Confessions of a Muscle Stud Groupie
Jasmine Lo refused to think of herself as a “bodybuilder groupie,” but that’s what she was. When she went to a hardcore gym, it wasn’t to use the stairmaster, it was to scope out hot muscle studs like she was on safari. It was that very day that she met a smoking strength god that blew the rest out by a mile.
The day at the gym started with Jas being slobbered on horribly by a tiny man. Jasmine needed a guy with height, the kind of guy that could rest his chin on the top of her head...and she was 5’10”.
“I see you around here all the time. Love your workout outfit,” the Smurf said with a leer. He was at eye level with Jasmine’s breasts.
“Thanks.” Jasmine said with a hint of boredom, not making eye contact and moving over to a treadmill.
“Your name’s Jasmine, right? That’s a stripper’s name...” He said, hyperventilating with a wheezing sound.
At this Jasmine widened her eyes and stared directly in his eyes challengingly and curled her fist into a ball. “Listen up, Mini-Me, I’m like an amusement park ride: you must be this tall to ride, feel me?” She said, gesturing with her hand a palm’s height above her.
Her carseat-worthy Lothario flinched back like a kid that poked zoo bars with a stick and had a panther lunge at him.
Jasmine thought to herself that it wasn’t hard to understand why she was hit on. She was like a real-life BRATZ doll, a brash, bold sexual creature. In the 1930s she would have been called “Negro Chinese,” and she had the best features of both: her skin was a flawless, smooth sepia; her eyes were Oriental almond-shaped and exotic, lined with black pencil, her eyelashes plucked in an arch, her nose slightly upturned, her lips bee-stung and airbaglike, with pink strawberry scented gloss. Jasmine’s hair was straight and in a severe pony-tail with ringlets to either side of her face. She wore hoop earrings and metal bracelets. Her body was shaped like a spoon: her upper body slim as a rail, her stomach flat and toned, before exploding out into a pair of flaring hips and thick thighs supporting an oversized bubble-ass that shot back the size of a baby, the red tail of her thong peeking onto the tattoo-marked small of her back from the collar of her second skin Adidas workout pants.
It was then that she saw HIM. The only thing turned to her was his back, but it was enough to cause her let out an involuntary, delighted squeal and her pupils to dialate until they were the size of dimes. She felt her jaw lose its strength, and her knees grew weak as if they had become soggy.
The back Jasmine saw was so wide, he could glide with it. It was a v-shape that looked like the hood of a cobra when it came out of his small waist, with cut rises and valleys like an overhead topographical map of the Himalayas, the muscles rolling under his golden bronze, flawless California skin like liquid steel, or like a bagful of cats. The muscle stud’s monster back muscles rose behind him as much as his chest rose behind, and when he turned to the side his back had a question-mark shape. The winglike surface’s muscles were like runway markers, which led to his tight muscle buns, shaped like a pair of globes stuffed behind his legs, kept in spandex workout shorts that had a line of separation between each granite cheek. Jasmine wondered who had a bigger ass: herself, or this guy.
The mystery stud’s shoulders were big bowling balls that gave him a T-Shape. His trapezius muscles sloped like the Great Pyramid, over a barrel thick, collar-busting neck surrounded by ropy steel cords. Jasmine wondered what kind of masculine, deep earthshaking voice could come from such a muscled up larynx. It’s as if his entire body dripped testosterone.
The local guys had stopped lifting with a chang of steel and they migrated over to where this stud was, his body head and shoulders bigger, towering over the rest of the gym peons. It was as if he had activated the pack instinct in men to follow an alpha male.
When the muscle god turned around, Jasmine felt she could hardly breathe and her abs tightened. His pecs had a line of separation that was a deep trench Jasmine felt she could slip a hand between up to the wrist, each individual pec thrusting out four inches from the flat of his abs, like a glacier over a plain, each squeeze, bounce and twitch of his pecs causing them to pop several inches out like a bursting popcorn kernel. His pecs grinded and slid against each other like colliding, clashing continental plates. She could see a gold cruxifix chain, lighter than the bronze of his skin, drop in between the shadowed depths between his pecs.
His abs were a wall. If a brick was thrown at them, the brick were break. If she shouted at them, it would make an echo.
Jasmine guessed he had to have been under 25. The gym stud’s face was a clean-shaven combination of youth and masculinity; he was high-cheekboned and strong-jawed. He had the rarest of all combinations: jet black hair with light, baby blue eyes that had a hint of green.
Jasmine was conspicuously aware of her thighs squeezing and rubbing together like firestarter sticks, and she curled her glossy lip up as a hot, dark dot spread on her maroon red panties. Her nipples stiffened below her shirt into pencil tip erasers.
Fearlessly and brassily, with a wiggle in her walk and a clock-pendulum swing of her wide hips, Jasmine’s voluminous ass shifted and padonked with each stride, as she slid up to a man, zeroing in on the new stud like a heat-seeking missile. Jasmine shuddered involuntarily; she could feel the head radiating from him almost a foot out.
The gymgoers scoffed and gave Jasmine space, because they knew what that walk meant: a man-eater on the prowl.
“Papi, you can shake me, break me, take me, but please, please, don’t forsake me.” Jasmine purred. “You’re my kinda man. Damn, boy, you make Ron Coleman look like a little flea.” Jas was at eye level with the underside of his pecs, and she popped her back into a bow arch, thrusting out her robust behind.
“Ron’s a great athlete. I really respect him. But...yeah, I wouldn’t want him to be on a stage with me.” The giant stud rumbled with a low, thundercracking voice like a big black man that made Jasmine’s toes curl in her athletic shoes. A crab flex from him would not only cause her to faint, but would have blown Ron out of the water like a torpedo. “By the way, Nice to meet you, Jasmine.”
Jasmine was startled. “Holy crap, son! Your brain must be muscled too.”
“Ah, not really. It’s actually written on your earrings.”
Jasmine had forgotten that, as at the moment her brain had turned to frozen yogurt, replaced by an irrational animal hungry to mate with enormous want. She would be this man’s love slave if he asked. If he had a harem, she’d join it.
“That’s me, Jasmine. Best Black-Asian combo since RUSH HOUR.” Jasmine sloed her pencil-eyelined eyes and spoke with her best Mae West voice.
Jasmine watched his banana-sized fingers slide over giant weights, each passed for being too small, until he reached comically oversized dumbbells that had on either end of the handle a black pig-iron weight in diameter the size of a dinner plate, and the thickness of a toaster. He pulled these giant weights, one in each hand, as smoothly and effortlessly if his hands held nothing. His rounded biceps throbbed up, the peak of which at the same height as his wrist. The top of his bicep came to a peak and point, and was bisected in a shape like a lower case ‘m.’
When the stud set the dumbells down again, the handle was cracked and squeezed like a dropped, dented tin can. The stud squeezed his hand and his forearms rippled like cats wriggling in a sack. His forearms were the size of Christmas hams and pear-shaped, a trapezoid several inches in diameter wider at the elbow than the wrist.
For once in her life, Jasmine couldn’t think of anything to say. She gawked wide-eyed like a goldfish.
“I’m Zee.” The muscle god said, breaking a brief pause in the conversation. “Thanks for the kind words, incidentally. I wasn’t always such big guy. I should tell you about that sometime.” He said.
Zee moved to the leg-press, and the men of the gym parted way for him as if he was a Great White shark among a school of mackerel. Zee nodded to each as they passed.
He lowered the pin to the last possible level before putting up his sequoia-thick, monster thighs, his calves were only slightly smaller than Jasmine’s waist, as if someone had stuffed a cannonball behind his shin; his legs were proportionately the largest part of his body. She lustfully, wide-eyed ogled his skintight pants as ridges like aluminum siding formed with a washing ripple with each movement of his legs, lifting the chain that pulled the giant mass of black iron up and down, the reverberations of this exercise carrying through the entire gym like a stone in a pond. The chain that carried the weight shook and shuddered, but Zee did not. His monster legs moved as automatically and effortlessly as a construction hydraulic press.
Impulsively, Jasmine jumped up and sat on the executive-desk sized hill of lead-heavy weight being pumped up and down, but Zee did not look up at the weight, and her body was carried up and down along as if it was a particularly rough Disneyland ride, feeling the metal creak and vibrate between her legs like a struck gong.
Jas heard some Beta Male at the gym say something about the gym record, but Jasmine was too absorbed in watching Zee’s Clydesdale-thick legs, to the point where almost as an afterthought she whipped out her flip-top cameraphone, snapping his glorious body at work. There’s no doubt it was like this everywhere that Zee went: records being broken. A crowd assembled around the machine, counting the reps down in unison, but eventually Zee stopped. Not out of exhaustion, but boredom.
“Daaaamn, I gotta put this on my MySpace page!” She said.
“I’d rather you wouldn’t.” Zee said, firmly, with a mysterious smile. Jasmine didn’t question any further.
Zee huffed off the machine, elevating up to his towering height, to applause and cheers. “So, what do you do, exactly, Jasmine?”
“Beautician. I do my own nails.” She said, blowing on her press-ons.
“Yeah, that makes sense.” He said.
Jasmine got that look from men before. “It’s to pay my way. I’m studying to be a Neurologist.” She said.
Zee’s light baby blue eyes with just a hint of green went wide in surprise.
“How about you? What do you do?”
Zee did not immediately reply. Jasmine didn’t push the issue.
Jasmine leaned forward and kissed his bicep, leaving her lip gloss on the surface of it. She shuddered at the feeling of hardness and warmth; it was like kissing a rock. She could feel the blood beating underneath his popped, pumped veins. She could feel the individual strands of muscle as if she was running her finger over a ball of yarn.
Surprisingly, Zee wrapped his anaconda-thick arms about her with a wince-inducing grip, the iron of his biceps digging into her skin, warming her body like a parka, smothering her like a blanket; his big hands seemed to cover and touch her entire body at once.
In the embrace, she felt something like being tapped in the small of her back with a doorknob. Jasmine’s face became an ear-to-ear grin. It was almost too good to be true. Zee hit the trifecta, the Tri-H: handsome, huge muscles, huge dick.
Make that really huge dick. It felt like he kept a whale in his shorts.
“Oh, hell yeah. We have to go to the shower. Now. But try not to trip yourself over it.”
With a Grendel grip, Zee lifted Jasmine up and onto his back, her legs splaying over his huge granite shoulders, her vagina burning as she felt her lips touch against the hardness of his neck and shoulders, almost like a kiss. When he walked with her above him, his muscles bumped and pushed against her quinny.
Pushing open the doors to the men’s shower room, Zee pulled off his workout shorts with a tear and snap of his elastic waistband as if it was made of wet tissue paper yielding to huge fingers that acted as boxcutters. His dick burst out from his confined shorts like a practical joke snake inside a can of nuts. His elephant-worthy prong bounced instantly to throbbing life as quick as the snapping jaws of a mousetrap, his column thrashing for a brief moment like a frog having a seizure before sprouting to a prong the thickness of Jasmine’s wrist, a “tripod” size like a child’s arm holding an apple. Jasmine almost lost her balance off his shoulders; she wanted to drop to her knees and worship him like a golden god.
Pulling her over his shoulder with hands that, when clasped together, were like a swing seat, Zee pressed Jasmine’s body against the tile shower wall, her toes dangling a foot off the ground so he could see her at eye level, Zee kissed her with such suction that her head popped forward, her big lips mashing against his. His hot gusting breaths fell on her cheek from his nose. His breath tasted like testosterone, like growth hormone, as if it was in every cell of his body somehow.
When she was barely an inch from him, his body dominated her entire field of view so even her peripheral vision saw only him. Zee turned a knob on and both of their bodies were hit by steaming water that rolled on their skin like gelatin; beside the radiating heat of their writhing bodies, her soft one against his cut hardness, the water felt almost cool.
Jasmine’s back pressed to the shower tiles, Zee tore her shorts, playfully plucking her thong like a guitar string, before he dropped to his knees, his hands holding her upwards, as he slid the thong off with his teeth. Zee kissed Jas between the legs, burying his face in her lips; it felt like his tongue was charged with static electricity. Despite the fact he was so huge and strong, he was as gentle and sensitive a lover as a schoolboy.
“Not so fast, sailor,” Jasmine said, “time to put on your party clothes.” Reigning in Zee’s libido for a moment was like opening an umbrella in a hurricane, but Jas’s smoldering steel gaze brought him to heel like a trained hound. She unzipped her $120 purse and pulled out a novelty joke condom in package that was the size of a bar coaster when flat. The prophylactic had a black Chinese dragon at the tip, a “Big Dragon,” as the girl at the store called it. Carrying it with her got her hot, even if it was just to fantasize about the monster that could squeeze into it.
Zee tore the tight vacuum package effortlessly. His big meat quivered and pumped with the beating of his heart, and rose high enough to let his mushroom head slap against his bouncing pecs. Zee pressed the condom against his length, and he made fierce grunting and straining noises as if he was wrestling a sea monster. It was too small; he had to squeeze and push himself into it like a big finger into a too-tight glove. Getting it over the apple head was the hardest part, and inch by inch, Zee stretched the condom down, until even as it was fully unraveled it left several inches of his huge stiffy uncovered. The end of the condom bit into his skin, leaving a mark like a too-tight watchband.
Zee’s ludicrous, solid girder slid down her thighs, searing with heat like a sword from the forge, quivering like a plucked string. He pressed its apple-sized mushroom cap head against her quinny with a rub that triggered a simultaneous beast groan from both of them. Zee thrust inside her with a grunt that made Jasmine feel as if she was being torn in half like a sheet of paper. Jasmine hissed through her teeth as Zee stuffed her, her entire body quaked with the feeling of his dick in her, splitting her like a squeezing wedge. And he was not even half inside of her. Jasmine made hyperventilating hisses of pain and pleasure like a mating vixen.
Zee released his grip on Jasmine’s waist and to Jasmine’s astonishment held her up by his monster sex-tower alone as solidly as a tree-branch. With a wax and wane and a tightening twitch, Jasmine shook up and down like a monkey swaying a branch, held by nothing more than the rise and fall of his dick inside her.
At last, the pair of them fell to the ground Jasmine below, Zee’s big burly body covering Jas like a cocoon, his pecs dominating her entire field of vision. Jas inserted her tongue and slid it between his pecs; she could feel his pecs squeeze her tongue with a clamp like a closing door.
His entire powerhouse body popped and shook against her like a car with bad suspension off-road, and Jasmine’s hisses and screams became staccato, their bodies crashing and subsiding, rising and swelling like an identical sea. Zee’s voluminous hot beef drilled her like a well for oil, the tip of the tower felt like it was touching her skull. Jasmine’s body beaded with sweat as she tossed her jet-black hair wildly. She felt him crash against her over and over, and she bucked and rocked against his hard body ferociously. His rough, bestial mounting was sufficient to push her deep into the ground with a crack of the tiles below as if they were fragile glass. Jas’s lengthy legs rubbed and ground against the monster thighs of his.
Jasmine came with a roar, as if she had three orgasms at once. Her insides shuddered as she bubbled and burst like a breaking dam, screaming loud enough to break glass. Jasmine felt her entire body lock and shake as if she was having a seizure, her fists squeezing together until her nails drew blood in her palms. It was like a shockwave that she could feel in her limbs and hair.
Zee announced his hot release with a scream. The moment he came the tip of his condom burst like an overfilled balloon with a tangerine sized glob of sticky molten bone slop, shredding through the thin latex like a bullet through butter. Jasmine felt as if her insides were being blasted with a rat-tat-tat of a machine gun, each part of his gushing quart-sized load of seed, erupting from his tremendous girth. At least six times, Jasmine assumed he was finished, but he kept on for sixty seconds, which in their current state felt like hours.
Zee got up, removing himself from her with a pop sound. But Jasmine couldn’t move, laying naked among broken tiles. She felt like she had been ravaged by the entire Trojan army. She felt his warm sticky goo clinging to her inner walls between her legs. She was barely able to think, her body swimming in a delirious natural high.
“Oh, you’re The Man.” She said, weakly.
Jasmine felt crisped. She weakly rose with a knocking of her knees to a mirror, her entire weary body burned as if after an intensive workout to the point where the Brooklyn girl felt as if she was made of lead. In the mirror she saw that her black hair, once straight, was permed and frizzy as if she had stuck a finger in an electrical socket. She could hear his seed sloshing around in her.
Zee came up from behind her and animalistically bit the edge of her ear. His ardor had certainly not died. “I know, Jas...let’s head over to my place. It’s Uptown. Way, way uptown.” Zee said, putting his clothes back on.
“Oh hell yeah. “Where’ve you been all my life?” She asked.
Big Zee took Jasmine up onto one of his solid arms, her legs wrapped tightly against the bulge of his brawny bisected, peaking bicep that rolled beneath his skin, its radiator-warm granite-hard boulder surface pushing into Jasmine’s quinny. Big Zee turned his wrist, causing his bicep to slide and rub against her, rolling under his thick hide. Jasmine rested her frizz-haired head against Zee’s giant pectoral slab.
“What kind of car you drive, Papi?” She asked. Jasmine didn’t date poor guys no matter how big their muscles were.
Zee laughed. “Where we’re going we won’t need a car.”
Zee was head and shoulders taller than the passerbys, and Jasmine walked next to him adoringly, her arms wrapped around his waist. Though the Lower East Side could occasionally show an ugly face, she wasn’t worried thanks to her arm candy-slash-bodyguard.
The pair passed by a chainlink covered stretch of dark asphault with a b-ball court. The women hollered in support of their men, their brawny bodies shirtless and glistening in the sweat of the day.
A pair of shirtless, bronze men approached the big guy. “Listen, you wanna play? Call me crazy, I’m guessing you can ball.”
“I really have to –“
“C’mon, show us what you got. Look, it’ll be five of us against you. We’ll make you look good for your honey there.”
Zee started to peel his shirt off, revealing his powerhouse testosterone-fed, bronzed upper torso, cut and defined to the point the small square-shaped muscles surrounding his abs were visible. There was a sudden cooing and laughing and cries of “yeah baby!” from the women on parked cars that watched the field. Cries of “damn, he’s fine” and “I want him to have my baby” and “wish my man had that kind of body” went up from the ladies. Jasmine grinned; she was proud her man was making this kind of impression.
Zee strode out onto the field like a colossus. When the whistle sounded, he charged like a herd of elephants, snapping the ball away with an effortless slap. He dribbled ten times per second, so fast the ball was a solid blur. Zee hurled the ball with such force that the backboard was slightly dented; even from a three point line it soared as accurately as a heat-seeking missile.
Zee wove around, ducked, and swiped the ball; he seemed to be everywhere at once. When the men on the other team passed the ball, Zee interposed himself to grab the ball like a Secret Service agent taking a bullet for the President. His giant powerhouse body was jet-propelled and moved at blurry speed. His body was a solid wall. It was unlikely at any point during the game any of the five other men got past the center line. They certainly didn’t score once. At one point, a man attempted to get in the way of one of Zee’s hurled balls, and it struck against him hard enough to leave a bruise on his skin the size of a palm.
Zee occasionally prevented the other men from getting the ball by using his titanic, masculine height that let him tower over the others by pecs, head and shoulders. He would merely hold the ball up above them; he was like an adult holding the ball above the heads of seven year olds.
The last point came when Zee hurled the ball like a comet underhanded from the exact other side of the court. The Hail Mary shot hit true, with a swish of the net. Zee roared triumphantly. His brawny body’s movement was effortless.
The five men on the other side were a different story. They watched the last shot sink with horror and depression in their eyes, and finally all of them collapsed on the asphault. They hyperventilated and gasped for breath. One of them even cried.
Worse, the asphault of the court was left pitted with craters like the surface of the moon from Zee’s intense dribbling.
Jasmine ran to Zee and hugged him. “Damn, boy, that was like watching a 20 year old play with seven year olds. You made all of them look like little bitches. C’mon, let’s high tail it outta here before they make us pay for the balls you accidentally popped.”
“I wouldn’t worry about those guys.” Zee said.
“Those guys? Ha! I’m worried about their girlfriends!”
The pair of them dashed down a concrete alley. Zee’s running was effortless; each of his strides was like three steps of an ordinary man. There, Zee stopped and looked down at Jasmine.
“Where’d you say your place was again?” Jasmine said.
“I told you. Way, way uptown.” Zee picked Jasmine up and took her up in his arms. Richard Gere in AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN never did better; she rested her head on his giant pectorals. She loved the feeling of his arms, as thick as her waist, around her body. Jasmine was not a small girl, but Zee made her feel downright petite and feminine.
Then, Jasmine felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach.
When Jasmine looked down she saw that she was forty feet above the ground and still climbing; Zee’s big, boot-busting feet did not touch the ground.
It was nothing as vulgar like the flight of Peter Pan or Superman. Rather, it was more like Zee ran in the sky, as if the air beneath his feet was solid ground.
Jasmine could feel the wind whipping through her ponytail and she had to close her almond Asian eyes because the speed made them sting. She looked down and the city below looked like a muddy gray that sped past with a blur. Zee ran through clouds, with beads of their moisture left on Jasmine’s face. Jas saw a v-shaped flock of birds from above, and she was nearly deafened by the metalling drone of a passenger plane that Zee outsped as if it was standing still with his blurred cheetah legs, pumping with the power of a team of charging wild horses.
Finally, one cloud in particular came into view, which Zee set Jas on top of. To her surprise the surface of the cloud was as solid as a sidewalk. The cloud’s smooth flat top was covered with a small mini-fridge, magazines, a microwave, posters of Jessica Alba and Morgan Tatopolous, and a night-table. Her foot kicked against an iron dumb-bell. There was a bench press with four silver weight plates on either end of the bar, each one being the size of a monster truck wheel. Even when hung up on the bar, the weights touched the floor of the cloud.
In other words, it was a very typical batchelor pad badly in need of a woman’s touch, except it was thousands of feet up.
Jasmine leaned back against the floor and stretched her elastic dancer’s body like a yawning cat. The cloud was a wispy white mist, but against Jasmine’s mocha-dark naked body it was as soft as silk sheets in an Arabian Sultan’s palace, yet as solid as concrete.
“Who’s your architect...Salvador Dali? Still, lots of girls would love a guy with a place in Central Park West. 10,000 feet above Central Park West, but still.”
“I gotta say, you’re handling the oddity of all this with disturbing ease.” Zee said.
“Well, I think I’d be more freaked out if I wasn’t still on that natural high from the sex session. You were amazing, a god in the sheets, like seven men. But to tell the truth, I am a mite curious about all this, though.” Jasmine said.
“Well, it’s like this.” Zee lay his naked body down beside hers, his wide torso reaching heights like a peaking mountain range, her body crushed like a flower against his cut, ridged muscle, her feet only touching his mid-thigh while her face was pushed into his huge pecs, each one rivaling her head in size.
“I’m a clone of the Greek god Zeus created by scientists.” Zee said, plainly, as he kissed with butterfly light pecks over Jasmine’s brown body, each one at a specific cluster of nerves that the slightest touch sent Jasmine squeal, coo, and writhe and wiggle involuntarily.
“Huh?” She said. “My tax dollars at work. Shoot, I guess I can believe it. But that’s so messed up I don’t know where to start. Like, who’d clone Zeus? And how do you clone a mythological god? That’s like cloning Fat Albert.”
Zee smiled roguishly and laughed. “Archeologists found a spear the size of a telephone pole at a site in India, that had blood on it of a type scientists couldn’t identify. At first they didn't even think it was blood at all. They assumed it must have been left over from an ancient war between the gods of Greece and India.” He spoke between attentive kisses that became more intense, his brawny, smooth and warm body grinding against hers like gears in a watch.
Jasmine reached her hand back and slapped his muscle-hard, hill-shaped bubble ass with a slap that sounded as loudly as a gunshot. Jasmine’s hand was turned slightly red. “Uh-huh. Why’d they...uhhhhh!...think it was a good idea?”
“To solve the energy crisis.” He said, as he turned Jasmine around and kissed her in her special spot right at the base of the neck – most boyfriends took years to find it, but it made her spine instantly break into an arch and cause her teeth and eyes to shut tightly, her hands and feet tightening. “If Zeus is god of thunder, in theory, I ought to be able to produce enough electrical power to provide for the planet. They designed a sort of clip-on beeper I’d wear at all times that would relay energy to power stations all over the world, that I guess they’d build. They figured with the stations and radio projectors in place we’d go from a petroleum-based economy to a Zeus-powered economy.”
“Uhhh! Oh God, right there...” Jasmine said. “Sounds right to me. Cloning a mythological god is the most realistic plan the politicians have offered yet.”
“Nah, you think any politician has the vision to propose something like that? It was a secret society of scientists, all on their lonesome, led by a lady named the Tsarina. Human cloning wasn’t even possible until a paper back in ’99 by that Big Dragon guy. Man, he’s the greatest. He was eighteen when he wrote it, too you know, and he looked at that problem from an angle nobody thought to look before. It made everything possible.”
Zee got up from the cloud bed and moved to his fridge. “Excuse me a sec, lover, gotta feed these big pythons and make ‘em grow.” He said, performing a double-bicep pose. Jasmine didn’t care. She couldn’t get enough of looking at his perfect body naked. She had no trouble believing he was a god; he was such a physically perfect Adonis that it almost hurt to look at him. His symmetry was perfect at the microscopic level; a Renaissance artist would have a field day with his body’s angles.
“At first, they didn’t think the experiment was successful. Even though I was forced-grown to maturity over a couple years, I barely cracked five feet. I had seizures all the time, and I was starting to go bald. We weren’t really let out of the compound, and...I, uh, started to get overweight. I had a little potato body.”
“No bullshit, huh?” Jasmine said. She was interested, but mostly she was focused on his girly posters. She remembered learning in 9th Grade English that the first Zeus back in the day was something of a player type. But that was probably because there were no BAPs in Ancient Greece. You don’t get in the way of a Negro Chinese girl and her man, and if Jasmine was going to have to cut a bitch, then so be it.
“Wait, wait, I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.” He said. “Things started to change one particular night when my body started to lose weight. I was like a popping corn kernel in reverse. When the Tsarina came to look in on me, she saw my body was fragile and thin.”
“Man, wish my bod could do something like that.” Jasmine said, though most of her weight generally went behind her exclusively to her ass and thighs. “Who is the Tsarina, anyway?”
“That I don’t know.” Zee said. “There is one weird part: every time I have seen her, she looks totally different. Maybe she can change shape...or maybe she’s several different people pretending to be one person. One, a red-haired woman, kicked herself for not seeing it before. They say my seizures were the result of excessive energy production in the brain.”
“At any rate, she was pleased with what was going on. That’s when my body started to grow day by day. I woke up to find myself taller. Pants only lasted a few days before they became ‘high-water.’ I could feel muscles grafting themselves on my frame as I slept, and I woke up covered in sweat and my body felt heavier. My thin rail arms soon got to be massive battering rams. My pancake pecs became giant slabs, and my stick legs became these columns. Man, was it great to go to the facility weight room and watch the expressions of fear and amazement on trainers that called me a shrimp mistake. They guessed I grew a half-inch every day, and put on five pounds of muscle.” Zee flexed his arm, making his bicep expand into a giant granite boulder. “At first, my arm was soft as a sponge. Then it was like a little golf ball. Then...” His voice trailed off. “What are you thinking about?” He said, prodding her.
“I was thinking...you need a hip-hop name, love. Zee doesn’t cut it.” She said, thinking it over. “How about T-Bolt?”
“Actually I like the sound of that. T-Bolt.” He slid his rough, huge hands over Jasmine’s body and squeezed and kneaded her ass. He slapped it, loud enough to send a great thunderclap sound as if someone had gotten shot. Zee kissed Jas’s voluminous ass, and playfully nibbled with his teeth along the apple-shaped surface, well enough to leave teethmarks. “God, I love your ass so much.” He said.
Jasmine smiled. She had always been vain about her big hips and pronounced posterior.
Jasmine crawled like a tigress over the cloud and opened the minifridge, and removed a bottle of chocolate syrup and shook an aerosol can of whipped cream. Her tongue ran over her enormous lips and licked the syrup from the tip. “Let’s lick this.” She said, suggestively. She wanted to worship his muscles.
Zee – T-Bolt - reclined his gigantic naked body in the manner of a debauched Ancient Roman, his back in the cloud. Zee’s massive body was, at the shoulders, the width of a golf cart. Jasmine dripped the hot syrup onto his giant thighs, the liquid pooling into the valley cuts in between the teardrop shaped muscles. Jasmine shook the can of whipped cream, which hissed with release between his giant legs, forming swirls.
Jasmine dropped to her knees beside him and started licking wantonly, her hot, wide tongue lapping at his Egyptian-column iron hard thighs like a doberman’s, greedily guzzling the syrup where it bunched in between his cut thighs, her lips kissing and sliding along; Jasmine couldn’t help but have a little drool escape from the corner of her mouth.
Jas dropped her face between his thighs, her lips chewing and devouring the whipped cream on her lover’s oversized testicles. T-Bolt’s balls were taken in by her sheer suction, the grip of her thick lips as tight as that of a Rubbermaid seal. His testes alone were each the size of chicken eggs, surrounded by a sloshy seal of virile, frothy seed that shook and churned. Beneath her lips she could feel his mighty, oversized sperm-cells ping and ricochet like pinballs and swim like warp-powered torpedoes. Jas’s ears were between his muscles, each thigh twice the thickness of his legs; he could bend them in either direction with a split worthy of a contortionist.
Jasmine climbed up T-Bolt’s body gracefully a cat, her weight negible to him, his body massive enough to be almost terrain. She plunged her nose and face in between Zee’s Grand-Canyon ravine deep pecs, the heat from his body collecting there, causing her to sweat. Jasmine felt a tang of metal against her tongue. She stopped and looked at her lover.
“What’s this?” She asked.
“Cruxifix,” he said. “Tsarina hoped it would keep me down to earth if I was raised Orthodox.”
“Man, that is some crazy-ass shit. Zeus is a practicing Orthodox Christian.” Jasmine said.
Jasmine did not notice when a tentacle poked up through the cloud and wrapped itself around her ankle, pulling her off Zee with a whip-crack.
T-Bolt ran to the edge of the cloud and looked down. With a thought, the dairy on his body transformed into wispy air. Weaving atoms from the air, he clothed himself in a pair of giant cargo pants and a tight black muscle t-shirt that said “GOT MUSCLE?” The letters were pulled tight over his giant square pecs.
Zee didn’t know who to be more scared for: Jasmine, or the monster that grabbed her. Jasmine was fierce. When he leaped off the cloud, he saw Jasmine raked the skin of her captor, and her press-on nails were lodged into its flesh.
The monster was a red squid the size of a yacht, its dinner plate-sized eyes were alien and malevolent, and in between them was a giant pulsing red gem. The mollusk moved in the air as if it was swimming in water instead of flying in air. Jasmine hung from the tentacle, suspended upside down.
You should have not left the base. The creature’s gem projected its thought-waves. To Zee, the quality of its thoughts were disturbingly alien, overwhelmingly intelligent.
“What the–“ T-Bolt said. “What the hell, man! I mean, seriously!” He shouted, shocked and indignant.
For eons, the gods of land, the human gods, fought the gods worshipped only by beasts. Why I do I attack? Because it is in my nature. Because I hate you. Because killing the greatest of the human gods would be a triumph. Most of all because death is beautiful.
To Jasmine, the thought-waves were as overpowering as a man speaking through a megaphone right next to the ear. She shouted back. “Kick his ass, T-Bolt! Be a man and save your woman!”
“Buddy, you made the worst mistake of your life taking my chick. When I’m done with you, you’re gonna be seeing the business end of a calamari fork.” T-Bolt twitched his pectorals. They bounced beneath his shirt in a dance. He flexed in preparedness his enormous arms, the shirtsleeve, big enough for a girl to hula-hoop in, were pulled and rode up when his triceps rose
“Man, I am SO hot for you right now.” Jasmine cooed.
“Yeah? Watch this.” At that, T-Bolt rushed so quickly at the monster his body was a single invisible blur, smashing the body of the monster like a freight train charging at full speed, the pair of them spinning. A tentacle lost its grip on Jasmine’s neck. T-Bolt looked down and saw her fall through the air. She could fly about as well as a filing cabinet.
T-Bolt whistled in air. Jasmine felt herself land with a slam onto pure white feathers. She was flying on the back of a gigantic milk-white eagle the size of an elephant with a wingspan as great as an eight-lane highway.
T-Bolt grasped a tree-trunk thick tentacle with his iron muscles and tore it out with all his might. The boneless mass ripped like a turkey leg. The god of squids roared with pain.
He could feel a slither, as a pair of tentacles wrapped themselves about his waist, squeezing with a force that could crush a solid titanium girder, but which left T-Bolt’s body adamantly remaining. The creature changed color from red to gold like a chameleon, filled with his gold immortal ichor that he had instead of mortal red blood.
With an elevation of his bulging arms, it was as if the strength of the squid god’s tentacles had turned to water. T-Bolt pushed the hoop tentacles off of his godly body effortlessly, his grip squeezing both with a crush. There was a sound like the tearing of a band-aid, and T-Bolt saw that on his bronze skin were marks where the suction cups had dug into his flesh and drank his blood.
T-Bolt struck as quick as a snapping mousetrap, too quick for the human eye to see, and with a grasp of a tentacle in his iron grip, he swung the entire mass of the creature around in blurring, cyclonic speeds before he hurled it to the ground.
Its body smashed against the great spire on the top of the EmpireStateBuilding, and where the creature’s alien body met steel and iron, it was the steel and iron that yielded.
T-Bolt’s hand crackled and sparked like a flashing camera. A thunderbolt took a solid shape, like a spear in it, too brilliant to be looked at. With a flash like the sun had come to earth and grown a thousand times, the bolt was hurled and struck the falling spire. In moments there had been only superheated red mist where the spire had been.
The creature’s flew and struck the asphault of the New York street.
T-Bolt ran so fast a trail of flame was left where his feet dashed on the ground, and soon joined the creature in the stygian darkness below the city.
T-Bolt’s godly brain raced. “If we ever had a beard-off, the first Zeus would win in a heartbeat, but there’s one thing around now when the original wasn’t: a dude by the name of Steven Hawking.”
T-Bolt pointed, and at his command, his fingertips hurled tiny black holes, each the size of a ball-bearing. The very air melted and swirled around them like water down a drain.
Before they could strike the god of squids, the deity appeared to be in many different places at once, surrounded by seven identical duplicates. The color of the creature shifted to match the darkness of the subway station. Only the single red gem between its eyes glowed balefully. The flickering ceased when the rain of black holes struck around harmlessly.
“DEATH TO ALL BEAST GODS!” T-Bolt howled with his masculine voice. It was not the same voice that whispered love to Jasmine a moment ago. The Clone of Zeus was overcome with hot ancestral memories of a primeval age when beautiful, perfect human gods of land and air battled the monstrous, nonhuman gods of the sea. A time so distant mankind’s mythology did not record it, when glorious Greece was a swamp inhabited by apes.
T-Bolt grabbed the bumper of a motionless subway car, his grip dented the metal and left the imprint of his hands upon them flawlessly as if it was undried concrete. The chains holding the car to the rest tore like tissue paper. T-Bolt lifted the car above his head as if it was made of styrafoam, and chucked it at the monster, striking its body with a tangle of iron, a shower of glass, and a crunched in frame, sending the creature flying through the tunnel towards the light.
A hurricane wind whipped past the 14th Street Station, knocking off hats from heads and sending skirts flying. The train members screamed as a gigantic squid hurled by a smashed subway car sped past them. A handsome young man ran right after it. At first this seemed to cause confusion, but the only person that seriously wondered about it was an annoyed Armenian news-stand vendor that had to pick up copies of the Post off the ground where the wind knocked them down.
As T-Bolt ran, he struck a cloud of stinging black darkness, choking smoke. The sea god’s ink, he guessed. The God of Thunder’s body started to flash with sparking light, as a strobelight.
He hummed a sound that shook the sideway station and the ground above. For blocks and blocks, homosexuals felt their penises pop and rise to attention. Women felt their kegels clamp and their breathing grow ragged and a dot formed on their underclothes, from pubescent virgins to middle-aged librarians. T-Bolt carefully listened to the sound, and was rewarded with a strange diffraction. He knew what it sounded like through water.
The clone of Zeus rose with a gigantic leap made by his giant legs, and smashed a manhole cover. With this, he leaped into the Hudson. He was rewarded by a satisfying splash, and a gigantic dark shape above him that blotted out the sun above.
You are a fool to come here. In the water, we are supreme and your powers are reduced.
“Am I? Well, I can’t say for the old Zeus, but he didn’t know science like us 20th Century people. For instance: water conducts electricity.” His entire body was covered by a burning white-blue nimbus, a crackle like downed power line, that made the water pop and vanish, and the body of the creature to crisp and fry.
T-Bolt leaped onto the creature’s enormous head, and he felt a lightning bolt form between his hands. And with strength that could shatter a mountain, he drove the spear down on the glowing red gem like a spike.
The gem shattered like glass. The monster sea god screamed and twitched and finally went limp altogether. A delicious smell like roast calamari reached Zee’s nostrils.
T-Bolt rose from the water triumphantly like a human Polaris missile. He sped between buildings in the Manhattan skyline to the top of the Flatiron. On the wedge-shaped roof a great white eagle stood, and beside it a gorgeous naked darkhaired girl.
“Well, how’d it go?” She said.
“No need for take-out tonight, baby. I’ve got one word for you: BBQ!” T-Bolt said.
Jasmine leaped from the perch and she showered the underside and kissed her lover’s hard abs, leaving her lipgloss along his shirt and around his navel. “Good to know.” She cooed. “Violence gets me so horny.”
“Is that right? Well, here’s a sex position really only possible with a muscle stud.” T-Bolt grasped her hips and raised her naked, firm body in the air, letting her sit on his shoulders and her feet dangle over his back, his face right in front of her quinny, groomed and shaved into a thumb-thin streak.
Jasmine’s jaw dropped. He was going to give her cunnilingus, while standing straight up and her on his shoulders!
Morgan could feel T-Bolt’s hot tongue slide in between her warm thighs. It started to spin and whirl, lapping and rolling inside her, at such ferocious velocity she felt as if Morgan had a hurricane between her legs. She could feel his tongue widen as thick as a doberman’s; T-Bolt’s tongue stretched inside of her until it poked and filled her as much as a large man’s member.
“OHHH GODDDDDD!” She screamed loud enough that people in other buildings could hear. Only a few seconds was enough to send her entire body locking, her walls clamping down on his huge stretching tongue like a stapler, her orgasm a shudder and a fine mist.
T-Bolt set her down. “Listen, I have to be getting back to the compound, I think I’ve made enough trouble on my day out. They might send Big Dragon or the Greek Goddess after me or something. Anyway, I need to babysit my scientist friends. You know how visionaries are. They get the ‘cloning a god’ part right, but the practical stuff – like how to build power stations to use my juice – have just plain escaped them.”
“Can I have your cel number?” Jas asked, weakly.
“I’ve got something better than that.” He said, and from a pocket he removed a platinum ring with a white gem like glass.
“During the battle I sort of remembered how to make it. It’ll send thoughts to me.”
“You might get in trouble leaving.”
“Well, it’s kinda like this...” he said. “If I wanted to go somewhere, who’s going to stop me, right?”