The President 3
by BBMSN
Read previous partThe six marines filed into the White House gym, which had been expanded and custom designed to accommodate the President's growing abilities. The marines had been hand-picked out of a special group of 30, all of whom had been chosen by the brigadier general for their superior physical abilities. A few months earlier, the President had instructed the general to pick 300 of the toughest marines he had, and then, narrow the field to 30 during an intense training regiment. Sort of like an American Idol to find the toughest marines ever created. The six who lined up along the gym wall certainly fit the bill. All had the chiselled rough masculine look that is rarely seen outside the military. And these men had it to the extreme. They scanned the rooms with steely eyes, seemingly memorizing every detail, in case they had to use the info later. Of the six, four were big rocksolid soldiers. The other two were huge rocksolid soldiers. They stood a head taller than the other four, and were half again as wide. Absurdly square-jawed and thick necked. Trained to peak performance in stamina and power. Ready for anything. Or so they thought.
When the President walked in from the adjoining weightroom, the six marines snapped to attention. Behind the President was the research doctor who was monitoring the Program.
"At ease, men," said the President. "Let me explain why we brought you here today. As part of our elite training program, I just wanted to get some idea of how far along you've gotten. Today, I'd like to test it out."
The marines were staring at the President in awe. He was in a skin-tight Under Armour shirt, and his physique appeared to be extremely muscled up. The biggest of the marines, Jose Torres, figured the shirt was a fake, one of those muscle suits they use on actors playing Batman to make them look muscular. No way was the President that built. Jose, on the other hand, had been big and strong ever since he was a kid. He got the nickname Toro after he beat up the neighborhood bully, a 17-year-old gang member, who tried to take Jose's lunch money one day. Jose had broken both the bully's collar bones that day. Jose had just turned twelve. The nickname stuck all through high school, as Jose played four years of football and continued to grow, even as he kept mostly to himself. Most people annoyed him.
By the time he was 17, he was 5'11 and weighed 275lbs of solid Puerto Rican muscle. He had won several powerlifting competitions. At 18, he enlisted in the Marines. At Lejeune, he was an outstanding recruit. His sargeant nicknamed him Toro on his first day, not even knowing he had been called that for six years. Jose figured the name must fit him. On his first leave, he had TORO tattooed to his neck in black. From that day on, that's all anyone ever dared call him.
The only blemish on Toro's record was when he busted up his corporeal. The guy was a real asshole, and everyone disliked him, including the sarge. But he thought he was a big tough marine, and he hated that Toro was looked upon as the strongest man around. So one day he challenged Toro to wrestle. In front of the whole platoon. Toro basically batted the 210lb corporeal around like a doll, being careful not to hurt him too badly. Everyone was cheering Toro on, which made the corporeal mad as hell. Toro finally pinned him down, just to get it over with. But the corporeal wouldn't give it up, and insisted they go for two out of three. So Toro let him get up again, then pinned him down again in under four seconds. The corporeal got up this time, out of his mind with frustration. He came at Toro and kneed him as hard as he could in the groin. Toro hated cheaters. His vision went red with anger. His nostils flared out like a bull's. He grabbed the corporeal and lifted him off the ground in a bearhug. The crowd went dead quiet. Everyone heard the first rib crack. Then Toro's bunkmate yelled at him to stop. Toro didn't hear him. He just squeezed. Another rip broke. Toro's buddy came up to him, yelling at him to stop. Toro began to shake the corporeal hard. Finally, Toro realized that someone was pounding on his thick, powerful back. He turned and saw his bunkmate, and snapped out of his rage. He looked at the corporeal in his arms, and let him go. The corporeal collapsed to the ground in a heap. Toro figured his days in the corps were over. But he was wrong. The corporeal suffered a whiplash along with his busted ribs, so he recovered. And everyone had seen what had happened. Ironically, within a week, Toro got his first promotion.
Now he was standing in a room with five other elite marines. At the White House. With the President, who was now pairing the men up, one on one. He wanted to see them in hand-to-hand combat with each other. They all went at it hard and heavy. They were tough as nails, these men, and none of them were used to losing. The room they were in was big and empty, except for the matting on the floor, so they were free to go at it all out. The President had turned the heat up in the room to 90 degrees, and as he and the doctor watched on, the room filled with the scent of hardcore marine sweat. The President kept having them switch fighting partners, to get an idea of how they all fought. None of them had much of a chance against Toro, and he was holding back some to keep them from looking bad in front of their commander in chief. The President didn't take long to notice this; he was very good at reading people. He made them stop, then he had the other five marines take on Toro one at a time. He told Toro not to hold back at all, to go at it as if it were life or death. Toro listened to him, and, using his vastly superior strength, he got each of his opponents into a submission hold in under thirty seconds. The President then had Toro take on two men at once. This time there was more of a battle, but within three minutes, Toro had them piled on each other, and was holding them down, pinned and helpless.
The President smiled, and looked at the doctor knowingly. He had the marines stand in a line-up again. The six men were drenched in sweat. Their highly conditioned bodies throbbed with sinew and effort, and none more so that Toro. He thrived on using his strength, and his body responded to it profoundly. Every muscle on him was swollen full with pump and adrenaline. Though not as winded as the other men, he was breathing hard and deep. He ached to his toes to keep using his strength, and the President could see this in his eyes.
The President had the doctor go fetch a length of heavy rope. He explained to the men that they were going to have a little tug-of-war. The men were expecting to go three against three, with whichever side having Toro would win. Instead, the President had them all go to one side of the room with one end of the rope. The President himself picked up the other end.
"Now let's see what kind of muscle power you can muster," he said to the startled marines, adjusting his grip on his end of the rope. The big leathernecks looked at each other like "what the fuck??". Toro assumed this was some sort of government trick, but he was willing to play along with the gag. He gripped the rope tightly from his position at the back of the line.
The doctor walked to the middle of the rope and counted to three. Then he said "Go!", and the marines began to tug. At first, they didn't pull to hard, being tenative about hurting the President, but soon they realized that he was pulling them. One hand over the other, the President was slowly skidding the six marines across the matted floor. The marines stiffened up, puzzled, and began to tug back harder. Then harder. Then harder still, their muscles beginning to strain hard. They could see the President's forearm muscle writhing under his shirt, as he held them in place with seeming ease. They tugged harder, digging in with their heels. The President held. The marines kicked it into high gear, and began to sweat anew. The President snarled his upper lip and hunkered down himself. Then to their astounishment, he let go with one arm. He held the rope with one hand, and actually pulled them toward him with it! He yawned and patted his mouth with the free hand.
Toro couldn't believe it. He'd never met a man that he wouldn't have taken in tug-of-war, let alone an older man like the Pres. And now he was beating them all, with one hand. The President continue to walk backwards, pulling the struggling marines with him. Suddenly he jerked the rope hard, giving rope burn to the first five marines. Only Toro managed to hold tight, and even he was jerked forward. The President laughed. He jerked harder, and the first five men fell from the force of it. Only Toro held. He and the President stood, staring eye to eye. The President smirked. His Under Armour shirt was starting to split at the seams from his rippling, swelling torso. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. He took the rope and wrapped it twice around his neck. Then he put the end of the rope in his mouth and bit down, crushing the tough sisal fiber with his teeth. He put both his arms behind his back, and nodded at Toro to start pulling.
Toro pulled on the rope, tightening the length of it between him and the President's neck. The President didn't budge, so Toro pulled harder and harder, his big thick arms rippling and straining. He heard the President give a muffled chuckle, and then jerked his head back, forcing Toro toward him with the strength of his neck. The President's traps and neck were swelling from the strain, so much so that the rope around his neck was beginning to rip. Suddenly, the President began to run backwards, pulling Toro with him. Before he hit the far wall, he twisted his torso hard, knocking Toro off balance and sending him crashing into the side wall. Toro never let go of the rope, but he knew it was over. The President unwrapped the rope from around his neck, then put the rope in his hands and ripped it in two, the thick, tough fibers no match for his inhuman strength. He tossed the rope aside, then he ordered the other five marines to go into the weightroom and continue working out. As they filed out of the room, he walked over to Toro.
"Doc," said the President, "get this shirt off me." The doctor came over and grabbed the bottom of the shirt as the President lifted his arms. Toro stared as the President's lats spread out like wings. The doctor pulled the shirt up, exposing the President's abdomen, thick plated muscle slabs, looking hard as tortoise shell. The doctor struggled to get the shirt up over the President's expanding back span. The President lost patience, grabbed the bunched up shirt and ripped it apart like paper towelling. As he tossed it down, Toro absorbed the sight of the huge muscleman before him. The shirt was no fake muscle suit after all. The President was a massive monster of muscle.
"Ahh, yeah, that's better," said the President, rolling his shoulders and expanding his newly freed up muscle mass. He seemed to swell even more, now that the shirt was off. Every etched fiber of his huge torso rippled as he stretched out. He had the healthy glow of a freshly worked out athlete, and his skin glistened with sweat.
"Now, boy," he said, looking at Toro, "it's time for you to show your President what you're made of. Get yourself in the center of the room, and lets grapple."
"Bring it on, Sir," said the young marine. One-on-one was his specialty, and he felt cocky enough about it to ignore the freakish muscularity of the President, and strut to the center of the room, ready to show his commander exactly what he was made of.