Dwarf Muscle 4
After our shower, during which I jacked Randy off...the little fucker was blowing a load every couple hours now, seemed like...we got dressed and headed out to the football field. Randy wanted to throw the ball around, and who was I to argue. I could always throw a pretty good spiral, but I couldn't figure out how Randy could even hold the ball with his thick stubby fingers. But when we got to the field, I found out. He gripped the ball just fine, and when he threw it at me, I wasn't sure if he was showing off, or just didn't know his own strength. I was determined to catch every throw of his, but the ball hit me with such force that I was sure to have deep tissue bruising in my chest from it. It was like catching a freaking missile. He was accurate as hell too, aiming that damned pigskin square at me, even from 50 yards. I could hear the thing coming at me, and was knocked right on my ass more than once.
We'd been tossing the ball around for about 20 minutes, when an SUV pulled into the parking lot. Four big jocks got out. Their sweatshirts had the name of the university in town. All four where bulked up pretty good, I'd guess around 260 each. Buzz cuts and thick necks. Ball players, I figured. Two of them had brown paper bags with a bottle in them. All of them appeared to be fairly drunk. They stumbled over to the running track that surrounded the football field, hitting each other and laughing about something. One of them tripped and fell onto the cinder track. They all laughed hard at that one, even the dude that fell.
I couldn't help but sense trouble. And it didn't take long. One of them caught sight of Randy. I heard him say,"Holy shit, look at that," pointing Randy out to his buddies. "It's fucking Mini-me," he said. He roared with laughter, and once his buddies got a look, they started roaring too. Randy has his back to the jocks. He froze in his tracks and looked at me.
"Tell me I didn't just hear that," he said to me.
"You didn't just hear that," I said. "Let's go," and I headed toward the far end of the field.
I knew he wasn't going to follow me. I pretended like he might, but I knew he wouldn't. Finally, I stopped and looked back. Randy had turned to look at the jocks. He still had the football in his hand. I saw his fingers tighten, and his look darken. The jocks weren't paying all that much attention to him, outside of looking over at him, pointing, and laughing some more. Not, at least, until the football exploded in his hand. The bang was so loud that I jumped about a foot. The little freaky powerhouse had just popped a football with his bare hand. The noise made the jocks stop laughing, but I don't think they quite got what had happened. Randy walked over toward them.
The jock who had tripped was still sitting on the track. He got up onto his knees and shuffled over to Randy with a big smirk on his face. The two were nearly nose to nose, although the jock was still taller, even on his knees.
"Hey, dude," he said to Randy, "say this for me...'we represent the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild'...."
The jock's buddies could barely contain themselves with laughter. Randy stared at the dude with no expression on his face. Once their laughter died down some, he said, "Why don't you girls get your things together and go play some hopscotch somewhere, and no one will get hurt."
That shut them up fast. The smirk on the kneeling jock turned into a sneer.
"Why don't you take that parka off, and we'll see who the girl is?" he said to Randy.
Except that Randy wasn't in a parka, but a long-sleeved UnderArmour shirt that was skin-tight over his mass. He slowly began to ripple the muscle underneath the shirt. The drunken jock slowly began to realize that Randy was muscled up beyond anything he'd ever seen before. Randy's stumpy forearms were thicker than the jock's biceps. Randy slowly raised his big arms to the side, then bent his hands down, flexing the powerful muscles from his delts to his wrists. The thick muscle rippled like super strong snakes. The jock could even see the veins running up and down his arms through the tight black shirt. In a panic, the jock reared his fist back and hit Randy in the jaw. Because Randy's neck was so thick and powerful, his head barely budged, and because his dwarf jaw was much more heavily boned than a normal man's, the only thing that got hurt was the jock's hand. As he shook his hand out, Randy reached down and grabbed him by his crotch, then lifted him off the ground with one hand. Then he grabbed the jock's neck and held him straight out. With one powerful thrust, he lifted the jock up and over his head and tossed him backwards. The jock flew through the air like a rock out of a slingshot. I had to duck as he flew over me, and the wind sheer nearly knocked me over. The jock came to a stop when he hit the goalpost about eight feet up, and slumped to the ground with a thump.
The other jocks stared in amazement, but then started to come at Randy. The freaky little muscle dwarf casually peeled off his shirt, revealing the insane massiveness that was his stunted torso. Seeing it through the shirt was impressive enough, but totally exposed like that it was mindblowing. All three jocks stopped in their tracks. Randy's chest was not only huge, but extremely hypermasculine. The muscle had a hardness to it that few men had ever possessed. Even the swirly brown hair on it looked grizzly and tough. And as much as he always looked pumped, he looked even more so now, as the adrenaline pump engorged his mass more than ever. He smiled a thick-headed dwarf smile, and motioned with his fingers for the dudes to bring it on.
I started to walk up behind him, but one of the jocks saw me and came at me. I swung and hit him in the face, but with his size and drunkeness, I don't think he felt it anymore than Randy had felt his sock in the jaw. The big jock just tackled me hard and took me down, pinning his thick knee into my chest. He looked at me, then over at Randy.
"You two guys gay?" he said.
"Why?" I asked, "you looking for a date?"
He reared back and punched me in the nose, busting it up bad. The dude punched with incredible strength. He was about to pound on me some more when he looked up and saw his two buddies struggling with Randy. They had him by his arms, and Randy looked almost amused. He went over and grabbed Randy's legs, lifting them up. The three of them carried him over to the goal post, where their buddy was catching his breath from being tossed into it. Randy didn't seem to be putting up a struggle. One of the jocks told his buddy to go back to the SUV and get the tire chains and his gym bag out of the back.
"Tire chains?" the guy asked. "Who the hell still uses them?"
"My fucking dad," said the first jock. "Just go get them out, and don't scratch up the car. He's only had it about a week."
I looked over at the car and saw the temporary sticker in the back window. It was a big black Lincoln Navigator. The big jock opened the back and pulled out four sets of tire chains, and a gym bag. He took them back to his pals, and they wrapped them around Randy tightly, chaining him to the goalpost. His skin reddened where the chains dug in. One of the jocks pulled some masterlocks out of the gym bag, and they used them to lock the chains around Randy. The four jocks stood back and looked at Randy. They passed around one of the brown bags, and each took a swig from it, wiping their mouths with their sleeves. Randy stared straight ahead. The jocks seemed unsure about what to do now.
"Let's get the hell out of here," said one of them. They headed back to the Navigator, swaggering like the asshole jocks they were, except for the one who had gotten thrown, he was limping quite a bit. Before they were halfway to their car, they heard a pinging sound. We all turned and looked, as Randy was muscling his way out of the chains, snapping the links and causing them to fly off him like popcorn. One after another, they flew, no match for the dwarf powerhouse flexing beneath them. The chains broken, he shook them off, and they fell to the ground. Randy brushed himself off casually, then looked over at the jocks.
"Jesus," said one of them.
"Get in the car," said another.
The dudes bolted to the car, and I expected Randy to take off after them. Instead, he put his hands around the goal post, and started squeezing. I could see the metal crushing in under his fingers like moist clay. The thick muscle on his back rolled up and down as he focussed his grip. The two top poles of the goal post started to wobble. It wasn't long before the goal post toppled, slamming into the field with a loud thump.
The four jocks were stumbling over each other to climb into the Navigator, but all of them were looking back as Randy grabbed the base of the goal post and lifted the entire thing off the ground. Then he started charging the car like a pole vaulter. The dudes jumped in and got the doors shut, but before the driver could get it started, Randy slammed the bridge of the goal post into the side of the big SUV so hard that it slid two feet sideways in the parking lot. One pole of the goal post was in front of the car, the other at the back, like two huge toll gates. The driver started up the car with a roar, and slammed it into gear, but Randy twisted the goal post hard to the left, and slammed the front pole into the grill of the SUV, smashing it in. Then he twisted to the right and smashed into the back bumper, busting it into pieces. He slammed the front of the truck again so hard that the airbags went off. The jocks were knocked back in their seats, and the interior filled with white powdery airbag gas. Randy dropped the goal post, then walked over to the left pole. He picked it up and snapped it off like a thick toothpick. He swung it like a bat, smashing out the back windshield. Then he smashed out the tail lights. When the two jocks on the passenger side opened their doors to get out, Randy dropped the pole and put one hand under the running board. He flipped the SUV on its side, knocking the two dudes back inside and onto their buddies. Randy picked up the pole again, and rammed it into the underside of the SUV. He kept pushing it in, until it pierced through the roof of the car, spearing it like a cocktail olive. He brushed his hands off on his pants and walked over to me. I was still sitting on the field, nursing my busted nose.
"Let's go," he said. Every muscle on him was pumped up like a balloon. I looked at him, then over at the broken goal post, and the busted-up SUV, then back at him. I was hard as a rock, and got even harder as I watched his steel-plated 8pac heaving in and out. He popped his rockhard pec slabs at me and I almost came right there. "Let's go back to your place," he said. "I'm so jacked up, I gotta fuck something, and it may as well be you." He started walking toward my house. I stood up, but was moving a little slow. He turned back and said, "Step it up, buddy boy, or I will rape your ass right here on the field." He stroked himself through his pants and started coming back at me.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," I said.
"By the way," he said, as I came along side him, "nice job you did back there handling that guy for me."
"Very funny," I said, wiping away some of the crusty blood from around my nose.
He just laughed his cocky little laugh, and led me home.