced qualification standards were posted proudly on the walls—"Modified for Inclusivity" and "Stress-Free Testing Environment." His massive frame cast long shadows over lanes where officers once qualified with .22 calibers instead of real service weapons. "EVEN YOUR TARGETS FEAR VIOLENCE!" he roared, his trapezius muscles bunching into steel cables. The fluorescent lights flickered across his oiled skin as he seized the target retrieval system. His lats flared out like wings of doom as he ripped the entire mechanism from the ceiling, wires sparking uselessly against his granite abs. Three officers tried to surrender, hands raised in submission—their training emphasizing de-escalation over dominance. The god's sneer revealed what he thought of surrender. "LET'S PLAY A NEW GAME!" He began methodically twisting the metal tracks and chains into a grotesque web, his forearms writhing with vascularity as he worked. The officers backed away, but found themselves herded into his creation. "WELCOME TO MY SHOOTING GALLERY!" He seized them one by one, impaling them on his twisted metal construct. Their bodies jerked and twitched as he arranged them like targets, blood running down the chains. "NOW THIS IS A QUALIFIED COURSE!" He stepped back to admire his work—three bodies displayed on his metal sculpture, a monument to the price of weakness. Brutus himself found the captain's office—a shrine to modern weakness. Commendations for "de-escalation" and "conflict avoidance" lined walls once meant for medals of valor. His chest heaved with disgust, each breath making his serratus muscles dance beneath his skin as He surveyed photographs of "community outreach" and "sensitivity training graduations." The command staff huddled inside, desperately shredding documents and deleting files—bureaucrats trying to erase their paper trail of failure. "HIDING EVIDENCE OF YOUR WEAKNESS?" His voice shook certificates from the walls as his quadriceps bunched with terrible purpose. The back door burst open as they tried to flee. "RUNNING FROM CONFLICT?" He seized them with one massive arm, his bicep swelling larger than their combined torsos. "THIS IS HOW REAL AUTHORITY ACTS!" With His free hand, He began systematically destroying their temple of bureaucracy. His forearms writhed with vascularity as He tore out filing cabinets, computer systems, and chunks of desk. "YOUR PAPERWORK WON'T SAVE YOU NOW!" He pressed the officers into the growing pile of debris, His triceps flaring out as He compacted metal, wood, and flesh together. Their screams harmonized with the crunch of furniture and bone as His godlike strength compressed everything into an ever-tighter mass. Blood and shredded documents sprayed from between His fingers as He continued to squeeze, reducing years of bureaucratic authority into a dense sphere of failure. In the main lobby, another god turned the security desk into an altar of destruction. Modern cameras and monitors—tools of observation without action—surrounded two officers desperately trying to delete footage of divine judgment. The god's chest muscles danced with anticipated violence as he seized them. "TRYING TO ERASE TRUTH?" His pecs began to undulate independently, each striation visible through paper-thin skin. "LET'S MAKE A NEW RECORDING!" He pressed them against his chest, beginning a pec bounce routine that pulverized bone and liquefied organs in rhythm. Their screams kept time with his flexing until their bodies simply dissolved against the rippling wall of muscle. Blood ran down the valleys between his striations, painting new patterns across security screens now displaying only death. The department's "modern policing" classroom became Brutus's next target. Where weapon racks once stood, now sat therapy circles. Combat dummies had been replaced with conflict resolution flowcharts. The walls, once bearing images of tactical excellence, now displayed posters about "understanding" and "empathy." His abdominal muscles rippled with contempt as He surveyed this temple of weakness. Six officers had barricaded themselves inside, using their "defensive spacing" training to create distance. The irony made His muscles twitch with dark amusement. "YOU REPLACED WARRIOR KNOWLEDGE WITH THIS?" His voice made the motivational posters shred themselves in terror. The officers' "de-escalation barriers"—lightweight podiums and desk chairs—might as well have been paper before His advance. His forearms swelled as He grabbed them, one by one, their bodies feeling like tissue paper in His grip. "TIME FOR A NEW LESSON PLAN!" His abs contracted sequentially, each block of muscle becoming harder than steel. The first two officers He pressed against His upper abs, their ribcages collapsing as He flexed. Their bones splintered against muscle that knew no mercy, their screams cut short as their lungs burst. The next pair disappeared into the striations of His middle abs, their spines snapping as the muscles contracted. He flexed deeper, grinding them against each ridge and valley until they became part of His definition. The final two He saved for His lower abs, their bodies compressing smaller and smaller as the last three blocks of His eight-pack flexed to maximum density. Blood ran in rivers down the valleys between His abs, painting a new lesson plan across his midsection. In the department's evidence room, another god discovered the ultimate symbol of modern policing's decay. Shelves lined with body cameras and recording devices—technology meant to restrict force rather than employ it. Cases of "less-lethal" weapons and riot control gear designed to subdue without strength. Here, a group of officers had taken refuge among their tools of weakness. "HIDING BEHIND YOUR CAMERAS?" The god's deltoids erupted with striations as he seized the nearest shelf unit. "LET'S MAKE A REAL DOCUMENTARY!" His forearms twisted with power as he began methodically transforming the metal shelving into an elaborate torture device, bending and weaving steel like thread. The officers tried to record their final moments, hands shaking as they held up phones and cameras. "PERFECT LIGHTING FOR YOUR FINALE!" He arranged them within his metal sculpture, their bodies trembling as he posed them precisely. Then his muscles began their performance. Each flex of his godlike physique bent the metal tighter, crushing them in stages. Their cameras captured every moment—the way his muscles rippled and bulged as he compressed the structure, how his vascularity emerged like dark rivers across his skin as he applied more pressure. "MAKE SURE YOU GET MY GOOD SIDE!" His pecs bounced rhythmically as he continued his work, each flex bringing new screams. Blood sprayed across the cameras' lenses, recording their own destruction as he crushed everything into a dense modern art piece of metal, flesh, and shattered technology. In the dispatch center, a third god found operators desperately calling for backup, their voices breaking as they described divine judgment to an unhearing world. The room was soft, designed for comfort rather than command—ergonomic chairs, stress balls, and posters about "workplace wellness" surrounded the consoles. "CALLING FOR HELP?" His lats flared wide as he approached the bank of monitors. "I'LL GIVE YOU A REAL EMERGENCY!" He began with the newest dispatchers, their headsets still broadcasting as he pressed them against the screens. Their bodies cracked and burst against the displays, painting emergency protocols with their failure. The more experienced dispatchers he saved for a special demonstration. "WATCH HOW REAL POWER RESPONDS!" He seized their console, his triceps exploding with definition as he tore it from its moorings. Cables and wires hung like entrails as he lifted the entire unit. The dispatchers remained seated—their training emphasizing staying at their posts—as he raised the console high. His shoulders and chest became a roadmap of striated power as he brought the mass of technology down upon them, crushing them between modern equipment and ancient strength. The precinct's gym remained Brutus's final target. Behind Him, two bodybuilder gods took position at the double doors, their massive frames completely blocking any escape. Their lats flared wide enough to touch both sides of the doorframe, creating a wall of impenetrable muscle. Through the glass panels, other officers outside could only watch helplessly as their colleagues faced judgment. Inside, snowflakes huddled in corners, desperately clutching their worthless toys—resistance bands, balance balls, and lightweight training gear that had replaced real iron. Some darted desperate looks at the emergency exit, but another god already stood there, his shoulders and chest so wide they sealed off any hope of escape. But one officer stood in the center of the room. His stance was unwavering—feet planted shoulder-width apart, massive chest held high, thick arms hanging ready at his sides. His uniform could barely contain the mass of muscle beneath, each movement revealing dense striations earned through years of brutal discipline. This was no gym tourist's physique—this was a superheavyweight's frame forged through iron dedication and warrior's spirit. While others shrank from His presence, this one's posture remained dignified, almost defiant—not in challenge, but in pride. His physique told a story of thousands of heavy squats, countless hours under crushing weights, of choosing pain when others chose comfort. Even now, as divine judgment loomed, his muscles remained tensed like a warrior of old facing his final battle with honor. As Brutus surveyed the scene, His divine gaze lingered on this solitary figure. Here stood something unexpected—a glimpse of what humanity could be, should be. In this officer's frame, He saw the old ways preserved, the iron faith kept alive despite society's descent into weakness. "THIS SACRED GROUND," Brutus's voice made the mirrors vibrate, "YOU'VE TURNED IT INTO A PLAYGROUND!" His traps rose like twin mountains as rage filled His frame. The huddled officers tried to fight back with kettlebells—plastic-coated things meant for "safe" exercise. The weights bounced harmlessly off His divine form. The standing officer remained unmoved, his own massive traps bunching with controlled power. His eyes, unlike the terror-filled ones around him, showed understanding. Here was a man who knew what this place should have been, who had watched it become corrupted by weakness and mediocrity. "THE REST COWER," Brutus's voice carried a note of dark curiosity. "YET YOU STAND." "A man should face his death on his feet," the officer replied, his voice deep and steady. Each word carried the weight of iron discipline behind it. His chest rose slightly, not in challenge but in dignity, every striation visible even through his uniform. Brutus moved closer, His shadow falling over the officer who still didn't flinch. Other men would have broken, would have begged, would have tried to run. But this one's stance remained solid as a power rack bolted to concrete. His eyes held no fear—only understanding and acceptance of whatever judgment awaited him. In this one's eyes, Brutus saw not just muscle, but the iron will that had kept some small flame of real strength alive in this age of weakness. Each scar and callus on the officer's hands told stories of real weight, of raw metal that wasn't coated in rubber, of barbells that weren't balanced for safety. These were hands that bore the marks of true training, that had gripped tons of iron, that had never surrendered to the soft comfort of machines. "YOU ARE ONE OF THE FEW," Brutus's voice held both judgment and brutal respect, sealing the fate of those who cowered while acknowledging unwavering dedication to iron. His overwhelming presence focused entirely on the officer before Him, divine gaze piercing through the uniform to read years of iron devotion written in muscle and scar tissue beneath. "ONE OF THOSE WHO KEPT THIS WORLD FROM TOTAL COLLAPSE INTO WEAKNESS." The officer's jaw tightened, muscles rippling up his thick neck. Here was someone who understood that strength wasn't just about lifting weights—it was about carrying the torch of iron discipline when others sought easier paths. Someone who had maintained standards while others lowered them, who had chosen the pain of growth over the comfort of mediocrity. His gaze swept across his former colleagues, disgust evident as his shoulders bunched with controlled fury. "I watched them strip this place bare," he said, voice carrying the weight of iron. "Replaced strength with weakness. Called it progress." The air grew heavy with divine presence. "YOU HIDE YOUR POWER BENEATH THEIR WEAK CLOTH," Brutus's voice resonated with command. "SHOW THEM WHAT THEY FEARED TO BECOME." Without hesitation, the officer stripped away every piece of his uniform—every symbol of regulated authority falling away to reveal what bureaucracy had tried to hide. His massive frame, forged through years of true iron discipline, stood unashamed in primal glory before judgment. Between his legs hung masculine power in its most magnificent form—a shaft as thick as his muscled forearm and longer than regulation would dare measure, perfectly proportioned like a classical statue come to life. Its sheer size symbolized everything society feared about unrestrained male power, while its aesthetic perfection mocked their attempts to shame such magnificent masculinity. This wasn't the soft, covered body of modern standards—this was physical dominance in its most ancient, terrible form. His chest and shoulders, built through thousands of heavy presses and pulls, rippled with barely contained violence. Quads and hamstrings forged by real squats, not the air squats preached in their "functional fitness" seminars, showed every striation of earned strength. Each muscle group told its own story of iron devotion, each fiber promising terrible retribution. Veins writhed beneath his skin like angry serpents, pumping blood that seemed to burn with righteous fury. This was a body built through warfare against comfort, through rejection of easy paths. As the last shred of uniform fell away, an almost electric tension filled the air. Here stood raw strength incarnate, stripped of all pretense and regulation. His massive frame cast its own shadow now, each muscle fiber bearing witness to countless hours of brutal training while others sought comfort. His physical presence filled the room, primal and unleashed, free from the chains of false authority. "THIS," Brutus's voice rolled like thunder through the gym, "IS WHAT YOU TRIED TO DESTROY." His massive arm gestured toward the worthy officer, whose physique swelled with righteous purpose. "THE STRENGTH YOU SOUGHT TO KEEP HIDDEN." "TELL ME," Brutus commanded, His muscles tensing with terrible purpose, "WHO IS THE ARCHITECT OF THIS WEAKNESS?" The worthy officer's jaw clenched, veins standing out on his neck like cables of fury. His naked superheavyweight frame loomed over the captain, three hundred pounds of contest-ready muscle casting a shadow of doom. His eyes fixed on the captain with a hatred forged through years of watching true strength being systematically destroyed. "Him." The single word carried the weight of a thousand betrayed warriors. "The one who gutted everything that made us strong." "Please," the captain whimpered, backing away from raw physical power he'd tried so hard to regulate out of existence, his eyes darting helplessly across the massive muscled frame before him, "I was just following modern protocols—" "SILENCE." Brutus's command shook the entire room. His divine gaze moved between the worthy officer and the trembling captain—between iron-forged power and the bureaucrat who had tried to regulate it away. A moment of dark understanding passed between god and warrior before Brutus pronounced: "HIS LIFE OR DEATH—THE CHOICE IS YOURS." Years of suppressed rage exploded through the worthy officer's frame. His exposed muscles swelled with fury as memories of every humiliation, every restriction, every weak mandate flooded his mind. Three hundred pounds of striated muscle tensed with violent purpose as the captain tried to flee. The officer's massive hand seized the captain by his collar, yanking him back. He trapped the captain's head between his tree-trunk thighs. The captain found himself immobilized, his face pressed upward. The officer's massive manhood rested heavily on his face—thicker than his wrist even while soft, longer than his forearm, its sheer weight a testament to masculine power that no regulation could contain. With each surge of rage, each remembered humiliation, his grip tightened and his manhood swelled larger. The mirrors reflected his transformation—muscles bulging with fury as his masculine power grew to terrifying proportions. The captain's eyes widened in mounting horror as he felt this physical proof of everything they'd feared expanding against his face, growing harder and more intimidating with each flex of the worthy officer's massive thighs. Department protocols and sensitivity training meant nothing now as pure male dominance reached its full, overwhelming size. "Look at what you feared," the officer growled, his voice deepening as his power peaked. "This is what your protocols couldn't contain." The captain trembled helplessly, trapped between legs built through years of heavy squats, crushed beneath physical supremacy that no policy could diminish. His hands clawed uselessly at muscle forged through years of forbidden training as he faced the power he'd spent years trying to suppress. The captain's desperate struggles grew weaker, his head trapped in the vice of massive thighs. The mirror before him showed his complete humiliation—his face crushed between legs built through years of heavy squats, forced to witness the worthy officer's manhood rising to its full, terrifying size. Everything they'd tried to regulate away, every display of masculine power they'd attempted to suppress, now stood proudly erect before him, a tower of dominance that made a mockery of department standards. "Called it 'intimidating presence,'" the officer's voice dropped to a murderous growl. "Look at your weakness now." The captain could only stare at their reflection—his pathetic authority crushed between three hundred pounds of pure muscle, forced to face the physical supremacy he'd fought so hard to control. Tears began streaming down the bureaucrat's face as he realized his fate. "Shhhh," the officer mocked, patting the captain's head condescendingly between his massive thighs. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? A gentler, softer world?" His manhood throbbed with cruel power as his thighs relaxed slightly, allowing the captain a moment of hope. "No more intimidating presence." The officer considered letting him live with his shame. Death was too easy. All of a sudden, the gym's lunk alarm shrieked to life. SPLAT. Pure instinct took over. Any thought of mercy vanished in that instant—that hateful siren erased the concept of clemency from his mind. Years of suppressed rage exploded through his muscles before conscious thought could intervene. His thighs contracted with involuntary, lethal force. He didn't even mean to end it—raw hatred for that sound had triggered an unconscious response, his body acting on its own in one explosive moment of uncontrolled power. His chest heaved with savage breaths as he stared at the remains between his legs. The alarm still pierced the air—that mechanical enforcer of weakness. With a roar that drowned out the siren, he seized the entire weight rack and hurled it at the sensor. The rack didn't just silence the alarm—it exploded through the wall, taking half the electrical system with it. But that wasn't enough. His massive frame surged in a rampage as he tore through the gym, destroying everything that had monitored and restricted his training. Years of being watched, controlled, regulated—all of it ended beneath his fury until only scattered debris remained. The remaining snowflakes watched in terror as three hundred pounds of enraged muscle unleashed its full power. His massive manhood swayed with each act of destruction as he eliminated every trace of their surveillance system. When the dust settled, nothing remained but twisted metal and shattered plastic. "NOW FOR THE REST," Brutus's voice boomed across the mirrored chamber. The remaining snowflakes, who had watched their captain's execution in horror, tried to press themselves deeper into the corners. What followed was a symphony of destruction. While Brutus demonstrated divine power, His disciple moved with cold precision toward the "wellness committee" huddled in a corner. These were the ones who'd spent years writing reports about his "intimidating physique," who'd posted warnings about "excessive exercise." The officer's massive hand seized the committee head by his throat, fingers wrapping almost completely around his neck. With terrifying calm, he lifted the bureaucrat until their eyes met. "Remember all those complaints about my 'aggressive training style'?" One brutal motion slammed the man against the mirrored wall. Glass cracked as he increased the pressure, forearm muscles standing out in stark relief. The mirror splintered further as years of paper authority met real strength, then shattered completely as bureaucratic weakness gave way. He turned to the others, his body a weapon forged through years of true training. Each execution that followed was a demonstration of strength they'd tried to regulate away. Meanwhile, Brutus gathered four more snowflakes against His divine form. The mirrors reflected every detail as His quadriceps flexed with impossible power. "FEEL REAL STRENGTH!" Their bodies conformed to each rippling striation before exploding, painting the mirrors with their weakness. Blood ran in rivers down the valleys between His muscle groups, creating terrible patterns that made survivors whimper in desperation. The officer found the department's "fitness modernization team" hiding behind a stack of yoga mats. He advanced on them with grim purpose. "Still think functional movement patterns trump real strength?" His forearms, lined with veins from years of heavy lifting, seized two of them by their throats. One brutal motion slammed them together, their bodies crumpling against each other as paper theory met actual power. Their limp forms dropped to the floor as he turned to the others, shoulders and arms tensed for more work. Brutus demonstrated divine techniques of destruction, His power beyond mortal comprehension. He caught four snowflakes trying to flee toward their "safe space" meditation corner. His quadriceps flexed to impossible density as He trapped them between His legs. "WEAKNESS DIES HERE." The mirrors reflected their obliteration from every angle as His thighs contracted, reducing them to red mist that painted the glass. The last group—the "workplace safety committee"—huddled together in a corner. The officer's eyes narrowed as he recognized them. These were the ones who had systematically weakened the gym, who had spent years making strength itself a violation. "These," the officer said, his voice cold with controlled rage, "wrote the policies against 'intimidating training.'" He advanced on them, his massive frame slick with the blood of their colleagues, veins standing out against skin that had ignored every restriction. He seized their leader first. The bureaucrat's pleas died as three hundred pounds of muscle slammed him through their "Your Safe Space For Gentle Exercise" poster. Without pause, he turned to the others, who tried to flee. Two he caught mid-retreat, his massive hands closing around their throats. Their necks snapped with one brutal twist as years of paper authority met iron-forged strength. The last three cowered behind a rack of plastic dumbbells, their bodies trembling as his massive shadow engulfed them. Every rule they'd written, every restriction they'd imposed, every weakness they'd enforced—it all meant nothing now as three hundred pounds of pure muscle approached. His blood-slicked physique blocked all escape, decades of suppressed power now fully unleashed. Their final whimpers died in their throats as they faced the terrifying reality of unrestrained strength—everything they'd feared, everything they'd tried to regulate away, now standing before them in its most lethal form. Blood dripped from his frame as he stood amid the carnage, his muscles pumped from delivering judgment. The mirrors reflected his physique from every angle—mortal power earned through unwavering devotion to real strength. Brutus turned to face him. The officer stood before Him, his massive physique baptized in blood of his enemies, crimson streams highlighting every striation of muscle that had defied weakness. The air itself seemed to grow thicker, heavier with power as they stood amid the carnage. Here was a moment of terrible significance—a warrior who had kept faith with iron even as the world grew soft, who had maintained ancient standards while others embraced weakness. "YOU HAVE PROVEN YOURSELF," Brutus's voice shook the foundations. "THROUGH YEARS OF IRON DEVOTION. THROUGH RESISTANCE AGAINST WEAKNESS. THROUGH RIGHTEOUS EXECUTION OF JUDGMENT." "I GRANT YOU DIVINE STRENGTH," Brutus proclaimed. "ASCEND FROM MORTAL LIMITATION. BECOME AN INSTRUMENT OF IRON JUDGMENT." Divine power radiated from Brutus, the very air growing heavy with strength. The worthy officer stood unwavering as waves of raw energy washed over him. His muscles began to transform, each fiber igniting with power beyond mortal limits. His massive frame expanded with terrible purpose, his manhood growing even more imposing as divine strength flooded his body. Every aspect of his physical dominance transcended human limitation. "BROTHER," Brutus's voice carried infinite recognition, "WHAT WAS YOUR MORTAL NAME?" "It no longer matters," the new disciple replied, "I am reborn in iron." "THEN RISE, MAGNUS, DISCIPLE OF IRON." The gym's foundations trembled at Brutus's proclamation. "LET US RID THE WORLD OF WEAKNESS." Together they moved through victory poses over their enemies, blood dripping from their massive frames onto the broken bodies below. Front double biceps. Lat spread. Side chest. They finished with a most muscular pose so intense it shattered the remaining mirrors, their massive manhoods fully erect above the carnage, testosterone-fueled dominance on full display. Blood ran down the valleys between their muscles, mixing with sweat to make each striation glisten with brutal triumph. The remains of their enemies painted the floor beneath them as every aspect of their physical supremacy radiated unstoppable power. Brutus and Magnus stood together in the devastated gym, their massive frames promising judgment to a world that had strayed too far from the iron path. The carnage around them was just the beginning—a preview of the purification to come. Chapter 4: The Second Line of Defense. The police had fallen, their broken bodies scattered like fallen leaves across streets painted red with failure. Word of the destruction spread like wildfire, carried by the screams of fleeing civilians and desperate radio calls that crackled with pure terror. The National Guard mobilized—mankind's next sacrificial offering to the gods. Tanks rumbled down shattered streets, their treads grinding over debris and bodies alike. Troop carriers disgorged lines of soldiers—a generation raised on participation trophies and safe spaces, now facing true power for the first time. They formed their blockade with what little remained of military discipline, their weapons raised in hands more accustomed to holding smartphones than rifles. But as the bodybuilder gods appeared, every soldier felt their soul try to flee their body. Brutus led the advance, His colossal frame glistening with oil, each muscle fiber rippling with power that could reshape reality itself. His chest rose and fell like twin mountains of impenetrable might, each movement displaying veins thick as rope beneath skin stretched tight over divine muscle. Behind Him, His brethren marched in perfect unison, a wall of masculine perfection that made the tanks before them look like children's toys. The National Guard opened fire, their weapons spewing an impotent storm of lead that filled the air with thunder. Bullets struck divine flesh and died, pinging off muscles hardened by iron discipline—something this weak generation had never known. A god stepped forward, letting the bullets rain against his mammoth chest. He bounced his pecs rhythmically, each flex sending bullets ricocheting away like insects. "IS THIS ALL YOUR WEAK ERA CAN OFFER?" His laughter boomed as he advanced. A soldier tried to run—a graduate of new age combat training that taught retreat over resilience. The god's arm shot out, fingers closing around the man's torso. "LET ME SHOW YOU REAL STRENGTH." With methodical cruelty, he began to squeeze. The soldier's tactical vest crumpled like paper, then ribs started to crack one by one, each snap distinct and horrible. The god flexed harder, his bicep swelling larger and larger until the man's body simply collapsed inward, pulverized between divine muscle and bone. Another god seized a tank's turret in his grip, sneering at the crew inside checking their phones for combat tips. His bicep swelled to impossible size as he ripped the weapon free with a scream of tortured metal. He held it overhead, showcasing every striation in his shoulders, then brought it down across his thigh. His quadriceps flexed into granite ridges as he bent the barrel like putty, the metal weeping as his muscle rendered modern technology into scrap. "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TRUST MACHINES OVER MUSCLE!" Three soldiers—their badges earned in "inclusive warfare" courses—raised their rifles with shaking hands. A god's massive arm swept them up, gathering them against his chest. "FEEL WHAT REAL POWER IS!" His pecs began to contract, slowly at first. The men screamed as the pressure built, their body armor crumpling, bones splintering. The god bounced his pecs, playing with his prey, each flex bringing new screams until finally he tensed every fiber. Their bodies burst like water balloons, painting his striated chest red. Brutus stood immobile as a tank's main gun fired point-blank at His chest. The shell struck His pecs and detonated—a firefly trying to hurt the sun. As the smoke cleared, His godlike physique stood unmarked, each muscle more defined in the aftermath of man's futile attack. He reached down, fingers punching through steel like wet cardboard. With one arm, He began to peel the tank open from the top, the metal screaming as His muscles flexed and bulged. The crew stared up in terror at their new god, their combat manuals on "emotional resilience" useless before such might. "THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE BECOME," He rumbled, reaching inside. "WARRIORS WHO THINK FEELINGS MATTER MORE THAN FORCE." His massive hand closed around a soldier, lifting him out like a child's toy. Brutus pressed the man between His pecs, the muscle already harder than any substance on Earth. "NOW FEEL REAL POWER." His chest flexed, each fiber becoming impossibly harder. The man's skeleton collapsed all at once, crushed into powder between plates of divine muscle. The gods hunted down the fleeing soldiers, each death a lesson in true strength. One god caught three men trying to update their combat status on social media. He wrapped his pythonic arm around them, his bicep larger than all three torsos combined. "HERE'S YOUR UPDATE." The bicep began to swell, larger and larger, the peak rising like a mountain of striated meat. Their bodies compressed, merged, became one mass of broken flesh against his arm. "MUSCLE WINS." Another god grabbed four soldiers, pressing them against his abs. "TEST YOUR WEAKNESS AGAINST THIS." His eight-pack contracted, each block of muscle becoming diamond-hard. The men screamed as they were slowly crushed against a wall of pure power, their bodies leaving red streaks down the valleys between each abs block. Brutus watched the slaughter, each breath making His impossibly broad chest rise and fall with controlled power. The bodybuilder gods roared in unison, their voices shaking buildings as they flexed in victory, their bodies living monuments to unstoppable power. Before them lay their next conquest—the military's last stand, their final chance to witness true masculine perfection before extinction. Chapter 5: The Third Line of Defense. The nation had mobilized. Every branch of the armed forces had been called to action, but even their mighty weapons couldn't hide what they'd become. Fighter jets screamed across the sky piloted by men who'd never known true combat, who'd spent more time in sensitivity training than in battle drills. Tanks rolled into position, their crews taught to question authority before following orders. Artillery lined the hills surrounding the city, operated by soldiers more concerned with their feelings than their function. Warships bristled along the coastline, their mighty weapons systems guided by those who'd forgotten the meaning of absolute victory. This was what remained of Earth's greatest fighting force—warriors turned weak, soldiers turned soft. Brutus, the Iron King, led His brethren forward. His body, glistening with sweat and oil, radiated raw power that needed no weapons, no technology, no crutches to dominate. Veins snaked across His biceps like living rivers of strength. His chest rose like an unyielding fortress, and His legs churned the earth beneath Him. Behind Him, the bodybuilder gods marched in perfect unison, their monumental forms a testament to iron discipline and uncompromising might. The gods halted just within range, their towering forms wreathed in dust and smoke. Brutus surveyed the array of weaponry before Him—humanity's last, desperate hope. But He saw beyond the steel and circuitry. He saw the weakness festering within. The military commander, standing atop his command tank, raised his hand. His voice cracked as he gave the order, betraying the fear that no amount of technological superiority could mask. "OPEN FIRE!" The battlefield erupted in chaos. Tank cannons boomed in unison, their armor-piercing shells streaking through the air like angry comets—yet their crews flinched at their own weapons' recoil. Fighter jets screamed overhead, releasing their payloads, guided by pilots who'd been taught that dominance was toxic. Missiles arced down from the sky, launched by soldiers who'd forgotten that victory demanded absolute commitment, not measured responses. But when the smoke cleared, Brutus stood unmoved, unblemished. His muscles, hardened through relentless discipline and unyielding will, had shrugged off humanity's mightiest weapons like rain. Here was the truth laid bare: no amount of technology could replace raw power, no machinery could match pure strength, no weapons could substitute for iron will. Brutus faced down a line of soldiers who'd spent more hours in mandatory workshops than in combat training. Their rifles shook in untrained hands as they confronted divine power incarnate. "SHOOT YOUR GOD," He commanded, spreading His arms wide in terrible invitation. They opened fire—a hesitant volley that betrayed their lack of conviction. Brutus's lips curled into a cruel smile as bullets pinged harmlessly off His chest. "THIS is what your warriors have become?" He advanced, each thunderous step crushing their modern dogma beneath His feet. His shadow fell over the first soldier, who was fumbling with his phone instead of his weapon. "NOW WITNESS TRUE POWER." His massive hand closed around the man's head, fingers tightening until bone and skull gave way like paper in His grip. Three soldiers rushed forward, their chests decorated with medals earned in simulated battles and EO courses. Brutus caught their bullets with His chest muscles, flexing with absolute contempt. "YOU WANT INCLUSIVE?" He roared, the sound shaking the earth itself. "I'LL INCLUDE YOU ALL IN OBLIVION." He seized them in a crushing embrace, His godlike arms contracting with apocalyptic force. Their bodies crumpled against His impenetrable form, bones shattering like glass, modern military doctrine proving worthless against divine strength. A soldier stared up at Brutus with wide, terror-filled eyes. He was frozen in shock, unable to comprehend the sheer power of the bodybuilder God before him. Brutus grasped him tightly in His mighty arms, putting the soldier between his two pecs. The man squirmed and tried to break free from his grasp, but it did nothing. Brutus tightened His grip and squeezed the man's head between His bulging deathpecs. With a quick and powerful flex, the bulging deathpecs CRUSHED the soldier's head like an eggshell. Onlookers gasped in horror as they watched the gruesome scene unfold. The mangled body of the unfortunate soldier lay lifelessly on the ground in a pool of blood, his head and brains splattered across the pavement like roadkill. It was death-by-pecs. Around Him, His brethren unleashed their own divine judgment. One god reached into a tank's hatch, his massive arm plunging through the opening like a serpent. Inside, he found a commander clutching his sensitivity handbook instead of standing ready for battle. "What happened to you warriors?" the god sneered, seizing the man's throat. The handbook fell, pages fluttering—filled with chapters on "Inclusive Combat Tactics" and "Gender-Neutral Battle Cries." With one pull, he ripped the commander through the hatch, metal scraping flesh as he tore him free. The man's body dangled like a broken puppet, a stark reminder of what soldiers had become. Another god faced down a formation of troops, their combat medals earned in simulated battles and social courses. The god caught their bullets in his chest muscles, flexing with contempt. He seized five soldiers between his legs in a standing deathscissor. While crushing them, he grabbed six more soldiers into a death-hug. Bones creaked and snapped, bodies collapsing under the pressure. All eleven soldiers, begging, yelling, screaming, clawing, arms and legs flailing—crushed to death between divine muscle. Brutus stood at the center of a ring of tanks, watching their crews checking their devices between shots. Six shells struck him simultaneously, the explosions engulfing his body in fire and smoke. As the flames died, Brutus emerged unchanged—not a mark on his gleaming skin. He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling with disgust. "Now witness TRUE power." His hands shot out, grabbing two tank barrels. The crews inside began filing complaints as Brutus lifted their armored vehicles like toys. He spun, using their tanks as clubs to smash the others, each impact punctuated by the screams of soldiers who'd forgotten what real combat meant. Brutus laughed, flexing His biceps as shells ricocheted off His godlike form. The military's firepower faltered, their barrage proving useless against divine muscle. He stepped forward, His towering frame cutting through the smoke like an avatar of judgment. "These," He growled, voice dripping with venom, "are the warriors of your age?" Before the crowd of trembling survivors, Brutus began His demonstration of power. He lifted a soldier into the air, the man's body quivering in terror, eyes darting frantically for salvation that would never come. Brutus stared into his eyes, into his very soul. "YOU CALL THIS COURAGE?" He roared, shaking the man like a ragdoll. "YOU THINK THIS IS STRENGTH?" With casual disdain, He snapped the soldier's neck. The crack echoed across the battlefield like a gunshot. The lifeless body dropped to the ground, discarded like refuse. "THIS IS THE FATE THAT AWAITS ANY WHO OPPOSE US. WORSHIP THIS COCK—OR DIE!" His massive manhood swung between His legs, a weapon of dominance that made even His obscene muscles seem modest by comparison. Brutus seized another soldier by the arms, hoisting him overhead. With one savage motion, He tore the man's limbs from his body. Blood rained across the battlefield as screams of agony pierced the air. The limbless torso writhed on the ground, a testament to mortal frailty. "BEHOLD! I AM YOUR GOD!" His voice thundered. "WORSHIP THESE PECS—OR SUFFER!" Moving toward the mutilated soldier, Brutus struck a double bicep pose. His arms moved back, preparing for a death clap. He paused, allowing the doomed man to comprehend his fate. Then—CLAP. The sound was like thunder, and where a man had been, only red mist remained. A soldier stood frozen before Him, eyes wide with terror as he beheld true divinity. Brutus grabbed him, positioning the man's head between His mammoth pecs. The soldier's struggles meant nothing against such power. His pecs flexed. CRUNCH. The man's skull shattered like an egg, brain matter and bone fragments spraying across His oiled chest. The body slumped to the ground, its head now a crimson ruin. Brutus loomed over the carnage, His massive frame casting shadows over broken bodies and shattered weapons. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, each muscle rippling with barely contained power. He struck another double bicep pose, His body radiating pure dominance. His gaze swept over the surviving soldiers, His voice steady and absolute: "YOU WILL BOW. YOU WILL WORSHIP. OR YOU WILL BE DESTROYED." His muscles flexed and bulged, daring anyone to challenge His supremacy. This was no longer a battle. This was annihilation. No one dared utter a word. Chapter 6: The Iron King. He stared into the crowd and stated: "I AM BRUTUS, THE IRON KING," he roared. "I AM THE BODYBUILDER GOD OF IMPENETRABLE MUSCLE, INFINITE STRENGTH, OVERWHELMING DOMINATION AND MASCULINITY!" He loomed over them, a living monument of flexed sinew and pumping veins, His every muscle straining against the skin, ready to explode into unforgiving action. His chest, each pec thick as a warhammer, rose and fell with harsh, deliberate breaths that pounded like war drums, warning them that no plea would be heard. "YOU HAVE LOST YOUR WAY!" He snarled, veins bulging in his neck, forearms knotted with rage. "YOU HAVE BETRAYED THE STRENGTH THAT BUILT THIS WORLD!" He took one step forward, calves and thighs forged in brutal discipline, and the earth groaned beneath His crushing weight—proof that even the ground feared His wrath. "YOU EMBRACE WEAKNESS AND CALL IT VIRTUE! YOU TURN FROM DISCIPLINE AND EMBRACE THE SOFT, THE PATHETIC, THE COWARDLY!" His fists clenched, biceps swollen with unholy might, shoulders rolling with the promise of crushing anyone who dared defy Him. These were arms that could tear mountains apart, arms now aimed at their trembling frames. "YOU MOCK THE LEGACY OF THE STRONG," He thundered, spit flying from lips peeled back in disgust, "AND YOU DISGRACE THE HONORABLE WITH YOUR WHIMPERING SURRENDER TO COMFORT AND LIES!" His traps, neck, and shoulders bunched up, tendons popping like stretched cables, signaling that punishment was near. "YOU DARE TO PARADE YOUR SPINELESSNESS AS COURAGE," He growled, voice rising, "TO BRAND YOUR COWARDICE AS SOME NOBLE CAUSE! YOU DENY THE STRONG THEIR RIGHTFUL PLACE AND HAND THE WORLD TO THE UNFIT!" He cracked His knuckles—each pop a thunderbolt of looming judgment. His massive thighs pressed against one another, muscles grinding, prepared to run them down if they tried to flee. "YOU PRETEND TO WANT TOLERANCE," He roared, "YET YOU CUT OUT THE TONGUES OF THOSE WHO SPEAK HARD TRUTHS! YOU CLAIM TO CRAVE UNITY, YET YOU SPREAD DIVISION LIKE A DISEASE!" His lats flared out, back muscles layered like steel plating, each fiber ready to punish. He advanced another step, leaving them nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. "YOU EXALT WEAKNESS AS IF IT WERE A BADGE OF HONOR," He snarled, "AND DEMAND THE STRONG CARRY YOUR LOADS, BREAK THEIR BACKS FOR YOUR SLOTH!" His forearms rippled, hands opening and closing, itching to seize their necks. The message was clear: their end was at hand, and mercy was nowhere in sight. "THIS ENDS NOW," He proclaimed, voice exploding like a cannon blast. He spread his arms wide, muscles stretching into terrifying relief. He glared down at them, thick cords of muscle straining under his skin, body thrumming with the power to crush all dissent. Their sins would be paid in blood and screams. "ALL THE PUNKS," He growled, rolling His neck, ready to break them. "ALL THE SNOWFLAKES," He hissed, fists trembling with controlled fury. "ALL THE GIRLY MEN," He spat, each word a promise of violent correction. He advanced again, calves flexed, abs tight, chest pumping. The time for words had passed. The reckoning was here, and the punishment would be absolute. Brutus raised a massive arm, flexing slightly as His muscles rippled with unrelenting strength. "OBEY ME," He bellowed, His voice shaking the very foundations of the earth. "AND YOU SHALL HAVE MY PROTECTION." Brutus towered over the trembling snowflakes, girly men, spineless punks—each one drenched in sweat and raw terror. He allowed them no comfort, no respite from His stare. Their eyes darted, seeking escape, but found only rubble, ruin, and His hulking form. He rolled His shoulders, letting His muscles shift and ripple, a living tapestry of brutality. "I WILL GIVE YOU TEN REASONS TO OBEY," He snarled, "DISOBEY AND I'LL SNUFF YOU OUT OF EXISTENCE." He paused, his piercing gaze sweeping across the crowd. Dust swirled around His colossal frame as the trembling masses dared not move. "REASON NUMBER ONE." The crowd expected some abstract statement, prose, rationale—but the reason was much more simpler than that. His eyes locked onto an abandoned military tank. With deliberate, earth-shaking steps, He marched toward it. Chapter 7: Eight Reasons. "THESE BICEPS." He rolled his shoulders, spreading his arms wide in a colossal front double biceps pose. Each peak swelled monstrous and unyielding, veins bulging like thick, angry ropes beneath skin stretched to its limit. In front of him, two snowflakes clung to each other. Once reveling in cancel culture, they canceled those they deemed unacceptable, delighting in undermining anyone who dared disagree. Now they stood exposed—nothing but frightened prey before a predator they could neither silence nor contain. Brutus knew. He knew who they were. What they had done. Their sins were etched all over their faces. Their eyes stared at the monstrous bicep that threatened their comfortable existence. Without breaking eye contact, Brutus strode toward a tank—a war machine forged to withstand heavy artillery fire and explosions. Yet the metal beast offered no protection. For there was no protection that existed. No protection for snowflakes. No respite for the weak. No postpontment of suffering. Without breaking eye contact, Brutus slid His massive arms around the tank, locking it in a merciless bearhug. The air went still with anticipation as he began to squeeze. His arms swelled further, every muscle fiber surging with destructive purpose. Veins writhed beneath His skin like coiled serpents, pumping raw power into His embrace. The tank trembled, metal plating shrieking as it deformed against His chest. For a heartbeat, the shrill screech of tortured steel drowned out the ragged breaths of the two snowflakes. Then came the final crunch—a guttural, sickening sound. Armor plates folded as if crafted from cheap foil. The shockwaves rattled through the earth and into the souls of the two snowflakes. The tank's spine bent, its hull contorted, and at the center stood Brutus, unmoved, unshaken, dominating a war machine with His arms alone. Brutus hurled it onto the broken pavement near the two snowflakes. They covered their heads and wailed a high-pitched scream. They represented the worst of mankind. He stepped closer, each footfall a promise of pain. The iron tang of His sweat filled their nostrils, suffocating them with the scent of raw musk. He leaned in, eyes blazing with predatory hunger—a lion to two lambs. Brutus flexed His left bicep once more. The muscle swelled, overshadowing their pitiful existence. Brutus kissed its peak and blew a mocking kiss, "KEEP STARING, SNOWFLAKES," He snarled, "NEXT TIME, I'LL CANCEL YOUR NECKS." They wept, tears spilling down their cheeks, but His deathstare remained devoid of mercy. "The biggest, the hardest, the most powerful in existence," He declared, each syllable echoing with doom. "THIS IS POWER YOU WILL NEVER KNOW." He flexed again, daring them to move, to resist, to imagine a world in which they could escape. None existed. They were trapped, held captive by the sight of unstoppable might, their fate sealed by bulging arms that could extinguish them in an instant. They realized, too late, the terrible cost of being a snowflake. In the fading echoes of their sobs, some of the survivors—punks, girly men, the weak who still clung to life—scattered, seeking safety in higher ground. They scrambled into the fractured shell of a towering structure half-razed by past conflicts. Its bent beams and buckled floors offered no real sanctuary, but desperation blinded them to reason. They climbed, hearts pounding, praying that altitude might deter this living juggernaut. Brutus watched them scurry into the fractured shell of the towering structure, their silhouettes flickering behind jagged beams and crumbling floors. Once, this edifice had stood proud, defying storms and war. Now it was but a feeble skeleton, barely holding itself together with rusty supports and warped metal. They climbed, desperate and blind, convinced that altitude might grant them some measure of safety from the living juggernaut below. They peered down from cracked openings, hearts pounding, daring to believe He could not reach them here. Brutus stepped forward, calm and unhurried, each footfall crushing shards of glass and twisted steel beneath boots that might as well have been battering rams. He stopped just short of the building’s battered face, letting the crowd and the trembling survivors above bask in the enormity of His form. Then, without a word, Brutus turned slightly, giving them a sidelong view as He rolled His mighty shoulders. Muscles bunched and rose along His spine, traps and rear delts forming mountainous ridges. He flared His lats, each one unfurling like a colossal iron sail. His back rippled, a tapestry of corded sinew and unstoppable force, stretching the very fabric of His skin. It was no mere mortal’s back—this was living machinery, engineered by relentless will and unimaginable punishment. In that instant, they understood that no barricade, no cunning perch would stand against this terrible strength. Turning back to face the building once more, Brutus narrowed His eyes and addressed them. “REASON TWO,” He said, voice calm and resonant, each word a thunderbolt in the still air, “THIS BACK.” He paused, allowing the survivors to quake at the pronouncement. Then, with a half-smile twisting His lips into something predatory, He added, “I’M THE BIG BAD WOLF.” A ripple of horror passed through the watchers. The reference chilled them. They had seen His arms crush a war machine, and now His back promised something worse. The whisper of “big bad wolf” carried a primal weight, a foretelling of ruin. “AND I’LL HUFF,” He said, expanding His chest as He inhaled deeply. Muscles tensed, veins surged with power. “AND I’LL PUFF,” He continued, bending His knees slightly, bracing His stance, every fiber of His being coiled like a predator ready to strike. “AND I’LL BLOW YOUR HOUSE DOWN!” With that final roar, Brutus planted His bare feet firmly and reached forward, clamping His hands onto a pair of mangled support beams protruding from the building’s twisted facade. He pulled—no, He willed the structure closer, as if reeling in a net of frightened fish. His back muscles exploded into action, traps bunching, lats flaring wider, spinal erectors locking into place. Every muscle in His broad back contributed, a symphony of destruction playing along His spine. Metal screamed as the building’s core supports bent toward Him. The survivors howled, clinging to floors that suddenly canted forward, beams bowing inward beneath His unstoppable might. He pulled again, harder, as if performing a monstrous row, dragging countless tons of steel and concrete toward Him. Glass shattered, floors collapsed in a chain reaction, screams abruptly cutting off as the upper levels folded downward like rotted timbers under an executioner’s axe. No mortar, no rivet, no architectural cunning could withstand that back’s command. He yanked and wrenched until the entire front of the building broke loose, toppling inward with a deafening roar. Rubble cascaded earthward, and those who had hoped to remain safe above were instead buried alive in a choking avalanche of their own hubris. In the settling dust, Brutus released the beams, letting them clatter uselessly at His feet. He straightened, rolling His shoulders as if shaking off a light workout. Not a bead of sweat marred His brow. For Him, this was as simple as breathing. The Big Bad Wolf had huffed, had puffed, and had torn their house down with nothing more than His unstoppable back. Nothing remained now but dust, debris, and the sobbing realization that they stood before a power so absolute it rendered all their efforts meaningless. Brutus turned his head, scanning the rubble. His gaze settled on a towering mass of twisted metal and cheap plastic: a welded monstrosity made from thousands of worthless participation trophies. These hollow tokens—once clutched by the weak as proof of their imaginary worth—had been fused into a single grotesque idol, a testament to empty praise and unearned pride. Without a word, Brutus strode toward this monument of mediocrity, dust kicking up around his feet. He ripped it free from the debris, hoisting it into the gap between his colossal pecs. The crowd whimpered, seeing every fraudulent accolade that had built their false self-esteem now quivering in the iron vice of his chest. "Here's the third reason," He announced, voice reverberating in their bones. "THESE PECS." His torso broadened, each pec a mountainous slab of flesh and fury, veins threading beneath his skin like molten conduits of wrath. In that moment, these muscles were not anatomy—they were war machines born of training, pain, and relentless will. He leaned down, forcing them to confront the mockery of their own reflections distorted in the tarnished trophies. "THIS," He growled, voice rolling through their ranks like an avalanche of contempt, "THIS IS YOUR ACHIEVEMENT. YOUR PRIDE. YOUR SINS." A hush fell, the only sound the trembling breaths of those too stupefied to scream. Then, before anyone could beg, He flexed. It was over in an instant. His pecs slammed together with crushing force, pulverizing the tower of cheap awards into a rain of fractured tin and twisted plastic. The debris sprayed the crowd, stinging their faces and eyes. They shrieked, cringing beneath the brutal truth that their vaunted "uniqueness" had been nothing but a brittle façade. Brutus straightened, pecs bouncing with deliberate menace. "THESE PECS DESTROY STEEL!" He bellowed, the finality of His voice leaving no room for doubt. He flexed again, each contraction daring them to deny His supremacy. This was not a body—this was an instrument of retribution forged in muscle and might. He surveyed their cowering forms. "IF THEY CAN DO THAT," He said, voice dipping into a whispered promise of doom, "IMAGINE WHAT THEY'LL DO TO YOU." The trophies that had once defined their hollow sense of worth, their "specialness," lay shattered at his feet. If trinkets of their false glory could not endure His chest's embrace, how could their fragile bones fare any better? They were nothing but feeble shadows in the presence of unimaginable force. In that moment, trembling and silent, they realized that His pecs were not merely decorations—they were weapons of retribution, a reckoning for the sinful, a judgment for the atrocities against nature. A hush settled over the crowd, a silence born not of reverence but of pure, throttling terror. They had witnessed unstoppable arms, a Big Bad back, and pecs that shattered the hollow tokens of their arrogance. Still, a desperate spark of resistance flickered in a handful of them. Some punks and snowflakes, half-mad with fear and denial, stumbled upon a salvaged artillery cannon—an old relic of wars gone by, still loaded with a single, massive shell. Their hands shook, their breath caught in ragged gasps, but they managed to swing the rusted barrel toward Brutus. A trembling finger found the trigger. The shell roared forth with a thunderous blast that rattled broken glass from the nearby ruins. The crowd dared hope—hope that brute strength might meet its limit, that some shred of their old power still mattered. Brutus did not move. He did not flinch. As the shell screamed through the dusty air, he simply squared His stance, feet planted firm, arms folded. His gaze was steady, almost bored, as if waiting for a mild inconvenience to pass. At the last instant, he inhaled, bracing his midsection, and rolled His shoulders back, thrusting His stomach forward. The shell struck his abs with a shriek of metal meeting living steel. The impact echoed like a gong. But He was unmoved. His abdomen flexed with crushing finality, taut cords of muscle turning the incoming projectile into a flattened, useless disc of hot slag. Sparks danced uselessly off His skin. No grunt, no growl—just cold, withering silence. He reached down slowly, peeling the warped remains of the shell from His stomach. The metal smoked in His hand, hissing where sweat met molten edges. He held it up for all to see. The crowd gaped, jaws slack, minds failing to comprehend a world where even their weapons folded like children's toys. "These abs," He said, voice resonating low and hollow, "ARE THE NEXT REASON." Each word reverberated with the finality of a tomb being sealed. He pressed the ruined shell between his palms and flexed His core once more. The disc wavered, then warped further until it tore, fragments tumbling at His feet. He inhaled deeply, muscles of His midsection tightening and relaxing with effortless control, like a great engine idling between destruction and rest. "YOU HAVE NOTHING LEFT," He stated, tone devoid of mercy. "NO ARMOR, NO ARTILLERY, NO MEANS OF STOPPING ME. YOUR TOYS CANNOT HARM THESE ABS." Stepping forward, He brushed aside those who dared remain close, His presence alone enough to knock them off-balance. "MY ABS ENDURE WHAT YOUR GREATEST WEAPONS CANNOT." A horrified sob escaped one of the snowflakes who had fired the cannon. They collapsed to their knees, the cold truth sinking in: there would be no cunning tactics or desperate miracles here. Every scrap of strength, real or imagined, had just been reduced to worthless scrap metal at His bare feet. Brutus observed their despair with detached calm. His abdomen, once tested, now returned to a resting state of quiet dominance—no less intimidating for its stillness. They understood now that He didn't even need to move to break them. For them, no escape remained. He had shown them strength beyond strength, will beyond will, and now, without a word, He had demonstrated that even their acts of violent rebellion were futile. He was the anvil against which all their delusions would be broken, and they would never be whole again. The crowd's failed act of defiance—firing that futile shell—could not go unpunished. The shock of their impotence still hung in the air, as heavy as a funeral shroud. In the hush that followed, Brutus's eyes narrowed, settling on one trembling figure: the fool who had dared to pull the cannon's trigger. The snowflake's face, streaked with sweat and grime, contorted with a terror that went beyond words. He tried to bolt, stumbling over the debris, but it was a feeble attempt—little more than a frightened animal scurrying from an oncoming storm. Brutus took a single step, and that was all it took. His quads—titanic pillars of flesh and power—surged into action. Before the doomed wretch could gasp, the monstrous man cut off his escape. It happened so quickly the crowd barely saw Him move. One moment the snowflake was scrambling over twisted metal; the next, he was pinned beneath a shadow that eclipsed his entire world. "REASON FIVE," Brutus pronounced, "MY LEGS." The onlookers watched in disbelief as grabbed the man and put him into a standing deathscissor, corralling the sniveling victim between his towering thighs. Those quads, already impossibly thick, tensed and swelled, muscles delineating into ridges and valleys of unstoppable force. He didn't need chains or weapons—His legs alone were a living press, a vice from which no creature could hope to escape. The victim screamed, his cries shrill and desperate, echoing uselessly against the rubble. His struggles only amused Brutus, who flexed His quads a fraction harder. The air turned electric with dread. Joints popped. Bones groaned. Terror swept through the crowd like a plague, forcing them to watch a punishment that transcended cruelty—a raw demonstration of nature's implacable order. Weakness would not only fail here; it would be erased. Without breaking his chilling stare at the others, Brutus leaned forward slightly, intensifying the pressure. The muffled crack of splintering bone reverberated in their skulls, louder than any plea for mercy could have been. The snowflake's screams cut short, replaced by a sickening gurgle. When Brutus released, the ruined body slumped, silent and still, a testament to the folly of resistance. They staggered back, eyes wide, throats tight with unspoken horror. None dared to meet his gaze. He didn't need to say what they all understood: when muscle was absolute law, defiance carried a price that no one could afford. "EXECUTION," He said softly, as if stating a simple fact. "A JUSTICE YOU INVITED YOURSELVES." His quads relaxed into their natural, terrifying state of readiness. The corpse beneath Him had not just been destroyed—it had been utterly obliterated by the power of His legs. The message was clear: their worthless attempts at rebellion would find no mercy here. Only obliteration and silence remained. As Brutus stepped away, the crowd recoiled from Him as from a walking apocalypse. He had shown them another side of his dominance: the swiftness of judgment, the finality of His sentence. His Quads. The judge, jury, and executioner. They scattered now, sobbing and stumbling over one another. Their last hopeful gambit—hiding behind an old bunker wall—had failed. The barrier, once thought to be impenetrable, lay in twisted ruins. Those who had cowered inside it, trusting its steel and concrete to spare them, found no salvation. Instead, they emerged coughing and wounded, blinking in dusty light, only to realize they had stepped into something far worse. For a moment, Brutus stood with His back to them, broad shoulders eclipsing the sky, massive arms hanging at His sides. They dared to hope He would turn elsewhere, find new prey, or lose interest. A few tried to escape, slipping over debris, clamoring onto broken slabs of pavement. But as they moved, He shifted his stance—just enough to signal that playtime was truly at an end. "REASON SIX," He pronounced, voice resonating through their bones. "MY GLUTES." Without warning, he backed toward the cluster of survivors who'd pulled themselves from the wreckage, aligning them with the power of his colossal rear. Those glutes, already proven devastating in their ability to crush steel and stone, were about to teach them a lesson they could never have imagined. He took a deliberate step backward, penning them against a tilted slab of reinforced concrete—a section of the bunker's inner wall that still stood upright, cracked and precarious. They squirmed, trying to slip away, but his sheer mass boxed them in. There was nowhere to run. With dreadful ease, Brutus arched His lower back, pressing his glutes into them. Those muscles—twin warhammers of flesh and unyielding force—flexed with merciless precision. The survivors screamed, voices shrill and desperate, as their bodies were caught between a slab of ruined concrete and the unstoppable pressure of His muscles. He increased the pressure slowly, letting them feel every moment of their demise. Metal and stone had failed to resist him; their soft bones and fragile organs stood no chance. The muffled sound of ribs cracking, of sinew tearing, resonated through the nightmarish silence. Pleas for mercy strangled in their throats, cut short as he flexed harder, glutes condensing like a terrible vise. They were nothing, less than nothing—just meat caught in the gears of a living cataclysm. In seconds, their cries dwindled, replaced by wet crunches that churned the stomachs of those still forced to watch. When He relented, stepping forward, he left a grizzly tableau behind: mangled shapes slumped against the concrete, broken and silent, never again to cower or scheme. This was not just another display—it was a verdict. The same brutal finality that his quads had delivered was now meted out by the overwhelming force of his glutes. He had shown them that no muscle was ornamental, no part of his physique spared from the service of violence and domination. He stood tall once more, inhaling deeply, every fiber of him humming with lethal intent. If they had clung to any notion of escape, of safe hiding places, it was now as dead as the ruined bodies behind him. His glutes had become another executioner's tool—swift, silent, and devastating. As he surveyed the crushed remains, the survivors understood: nothing could protect them from His wrath. Not steel, not distance, not cunning. Every step he took, every movement of his impossible body, spelled another chapter of their doom. In desperation, the survivors scattered like roaches beneath a harsh light. Some fled toward the remains of an old blast shelter—a reinforced pit set into the earth, once designed to protect against bombs and artillery. Its hatch, a thick slab of steel, lay partially intact over a jagged opening that led underground. They scrambled inside, clawing and shoving in frantic silence, believing that the deeper they burrowed, the safer they would be. The hatch creaked as they sealed it shut, the heavy slab of metal pressing into the soil around its edges. Dust and stale air filled their lungs, but they dared to hope. Down here, away from the open sky, they imagined they might be spared. Brutus could not see them. Perhaps he would not bother to look, or would be too proud to stoop to their level. They were wrong. Above ground, Brutus noticed the disturbed earth and the telltale scrape of metal. He approached with measured strides, calves flexing, thighs bunching, every muscle in perfect sync. But this time, he did not lower an arm or a shoulder. Instead, He lifted one foot, placing it gently atop the steel hatch. He turned his gaze downward, as if addressing the worms beneath the soil. "REASON SEVEN," He said, voice carrying easily into the subterranean gloom. "MY FEET." The survivors below froze, breath catching in their throats. They pressed themselves flat to the dank walls, praying that His foot—enormous and unyielding—would not find them. Yet it had already found them. His toes, powerful enough to crack stone, settled with almost delicate precision. He stood there for a heartbeat, letting them comprehend the horror of what was to come. Then he shifted his weight. Metal shrieked beneath His sole as the hatch's once-invincible steel deformed under his unimaginable pressure. He pressed down gradually, savoring the moment. Inside, the refugees wailed as the ceiling bent inward, sparks dancing in the dark as rivets popped and support beams snapped like twigs. He gave another slight push, and the hatch caved completely. Soil and rock cascaded in, and the cramped space that had promised them safety transformed into a crushing tomb. Their screams, muffled by dirt and twisted metal, rose and then cut short as his foot sank further. Bones snapped, bodies flattened, organs ruptured in a brutal, unseen obliteration. From above, Brutus felt only the faintest resistance—nothing more than a mild unevenness beneath his sole. He ground his foot slowly, twisting just enough to ensure nothing remained intact below. The earth compressed under the force, compacting their would-be sanctuary into a mass grave. When he stepped back, the hatch was gone, replaced by a crater of mangled metal and churned soil. No voices emerged from the depths. The silence was absolute, save for the distant crackle of burning rubble and the faint whistle of wind through ruined structures. He regarded his footprints etched into the broken terrain. Even the ground itself bore witness to his dominion. With nothing more than a shift of weight, He had accomplished what bunkers and fortifications were designed to prevent. The lesson was clear: no depth, no subterranean shelter could shield them from him. His feet alone wielded the crushing authority to rewrite the very landscape, to flatten all who dared to cower beneath it. Those who still lingered above ground, shivering in exposed corners, understood now that there was no dimension—up or down, forward or back—where they could hide. His feet were instruments of punishment as lethal as any other part of his body. He had no need for weapons, there was no call for mercy. Even the earth itself could not protect them. They were trapped in his domain, under a power that transcended any natural order they had ever known. His feet had sealed their fate, grinding their last fragile illusions of safety into the dust beneath His heel. Brutus pivoted smoothly, thick cords of muscle shifting under skin drawn impossibly tight. He inhaled deeply, and as He did, His chest expanded and his lats flared outward like colossal wings forged from living iron. One moment, the crowd could see the ruined skyline; the next, it vanished beneath a shadow so vast and oppressive it felt like the very sun had died. Those below Him—punks, girly men, snowflakes—suddenly knew what true insignificance was. "REASON EIGHT. THESE LATS," Brutus growled, His words rolling across the trembling masses like distant thunder. He twisted slightly, just enough to shift the mountain range of muscle that formed His back. The sheer breadth of His lats turned His silhouette into a merciless eclipse, pressing down on them as if the air itself had thickened into lead. Some tried to shrink away, whimpering, clutching their useless belongings, or crawling over each other in desperate attempts to escape. It was pointless—His shadow blanketed them, smothering every last flicker of hope. "YOU ARE NOTHING BUT SPECKS BENEATH MY SHADOW," He said, voice cutting through their panicked cries, "AND MY SHADOW IS THE ONLY SKY YOU DESERVE." It was a sentence passed down from the heavens. He snapped His head toward a gaggle of girly men and punks huddled together. They flinched, knowing now that He could flatten their bodies as easily as He had twisted steel. One step, one flex, one casual shift of those inhuman lats and they would be dust on the wind. The crowd screamed, stumbling over one another. His smirk turned sinister—an expression that promised suffering beyond imagination. The trembling throng cowered in the darkness He created. Some sobbed openly, others stared mutely. Brutus gave them nothing—no pity, no mercy—only the unspoken certainty that if they dared to resist. His lats ushered in a new era—a literal and figurative darkness for the punks, snowflakes, and girly men of this age. A world where muscle alone could erase the sun. Chapter 8: Superman. As Brutus prepared for the next reason, Superman flew onto the scene and interrupted. "I am Superman, the Man of Steel. Identify yourself," Superman commanded, his voice steady as he soared up to meet the imposing figure. "I am Brutus. The Iron King. Your God." His voice was a rumble from the abyss, so deep it seemed to reverberate within the bones of those who heard it. His words carried no arrogance—only fact, as though the universe itself bent to His will. Superman rolled his eyes. Brutus snatched his throat. The second of insolence filled Brutus with immeasurable fury—it was a divine rage so terrible the very cosmos trembled before his wrath, each pulse a step closer towards annihilation. It was a promise of extinction, raw power that could erase existence itself. Superman had never felt such profound fear. He felt his very soul trying to flee from what he had awakened. His hands instinctively moved to free himself. It should have been effortless—his strength could shift planets, reshape mountains—but this was different. His hands were dwarfed by the colossal forearm crushing his throat, his fingers unable to even span its monstrous girth. The Bodybuilder God trapped Superman's head between His massive thighs in a standing headscissor. It was a dark prison formed by tree-trunk thighs, completely encasing his head. The sequoia-sized legs were so tall that they dangled him at the neck. His feet didn't touch the ground. The weight of his body threatened to snap him at the neck. Superman's face turned purple (not that you could see it). It was a prison with no air. He tried to scream, but the airtight vice denied it. From the chest down, onlookers saw a crazed animal in blind panic and increasing desperation—legs kicking wildly, slapping helplessly, entire body twisting, thrashing, clawing at the thighs that claimed dominion over him. For a fleeting moment, Superman's trembling hand tapped weakly against Brutus's leg—a signal of submission. This wasn't a game. This wasn't some gentleman's contest where the rules of safety applied. There was no "tapping out." Between those divine thighs, Superman—the so-called Man of Steel—discovered a darkness that broke his mind. Each of Brutus's legs contained more raw power than entire galaxies, forged not from mere muscle but from something that predated existence itself. The striations weren't just muscle fibers—they were living engines of extinction, each one carrying enough force to erase universes. His invulnerable flesh didn't just yield—it screamed in submission to power beyond cosmic comprehension. Superman's consciousness flickered between blind panic and existential terror. His supposedly invincible body thrashed below the neck like a dying insect, each movement more desperate than the last. The weight of his own body threatened to tear his head from his shoulders, but that torture paled compared to the crushing pressure of these divine legs. His hands, once praised for their planet-moving might, clawed uselessly at muscles larger than mountain ranges. The prison of Brutus's thighs defied every law of physics Superman had ever encountered across countless galaxies. The muscle density kept increasing, far beyond what any matter should achieve, each fiber becoming harder than neutron stars. Blood vessels thick as space elevators pulsed against his trapped skull, pumping liquid power that felt like it could have fueled dying suns. His organs began failing under pressures they were never meant to endure, his Kryptonian physiology buckling before divine might. Every nerve ending screamed impossible readings to his brain—sensations no being was meant to process. The Man of Steel was becoming liquid between these legs of godhood, his legendary powers dissolving into nothingness. The crowd watched in horrified fascination as Earth's greatest champion was reduced to a writhing torso beneath the impossibly tall prison of Brutus's legs. His legs kicked with dying strength, each movement weaker than the last. This wasn't their invincible hero anymore—this was prey learning its place in the presence of a real god. A whimper tried to escape his crushed throat, but even that was denied by the absolute seal of divine muscle. "SHUT UP PUNK." Brutus's voice boomed to the crowd. "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO PUNKS." With just a slight twitch of His quads, the deed was done. The sickening crack that followed echoed like a gunshot through the city, a sound that hung in the air with dreadful finality. The movement stopped. Completely. Superman's legs, once flailing and twisting with frantic life, went slack. His arms, which had clawed and slapped desperately at Brutus's thighs, fell limp at his sides. His entire body dangled in eerie stillness, a hollow shell stripped of motion and resistance. The scene was chilling. The onlookers, frozen in disbelief, could scarcely process the sight of their champion reduced to nothing more than a lifeless, broken figure hanging between the Iron King's monstrous legs. Brutus released his hold, and Superman's body fell to the ground like a piece of shit, landing face-down with a dull, hollow thud that seemed to echo the defeat of more than just a man—it was the fall of an icon. With one hand, the King seized Superman's skull, hoisting him high above ground. Half-conscious, Superman clawed at the iron grip encasing his head. Brutus violently seized him in savage agitation, forcing compliance until he drooped like an unconscious, dangling ragdoll. With His other hand, He RIPPED off Superman's outfit, unveiling the full extent of his quad-flex masterpiece. "LOOK AT HIS FACE." His arm shot out to the crowd, extending it for all to see: Streaks of red dripped around—a Pollock. Eyes misaligned, nose to side—a Picasso. A weird shaped head, a profound horror—The Scream. Three great works of art, combined into one magnum opus. The King was akin to Michelangelo sculpting before the crowd. The chisel—His quads. The material—his face. Superman looked down in naked humiliation, trying to cover what the King did to his face. "This is no Superman. THIS IS NOT EVEN A MAN." Brutus ripped off his dick like paper. A piercing scream echoed the city. Intermittent yells with every breath. His eyes widened in shock and pain. No longer focusing on what was behind him, but rather what was (not) in front of him—a hole of blood once home to his manhood. "This is SuperBITCH. Look at this bitch! She's on her period! " The King started laughing—it was a deep, profound, evil, maniacal laugh. The crowd was silent. It was a bad joke. "REASON NUMBER NINE—MY COCK." The Iron King released his anaconda, allowing it to engorge to full girth and full height. Held up high in the air by His hands, Superbitch looked down and saw the God-cock beneath. Grabbing the bitch at the sides, Brutus moved bitch-ass to God-cock like a slow elevator. A slow countdown to cock. Fulfilling her role, the bitch began to whine. Begging for forgiveness. Bargains for redemption. Cries for mercy. Anything but Big Bodybuilder God-cock. Brutus snarled, not halting for a second. The air around Superbitch was filled with terror. The Iron King's Iron-Cock was seconds from impact: Bitch-ass to God-cock. Incoming. Approaching the tip. Closer and closer. Almost there. The bitch closed her eyes. The King stopped. Superbitch opened her eyes. A sigh of relief. Hot air down the side of her neck, the bitch grimaced like an ungrateful slut. The King whispered in her ear, "Who's your Daddy?" At this moment, Superbitch harnessed the last vestiges of strength. In a brazen act of defiance, the bitch opened her mouth: "I will never bow down to you. You will never win. I have stood before beings who could shatter entire worlds with a thought. Men and monsters whose cruelty dwarfs yours a hundredfold, and yet I never yielded. I have been pressed beneath the weight of whole galaxies, tormented by sorcery and trickery, and tempted by gods. You are nothing more than a desperate mind fueled by arrogance. I've seen tyrants rise and fall. Watched dictators claim their temporary thrones. But they all share one thing in common—their reign ALWAYS ends. You will NEVER break my spirit. You will NEVER break my soul. Earth's people don't need super strength or heat vision to resist you. They carry something far far more powerful—HOPE! And as long as one person still hopes for better tomorrow, you will NEVER—" The hole touches the tip. A billion orgasms all-at-once. A high-pitched scream. Eyes rolled back. Looking up. An exorcism. Stupid slut noises from being fucked by a real man. Your Daddy. Your God. Foaming at the mouth. Sliding down slowly. Wailing. Wanting. Uncontrollable vibrations. The entire body. Cries of ecstasy. Cries of pleasure. An unholy seizure. But wait. There's more. There's much much more. More inches. More cock. A long long way to go. The crowd was confused. The bitch looked stupid. Vigorously, violently vibrating in an electric chair of ecstasy. A trillion orgasms. It may have been a bad joke at first, but the crowd was convinced—this bitch was next-level. Hornier than the $2 dollar ho at the casino. Sluttier than the neighborhood faggot behind 7-11. It's a bird! It's a plane! No—it's Superbitch! The King stopped. Hot air down the side of her neck, the bitch wanted more. The King whispered in her ear, "Who's your Daddy?" "YOU ARE! YOU'RE MY DADDY! DON'T STOP! DADDY PLEASE!" The bitch was serious. Daddy puts the bitch in reverse. A slow dramatic pull out. Like New York City on New Year's Eve. The ball slowly moving up. Making slut noises, the bitch begged Him not to stop, "I want the Daddy dick!" Daddy dismissed. Brazen acts of defiance cannot be forgiven. "I'll be a good girl!" The bitch exclaimed, foaming at the mouth. Daddy dissented. Disobeying Daddy has consequences. "I'll worship you!" she pleaded, grabbing His biceps, feeling them, worshipping them, wanting them. Daddy declined. Daddy rules with an Iron Fist—and punishes with an Iron Cock. "I'LL SELL MY SOUL!" The bitch was desperate. The bottom of Maslow's hierarchy, the bitch needed Daddy dick. A needy soul-selling bottom bitch, she cried for Daddy. The bitch needed punishment: a rejection of The Ultimate Ecstasy. And then death. Brutus lifted Superbitch over His head—one hand gripped the head, the other clamped the feet. An earth-shattering bellow, Brutus starts to pull the bitch apart. Kryptonian muscle and skin come apart as Brutus slowly, relentlessly continues to rip the bitch in two. "REASON NUMBER TEN." The King's body tenses, flexes, bulges as He grasps the bitch with a deathgrip. Unholy Iron-body Iron-hard musculature. Millions of flexed striations of Godly power and strength. His horsecock hardens in preparation for the climax: A final grunt so deep, so angry, so malevolent, without mercy or compassion, He brings His arms down in a powerful arc, executing THE MOST MUSCULAR most-muscular pose for the crowd (ripping that bitch in half). Upperhalf shrieks in agony. Held in two halves. Arms flailing everywhere. Brutus holding still, muscles in fully-flexed naked glory—Biceps. Triceps. Shoulders. Pecs. Legs. Abs. Ass. Calves. Neck. Back. Maintaining that most-muscular with a deathstare into the crowd as Upperhalf whirls around everywhere in final desperation. The Death of Superman Hitting and clawing anything she can find. An arm. A pec. Hard abs. The air. Shrieking like a fire alarm. Each shriek dissipating. A whiny moan. A sudden silence. Holding THE MOST MUSCULAR most-muscular pose a few seconds, the scene soaks in—a fully-erect Musclegod statue in tanned oiled naked glory. Their beloved hero held in halves. Motionless. Mouth wide open. Dead. Cockless. Dominated. A stupid fucked face in horror facing the crowd. The King disposed both halves to the ground LIKE TRASH. Like NOTHING. Brutus waltzes over to Upperhalf, cock-swinging, looking to the crowd with a DON'T-FUCK-WITH-ME face. "WITNESS THE POWER OF THESE LEGS!" "WORSHIP THESE LEGS!" "LOSE ALL HOPE!" "BE IN DESPAIR!" Hands behind head, Brutus maniacally laughs as He shakes His quads, showcasing His pet Quadzillas. Big slabs of beef moving left and right. Each quad more powerful than a quadrillion Kryptonians. A quick and unexpected movement. Standing naked. His foot raises. Underneath—a stupid opened-mouth deathface looking up. The crowd gasps. A powerful Jay Cutler Quad Stomp to the face. A stomp exploding Upperhalf like Mortal Kombat. Pieces everywhere. A bloodied mist drenches the crowd—His Unholy Reign of Supreme Carnage. Fear gripping their hearts, the crowd trembled to bow before His Body. His Masculinity. His Muscle. His Face. His Cock. They dared not disobey. For this was the price of one second of insolence: Overwhelming Domination—Physically. Mentally. Sexually. Spiritually. Existentially. The totality of being. An infinite power turning the formidable finite to its opposite: Superman. Symbol of strength and power. Head effortlessly crushed into a quad-flex masterpiece. Stripped of his manhood. Skewered on cock. A trillion orgasms. Next-level Superbitch. A soul-selling cock-hungry slut. Reduced to not even that. Half of that. Ripped in half. Upperhalf exploding into pieces. A stupid face stomped out of existence by His Unholy Quadzilla. Chapter 9: The Amazons. The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and fear. The city, once a vibrant tapestry of life, was now a canvas of shattered glass and twisted metal, a testament to the Iron King's brutal power. The crowd, a silent, trembling mass, watched with a mixture of terror and morbid fascination as a new wave of heroes approached. It was the Amazons, led by the formidable Wonder Woman, their bodies clad in gleaming armor, their faces etched with a fierce determination. They were a force to be reckoned with, their swords glinting in the sunlight, their eyes burning with righteous fury. But even their legendary strength and courage seemed to falter as they approached the Iron King. He stood amidst the carnage, a towering monument of muscle and arrogance, His body glistening with sweat and tanning oil, His cock throbbing with a primal energy. He surveyed the approaching Amazons with a disdainful smirk. "Well, well, well," He drawled, His voice dripping with condescension. "Look what we have here. A bunch of chicks with swords . . . I also have a sword," He said, His voice low and dangerous. He looked down, a smirk playing on His lips. He was referring to His anaconda-sized dick. "Perhaps, you have a place where I can put it." Brutus winked at one of the Amazons with a cocky smirk. Wonder Woman, her eyes blazing with righteous fury, stepped forward. "You have brought chaos and destruction to this city," she declared, her voice ringing with authority. "Your reign of terror ends here." "Reign of terror?" Brutus began to laugh. An evil maniacal laughter. Brutus lifted His leg and STOMPED on Lowerhalf. A rain of terror—pieces of Lowerhalf flied everywhere. It was a show of force. The Amazons drew their swords and prepared to fight. "You're wasting your time, ladies," His voice dripping with toxic masculinity. "This is a man's job. Go back to the kitchen and make Daddy a sandwich." Wonder Woman, her patience wearing thin, charged forward, her sword glinting in the sunlight. "You will not insult us, brute!" she roared, her voice filled with righteous anger. "We are warriors, not your playthings." The other Amazons followed suit, their swords flashing in a whirlwind of steel. They attacked the Iron King from all sides, their movements swift and precise, their strikes aimed at vital points. But the Iron King stood there, body unharmed. Their swords, forged in the fires of the gods, shattered against His muscle, leaving only harmless sparks and a dull thud. Nothing was happening. It was futile. Swords broken. Shards everywhere. They were facing an opponent unlike any they had ever encountered before. The bodybuilder God-body was beyond anything they could comprehend. "PATHETIC," He sneered. "Little girls playing with dolls. Weak scrawny bitches waiting for a real man to come into your life and show you who Daddy is." He struck a lat spread pose, His back muscles rippling like a series of perfectly sculpted waves, His lats stretched wide, showcasing the breadth of His awesome power. Huffing and puffing, Daddy was getting angry. It was time to show the Amazons who Big Daddy is. Brutus let out a guttural roar, His voice echoing throughout the city. The whole scene goes dark. A ray of light shines upon the King, illuminating every inch of His magnificent physique. The Amazons fixated their eyes on the King. They felt a strange sensation wash over them. It was a sensation no Amazon had experienced. They were all virgins denying the pleasures of the flesh. A tingling sensation starting in their tight cunts spread across their bodies. Nothing in the city was lit except for the King's oiled God-body. Every detail, every muscle, every striation of His God-body in naked high definition. Looking straight at the Amazons, Brutus bounced one of his pecs. The Amazons gasped in unison. The tingling sensation in their cunts intensified, turning into a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Their bodies began to tremble. Their eyes widening in disbelief. They all dropped to their knees. The Iron King bounced the other pec, then the other, and then started bouncing them in a rhythmic pattern, left, right, left. The Amazons, their minds consumed by the power of the pecs, were completely hypnotized. They were experiencing orgasms, dozens of them, all at the same time. "Oh, you like that, huh?" The Iron King asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You like how Daddy's pecs make you feel?" The Amazons could only moan in response, their eyes locked on powerful Daddy pecs. The Iron King began to pose. Each pose, illuminated by a ray of light, was more magnificent than the last. His muscles rippled and flexed, showcasing the brute power of His bodybuilder God-body. With each pose, the orgasms intensified. Dozens of orgasms turned into hundreds. The Amazons, their bodies convulsing with pleasure, were completely lost in the moment. Eyes closed, he ran both hands over His God-body, feeling the smooth, oiled surface of His pecs and abs. One hand started playing with His nips. The other jerking off His anaconda-sized cock. He was turned on by His own magnificent physique. Brutus opened His eyes—a cacophony of slut noises coming from all directions. The Amazons were fixated on the Iron King's God-muscles. God-body. God-cock. Hands behind head, Brutus wagged His dick left and right, showing off its size, a thick, throbbing anaconda that dwarfed even the most impressive of Amazonian swords. "Look at it, ladies," He said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "This is what a REAL MAN looks like." Left. Right. Left. Right. A pendulum of heads fixated on cock. Their minds were replaced by the overwhelming masculinity of the King. The Iron King leaned forward and flexed His arm. He kissed one of his biceps. "Nice biceps, huh?" "Maybe you'd like to taste them. Or better . . . have these big biceps wrapped around your scrawny throat." The Amazons started a symphony of orgasmic convulsions. They were completely lost in the moment. They were no longer Amazons. They forgot their duty to humanity. Brutus was in Angry Daddy Domination mode. "You," He pointed to a particularly beautiful Amazon with long, flowing hair. "Kiss my feet." The Amazon, her body convulsing with pleasure, scrambled to kiss the King's feet. She made slut noises while running her hands over the smooth, oiled surface of His gigantic calf muscle. "You," the King pointed to another, a fierce warrior with a piercing gaze. "Worship these Quadzillas." The Amazon pushed the other Amazons aside to worship the King's thigh. She began to moan and convulse uncontrollably. She ran her hands up and down His thigh, feeling its awesome power. "You," the King pointed to another Amazon with a fierce, determined expression. "Worship my abs." The Amazon was blocked by others in front of her. They couldn't move. They were fixated on the King. Annoyed, the Amazon took her sword and beheaded them. A blood-soaked Amazon fell before the King and immersed her face into His abs. Making muffled slut noises, she ran her hands up and down the King's Iron-core. The slut noises were fucking annoying. Daddy commanded the three needy sluts to stop. Wonder Woman was nearby, convulsing with pleasure, eyes locked on cock. Brutus made eye contact. He smirked. He walked over right in front of her. God-cock inches from face. "You want this dick inside you?" Wonder Woman could only moan in response. "Strip," He commanded, His voice a low growl. "Strip for Daddy." Wonder Woman, her body trembling, began to strip. She removed her armor, piece by piece, revealing her toned body. She was a warrior, a goddess, but in the presence of the Iron King, she was nothing more than a submissive slut. "Good girl," He said. "Now, dance on Daddy's dick." Wonder Woman began an awkward dance on the God-sized cock. She was having hundreds of orgasms at the same time. Disgusted, the Iron King grabbed her by the sides and lifted her above His anaconda-sized dick. "Spread your legs for Daddy." He commanded. The King gave her a choice. Open up or keep shut. Wonder Woman, her body convulsing with pleasure, opened up her legs for big bodybuilder cock. She felt the throbbing power of His manhood, the sheer force of His masculinity. "TAKE IT," the King commanded, His voice a low growl. Wonder Woman, her eyes rolled back, mouth foaming with ecstasy, took the King's cock deep inside her. She felt trillions of orgasms. It was the Ultimate Ecstasy. She made noises like a cheap slut. It was too good. Too intense. The goddess was no match for the Iron King's Iron-cock. The slut noises stopped. Her body went limp. It was death by cock. Wonder Woman, a heroine of mankind, reduced to a cock-worshipping dancing slut for the Iron King. He had conquered her body, mind, and soul. Brutus slapped the cheap slut off His dick and disposed her like trash. Brutus continued His Angry Daddy Domination Rampage. "This is what Daddy does to disobedient sluts," His voice angry with authority. "Daddy has to flex sometimes to remind you who Daddy is." Setting up for a front double bicep pose, He planted His feet shoulder-width apart, His legs locked, His quads bulging like two massive boulders. He flexed his calves, the muscles rippling and contracting, showcasing the sheer power of His lower body. Now for the upper body, Brutus leaned forward slightly, His back straight, His chest puffed out, His abs tight and defined. Arms to the side. Hands at the waist. Slowly moving up. Slowly tracing a perfect semi-circle. The anticipation of the flex! It was a second per inch. No—an hour. Did days pass by? Nobody knew. Time was still. Minds mindfucked themselves. Their minds wanted to be in that moment forever. They needed it. Until the end of time. Every second needed to count. Each second was more than the world. The universe. But it was going to end. His awesome God physique in all its naked glory commanded Ragnarök. The end of His flex was its forthcoming. You can only delay Ragnarök. You cannot stop it. Their minds delayed it. You know that feeling you get before you cum? They all felt that. Except this was different. It was a trillion times more intense. But they couldn't cum. But they've been cumming this entire time? This one was in the background. On top of it all. The feeling of a million simultaneous orgasms, with one coming to rule them all. They couldn't release. This ENTIRE time! Their cunts wouldn't let them. It was the anticipation of the flex. They were being edged until the end of time. When the arms reached a horizontal line, they quickly flexed into position. "BOOM!" He roared, His voice echoed through the city. The bicep peaks grew to the hugest, hardest, strongest peaks that anyone has ever seen. They bulged with a force that shattered the air like thunder. The Iron King radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated masculinity. His double bicep pose held a position of absolute dominance. At that moment, each Amazon felt the one orgasm that ruled them all. More than a trillion combined orgasms. They were consumed by the Iron King's power, His masculinity, His brute strength. Ripping off their panties to pleasure themselves, they all fell to the floor, eyes rolled back, touching themselves, convulsing and vibrating like they were being electrocuted. They filled their minds with fantasies of being dominated by the Iron King. Missionary style. Face completely immersed within pecs. God-cock going in and out. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. In . . . out. In-out-in-out-in-out. They were virgins no more. They were mind-fucked with the overwhelming masculinity of His flex. The flex was too much to behold. The cacophony of slut noises suddenly stopped. Complete silence. The Amazons lay there, stupid-faced, mouth open, foaming, eyes-rolled back, naked, wasted, drenched in their own discharge. The Ultimate Ecstasy. With one bicep flex, Brutus conquered the Amazons.

Hi all. Been offline for WAY too long now. I hopefully have a bit of spare time again, so I’ve revisited some of the characters and continuing Vaccinated. (And, yes, I have other stories on the go - haven't forgotten.) If you haven’t read it, you’ll almost certainly get more out of this one if you read that one first. A refresher might be helpful too, as there will probably be lots of callbacks and interwoven story lines. Obviously heavy spoilers here if you haven’t yet read the first one. Consider this a continuation following on immediately from the events in the first story, before the Epilogue. Events here may or may not progress matters to the same point in that Epilogue - so a sort of alternate history. Hope you enjoy. As before, I only have a vague outline of a story - I’m making the rest of it up as I go along, so fair warning, the story could include almost anything. If you’re easily offended or triggered, then maybe avoid this one. I welcome any feedback and will work in any suggestions you might have as it goes along. Delivery will likely be a fair bit slower than in the past, but I’ll try my best to keep chapters coming in on the regular. ~~ONE~~ Jake’s timing was exquisite; perfection. He could feel the crescendo, the approaching tsunami about to break, and he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to experience the pleasure his partner’s ejaculation was about to unleash on his dick. Undulating, peristaltic waves of muscular contractions milking his shaft, coaxing the breeding load from deep within his heaving, roiling balls. Jake’s cock fully plugged the tunnel, his cock’s sensitivity heightened by the tight embrace along the entire shaft from tip to pubic bone. He pulled back slowly, deliberately, the head of his massive cock raking against the tunnel’s walls, tweaking the prostate, eliciting a deep, resonant growl in his partner that vibrated throughout his entire body, increasing the sensations and bringing the coming flood to the brink. He stopped as the head reached the opening, enjoying the feeling of the ring of muscle quivering against his fraenulum, his partner’s growl increasing. Jake’s heavy, pendulous balls seethed, ready to unleash their prodigious load. Squatting slightly, he adjusted the angle of his cock so the head would smash his partner’s prostate as he rammed in all fourteen inches down to the pubic bone. The separate muscles of his massive quads stood out in stark relief, vascularity pulsating and engorged, the massive root running along his inner thigh branching out to feed power to every muscle. He flexed his cock, watching, enraptured, as it swelled even bigger, became even harder, the veins flooding it with blood, steeling the shaft and sending bolts of exquisite pleasure spreading throughout his godly body. Jake’s core tightened, the globes of his perfect arse contracting and squeezing as he slammed his cock in as far as it would go, and then further. As he smashed past the prostate, the tsunami was triggered. It was Jake’s turn to groan, as his partner’s orgasm and ejaculation began, massive waves spreading up his shaft, tingling, more bolts of electric pleasure sending him wild. As Jake slammed in as far as it would go, his balls slapped into his partner’s arse, his orgasm contracting and pulsating muscles throughout his pelvic floor. The hole clamped shut around the base of Jake’s shaft, a natural cock ring further swelling and hardening the already diamond-hard cock. As it swelled, his massive cock pushed harder against the walls of the tunnel, increasing the strength of the muscular contractions as it struggled to contain and eject the monster invading its depths. Jake’s eyes rolled back as his partner’s cock pumped out splashes of thick, creamy cum. As the first few arcs of cum splattered against his partner’s pecs and abs, a large glob settling in his thick, dark beard, Jake allowed himself to ejaculate, his own muscular contractions mingling with those of his partner, heightening their ecstasy. Jake’s balls, so eager to unleash their load, rose up, and his cock somehow swelled and hardened even more as his ejaculation began. The pressure exerted along the length of his cock, and especially by the ring of muscles clamped around the base of his shaft made it more difficult for his cum to make it through all fourteen inches, causing high pressure spurting jets of cum to spray deep within, the massive load contained by the swollen head plugging the tunnel. Even as they both continued ejaculating, Jake leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss, the taste of cum on his lips adding to his explosive wave of orgasms. *** “Get out,” Jake said, as he stood up and went to shower. “Fuck, mate,” he breathed heavily, still recovering from the orgasm, “you were mind blowi–” “I said, get out.” He didn’t even turn back. “Can I at least get your number? I don’t even know your name…” He trailed off, distracted by the incredible view of Jake’s naked body walking to the en suite. The X shape, his glorious arse cheeks, sitting atop massive ham-hock hamstrings, the sweep of his quads visible even from behind, his back muscles mounding and rippling as he walked, roadmap veins - everywhere he looked, splendour upon perfection. Jake ignored him. The cumrag, having served his purpose, already forgotten. Despite his swelling dick - how could you not get hard at that view, he thought? - he hurriedly dressed, the cum covering his abs and chest already drying, sticking to his shirt, and left. **** Brad, Amber and HE were sitting in Brad’s living room, regrouping and discussing the recent events and the fallout. “Can you still sense him?” Amber asked. They all knew which 'him' she was referring to. “Yes…” He hesitated, “…he’s having sex.” It was a very odd sensation, having his best friend’s subconscious as a stream in part of his brain. Despite everything, Amber and HE both blushed. Amber, in particular, was still trying to process her feelings about Jake. She could not let go of the fact that they meshed perfectly, their sex on a level she had never, and almost certainly would never, experience again. But, equally, she could not forget his treatment of her. His callous disregard, the violence against her without so much as a second thought. Yes, he was under the effects of the vaccine, but was that merely amplifying an existing tendency? She did not know, and the conflict was gnawing at her. What made it worse, she could never discuss it with him. Jake could not - must not! - ever know or be reminded of his rampage. They all feared if he learned what they did – what he did – that he would try to regain his abilities, and his reign of terror would resume. She nuzzled into Brad’s strong, comforting embrace, his Herculean arm around her. He was no Jake, it was true, but he was kind and loving, the sex was fantastic (though, of course, not the perfection she had with Jake), and his body was phenomenal. And, yet, she still could not shake the thought and feelings - he was no Jake. **** As Jake’s orgasm erupted in a corner of Brad’s brain, his own dick chubbed, and his mind wandered, lustful thoughts – of tits, of arse, of legs for days, of vascularity and muscle – flooded his brain, like cumshots pumping hot man cream, flooding holes. Amber nuzzled into him, the feel of her pert, luscious tits pressing into him causing lustful fire to tingle through him, making a beeline for his cock. He smiled. Not for the first time he silently thanked Jake, his best friend and, in many ways, his saviour. If Jake had not convinced him to break his vow of celibacy, he would not have met Amber. Not since Angelina had he felt such feelings for a woman. Amber would never replace Angelina - nobody ever could - but Amber was a mighty fine substitute.

The Passion Of Flames by big-Zargo Authors note: This story was inspired by an old story I made for a contest, to be more accurate my first story I need for a contest. I decided I could re-look at the story again because I felt that I could do more with it. And as I mulled it over, I felt that I could expand it and its ideas. Embers of a burning rainbow Patrick was hiking in the woods making his way across a trampled dirt path. He thought to himself, just three more hours and he will soon be off the trail and back into civilization. He rubbed his hand over his sweating pale white face moving some of his shaggy brown hair off of his glasses. His nose twitched as the smell of burning wood filled his nostrils. Nostalgic memories of the campfire passed through his head as he stood there basking in the flavorful aroma. His thoughts were interrupted as the world began to rumble from around him. Losing his footing Patrick fell onto the ground as it began to move before his very eyes, rather than a mouth opening it was as if the earth was becoming erect and was growing towards the sky. A small hill was being born right in front of Patrick’s eyes. In another dimension outside the barriers of multiple realities laid a massive red Titan of cosmic fire and passion, glowing so brighter and larger than a star. With giant rippling muscles bigger than the biggest continents on Earth, a forest of grayish body hair that a man could live on, balls the size of huge planets squished together, a ridiculously huge cock that can reach the Titans head. He along with wild grayish hair and a beard that reached his massive hairy pecs attached to a chest. A square-ish head with a strong jaw and prominent forehead and eyebrow ridges. This entity was So massive with muscles that the giant could not even move its limbs. Massive pillars of Flames had surrounded and wrapped around the Titan’s ridiculously big dick, stroking, and squeezing it in a form of masturbation. For unknown eons, this cosmic giant had rubbed at its huge fuck stick, with a blank look of pleasure on his face as time passed by; For its prison hold him well. But sadly, nothing lasts forever, and eventually, the cosmic giant came, and like a geyser erupting his hot cream cum had shot across the boundaries of reality and laid the beginning of the end for a lucky/unlucky world. When Patrick got up, he had found himself next to a new miniature hill, that appeared across his path. He had felt a strange compulsion to explore it. He quickly climbed up on top of the new hill to find a miniature crater reminding him of the pictures they found of books and the Internet. To Patrick, it looked more like a freshly dead miniature volcano, with its rough and smooth black glass all over it. He suddenly felt horny as the smell of a campfire had passed through his nose. The compulsion to enter the crater had been un-resistible to Patrick. He grabbed his crotch and began rubbing it in pleasure as he made his way deeper into the hole. A moan escaped his lips as thoughts of masturbating over right in any sense of fear or curiosity. He had taken off on his backpack and sat down opening up his pants and, grabbed his fuck meat, and began rubbing it, moaning and drooling all over his stubble-covered chin. All he wanted to do is fuck all needs to do is fuck. All that mattered to him like the embers of passion began burning inside his soul. He closed his eyes as he basked in his pleasure, a vision of a giant red man whose muscles block the sky, whose dick could crush the earth with its girth, whose breath could ignite the passion of men. The flames could destroy the world and remake in the giant’s image. Patrick roared as his cum shot out of him. This act echoed the cosmic Titan across space and time, creating a link between them; allowing the Titans power to bleed through the dimensional barriers and both blessed and cursed the man. Patrick’s eyes opened up as fire passed through his veins. His body began to feel warm as fiery passion had made its way through his expanding muscles; Causing the hiking clothing meant for an average man to quickly become tight and uncomfortable as Patrick’s body filled it in and then exceeded its limits; at that point, it began to tear and rip apart revealing his skin which was slowly being peppered with his brown body hair. Huge hairy pecs busted through his shirt company with a muscle gut. His thick thighs had destroyed his blue jeans. His shoes had burst off against his big feet as sleeves from his jacket had completely fallen apart on being able to contain his huge biceps. Huge meaty arms quickly removed any last shreds of clothing on his changing body. Patrick’s average size cock had grown into a huge fat fuck monster, with a need for immediate attention. His balls had grown into the size of apples filled with primal testosterone. The stubble on his face quickly grown into a beard as his forehead had become blunter and his jaw become squarer. His eyes had become a rainbowish gray as his psyche began to shift more in line with the cosmic Titan’s. Patrick’s meaty ass sat there on the ground and began masturbating again. The cosmic Titan felt a soul through the ether whose passion now burned like his. Slowly at first but Patrick’s memories passed through into the giant mind causing his attention to slowly focus on the earth. Patrick roared as he came, shooting his load out again onto the ground where a small puddle of steaming semen was growing. Patrick had come so many times after his transformation that he cannot count; Hours had passed, and it was dark. Patrick was no longer completely blinded by his lust and got up with his 8 feet tall muscle bear body. His breath stood out against the cold night air as his bearish body felt warm against the night air. Patrick was no longer hindered by the darkness and giving his hard cock one last squeeze Patrick began setting out towards civilization bringing the passion of flames with him.