The Alpha Male 2
by Shade
“Working for a Living”I need money, same as the next man. Ain’t no different in that respect.
And we all know there’s a lot of ways for a man to make some cash. And for men like me in particular some of those ways were honest, and some less so. Some within the bounds of the law, and some a little further afield.
There was the possibility of takings from the competitions on the Circuit of course. A winner’s pot could be pretty good. But I’d only won one of those so far, and I hadn’t made nearly as much money as I thought I would. The people who really won and lost a fortune on the Circuit were those folks who gambled on the challenges, and the bookies. And I was an upset that had lost some people a lot of money. So I wasn’t that popular with those folks at the moment. They’d love me well enough when they saw more of what I could do though.
One could also turn to selling sex, but that was beneath me. Although there are many other ways to prostitute yourself, and some were more enjoyable than others.
When I was younger I’d assumed there were dozens of muscle loving billionaires just waiting to throw cash at me. Boy, was reality a wake up call. If such men existed, I’d never met them. And I was pretty sure that most guys like that weren’t actually into muscle. However, billionaires aside, there were still plenty of men with enough money who wanted an opportunity to worship my body...and pay handsomely for the privilege of watching these young muscles flex. I didn’t want to do it at first, but I’d needed the money. And as I became more well known on the Circuit, I started to receive more offers, with the assurances that more would be forthcoming.
Now I’d kind of grown to like it, especially for the requests to demonstrate my strength. Muscle is nice, but muscle without power is just for pretty boys who want to look good. And I wasn’t one of those pathetic pussies, that’s for damn sure.
College was likely to be out of the question. And I wasn’t joining the military. Men like me kept a low profile. And in return people wrote off the activities that we got up to.
But even with lucrative offers to show off my abilities, and the occasional competition winning, I still needed money to pay the bills. My lifestyle did not come cheap.
First there was the food. In one day I could eat enough to feed three superheavyweight bodybuilders in a week. That’s a lot of meat. A lot of carbs. And a lot of vegetables. Try having a food bill that comes to several thousand a week.
Not pretty.
And then there were the clothes. I was far too big to fit anything ready to wear off the rack. There just wasn’t a chance in hell. This was made worse by the fact that I had a tendency to go through my wardrobe awfully quickly. Plus I was still a growing boy. So even with a significant volume discount, my tailor was getting rich quick.
I suppose I could have relied on the kindness of strangers. Been a kept man. Or used my muscle to help motivate money in my direction. But I wasn’t like that.
A real man needed to support himself. And I was going to do that.
To help make ends meet, my buddy Mack had hooked me up with a job in his security firm. Truth be told, Norman “Mack” McKenzie was more than a buddy to me. He was like an older brother. Actually, he was more like a father. A man I always had time for.
Formerly a major in the British SAS, Mack was a Scot, and a cock-swinging commando that had been good enough to take a cocky, troubled young muscle head like me under his wing, and show him the ropes.
I owed him a big debt. A serious debt. But that’s a story for another time.
Mack’s firm represented all segments from politicos to underworld gangsters. As long as they paid well, and didn’t run afoul of Mack’s particular brand of ethics.
So I knew when I took one of Mack’s jobs, that I would be able to respect the person I was protecting, and respect myself.
One of Mack’s best clients was Myles Boudreau. He spoke like he was from one of the southern states, but I always found his accent a little hinkey. I suspected it was affected. He could have been from anywhere, but he’d adopted the persona of a southern gentleman.
Mr. Boudreau was into trade. He obtained things for people. And took a cut for himself.
More and more lately he’d taken to asking only for me. Even though I was only 18, and by all accounts inexperienced, and lacking the kind of specialist military training that Mack’s other operatives had.
But I knew why he wanted me.
I was a tank. And Mr. Boudreau had seen me in action. Since that incident, he’d never asked for anyone but me.
And I looked every bit the part I knew was expected of me, as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was clean cut, and very well tailored.
I tugged at the collar, feeling the fabric pull at my bull neck. The silk tie knotted tightly against my Adam’s apple.
Mr. Boudreau had tailors fly in from all over the world. Usually direct from the designer. Over the months that we’d been working together, he’d had Hugo Boss, Armani and other names even I recognised make me some fine clothes. Trouble is I kept outgrowing them. Or inadvertantly destroying them.
The suit I was wearing now was one such example. Since I’d been to The Snake Pit a few weeks ago, I found I’d grown some, and I was having trouble buttoning up the suit. It also felt unusually tight around the shoulders. Still Mr. Boudreau never complained. He wanted me to look a certain way, and I had no objection.
My phone rang. I picked it up, and without even waiting for a hello, I heard my instructions.
“Understood. On my way.”
Mr. Boudreau stayed only in the finest of hotels, and I walked down the hall, well aware of how much space I took up, until I arrived at his door.
I knocked.
Kyle Palmer opened the door, an iPad in hand. “Come in.”
This was Mr. Boudreau’s personal assistant. And I suspected he might also have been a lover too, given the fact that both men were gay.
I walked into the suite. Even with the double doors, I had to turn slightly to avoid scrapping the doorframe and damaging my new suit.
“So you had a Brazilian last night, and her boyfriend,” Kyle remarked.
Kyle was referring to a little distraction I had found for myself off the clock. He was well informed. Very well informed indeed. I filed that away for future reference. It was obvious that information was Mr. Boudreau’s stock and trade, and Kyle was clearly a valuable asset.
“Even I get lonely sometimes Mr. Palmer.”
“I doubt that. And please call me Kyle.”
My gaze was impassive. And like any good security specialist, I seldom smiled. This was business. Not pleasure.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that sir.”
“Are you ever off the clock?”
“The Brazilian and her boyfriend should be able to answer that question.”
“Touché!” he said, laughing. “Myles will be ready in a jiff.”
I stood tall, waiting. I cut a very imposing figure indeed. And Kyle regarded me with open interest. He made no secret of what he wanted. It was written in his eyes. I suppose I could have fucked him. But I considered it unprofessional to fuck the boss, or his assistant.
Kyle would just have to learn to live with disappointment.
“Good, I see we’re all ready to go,” said Myles, looking absolutely immaculate.
If my time was my own, and money wasn’t the issue, I wouldn’t have minded breaking Myles and forcing him down onto my cock. Rich or not, he was beautiful. Truly beautiful. I wasn’t bad looking either, I knew that. Most people remarked on how handsome I was. But I didn’t have the face of an angel like he did. A face that looked like it had been painted by a renaissance master.
I would almost have broken my own rules for Myles. Almost.
“This should be a simple job,” remarked Myles, as Kyle slipped an expensive cashmere coat on over Myles' suit jacket. “We’re going to acquire some product, and pay some money in exchange.”
He indicated a case. And I picked it up. I assumed it was cash. But it wasn’t my place to ask questions. Mack had already gotten briefed, and he’d told me what I needed to know.
We walked to the car. Parked in the garage. It was a BMW. Myles got in the back, and I climbed in behind the wheel, a bit unsuccessfully I might add, but finally squeezing in. It was hard for me to fit all my size inside such a tight confined space.
“Don’t you ever get cold?” he asked me.
It was a chilly day. “No,” I said. “I rarely ever get cold. I have a lot of natural body heat.”
We drove off in silence. Myles usually didn’t attempt small talk, if anything he would be working – either on his phone or his iPad. I on the other hand was not paid to chit chat. So it worked.
Soon we were at our destination. It was an old parking garage, three floors up of course. And I wondered if this could get any more cliché.
Before we got out, Myles grabbed my thick shoulder from the rear. “These aren’t exactly trustworthy people,” he warned me. “Be prepared for anything.”
“I always am sir.”
He looked me in the eye from the reflection of the rear view mirror, and knew I spoke the truth.
We got out, and soon another two cars pulled up. People began to get out of cars. A smaller, Asian man. An Asian lady. And four men that were obviously hired muscle. Presumably with guns. I carried a gun too, of course. But I rarely needed to draw my weapon.
The biggest of the muscle looked me over. A big man, and thick. It was possible he could have been one of the guys from the Circuit, and I marked him for closer inspection. I was less impressed with the other three guys, as they were clearly military, but I doubted they had the balls to take me on. The big guy growled a warning low in the back of his throat, and flexed his shoulders and arms. I stifled the urge to laugh.
If any more testosterone started flowing, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t all start sniffing each other’s crotches like dogs. Well, maybe later, I thought. The big guy looked pretty good to me, and his trousers hugged his ass in a very pleasing manner.
I wasn’t going to show him my interest though. Quite the opposite. Crossing my arms, I stood there, letting him see exactly what he was up against. And my arms strained the suit to breaking point.
The Asian man said something to the woman. It could have been Chinese or Japanese, I wasn’t sure. But it sounded foreign and from the other side of the planet.
“Do you have the money?” she asked. Clearly this woman was his translator.
Myles had earlier taken the case from me, and indicated it in his hand.
“Do you have the formula?” he responded.
“Of course,” the woman told us, after a brief exchange with her employer. “But first we examine your American dollars.”
“It’s all there,” said Myles. And he handed it to one of the men who approached him.
We were a lopsided group. The six of them. The two of us.
But I was fast in a fight, very fast. And I surveyed the movements of the others, prepared to jump into action.
The guard took the case, and looked at the money.
“It’s all here,” he said.
Then the other guards all pulled out their guns in one smooth synchronous move.
“What is this?” asked Myles. He didn’t seem as surprised as I was. Wasn’t this all supposed to be a casual, easy exchange?
I had drawn my weapon anyway at the first sign of trouble, and moved closer to Myles.
“This is the part where you find you’ve been double crossed,” said the man in heavily accented English. Apparently he learned languages very quickly, or the woman had been some kind of elaborate, and if I may say so, unnecessary ruse.
“My client will be most upset not to acquire the formula he paid for,” remarked Myles. “Do you have it with you Fong?”
“Of course,” replied Fong smugly. “But it is bound for the actual buyer. He was willing to pay more. Good bye Boudreau.”
He and the woman and two of the guards got into a car, including the really big guy. The other two men got into the other car, but before they left, the guard took aim at Myles and fired.
I ducked in the way, pushing Myles aside, and felt the sting of the bullet against my deltoid.
The men raced away in their car.
“Are you all right Mr. Boudreau?” I hollered, getting up, as the car tires screeched away.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Don’t worry about me. Get that formula!”
I leapt into action, ignoring the stinging sensation from my shoulder.
The cars were currently on the third level, headed down. I ran to the edge and looked down to where an exit ramp opened down onto the next level. As I heard the cars approaching, I leapt down. Landing in a crouch in front of the oncoming car. I braced myself, and put my hands up as he raced straight at me.
The car connected with my hands and I pushed. These were the same muscles that had lifted sixteen tons worth of hummer trucks up into the air, and they weren’t about to be stopped by a black Audi sedan.
The driver realised that he’d stopped moving forward, and in a panic he floored the accelerator. Flooding the engine. I could feel the pressure of the car as it tried to move forward, and I applied a similar amount of pressure to keep it in place.
Testosterone and adrenalin roared through my veins like a howling dragon. And I felt myself come alive with the challenge.
I pushed again, and this time the car actually moved backwards. I took a step forward. Then another. A third and final step brought the rear bumper of the car into direct contact with the front bumper of the car carrying Mr. Fong, and the precious formula we’d spent so much for. Fong was trapped unless he could get past the car in front of him. And me.
The power flowed into my veins, and they pumped the muscle up. I felt my strength flow like a wave. Muscle swelled, engorged with blood, and the back seam of my new suit ripped apart as my lats expanded with the pressure. I felt my neck straining, as the thick cords of sinew and meat pulled against the button of my shirt. Popping the buttons, and forcing the knot of my tie to loosen as well.
The roar of the engine excited me. And the car carrying Fong rammed the car I was holding back, trying to force it forwards. Despite my best efforts, my shoes lost some traction with the smooth cement, and I could feel myself sliding backwards. The rubber from the ties stank, as they spun. And soon Fong’s car tires were spinning also.
My cock swelled. Big, proud and magnificent. I couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to.
It tore through my briefs and the zipper of my trousers and stuck out in front of me like a battering ram.
I was so excited, that I pulled the car onto my cock. And I felt myself impale the grill of the car and the metal underneath. Hot and oily fluid spilled onto my cock, and clothes. And I started moving the car back and forth.
The men inside finally realised they still had guns, and I felt them fire into me. The bullets stinging, as I roared my anger. My cock was momentarily forgotten as I began to tear the car apart. And seeing that the bullets hadn’t stopped me, the two men wisely gave up, got out of the car and started running.
I let them run. Little pussies. They weren’t worth my time.
I tore the car apart until it was in two halves. And then I picked them up and tossed the remains of the vehicle to the side. It didn’t weigh much more than some of those makeshift dumbbells had at the Snake.
Fong’s driver now realised that perhaps he wasn’t going to get through me. So he wisely chose the only option available to him. Reverse!
What he didn’t reckon on was me.
Before he could go anywhere, I grabbed the front of the car and pulled it to me. If I’d had an insane pump before, it was beyond the pale now. My sleeves ripped apart as my biceps tore their way out, needing space. And I knew to Fong and the others that I must look like a white, even more jacked version of the Hulk, as my quads burst through the seams of my trousers and my traps and shoulders shredded the suit jacket.
“Where. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Going?!” I growled, punctuating each word as I compressed the front of their car into a smaller and smaller heap of metal.
The engine died, and then I slammed my fist into the hood, literally forcing it into the concrete floor, which cracked and accepted the intrusion I forced upon it.
The people in the car tried to get out, but I stomped on the car for good measure which crushed the doors in.
Leaning over it, I tore open the roof. The big guy had his gun out. But I grabbed it from his shaking hand and squeezed it, the metal crunching. Then I pulled the big guy out after that. My grip firm around his throat, holding him in the air, over the car.
“I would like the case please, Mr. Fong,” I said. Sweat ran down my exposed pecs, stained with oil and grease from the engines.
He handed me the case with Myles' money, which I tossed aside.
“And the other one,” I said.
When he hesitated, I rattled the car, rocking the floor beneath. The cracks in the concrete spread further.
The woman handed me the case, and Fong scowled at her.
I didn’t care, I pushed the roof of the car back down, trapping them, and I pushed it further down for good measure to make sure they didn’t escape.
Myles came walking up to the car then.
“Impressive,” he said, surveying the damage. “I will be giving Mr. McKenzie my highest compliments on your service.”
“Thank you sir.” I handed him the case, and he gripped it like a treasured possession.
“You seem to have torn your suit,” he remarked as an afterthought.
Barely any of the suit was in fact still clinging to my body.
“Sorry sir.”
“Don’t worry about it. Are you all right?” There was genuine concern in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” I said looking at him. “Thank you for your concern. But it will take more than some bullets to dent me sir.”
He nodded. “Please keep the money as a bonus for your efforts.”
“Thank you sir!” I said, genuinely pleased, and permitting myself a grin.
“We have some time before we need to be back.”
I raised my eyebrow in question, but it was clear what he meant when he indicated the man I still held in my hand suspended in the air. A man who was even now struggling to breath.
“I’ll wait for you in the car. Take as long as you need.”
Myles turned to leave, clutching the case. And I turned to the big man and smiled. Cock hard.