Attached are two fragments of a long story I'm writing . . . and am going ahead with putting these two out first. -- silicondog@earhlink.net
WARNING: If you are under eighteen or find explicit sexual references offensive and male to male sexuality, read no further.
CRUZ
Private Cruz had been in the basement of the gymnasium in Okinawa when the phone call came. In the storage room he had adopted as his personal gym, he had been doing seated shoulder presses, the barbell bent under the hundred pound plates Cruz had stacked on both sides. 19-year-old Cruz hadn't had to use a lighter plate in two years. A tall stack of hundreds lay in one corner, as he methodically did set after set, the heat turned up high to give him a better workout. Finishing his last set, he gently replaced the loaded bar, the rack creaking against the weight. Getting up to use the bar for some bicep curls, he saw the four Japanese men came into the locker room.
Cruz looked up and recognized them. "Jesus, not you fools again."
The oldest man said "He wants a rematch, now!" The three others, wearing identical black suits, nodded.
"Well, guys, let's have the party now, then" Cruz muttered, following the four down a flight of stairs to a basement. He had recognized them as the underlings of the champion sumo wrestler of Okinawa, a man Cruz had met briefly one month ago, a meeting which had put Cruz even higher on the Marine Corps' shit list than when he had enlisted, three days after turning eighteen, nine months ago.
It had been a "match" of sumo, where the sumo champion of Okinawa had unofficially challenged the biggest American on Okinawa to a match of sumo. At the time Cruz (at 385 pounds and six feet ten) had been the biggest American, even though he gave away 100 pounds to the Japanese.
Not that it mattered much. The "match" had lasted exactly seventeen seconds, as Private Cruz tossed his opponent (all 500 pounds of him) out of the ring. The Japanese had been scandalized as their champion had been defeated in public; the Marine Corps were embarrassed with Cruz for scandalizing the Japanese; Cruz was pissed at them all, the Japanese for starting an unnecessary fight and the Marines for acting ashamed when Cruz won it.
Cruz and the others reached a door, and one of the Japanese knocked at it. The door opened; the man gestured for Cruz to enter. As he walked in, the door slammed shut.
It was a small arena, floodlit in the center. Wearing only a mawashi around his waist, the sumo motioned him quickly to enter the circle. The sumo was a quarter ton six-foot four tower of muscle mounted on two kegs, his mawashi wrapped over a huge belly and monstrous shoulders. Under a topknot, his black eyes glared at Cruz, gesturing for him to come closer.
Cruz walked casually closer into the circle. He wore only boxing shorts, the same design his late brother had worn when he boxed, the Mexican flag with silver trim. The shorts bulged and swelled around his thighs and two heavy balls bounced gently around the thighs and a coke can-sized cock that had no room between his legs. A waist of thick cables of muscle with no fat; intercostals that rolled and squeezed back into a back that swept up to shoulders over three feet apart. A light dusting of brown hair swirled around his marble pecs and skipped over the tips of his abs into the waistband of his boxers. Cruz' bulk and power was offset by twinkling brown eyes and brush cut that was almost overgrown into being combable.
"Look" Cruz started, "I didn't ask for the first match, and I don't want a second." His opponent stood stock still, only breathing deeper and deeper. Shovel-sized hands clapped in front once, twice, a third time. Then silence.
"Let's drop--" Cruz started, but in a flash, his speed incredible for a man of his bulk, the Japanese sumo wrestler lunged forward. Lunging towards Cruz, his arms reaching out to clinch him, the sumo wrestler charged into Cruz' arms, instead. On braced legs, Cruz spun the sumo wrestler over, around and onto the floor with a crash, the wooden floor shuddering under the impact of 500 pounds. But in an instant, he had righted himself and charged Cruz again, his eyes crazy with rage. And again the sumo wrestler found himself spinning through the air to land on his ass.
Cruz watched the sumo wrestler right himself again and prepare for a charge. "All right, man, game's over. OK?" Cruz didn't expect an answer. The sumo was trapped between saving his honor and admitting defeat; he he was so crazy with rage he couldn't have answered. The wrestler charged and this time tried to lock Cruz in a bear hug. Cruz winced at his opponent's strength as his thick arms tried to lock around his torso, smelling his spicy sweat. The sumo wrestler, snarling with rage, felt Cruz's arms reach around to break the bear hug; and then his head snapped at Cruz' right ear.
"Motherfucker!" Cruz roared, pulling his head back and breaking off the clinch. He reached towards his own right ear and saw a streak of blood on his own hand! A second feel found all of his ear, but just a bite on the top! In a rage, he turned towards the sumo wrestler who, looking into Cruz' eyes, froze for a moment.
It was enough. Cruz lashed his arms around the sumo wrestler and, in a bear hug, swung the quarter-ton of muscle off his feet. His arms weren't long enough to completely wrap around the sumo's torso, but with a growl he squeezed, with ropes and cables swelling under sweaty brown skin. A roar from the sumo echoed off the walls as he beat his fists against Cruz' shoulders, big as basketballs and hard as oak. He tried to snap against Cruz' ear again, but he was being bent back by the brown vice of muscles, the shield-like pecs and arms clamped against his torso. Cruz could see into the sumo's eyes only a few inches away and his own eyes went wide; under the mawashi, Cruz could feel the sumo's raging hardon against Cruz' belly. And by now, the sumo's eyes were even wider; he could feel Cruz' far thicker, longer boner swelling down his leg out of the boxer shorts beginning to pump precum down the sumo's leg.
With the strength of lust added to the rage of pain, Cruz squeezed harder still, feeling the great curve of ribs under the folds of muscle start to bend under the strength of his arms. Cruz ground his biceps into the sumo's armpits, the sumo's barrel chest losing its fight to expand against Cruz' arms. Every breath was crushed under the steel arms which grew stronger even as the sumo's chest weakened. Unable to fill his lungs against the monstrous pressure of the American's arms his vision grew red but his cock, grinding between his belly and the gaijin's marble abs, stayed hard. Then suddenly Cruz dropped him onto the wooden floor on his ass.
Unable to feel anything other than the hot air which could only now get return to his aching lungs, the sumo could only stare as Cruz reached to his shorts and twisted it around and down his legs over the boner that had been stretched halfways to his knees; but now, breaking loose of the boxers, it bounced and swayed stiffly before the sumo's wide eyes. Soda straw-thick veins pulsed from the base into a cut head whose ridge was pulsing red under the brown skin.
Cruz reached between the sumo's legs and with a snap tore the mawashi off around his belly, its thick cotton snapping like a paper towel under his fingers. A few seconds, he had tied his hands together over the sumo's head, laying on the wood. The sumo was naked under him, his own boner, smaller but just as thick, flapped over his round belly, looking far more alive than its exhausted, defeated owner.
Flipping the sumo's heavy legs over his own shoulders, Cruz leaned over the sumo and positioned the head of his cock against the heavy cheeks around the sumo's asshole. The sumo could only watch, dazed, as Cruz tied his hands with his own mawashi behind his head. After a second of silent taunting, his cock only rubbing lightly into the sphincter, Cruz snapped his hips forward and with one splintering drive embedded his cock to the hilt in the sumo. His snarl was drowned out by the sumo's roar as the pain of his assring awoke his last energy. Cruz's hips then viciously pulled out almost completely, his cockhead scraping almost two feet through the sumo's belly. Then the cock ripped back in and he leaned further over the sumo, his sweat dripping off his nose into the sumo's eyes. The roars and snarls of the sumo echoed the moans of Cruz and the slap of his hips against the sumo's legs.
The roars and snarls started to lose their power, and soon were replaced by moans and whimpers, which echoed the pounding of Cruz against the sumo's butt. The sumo's heels, which had been pounding futilely against Cruz' pumping ass, gradually stopped their banging and instead only rubbed up and down, holding Cruz deep inside him. Cruz could feel the sumo's muscles lose their power as grow limp their owner lost control, as he could only feel the pounding steel rod and sweating granite muscles of its owner. He leaned down until his other ear was only an inch from the sumo's gasping mouth. AWanna go for this one, sushi?@ Cruz whispered,
The sumo could only gasp as Cruz' two-day-old beard scraped harshly over the cheek as he leaned against his ear. "Okay, asshole, who do you think you are, eh? Mike Tyson, maybe? You're a champion, all right, man, champion asshole!"
The sumo's chest suddenly heaved, and his cock, which had been flapping up against the heavy plates of Cruz' six-pack, suddenly shot thick white cum into the cracks and crevices of Cruz' abs and dripped over his sweaty belly. Cruz felt the iron bands of the sumo's asshole grip his own rod even tighter in the orgasm, but held the sumo just as tight, and clamped his head between his hands.
"All right, man, I can do this for hours! You like that?" The sumo, now knowing that Cruz would not shoot and lose his power over the sumo's body, moaned in total defeat. "I'm giving you a Spanish lesson tonight, man!" A low moan for an answer. The sumo could only stare, eyes red and glassy.
"Only two words, you only gotta remember two words for this class. You know what are they? No mas!"
With those last two words, Cruz pounded his rod twice into the sumo, then ground from side to side against his butt. "You know what that means, in English? No more. How does that sound?" The sumo rolled his eyes. "How does that sound, my man. You ready to give it up?" After a long second, the sumo's head bobbed slowly up and down; his bound arms tapped the polished wooden floor behind his head.
The sumo's eyes then grew wide as his guts felt Cruz' first flood, a cooling wave that started in his belly and began to pulse down from the tip down to the assring. More pulses squirted around the cock and down the heaving checks of his ass, down the hairy baseball-sized nuts bouncing against his cheeks and down to a spreading puddle of cum on the sweat-soaked polished wooden floor.
Slowly pulling his hips back, feeling his ridge grind back through his guts, Cruz slowly got to his feet and let the sumo's legs slide off his huge shoulders onto the floor, and stood straight up. Locking the sumo's black eyes with his own, Cruz shot off again without even touching himself, spurt after spurt flying down onto the sumo, his head, his chest, his belly and down his legs, thick ribbons of cum dripping down the sumo's sweaty torso. Not until the sumo's belly was practically white with the thick ribbons of cum criss-crossing his torso did Cruz' balls finally pump dry.
His own sweat dripping down the pumped plates of his chest into his six- back, Cruz reached down and with one rip tore the mawashi off of the sumo's arms. Giving the sumo a harder fuck with his eyes than he had done with his own cock. The sum only had the strength to rub his fists together bruised on Cruz' marble shoulders, licking the cum which had shot onto his lips.
Cruz took the mawashi and tied it around his own forehead. The blood pounding in his ears subsiding, and the red draining out of his vision, Cruz pulled his shorts back on over a still swollen cock. He turned to see the four other Japanese standing, shocked. Their mouths were open in shock; two even had visible boners in their pants.
One of them had a telephone in his hands. It was ringing.
FRANK
Even though it was a Sunday, the First Methodist Union Church was quiet; it had yet to open. Under the leadership of Father Kimball, the church would be built around the restoration of a house that had laid vacant for years. With prayer (and volunteer labor) the church would soon open, the first to open in this particular neighborhood in years. Father Kimball smiled as he climbed down the stairs from his bedroom. The young lad cleaning the backyard of the church could provide all the volunteer labor one could ever require. "Be quieter, Franklin" Kimball said. "It's still Sunday morning and there are neighbors trying to sleep." Franklin (ROTC, Private; CalTech, suspended sophomore) stood in the back yard with a shovel held in his massive hands like a toothpick. "Good morning, Father" he said, nodding. "I only have a few more things to clean up; they won't take long."
"Like that?" the father motioned towards the burned corpse of a car that lay in the yard, a Ford Pinto perhaps, that had been abandoned and then stripped of anything of value. "Yep. I just have to move that out of here next. I have the truck" --Franklin motioned to a flatbed truck parked next to the hulk -- "and that car is going to be a slow haul to the junkyard."
"Won't that be risky?" Kimball frowned. The truck was on loan from a church member and was sturdy and new, but even stripped the Pinto wouldn't fit on top of it. Franklin flashed a confident grin at the father.
"I'll make it fit" he promised.
With those words, he walked over to the hulk, running his hands over the dead metal, almost gauging its strength. Then, digging his boots into the cracked concrete of the yard, he gave a few tentative pushes. The car scraped forward, tires and wheels gone, until he had nosed it up, hood against a thick stone wall, the rear bumper in his arms.
Planting his legs behind the bumper, he wrapped his arms across the car's hatch back and breathed deep, once, and then twice.
With the third breath, the veins in his shoulders and arms tried to blow out through the skin. The metal under the swelling teak of his arms began to buckle. With another gasp, the rest of the car, trapped between the stone wall and the crushing of Franklin's arms, popped and crackled as Franklin's thighs, each as wide as Father Kimball, braced his legs on the ground. With one screech, the backbone of the car began to twist and Franklin's arms grew even bigger, his fingers digging into the metal frame. With another snarl, the car ground further into itself, a few pieces of glass dropping out of the corpse of the car as it crumpled down under Franklin's power. The iron of the car bending under the heavier steel of Franklin's arms and hands, it finally folded around the engine. Sweat dripping off the shelves of his pecs onto the ground, Franklin then rolled the crumpled mass of car towards the truck. Then, bracing his legs and back, he grasped the mangled ton of steel.
With one last snarl, he lifted the car and swung its mass over onto the top of the truck, the metal of the car's body crushing under his thick fingers and its frame bending around his biceps. Gauging its weight, he shoved the car onto the flat bed of the truck, its shocks groaning under the weight of the car. Satisfied it wouldn't roll off or slide, he stood back and wiped a handkerchief across his hands and then across his shaved head. Franklin could see an outline of his own chest on the bumper where he had crushed it, two pec-shaped curves in the crumpled hood.
Bare-chested and wearing only painters pants with suspenders over boots, Franklin stood one inch over of seven feet. The only hair that showed on his body were his eyelashes and a trimmed goatee. Pumped from the car, his shoulders and lats were criss-crossed with veins that fought for space with tendons down his biceps and into thick forearms. The gold ring piercing his left nipple only emphasized his bulk and power, a shining tiny piece of jewelry in an ocean of heavy muscle.
Father Kimball, watching, could merely shake his head. "I remember when you sang in the choir as a child and you were the skinniest lad in the group with the finest voice." He shook his head again. "It was the saddest day for the choir when we lost you, but we couldn't afford fitting you with those new frocks month after month."
Franklin nodded. "When I was interviewed by the ROTC and asked how I learned to take care of myself early, I could only say that when I started to grow I was going to eat my own family out of our house, otherwise. It only figures that when you weigh the size of three you eat the size of three, with their food bills right?"
"How is your mother?" Father Kimball asked. "And your lovely sister?"
"She's been promoted to senior nurse on her shift at the MLK Hospital" Franklin answered with pride. And Tasha" Franklin's sister "begins at USC next September." Both knew better than to ask about Franklin's father.
"Well, I had better get going if I'm to return the truck by --" Franklin's attention suddenly shifted to the street. In front of the church, an apple-red Porsche had stopped in front of the church. Two were inside. The passenger's window was open and a stranger was leaning towards the open window. Franklin could see a flash of cash one way, a plastic envelope going the other way.
"Those bastards --" muscles that had just begun to relax in his arms swelled against his skin.
"Franklin" He turned. "Just settle down, here." Franklin did not settle down. He glared at the driver of the Porsche who didn't even return the stare. "You know what they're doing, Father, don't you?" Franklin answered his own question. "They're staking out this street, right across from the church, because it's the church, right in your face, and --"
"Franklin" Kimball said again, reproachfully. Franklin turned and looked down (two feet down) at Kimball's older gray eyes. "Just drive that car back down to the scrap yard and return that truck. We'll talk about this later. I'll call the station house and talk to somebody I know there." A beat. "All right?"
Franklin relaxed. "Yes sir." He walked over to the truck and turned over its engine. And, just before he put the truck into gear, he glanced (and thereby memorized) the car, its plates, its make, and especially its owner.
Several hours later, the owner of that car lay in his own bed, guarded as always. His dream broken by a fly that tried to land on his nose, he groggily tried to swat it away. He snapped instantly awake when his hand felt it had been stepped on by an elephant. His eyes opened wide to the sight of a bare-chested giant crouching by his bed, a bald head shining in the moonlight from an open window.
"Good evening" the giant purred. His own fingers clamped against the drug dealer's fist like a vise, the man swung his feet across and down, lying down on the bed on top. Feeling the heavy bed sag under his weight, the dealer felt as if three men were climbing into the bed with him. Eyes adjusting to the light, he could see a tiny sliver of metal against a chest as bare and hard as a shield.
"You recognize me?" Franklin asked? Of course the doper had; the bodybuilder he had seen lingering around his new location today. He kept his mouth shut, and with his other hand, began to slowly reach behind his pillow.
"Maybe I was wrong about what you were doing today" the voice continued. "Maybe you were trying to find a church. But don't worry, If you were trying to find the good lord this afternoon, right now, my friend, you are so close to the good lord you can smell what he had for breakfast."
The doper's fingers started to close under the pillow on where he kept his gun; his fingers closed on air. His eyes opened wide, and the giant revealed in his other hand, the Army issue .45 which he had meant to use on the bastard.
"Is this a registered handgun?" The giant's voice was still cool, his grip on the doper's fingers tight but not painful. In his other hand the fingers were wrapped around the pistol, its clip pulled. Holding the gun a few inches from the pusher's nose, the hand squeezed around the gun. Muscles ran from the thick pad of his wrist, across the pencil-sized tendons of his forearms up his 28-inch arms into shoulders broader than the door. The revolver's heavy metal crackled and crushed under coal-dark and coal-hard fingers, and the metal vanished into the man's closed fist. Opening his fist, the doper saw his gun, now a softball-shaped clump of steel.
"Not anymore." Franklin took the lump of gun and gently tucked it down the dealer's boxers where it lay on top of his cock, now limp with fear.
"Now, I respect a man who seeks spiritual guidance." The giant's fingers casually reached up to scratch the doper's hair. "And I am willing to guide you towards that worthy goal." The fingers gently wrapping across the skull, he leaned closer.
"Do you eat omelets?"
The dealer thought, what the hell? But he still said nothing. A flash later, the fingers clamped over his skull with pain flaring across his scalp.
"My friend, you saw how much trouble I had with your gun, maybe you should answer my question. Do you eat omelets?"
"No" in a whisper. His first words.
"Well now," said Franklin, I think that your spiritual search is well under way. I think that you should enter that church you were parked outside today, and I think you should do it every Sunday. I also think" the giant purred, "that the Sunday you don't, I will visit you with a reminder.
"And the second time you miss," the fingers now massaged the dealer's skull, "I will educate you on how that egg feels on its way to being an omelet. Do you understand?"
The metal of his crushed gun cool against his cock, the dealer nodded slowly, the heavy fingers nodding with him.