WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS VIOLENCE, SADISM, DEATH, MEN GOING
QUEER AND HORRIBLE LANGUAGE AND IMAGERY. REALLY, HORRIBLE. IF YOU
ARE UNDERAGE OR OFFENDED BY SNUFF FICTION OR MEN MASTURBATING
THEMSELVES TO DEATH OVER MUSCLEGODS, THEN FOR CRYING OUT LOUD
DON’T READ IT.
JASON ATTACKS
By Chip Masterson
The boy’s hand trembled as he read from the print-out. His first tour out of boot camp had been
Kuwait, but then he got transferred here. He’d been relieved: it seemed the ultimate safe bunk, a
promotion, recognition of superior skills. But then he heard the stories and saw the few short
videos that managed to escape the Black Hole (as the men called it) early on, and wondered if
he’d made a terrible mistake. Maybe random missiles were better than what now was coming.
“There’s m-movement out of the bla—er, the northwest sector, sir,” he reported to the
commander. “Multiple seismographs confirm.”
“The Black Hole?! Is that what you were going to say, Lieutenant?” The commander ground
the end of an unlit stogie until the leaves spilled out.
“Y-yes, Sir,” the boy said. “H-here are the reports, from San Berdoo to St. Louis. All register
the same pattern.” He didn’t need to say it out loud as he lay the graphs down on the
commander’s desk, because the data was clear enough: He, or It, was coming towards them.
For them.
“Good God, look at the speed of him, the distances!” The commander gaped openly at the
charts, the mashed stogie falling off his lip like a turd. “He must get over the tallest mountains in
three, four kicks! And the weight of him coming down!” He sank back into his chair and
muttered to himself, “What power, what muscle! How will we ever be able to handle him?”
Snapping back, the commander bolted to his feet and grabbed the phone. “Call the National
Guards and have them close every pass, all roads across the Rockies. And ground air traffic –
then GET the authorization!” Slamming down the phone, he said, “Not even the most rugged
mountains on the continent can withstand the punishment of his merely crossing them.”
The commander looked up and saw the boy, white as a sheet, just as he went down. “Medic!
We need a medic in here!” He peered around his desk to confirm what he already knew: the boy
hadn’t passed out from fear, but from all the blood in his body rushing to his cock. Happened
every time someone confronted anew what Jason could do.
“Pitched a tent,” the commander growled to the medic. “And he won’t be the last. It’s going to
be a bad afternoon.” He sat in his chair and spun around to stare at the shelves and wonder,
again, how exactly they were expected to handle Him?
The Black Hole – that ever-expanding cancer on the Pacific Northwest from which nothing – no
news, no information, and certainly no people – ever emerged. Not even military aircraft or
space satellites could fly over at any altitude – He brought them down unfailingly with boulders
a strongman couldn’t budge. And those first reports, those terrifying helmet-cam feeds and spy-
sat photos – so few, so disturbing … nobody knew what exactly they were dealing with.
The only sure fact: A man, a boy younger than the lieutenant who just tented-out, had declared
himself God and created a sovereign nation in the middle of North America, enslaving the
populace and single-handedly subduing every rescue or apprehension effort until the level of
death led to a unilateral cease-fire by the U.S. until the situation could be better understood.
To that end, NORAD had been relocated to points east and the network of bunkers under the
Rockies devoted entirely to Jason. But no data emerged even as his territory expanded, county
by county, from the north shore of Great Salt Lake up to Canada’s Great Slave Lake, everything
from the Cascades to the Badlands. The boundary was marked only by a dead zone of fleeing
residents as the “event horizon” approached, and silence from the stalwarts who stayed. By
triangulating seismograph data from the entire Western U.S., they could tell that something
enormously heavy and incredibly fast moved sleeplessly through the Black Hole like an orb
weaver … and now this human, superman, God was heading straight for them.
They were as prepared for him as they could be – but how do you prepare for Someone whose
thighs propel him miles at a time at speeds that break the sound barrier, and send shock waves
through the solid earth each time he lands? It meant he could be upon you before you heard him
coming. The charts indicated he was picking up speed – ‘which means we might not even feel
him coming ahead of time, if his power outraces the seismic waves themselves,’ he thought,
stomach crawling with fear. That buzzing in his back teeth – he knew it was the tremors of
Jason’s approach, but was from it where he landed last, or had he already landed once or twice
since those waves went out, and the new ones hadn’t caught up yet? Like all their data, even the
seismograph readings spitting out of the machine might be fatally old—
WHUMP. The commander was knocked out of his chair by a jolt that brought dust down from
the ceiling.
“HE’S HERE!” someone shrieked as red lights flashed and sirens drowned out sound and
thought. The monitors flickered with images as bouncing security cameras tried to stabilize, but
a hulking figure had dropped straight out of the sky at the entrance to the cavernous facility.
That was him, in the center of the crater he punched into the bedrock. The smell of urine
bloomed simultaneously around the room.
Brief spurts of gunfire ended abruptly. When the dust and blur of Jason’s assault on the guards
had cleared, you couldn’t even tell they had been men. ‘He must have punched through them
like cardboard,’ the commander thought
Jason made no attempt to take out the cameras. Reports poured in of earthquake damage in
communities all along the path he’d taken, but the commander trashed them. He waited to see if
Jason might, just might, pick up that ringing telephone and tell them why he was here.
But Jason walked away from the blood-drenched guard shack, toward the Quonset entrance in
the mountainside. Wide enough for tanks and tankers to pass each other, Jason made the space
seem close. He moved with a languid, animal grace that expressed at the same time coiled
power raring to be unleashed. And, as rumor had it, he was buck naked, his 30mm gun arched
like a prow before him, challenging their guns to a shooting match. The commander didn’t think
an elephant could survive being fucked by that, much less a person. The balls swung like
shrunken heads from some witch doctor’s porch.
Since Jason had rebuffed every attempt at overwhelming force, the commander had championed
a techno-trap to bring him down. The DC brass let him build it but insisted on an armed defense
as well. As Jason marched down the tunnel towards the retreating marines, it didn’t look like the
bullets even touched him before ricocheting all over the tunnel. The bravest or most insane
soldiers fired close-range bazookas and rockets, but Jason caught them and forced a detonation
between his hands. He punched through their Kevlar body armor like it was a paper bag straight
through to hearts and spines, crushing them so quickly the men could see him smirking at their
weakness before dying. He wasted no time getting to the primary blast doors, built to withstand
a hundred megaton nuke. Of course, that assumed the bomb exploded outside the mountain
facility. No one thought a bomb that big could get to the doors themselves. Much less on two
massive legs bristling with sinew.
The commander crackled the speaker to life and waited to see if he’d say anything – but Jason
ignored it. He crossed trunk-sized arms across pecs that stood out half as far as that cock and
studied the door intently. The commander had known he wouldn’t ask to come in. He wouldn’t
even demand to come in. He’d just come in.
Because Daddy’s home. And anyplace he cums is home.
“Look at his muscles ripple – and he’s only just thinking!” someone said. Half the men were
glued to the monitors and the other half had abandoned their posts. The commander had a vague
sense he ought to send out an alert but he too was mesmerized by the man filling the screens –
muscles so monstrous they seemed to bulge in every direction, each group exaggeratedly huge in
themselves but taken together, a unity – it ought to look grotesque but instead … what was the
word?
Perfect. As if they forced a new dimension into existence simply to contain them.
“Shut those damn sirens off, we all know what’s going on!”
In the sudden silence, the movement was too fast to follow when Jason sprang, head-butting the
blast door. Steel strong enough to stop a nuke rang like a gong and shuddered, while concrete
dust and gravel billowed out in waves all around it. Things in the room flew off desks as the
impact wave charged through the mountain like a freight train, knocking men down. When the
screens cleared, the door had a dimple on one side, a mound on the other, the walls, ceiling and
floor all crazed with cracks. It held – but like a refugee clinging to a life raft.
Jason cocked his arm and plowed his hundred-megaton fist into the crater. Computers crashed
the floor and lighting broke loose from the ceiling. ‘That was only one arm,’ the commander
thought, stomach twisting. Jason had creased the blast door down the middle and deepened the
dent: the steel shone where it looked impossibly stretched, and he forced himself to remember
‘that’s feet-thick carbon steel he’s deforming.’ His other fist slammed into the sweet spot again,
driving the entire door before it and dragging the lock bolts sideways out of the wall. The huge
steel codpiece tumesced with Jason’s physical strength, cracked down the center where it
couldn’t contain all that muscle. Jason shot a lode of shrapnel with the last blow, penetrating
half way up his forearm, the steel curling away from the muscle.
His hands reached into the tear, pulling at the metal so it rippled and crimped. The unearthly
sound of cold forged metal so thick, being worked like putty, grated in the ears, like whales
mating in a salvage yard. The steel gave to him, opening like a cocksucker’s mouth or some
randy virgin’s cunt, stretching and tearing to take it all. His head jerked out of the steel cunt and
saw the battery of Stingray tanks waiting for him. In a voice so powerful it nearly shorted out
the entire PA system, he yelled happily:
“Toys!”
The eight Stingrays barely had room to maneuver in the transit tunnel, which stretched into
darkness to either side. Lined up before the granite all of the mountain’s heart, fully armed and
crewed, they held fire for a clear shot. Each about twenty feet long with an extra ten feet of
cannon, they weighed 22.5 tons each. That’s a hundred and eight tons of loaded war machine
trained on one man, enough firepower take down the entire complex getting him. The brass were
certainly willing to make that sacrifice.
Jason’s hands gripped either side of the hole, steel melting around the fingers like chocolate, but
they didn’t move. The lone remaining outside camera showed Jason’s continent-dwarfing back,
arched and driving cannonball glutes forward. He was humping. Humping the door.
On their side, a second protuberance grew out of the door, beneath the hole, a smaller but
steadily growing mound poked out of the steel, smaller but distending steadily inch by inch.
The metal ballooned like Pinocchio’s nose as Jason’s hips moved closer and faster, bucking the
barrier like a whore until his hips blurred and the distressed metal began tearing and glowing red
like a blister. Finally the steel tore around a battering-ram ‘shroom-head that thrust in and out
like a moray eel, slinging long ropes of precum. Thus primed, Jason dropped one hand and
wedged it through that hole. He flexed his arms once for the camera, then yanked the blast door
free of the wall with three wrenching jerks. Bolts as thick as man’s body snapped while all the
video blinked and rolled from the jolt. Chunks of concrete snaking with bent rebar fell in ton-
sized boulders into the tunnels. Holding all that crushing weight off the floor at arm’s length like
a like a shield, Jason charged the tanks.
“Open fire!” the commander ordered, too late. “Fire at will!”
All eight 105mm guns blasted shells into the closing door at close range – no more than fifteen
feet – and it dented and rang like cathedral bells in Hell. But Jason didn’t drop it – his arms
absorbed the impact of that barrage and surged forward. His rippling thighs caught the light as
he drove into the next round, the explosions rocking the tanks back – but Jason kept coming.
The door was fifty feet wide, so the two end tanks were beyond it and angled in. Jason swiftly
swung one end wide to nail that far tank’s front end and propel it skidding sideways into the wall
– 22 tons - ‘Like a toy,’ the commander thought. Then those cabled arms swatted the other tank,
slamming it into the granite with force to stun its crew. The other six were still reloading when
Jason rammed the door against their big guns so hard they bent.
Jason’s legs mushroomed as they conquered the resistance of 135 tons of tread-locked steel to
muscle all six Stingrays backwards. Their engines fired to life but the tracks and wheels could
gain no purchase while Jason’s’ man-muscle piled into them – they jittered and spun and
bunched but nothing stopped him. His chest heaved and he pressed the steel crushingly forward,
bending the six huge barrels into pretzels. The turbo diesels smoked and coughed but Jason
negated their torque with studly brutality. Jason angled the battered and dented door over them
to lock them grinding in a corner.
The two end tanks slowly sparked and tried to reposition, but the hunks of concrete and solid
rock that Jason broke out of the walls and ceiling impeded their mobility – some of the boulders
were as big as they were. But Jason’s boulder-like shoulders writhed and his feet cracked the
floor as he brought his mounded pecs to bear on the six trapped Stingrays. Immediately the air
rang with groans and creaks as armor plating scrunched and buckled, bolts popped and hatches
bent. Engines sputtered and choked, their power twisting back on itself in fractured axles and
tortured drive shafts. With speed that defied belief, Jason worked up and down the line,
punching each tank through the steel blast door, KPLOW! The tanks compacted with each slug,
precious inches of interior space collapsing under the onslaught of the purple-veined pile-driver.
KBLAM! Another tank crushed flat behind the barrier, men inside screaming, gurgling,
pleading for release as remorseless steel bit into, cowering before Daddy’s strong arm.
Jason grinned as his sex musk flowed out of his pits and ass crack in rivers of sweat, knowing it
confusing the trapped soldiers with maddening desire for the being that claimed them so utterly.
Jason’s arms bent the door down over the tops of the tanks, and using both hands mashed the
tanks beneath it, even caving the ends create a giant coffin. Soon the clamoring of the crushed
men sounded dim and remote, and someone had room to pound, Jason stomped with a leg that
humbled the steel and silenced the man. That’s when the two remaining Stingrays fired point
blank into his back.
The shells detonated one after the other with percussive force that knocked out most of the
cameras. One long-distance job captured the effect with startling clarity: Jason actually bending
forward from the impact but not losing his balance as the two explosions rocked everything else
around him. Twin red spots bloomed on orgy of meat covering his shoulder blades. He turned,
his evil grin replaced by something much hungrier.
The tank crews must have been shocked – direct hits shrugged off like flies! Jason sprang first at
one, crushing the barrel down in his meaty fist and dragging it with one arm towards the other
like an errant child by the ear. The treads dug backwards uselessly against the flexing muscles of
his forearm. The other tank sent another blast straight at his chest, and Jason actually opened up,
like Superman, to accept it. The flash was blinding but when the feed cleared, Jason had that
tank’s barrel in his other fist, his pecs red and thick as fat children. For a moment he just held
them as they ground the concrete trying to get away.
As if doing flies, Jason dragged the tanks toward each with just his pecs, making them bounce on
the pavement. Then he twisted the cannons into each other, uniting them. Kicks to the
undersides crushed the engines and stunned the crews. Then he mounted one tank and began
fucking the turret. His cock dented and trenched into steel armor deeper and deeper. The men
screamed when he pierced it and, grabbing his own nuts, started cumming. And cumming. And
cumming.
One feed from inside the tank showed the men flopping around in the goo, terrified yet overcome
with sexual excitement. The force of the jizz knocked them back like a fire hose, and one
couldn’t stop eating it as it smothered his face. From their knees to their hips, the sea of semen
rose higher and higher. They lost the video but one of the machine guns started firing aimlessly
until the gummy flow jammed the works.
Panic broke when the saw cum spurting out the sight holes and air vents. As the volume
increased, it squirted out harder and harder until there was no doubt the men inside had drowned
or been crushed by the pressure. Jason seemed capable of generating cockjuice endlessly. Bolts
popped as the armor bulged from it, the entire tank rocking and creaking until with a cry of
orgasmic fury Jason grabbed his dick in both hands and tensed every muscle so heroically God
himself would have wept with shame. The tank exploded, a Niagara of manliness flowing over
the floor and carrying with it the bodies of the crew. Jason stood on the wreckage, the turret still
hanging on the end of his prick like a used condom. Then he turned greedily to the last tank.
The gunner spent every magazine firing all the automatics at him but again it did no good. We
could see now the bullets did hit, pink freckles marking where the soft steel met hardened
muscle. The crew clawed frantically at the stuck hatch as Jason approached, his twitching
virility slinging the turret off in a flying arc. Still dribbling, he jammed his fingers into the front
edge of the Stingray – all the way in.
One jerk wrench it open and with both hands, Jason cracked it open down the middle like a
piñata. His lats expanded and made metal screech and sparks fly. He reached in and pulled out
his candy, two in each hand, and held them struggling like worms ready to hook. Then they saw
the hook and lost their minds.
Jason’s big hand easily fit around the upper arms of three of the soldiers, though one was
division champ and another an amateur natural bodybuilder. He crushed their arms, bones and
muscles together, in one hand while the other impaled the crew’s captain on his cock. The man’s
legs spread out sideways, forced apart by the sheer girth of His fuckhead. A silent scream of
agony preceded a shocked intake of breath as Jason crushed his prostate, sending convulsions of
orgasmic agony to explode in his brain and zipper-ripping cock. Yet before the tingling ecstasy
had subsided, another terrible pain ripped open a sac of panic: Jason’s cock penetrated straight
in. Not in - through. People fainted vomiting as they saw the same protrusion that puncture the
blast door emerge from the captain’s belly. His shirt-buttons popped and with a horrible
womanish shriek his stretching belly split up to his sternum, leaving his cock dangling stiff yet
loose to the side, jetting milky cum as his limbs jittering and guts unspooling like film.
Jason grabbed the next soldier, the gunner, and laid the same massive pipe into his sewer system.
He ripped in straight through his pants and raped his way in so hard his pelvis cracked. Again
there was the sudden splooge followed by wide-eyed frenzy, and the “Alien” birth as the body-
builder’s abs parted for their devastating retrofit.
Even Jason’s cock isn’t four-men long, so to make room he reached around had hugged the two
men tighter against his chest. Ribs bent and splintered out, ripping through skin and fabric, the
dying men coughing streams of blood. Then Jason loaded the loader onto his weapon, closing
his eyes and smiling at the warmth flowing all over his body. Of course, the loader wasn’t fully-
loaded until he’d been hugged into the locked position, and Jason’s tree-stump forearm stove in
the middleweight’s chest like a balsa-wood model plane. For the driver, he had a signal honor.
Jason held the driver upside down, staring into the man’s eyes with a look that made the driver
spray piss through his ramrod erection into the faces of his gagging crew; shit flowed down his
back and into his hair. Just as the man was about to vomit, Jason forced him face-down onto the
melon-sized cockhead, shattering the man’s teeth and dislocating his jaw on both sides. That
cock forced the man’s tongue and rising vomit back down into his throat, making him go into
seizures, his entire musculature working to eject the monster meat. Jason moaned with pleasure
and forced his virile limb deeper into the driver’s guts, and his face inside the gutted belly of the
loader. The driver’s limbs jittered like an unstrung puppet until his esophagus split and his ribs
cracked outward through his skin.
As the jerking subsided, Jason used both hands to scrunch the driver’s body onto his mast like a
tube sock, splintering ribs and vertebrae and rupturing his abdomen until finally that bloody
purple warrior emerged victorious out of the driver’s shredded asshole. Jason turned slowly so
every camera could witness the four-man-ka-bob riding him. With a final bearhug, he squished
the four men between his chest and thighs and shot cannonballs of cum that hit the wall and
stuck like glue.
The commander’s guts trembled, wondering if their technological trap, his baby, would even
have any effect at all. It all assumed he would run out of spunk, literally and figuratively,
eventually. It was the only hope that these brave men wouldn’t all have died in vain.
“It’s not gonna work!” someone started moaning as if reading his mind. “It’s not gonna be
enough – he’s too much for us!”
“We’re just getting started!” the Commander snarled. “Suck it up!”
He realized too late that was probably not the order he ought to give and prayed to God the
scientists and engineers were correct. They’d installed heavy-duty magnetic plates in the floor in
front of the blast door that would by now have given them all the data about Jason they needed to
calculate his weight, composition, maximum strength and, more importantly for their plan,
potential endurance. He couldn’t keep it up forever and they had huge tanks of fuel and the
entire western electrical grid at the flip of a switch to wear him down.
At least, that was the idea.
To lure him into the trap, the commander ordered the gigantic blast doors of the inner wall to
open just enough to let him through. He’d read it as a sign of surrender, them not wanting any
more damage at his almighty hands. The doors were set some distance down a side tunnel,
where the granite was actually thickest. He wouldn’t go down either of the unguarded side
tunnels, but assume the commander hid behind those big doors. Besides, Daddy always entered
by the front door. Always.
When Jason stepped through this second set of feet-thick doors, they closed behind him, and
down the middle an airtight seal descended. He looked around the high-ceilinged chamber as
engines began to whir. There were no other exits: Jason had entered a rock-hewn hyperbaric
chamber rapidly creating a vacuum whose plunging temperature would approach absolute zero in
a matter of minutes. Already the thermograph registered a hundred degree drop, and the air was
as thin as it would be at 20,000 feet. Assuming he couldn’t survive interstellar space, the
engineers planned – and prayed – he’d been so weakened by sudden changes and his previous
exertions that he’d collapse. Once he passed out, they were ready to freeze him cryogenically
until they could figure out what to do about him.
Jason began to steam – the heat from his exertions radiated into the chilling air even as it left the
chamber. The recirculating air injecting his sweaty sexmusk into every room and hall of the
underground complex, destroying the composure and will of all but the strongest among them.
The commander gagged, feeling like those huge swollen nuts were smothering him. The lead
scientist brought in their first calculations and for a moment he was distracted by their
discoveries.
“Based on the seismograph readings over the last few months,” the scientist said, his eyes darting
secretively toward the screen where Jason stood in the rapidly depressurizing chamber, “we’d
estimated a weight of a thousand pounds – incredible on a human frame, but that’s what we went
with. We were off by a factor of magnitude. The only certain measurement is his height, seven
feet two inches. His body weight registers somewhere around five and one-quarter tons.”
The commander gasped. “How is that possible?”
“We’re not even sure that’s right,” the scientist stammered. “E-every body emits a magnetic
field, but his is so powerful – the sensors fluctuated and we thought maybe he’s suspended
within it – but then it overwhelmed the scale’s sensors – he totally blew them out!”
“Are we sure he’s a man?” the commander asked, “and not some kind of Terminator cyborg?”
“Well,” the scientist giggled with bright, excited eyes, “he sure smells like a real man.” The
scientist underlined the point by absently rubbing the mound at his crotch while he spoke, and
eyeing the commander’s knowingly. “His musculature is so dense, x-rays cannot penetrate him.
They’re not even absorbed, like with bone – they bounce right off with added momentum – like
he repels them. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. We have a new theory. It’s kind of
– ‘out-there,’” he said, grinding his palm into his pants.
The commander felt weak but said “Go on.”
“Well, they say every myth has a grain of truth?” the scientist said, eyes brightly dancing
“Well, there are lots of myths about gods mating with humans, and the children always have
some extra power or strength as a result, but only one had virtually unlimited brawn.”
“What, Hercules? C’mon.”
“Hercules, yes. When fatally poisoned, he was too strong to die. After literally moving earth
and heaven, he simply burned in agony until the gods assumed him into heaven. Now, Hercules
had somewhere between fifty and a hundred children, many different mothers. Most of these
had no special strength at all. But our knowledge of genetic recession makes a tantalizing
possibility: what if there really was a superhuman genetic freak everyone considered a god, who
passed his mutation on. The mutated gene stays recessed through the generations until one day,
two strangers meet who carry the right copies of those of all those genes and their child, in effect,
recreates him.”
The scientist’s eyes rolled back into his head as he climaxed over his own imagination. The
commander knew what he was doing most Saturday afternoons which his buddies were playing
Nintendo – he was flat on his belly watching Steve Reeves movies. “What does all this mean?”
the commander asked roughly, his mouth dry, despite all the slobber spilling over the chins of
everyone around him.
The scientist looked at him with a mixture of dread and unbearable longing: “It means all bets
are off, sir.”
The commander blinked and shook his head to clear it when another sound caught his attention –
the deep whirr of the chamber’s engines had risen to a feverish whine. “Sir!” the major
monitoring the chamber said. “We have a problem, sir!”
The commander strode over the station, trying to remain calm. Jason was simply standing there,
not pounding on anything. What could be the—
Then he saw the digital monitors. What should have been a steadily dropping temperature was
flickering back and forth around minus thirty degrees: Jason’s muscle heated the chamber faster
than they could cool it. More amazingly, the air pressure should have been near the edge of
space, but instead it was increasing. “He’s inhaling, sir – he’s fighting our engines with sheer
lung power and sucking air back into it!”
The commander now knew he was living in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. He watched
Jason’s body swell as he battled their turbines, creating such suction the valves and fans labored
against the pull. His abs, intercostals and pecs compressed the air, containing it under intense
pressure that raised his body temperature so much his sweat vaporized. A single blast of air
drove the pressure back up and he started back again, radiating heat … like the Sun. The
temperature soared.
“I don’t know how much longer the seals can last,” the major said. “They weren’t designed to
withstand this heat, and valves – extreme forces in both directions! The turbines are overheating
from the strain – we need more juice, more power! He’s coming on too strong!” Almost on cue,
the overloaded wiring began to short out and men frantically flipped and reset switches to try to
increase the power, keep the engines going.
The commander felt panic claw at the underside of his belly: their failure wasn’t simply in
matching the power this one he-man could exert. Their failure was to imagine what he was truly
capable of. The minds of their greatest scientists and most powerful computers couldn’t begin to
comprehend the scale by which he surpassed them in every way. He was to them what they are
to aphids.
And instead of weakening and disabling him, they’d only pissed him off.
“He should still feel the effects of his efforts,” the scientist babbled, “and it will still wear him
down.”
“Shut the hell up with that crap!” the commander barked. All bets were off. Smoke began
pouring into the chamber, sucked in by Jason’s mighty chest. The major’s voice approached
hysteria: “The temperature is now 140 degrees, 160 - the cold seals are starting to melt. The
pressure has increased to two atmospheres, two and a half – the valves are blowing out, there’s
too much pressure in there!”
Jason’s body heaved like a bellows as one valve after another imploded and seals blew. He
exhaled and we heard the blast doors groan and creak while the fans imbedded in the ceiling shot
up wrecked into the vents. Sirens began sounding again and his only thought was, we have to
keep him in there. Somehow. But how?
Jason walked around the room, pounding the walls with his fist, lightly for him. The shock
waves shook everything and the commander knew men were clamoring on the sealed doors,
trying to get out. But Jason wasn’t going to break the mountain open, not yet - he was only
seeing where he was, confirming that in fact it was solid rock all around him, a dead end. He
returned to the blast doors and pried them open like a stuck elevator, and shattered the Plexiglas
airtight seal with a single blow.
As soon as Jason stepped through, the commander ordered the doors shut at full power. Gears
and pistons drove the five-foot-wide doors into those shoulders with a pressure equal to near the
bottom of the ocean – 10,000 pounds per square inch. The resistance of Jason’s mere mass
prevented the doors from closing. The pressure increased by half, then half again, the entire
complex vibrating with the churning power of a dozen major turbines. Jason rolled his eyes and
seemed almost to sigh with boredom.
Jason twitched his lats and metal groaned – and the commander gave in to his panic. He flipped
the switch that shut down all the electricity to California and diverted it to those turbines. They
ate oil as fast at it could be pumped in and still Jason didn’t budge – the muscles of his pecs
bunched, and the terrain of his back mounded against the pressure, but he couldn’t use his arms.
Triple-walled pistons as big as tractors trembled as their pressure increased with no relief.
Finally, it what seemed to be a capitulation, Jason turned sideways and the relief on the system
slammed the doors several feet together. Only now, his pecs preventing their closure.
Not trusting his eyes, the commander took down what remained of the western grid and sent it
against those pecs. But it wasn’t enough. Suddenly the dials flipped into red zones and steam
hissed from everywhere at once. Somehow, he was forcing the doors open, even at 25,000 lbs
per square inch. Yet his arms remained at his sides. He didn’t seem to be moving at all.
It was his cock. His fifth limb rose and drove the door inch by inch back into its gears, forcing
the pistons against their oil-pressure, straining the pipes and hoses to seam-bursting tension.
Dials cracked. He humbled all their power with only his fucking cock!
The entire system collapsed in a major breakdown. Jason raised his arms and twisted to place
one on each side. With a sneer of contempt, with one arm he shoved one door so hard it flew
back into the wall, its 25,000 lbs of pressure and twenty-ton weight repelled like a volleyball.
Massive explosions rocked the facility and the floor of the control room dropped two feet. His
body barely moving, Jason shoved the other door the same way, like he was shaking off a
chihuahua, and huge steel structure jammed into its track. Smoke billowed out of the explosions
and the turbines caught fire. Water sprayed everywhere, sizzling and evaporating even before it
hit Jason’s supercharged body. He’d had enough of these Hercules-movie theatrics.
The commander stewed, knowing the only way to stop the complete destruction of the facility
and the deaths of others was to surrender. But he couldn’t stomach the thought, a revulsion fed
by his brain’s inability to accept or comprehend Jason’s superiority. Jason just stood there, arms
folded across his chest, in the hub. Waiting. Waiting for his due
Someone panicked and hit the secondary barricades. New doors lowered deeper within each
tunnel. Jason took that as an expression of defiance. Fear-based, true, but that was no excuse.
They should subdue their fear as he subdued them. It’s what good slaves do. And they were
being very bad slaves.
“How can he not be exhausted?” the scientist mumbled. “Where does he get his energy?”
“I don’t know,” the commander said, “but I bet he’s getting hungry.”
Jason reached the closing door in time to duck under it. But Jason doesn’t duck. He extended
his hand and let the door come down against it. His faced twitched slightly, betraying what little
fatigue he might actually feel, but no other movement could be seen – nothing except the flaring
of his biceps bulging so hard it forced his arm away from his lats. The soccer-ball sweep of the
peak hardened and the commander realized it thicker side to side than bodybuilder’s arms are top
to bottom. The gears ground and motors lugged, their moaning pitch rising to a shrieking choir,
while veins spidered hungrily over that arm. When the door began to sink again, the
commander’s heart leapt – ‘he is tired!’ – until that arm was fully extended. Then Jason slowly
curled the door back up.
Metal screeched as it ripped and tore, gear teeth snapping and hydraulics bursting. Jason ignored
its death cries, repping up and down, his arm and delt bloated with raw rippling brawn. Knowing
the door didn’t have much left in it, Jason changed arms. He’d already so crippled its machinery
that it hitched and caught in the track. His arm jerked and yanked it back up. Huge steel popped
and bent and with a sickly sputter the last turbines died. Now he had only dead weight against
the resistance of shattered mechanics. His arm peaked like a warhead muscling blocked and
twisted steel out of his way. The door’s plating buckled and sprang loose door as his he-man
arm yanked it up and down.
Finally the steel failed and folded in half when Jason forced a last rep. Jason kept folding it,
raising his hand over his head until it broke and came loose in his grip. Holding that half-door,
Jason found the nearest blinking camera and stared into. “You don’t want me to find you. No
one else may approach. Yet.” His pecs bounced and danced as he started folding the door into
smaller, thicker pieces and then folding it again.
Cold sick gripped the commander and he threw up all over his desk, even as he felt the
inexorable pull of those commanding words dragging him towards the door. He snarled at
anyone too weak to obey the Master and stay behind, knowing it was their natural – natural? –
impulse to go to Him. Something about being the one commanded gave him authority that
Jason’s mere presence otherwise stripped away, and his men stayed put – at least, as long as they
could stand it.
When he got there, the gore made him vomit again – the remains of possibly a dozen fresh
soldiers littered the area, ribbons of flesh and bone, torsos topped with wet smush. They
couldn’t resist and neither could Jason. Suddenly afraid to look up into that handsome, awe-
inspiring face, the commander instinctively lowered his eyes and stared into the drooling eye of
his weapon of mass destruction, covered in steel scrapings and blood. Something moved, and he
saw one man still alive, completely hidden behind Jason’s engorged quads. The man moved
around on his knees, licking steel flakes and human gore from the back of Jason’s hand and off
his thigh. Cleaning him, like a dog or a clown fish. His lips and tongue were cut from the torn
steel he licked off and swallowed. Then he saw a shard of steel caught in cuts of Jason’s outer
quad, and using only his teeth, tried to pry it out. The captain grimaced against the sound of
enamel chipping an cracking and the whimpering growl of the busy lieutenant.
Jason’s cock never sank below half-mast in a permanent state of semi-erection. The heat
barreling off Jason’s magnificence made the commander sweat, and though he’d been 100%
straight all his life, he couldn’t help ogling the muscleman before him. He only dimly became
aware of Jason’s low, confident voice because it seemed to rise within him and permeate every
cell.
“I know you have a link to the White House. I will talk to the former president of your former
nation and give him his chores. Take me there, now.”
The ex-commander following behind and giving directions in strict military “Sir turn left sir”
form. The lieutenant’s knees were bloody as he stumped along, whimpering his desire to
continue cleaning his master. Jason ignored him. Feeling emboldened by having been chosen
and not yet killed, the ex-commander mustered the will to say, “Isn’t this kind of a cliché, sir?
Bow before Zod and all that?”
Jason actually chuckled. “If you can maintain that much of your mind in my presence, I might
have use for you after all. Most men turn to jelly within minutes, though I’ve had some last
whole months before their brains buckled from the sheer weight of dealing with my reality.”
“What are you, exactly, sir, if I may ask?”
“What am I?” Jason stopped and turned, his cock whipping around so fast it caught the
commander in the thigh with crippling force and knocked him into the wall. The lieutenant
approached but Jason stayed him with a flick of his hand, all the while staring at the ex-
commander. “I’m a real man. The man. The rest of you are just … knock-offs. I have muscle,
bone, brains, organs, blood, cockjuice, similar to yours – only perfect in every respect. I cannot
be hurt or diseased. But I do continue to … increase.” Jason smirked as he saw the ex-
commander’s eyes widen as his mind tried to wrap around the thought of Jason getting bigger,
stronger. He turned and entered the telecom center, leaving the ex-com to stagger to his feet and
limp in with a charley-horse the size of Utah. ‘It could’ve broken my leg,’ he thought miserably.
‘His goddam dong.’
“Yes, humiliating, isn’t it, to be beaten down not by a man’s fist but only his prick?” Jason said
over his shoulder, as if reading the ex-com’s thoughts. The lieutenant snickered as he hobbled
behind them. “Pace yourself. You’ve more lessons to learn.”
The ex-commander’s face felt hot with shame, the last remnant of his pride burning away. He
fumbled with the controls until he had the president – or ex-president - on the monitor, in the
oval office with the joint chiefs. It was clear from their faces they’d watched Jason’s destructive
seizure of the facility. He couldn’t imagine what plans the government had set in motion.
“Do you expect us to kneel or something?” the ex-president said testily.
Jason refused to acknowledge their right to speak, knowing they were only capable of it because
of their distance. Not looking into the camera but instead admiring the flexing of his own
forearm, Jason said, “You will go to the United Nations and tell them they are disbanded. Not as
a body – as nations. No more borders, boundaries, parties, tribes, religions. These things are the
past. Now there is only me. I will look into every resistance personally. That is my only
promise.”
While he flexed and spoke, the green lieutenant knelt and cleaned off the massive fuckshaft,
gobbling down the blobs of cum to heavy to fall off, slurping up the blood and smeared organ
meat, wincing as the occasional chunk of steel went down to shred his insides. Already blood
seeped out of his mouth, nose and anus. The ex-president and his staff watched in disgust as
Jason, still talking, grabbed the lieutenant’s hair and forced his mouth over his oozing glans,
shattering the boy’s teeth against it. The ex-president’s face froze in horror as bits of tooth fell
out and the boy kept hungrily trying to fit it in, even as his jaw broke in several places with a
distinct SNIK-SNIK that made the Secretary of Defense onto Interior. All the while, Jason
droned on with his instructions.
“You can do resist if you want, but will only kill your own men. I can outrun a nuclear blast if
the suitcase exploded in my own hand, and any such fouling of the planet Jason and its
environment will bring swift reprisals that will seem never to end.”
Crunch-slurp-crunch-gag-slurp.
The ex-president forced himself to ask, “What is the state of the citizens in your … territory in
the northwest?”
“That’s not your business. I’ve given you your business.”
For the first time Jason looked into the camera and the ex-president turned pale, as if he felt
penetrated to his soul. Lips trembling, he replied, “I know I speak for every head of state, every
citizen of the world, that we will unite to defeat you --”
“I’m going to enjoy fucking your bones into paste,” Jason said, killing the feed.
The lieutenant had gotten stuck on Jason’s cock: unable to pull himself free, he was turning blue
with asphyxiation. Jason flexed his cock to the side hurling the young man into the wall near the
ceiling; when he fell, he wasn’t breathing. The urge to go and perform CPR rose in the ex-
commander but it was conquered by a stronger sense of not having permission, and … for the
first time in his entire life … he was afraid to ask. ‘What if he says no?’ the ex-commander
thought with distress. ‘I don’t think I could survive him saying no to me.’ And somehow,
horribly, that dependency felt utterly natural. Real. ‘It’s been in my all this time, like a dormant
gene.’
Jason returned to the ruins of the hyperbaric chamber – ten million dollars to construct – and
admired his work. “Did you really think this would work?” Jason asked derisively.
“W-we d-didn’t realize--” the ex-com began.
Jason shook his head and his finger, making the ex-commander freeze in terror. “You refused to
accept. Look. This is solid rock, isn’t it? Watch. While I’m holding my breath.”
Jason walked to the far wall, cocked his head from side to side a few moments, his torso
strangely still. Then in a blur of red flesh WHUMP! his fist lashed out at the defenseless granite
of the mountain. Cracks starred in every direction and chunks flew out from the impact crater.
He reached into the biggest crevice started prying the goddam middle of the mountain open,
widening the rift, making rock split by simply pulling. Hell sounded from around and beneath
them as deeper levels quaked and collapsed and the entire complex threatened to cave in. With
his forearm he shoved a portion back a foot, making the mountain roar with grief. Machinery
rained out of the ceiling.
He turned around and said in a tight voice, still holding his breath, “Do you see? You couldn’t
begin to hold me.”
“We didn’t know--”
“You refused to accept.” Jason said tersely. “Don’t make me repeat that again. Now, where are
the so-called brainiacs who designed this funhouse? I’m going to show them what they were
supposed to have done.”
“Th-they’re one level down, below--” the ex-commander began to say.
The tunnel floor already had cracks in it. Jason stamped his T-Rex thigh and a section big as a
humvee collapsed into rubble and fell through bent rebar, breaking open water and steam pipes.
“Climb on,” Jason said, pointing at his cock. The ex-commander gulped and swung his leg over
Jason’s turgidity like he was mounting a horse. “Hold on,” Jason commanded, and the feeling of
that ramrod strength between his thighs, under his own nuts, made the ex-commander cum
spontaneously. His hands could barely reach around it and he while his brain and cock melted in
orgasmic fury, Jason dropped through the hole, the rebar net tearing like licorice around him.
The next level was twenty feet below and Jason cracked the floor along its length, with more
steam and now sewage geysering out it.
The ex-commander directed him where to go in a hoarse voice and realized his mind might snap
if he had to keep riding that horsemeat much longer. His face kept swaying perilously close to
Jason’s crushing pecs. When they reached the lab, where the scientists still huddled behind their
locked steel door, Jason commanded him to place his ear against his abs. “Listen to true power,”
Jason ordered.
With a sharp jab, Jason poked a hole in the steel door with his fuckfinger next to the porthole, so
he could watch. Sealing his lips to the hole, his cock flexed up against the door, trapping the ex-
commander in a vice that could have cracked him like a pecan. When Jason began sucking the
air out of the lab, he felt those bottomless lungs expand and heard the cyclonic frenzy within
them as Jason’s musculature compressed the air. The first screams of the men in the lab
sickened him but within seconds sound no longer could travel in the lab and their final gasps
went unheard. Only Jason watched with detached pleasure as they flopped and struggled,
clutching at their necks, their eyes bulging as the air pressure dropped and they one by one began
to erupt out of their own skins.
The ex-commander felt his breastplate dislodge from the expansion of Jason’s abdomen, even as
those pecs crowded down onto his back and that prick dug into his spine. With panic he felt his
vertebrae crack and shatter, his ribs bend past their elasticity, and his skull creak from Jason’s
abs on one side and that cockhead on the other. He couldn’t believe that after everything he’d
given up, his pride, his manhood, his humanity, that it would end like this, with his brain
squishing out his bursting ears – but clearly Jason couldn’t resist the pleasure of pulping him, if
only to destroy that glimmer of self-importance he felt by being spared, chosen. Blood jetted out
his mouth as he felt his forehead crack like an egg and Jason’s hot flesh began to sear and blister
his, and his last thought in the world was forgotten amid the crashing pain and despair of death.
Jason shook his head at how easily he’d destroyed them. But he knew they were stupid as well
as stubborn, people. And they had to be taken in hand, once and for all.
THE END
chipmasterson@yahoo.com
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