LAST MAN COMING
                         By Chip Master
                       For Richard Rossan

THE PLACE: A small, privately owned island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. The daytime
temperature hits 110 degrees, cooling off to 95 at night. Rain, when it comes, are cloud bursts
lasting about 30 minutes, increasing the humidity to hellish conditions. 
 
THE TIME: THE FUTURE 
 
THE GAME: Some 2000 of the wealthiest gays of all nationalities have bought the island for
THE ULTIMATE COMBAT, a game in which only one man can win the 100 million dollar
prize, having killed the last survivor among all the contestants. The rules of the game are simple:
there are no rules.  The winner of each match must kill the other using only his skill and brute
strength.  The match has no time limit.  Each contestant is given a number. If he survives a
match, the number is returned to the drum.  Tough shit if his number is drawn again immediately
after a match. The game continues night and day, no matter the weather. 

This year, 151 contestants showed up, some of the most violent, strongest killers on earth. A
large building near the arena housed the contestants, a large gym to one side.  During previous
games, contestants have been killed while sleeping or working out to get rid of them fast. 

OUR HERO:  Kris's first kill was at 15, an accident.  Kris had never worked out but his natural
testosterone and growth hormone levels were so great he naturally had a trim, solid build of
extreme fuckability, and had been a sexual predator since he hit an early puberty.  His thick, 12"
cock was ferociously fucking an 18 year old bodybuilder who was into erotic asphyxiation.  The
teen bodybuilding champion told Kris what to do, but Kris, not realizing his latent strength,
clamped his arm around the stud's neck too long and hard, his forearm crushing his windpipe
while his biceps dislocated three neck vertebrae, which severed his spinal cord.  The dying teen's
orgasms were so powerful and protracted while Kris' prick was still deep into the kid's fuck hole
that Kris, himself, experienced the most violent series of orgasms during the four years of his
jacking off and fucking. Kris became addicted to killing as a means of experiencing incredible
orgasmic joy.  He immediately started pumping iron and increasing his size and strength to
mythic proportions.  

Kris is 18 now, and ready to rock.

The helicopter chopped the waves as it hovered over the beach.  "Get out" yelled the pilot.  Kris
looked at the fifty foot drop.  "What?"

"The last time I landed someone threw a guy up into the blades.  I'm not having that happen
again.  Now jump."  The pilot jerked the ‘copter to try to throw Kris out the open door.  Kris
wrapped his arm around the pilot's neck and flexed his biceps hard into the guy's carotid artery.

"You got one minute to land this thing before we both die."  The pilot clawed at Kris's forearm,
the copter pitching wildly, but his fingers couldn't even dent the skin,  much less out-leverage
the arm squeezing him into blackness.  "Okay!" the pilot sputtered, and Kris relaxed his arm,
though didn't withdraw it.  He kept the biceps crouched there, twitching, firm, soft, an almost
comforting bulge that could fire a deadly cannonball in a split second.  The ‘copter lowered until
rings spread out in the water below it.  When they were five feet from the surface Kris said
"Good enough" and leapt out before the pilot could do anything.  An army of brutes began
pelting the helicopter with dismembered body parts and jeers.  Kris ducked under the waves and
swam up the beach to avoid the filth as the pilot arced his way back toward French waters.

Kris rose from the waves at an empty stretch of sand, the sheer cotton stretching around and
underneath the lobed plates of muscle guarding his sternum and sucking into the grooves and
splits of his ten-pack abdominals.  He'd trained for three hard, ball-busting years for this
adventure.  And he knew the rules inside out: the first survival, making it across the beach to the
registrar, was the hardest.  He stood silently, listening to the splash of the waves and the wind in
the palms, and to a dozen unseen feet and hands preparing to finish him off before he even
started.  The water dug sand out from under his feet.  His body tingled with excitement.

He heard a slight whistle and dodging deftly, reached up and caught around the middle a thin
poison dart that would have landed in his right eye.  He tucked it in his waistband and sprinted
for the treeline.  The thrum of drums filled the air but his thighs carried him like a sprinter, even
over sand, and the fusillade of home-made arrows blown through bamboo tubes missed him
entirely.  Ducking behind a palm tree he grabbed hold of bole and started bending it down.  The
hard wood that withstood hurricane winds cracked and popped as Kris's undeniable lats and
massive arms bent it like a giant catapult; and two sets of hands scrambled to hold onto the
branches.  When the strain in his arms told Kris the tree would snap with an ounce more
pressure, he grinned and let go: and his two assailants flew through the sky with fading yells,
crashing into the dense jungle beyond.  

The tree snapped back and forth until Kris's big hand reached up and stopped it, absently.  The
fronds vibrated violently at the sudden halt.  He stepped warily along the edge of the foliage until
he came to the end, where it curved inland to reveal the large beach complex of the camp.  Make
or break time.  

Fortunately a thug leapt from a palm directly onto Kris's back.  Kris dropped to his knees,
absorbing the weight, but the man was jarred, dazed by hitting Kris's unyielding body.  Kris
dropped him off, then picked him up and ran, using him as a shield.  Kris's big hands crushed the
man's thick upper arms, holding him paralyzed and carrying him as if he were a doll as various
rocks and home-made missiles struck him.  His speed dazzled most of the men, who dropped
their stones and bamboo spears to watch in awe the newcomer's bold arrival.  By the time Kris
reached the registrar's tent, his human shield was gasping his last breath.  "Better take him to the
medical unit," Kris said, dropping him on the ground with a thump.

The old man staffing the table was visibly working his cock beneath it with one hand.  "There is
no medical unit," he said breathlessly.  He tried to shuffle papers with his one free hand but Kris
standing there, chest rising only mildly after his exertions, veins popping out down his arms and
across his shoulders, visible under the shirt still wet from sea and sweat and humidity, clearly
destroyed his concentration.  Kris locked eyes with him, assuring the old man he knew precisely
his effect, and promising wordlessly that he could turn that effect up to boiling if he wanted to. 
That he could bring the man to cardiac arrest without even touching him.  But instead, for now,
he chose to just stand there. 

Kris was strong; only he knew how strong.  That first kill at 15, when his arm crushed the neck
of the 18 year old Mr. Teen USA during that erotic asphyxiation fuck session, got into his blood
fast.  But since murder was hard to accomplish, even in a big city, much of his training in the last
three years had been in killing motors.  It wasn't the same, exactly, but watching 400 horsepower
die in his compressing arms, smelling the acrid smoke of burning coils and melting gaskets,
feeling the vibrations grow stronger and stronger as the torque increased against his fingers, his
hand, his body until it rattled out of its own control and lost its power to Kris's control:  that was
almost good enough.  It was what jerking off is to actual fucking: not nearly enough, but
something you gotta do.  Sometimes three or four times a day.  Or more.

After he was exonerated from killing Mr. Teen USA, he went to his father's old gas lawn mower
in the garage.  He hated mowing the lawn.  He revved it up and watched the spinning blades. 
Swiftly, heart pounding at the danger, he reached in and grabbed a whirling blade between his
thumb and fuckfinger. The tension mounted as the engine whined, vibrating his forearm.  He
flexed his forearm to stop that, and the blade jittered between his fingers while tendrils of smoke
floated out of the housing.  He squeezed tighter and the blade stopped jittering: and he got hard
controlling the machine, quelling its rebellion against his strength.  The entire mower now
bucked as the energy it poured out had nowhere to go.  He bore down but it was too late.  A
wheel snapped off, a deep grinding sound brought his father running and a sudden explosion of
sparks and flying oil coated Kris's bare upper body as the motor burnt itself out.  His father raged
but couldn't wipe the grin off Kris's face, or stop the come that pumped down his tented jeans
leg.

From there Kris had graduated to larger motors, greater horsepower, and more remote environs. 
His last kill before coming to the island was a Volkswagen Beetle, one of the new ones.  His
training partner revved, bucked and floored the motor as the big empty hood crumpled
accordion-like against Kris's body.  Kris held it for a full six minutes at full throttle before he
realized the topped-off tank of gas might have given the car a slight edge: so he ordered his
partner to secure the accelerator with a large brick and bail out.  He drove the spinning wheels
backward into the wall of an abandoned warehouse, ramming the rear-mounted motor against a
support girder that bent inward until the engine finally cracked and died with a billow of burning
grease and he sprayed gobs of salty come all over the wrinkled hood and shattered windshield.  It
wasn't the kill he wanted, but he doubted there was another man on the island who could do it.

He was wrong; but let's not skip ahead.

The registrar pulled his head away from the nearly spherical shape his thighs created when
standing still, and the arc of his semi-erect cock testing the strength of the zipper in his cargo
pants.  "Because you survived the beach, you get a complimentary twelve-hour respite from
danger.  An orientation period, if you will."

Kris gazed around at the men surrounding him, arms crossed before massive pecs.  Their eyes
were not welcoming.  The registrar coughed.  "Of course, none of the men is obligated to respect
this grace period, but in general it is observed: just don't piss anyone off.  Of course, by being
here you're bound to piss some men off ...."

The old guy rambled on, the way old men will.  Especially when their minds are dazed by just-
legal manmeat weighing nearly three bills without a gram of fat.  Kris took in his surroundings,
filled out the forms while listening to all the activity outside the tent and studying the maps of the
island, the compound and dormitory/weight area.  He was itching to get started, having been
delayed by that tropical storm for three days.  Apparently a dozen men died during the storm, but
not all seemed to be due to the weather; a wall of the dorm caved in, but into the wind, as it
turned out.  Kris concentrated on the task before him.  He did not think about the prize money.
$100 million dollars would simply cloud his judgment, and was only icing on the cake.  He cake
he wanted to eat was the death of strong men in his bare hands.  And he intended to glut himself.

"... and all areas of the island are monitored by video and satellite surveillance.  Any attempt to
contact the outside world will result in your immediate execution.  If you must kill outside the
arena, we insist it be in an area monitored by video.  We will be very displeased by bodies
showing up that we did not, er, have the benefit of.  Now go find a bunk if you can."

He was serious about that.  There were only 75 bunks in the dormitory.  All of them occupied. 
Cameras were mounted everywhere, including the crappers.  There was not a single place to find
privacy, except in the depths of the jungle; and even that was largely wired and bugged.  No
matter, Kris had nothing to hide.  He wanted his full glory to be revealed.  Even if, as he entered
the dorm and saw the men in the weight area, he had his first twinge of doubt.

The smallest weight plates were 45 pounds.  The smallest dumbbells were 100 lbs.  The bars
were all extra-long, and there were no machines of any sort.  And everything was being used. 
One guy was benching 600 lbs without a spotter.  Naturally: a spotter would try to kill you. 
Clearly he was stronger than this, because you shouldn't lift a weight you couldn't throw.  He
pounded the reps out without straining.  Another guy had a bar groaning under 1000 lbs for
squats, rep after rep.  Another guy was curling 150 lb dumbbells with barely a cheat. Muscles
bloomed like strange fungal growths in the tropical heat.  Kris felt moths flutter in his stomach.

He saw the lower bunk he wanted, away from the hastily reconstructed wall, and headed for it. 
The occupant was filing his teeth to points with a rat-tail and a hand mirror.  He saw Kris moving
toward him and lashed out for his neck with talon-like nails.  Kris caught the wrist and squeezed
sharply, crushing the bones inward.  The man gurgled with rage and pain and clawed with his
other hand at Kris's eyes.  Kris reached up and interlaced his fingers, forcing the man's hand
backward until more bones and tendons snapped.  His arms crossed before him, he pulled them
apart, spinning the man around and dragging him off the bed.  Swiftly letting the broken wrists
fall he placed his hands on either side of the man's head and twisted; his thick neck snapped like
a chicken's.  He remember, turned to the nearest ceiling camera and smiled, flexing a gun over
the corpse.  Then he threw it onto the middle of the floor and saw everyone had stopped to watch
him.  He sat on the bunk and stretched.

"Grace period's over, you fuck."  The benching man was sitting there, huge rounded pecs
dripping sweat off long nipples.  Then he went back to benching, slapping two more 45s onto the
bar.  

"Psst."  Kris turned his head.  In the upper bunk in the next row a wiry man stared at him.  He
had a Bruce Lee look, fine-tuned and deadly.  And quite a few healing cuts and bruises.  "New
guy.  I can teach you how to survive."  He grinned and nodded.

Kris turned his head away and closed his eyes, lacing his hands behind is head so his big relaxed
biceps bulged up and out.  "I know how to survive.  I'm going to kill everyone."  And he faded
off to a quick, light, one-ear-open nap.  

*****

Blinding light struck down into the arena as Kris emerged from dark hallway for his first match. 
The sun had set but the heat remained like a heavy blanket.  His opponent had already killed half
a dozen men but Kris wasn't frightened in the least.  This guy, a walking tattoo of spiders and
webs, had nothing on him.  And nothing on: all fights were completely nude.

As his eyes adjusted to the glare Kris saw the rows of well-cushioned seats rising up around the
arena.  There was no screen to keep blood or gore from splashing up onto them.  Other
combatants acted as bodyguards at regular intervals.  

No brought-in weapons were allowed but the men could sneak in and use anything they could
make.  There were no referees to stop them.  Kris's opponent, known to him only as Number 94,
had a stone axe.  How neolithic, Kris thought.  The man charged, yelling at the top of his lungs. 
Kris dodged the blow and tripped him: yet he tumbled like a gymnast, bounced off a wall and
flew back at Kris with a dexterity that amazed him.  The axe came down again, hard, on his
deltoid; Kris instinctively flexed and despite the shattering pain his muscle density bounced the
rock back, out of the man's hand.  No. 94 looked surprised;  Kris shot his flat hand out so hard
and fast it caved the man's sternum in.  As the skin darkened and the man flailed for breath, Kris
grasped his head in the crook of his arm and dragged him across the arena.  All was silent except
for whistling breaths from up above.  Kris reached down and picked up the rock axe.  Holding it
before the wide eyes of No. 94, Kris squeezed: as the pressure increased on 94's skull, the veins
and ropey muscles also stood out in Kris's other arm.  Cracks in 94's skull accompanied fissures
opening in the stone, and at the moment Kris completely closed his arm, driving his hard biceps
into the back of the man's head and crushing his skull in three places, the last thing 94 saw was
the stone cracking into bits in Kris's hand.  Kris dropped the shattered axe and noticed his hard-
on raging.  Picking up the corpse, he rammed his cock deep into its guts, using the dead man like
a sex toy.  As he started to come he pulled out and let a huge load of jism, his first in days,
bespatter the corpse without touching himself.  As he stood there, panting and dribbling come, he
heard a sharp intake of breath and then wild applause.  The whole thing took less than five
minutes, but they got their money's worth.  And they had a new favorite.

The drum full of numbers rolled as the tile carved 94 was thrown into the heap of dead numbers. 
Perhaps the drawing was rigged; no one would ever say for certain.  But the next two numbers
were 2 and 151: and Kris was 151.  

No. 2 was the benchpresser.  Standing up he was almost half a foot taller than Kris.  He was
thick, ursine, but lacked the hardness of Kris's fat-free physique.  He jumped down into the pit
and dusted off his hands.  Like Kris would be as easily shaken off as a little grit.  With a
menacing scowl, he charged.  

The man had a hundred pounds on Kris and his momentum, driven by rippling thighs, would
drive a steam engine over onto his side.  Kris tried to dodge but 2 out-thought him and careened a
shoulder into Kris's gut.  Kris spun back on his ass and slid across the rough concrete.  2 stopped
on a dime, spun and threw himself at Kris.  Kris tried to scramble away but the man's power
overwhelmed him and he landed hard on his shoulder, 2 bearing down and slugging away at his
face.  Between blows Kris wondered if that benching had been a warm up.  Kris left the pain
behind and dug down: and with a roar spun onto his belly and pushed up hard.  The man rose and
should have been thrown off but he clung like a wet rag, skittering around pulling Kris into an
upside-down bear hug around his 29-inch waist.  Kris hung there, facing away from 2.  And 2
squeezed.

Pain battled its way up toward Kris's consciousness but he smashed it back down.  His abs
would hold out long enough to find 2's weakness.  As if reading his thoughts, 2 arched himself
away from Kris's legs, out of head-squeezing reach, laughing and blowing air into Kris's ass. 
Then 2 brought to bear the sort of pressure that had caved in beer kegs back home, crushing them
flat and then condensing them lengthwise until they were no more than wads of useless steel. 
Kris's abs took the pressure but were starting to spasm. 

Kris struggled to pry those forearms apart but his shoulder still smarted from the first match and
he simply couldn't break the handlock. Stars started to sparkle before Kris's vision; his back
muscles struggled to protect his spine.  2 shook him up and down, with each bounce compressing
his waist that much more.  Breathing deeply, opening his eyes with purity, he felt the man's
raging hard-on lengthening along the deep crevasse between Kris's back muscles; he felt sticky
precum.  Vacuuming his waist to an incredible 25" gained him enough room to twist around,
crunch up and bite the head of No. 2's cock.  2 immediately dropped Kris on his head but Kris
caught himself in a handstand and flipped himself upright with a gymnast's speed and grace.  2
dropped to his knees and opened his mouth to scream: and Kris spit the bloody chunk down his
throat.  2 instinctively clutched at his throat, blood spewing from his ragged, flaccid penis. 
Kris's strength ebbed back into him all at once and he grabbed the man by his pecs and the loose
fat over his stomach and heaved him high overhead.  The sweaty skin made the enormous load
slippery so he dug his fingers into the flesh, macerating the muscle beneath.  The crowd roared as
blood rained down over Kris's head and into his long hair.  He pumped the wriggling, choking
man a few times to blow his back, shoulders and biceps up and then threw him against the side of
the pit.  The cock chunk dislodged and 2 fell on his face in the dust, sucking air and gravel.  Kris
got an idea.

He grabbed the bloody glans and shoved it back down 2's throat.  He glanced through the crowd
until he saw the man who had acted as registrar earlier.  Pulling the huge stunned bulk up into his
arms, he wrapped his arms around 2's chest and crushed.  The man's arms flailed up and he
flexed his pecs but Kris dug his forearms into the bunching muscle and squeezed.  The man's
face turned red from lack of breath: and Kris squeezed hard enough to bend the man's ribs
beneath all his heavy muscle plating.  Kris raised the 400 lb man off the ground and shook him
like a doll, then aimed and crunched his arms tighter.  His biceps bit into the man's upper arms,
punishing the muscle and bruising the bone as ribs cracked and the sternum popped.  2 was
tougher than he looked.

Heaving another breath as No. 2's face grew purple and his eyes rolled up, Kris yelled like
Tarzan and forced his arms to contract further.  The power blew all the air out of the giant's
lungs and sent the cockhead flying straight for the registrar, hitting him in the chest.  The look of
joy on his face turned into orgasmic spasms as his hands fumbled in his lap for the piece of meat.

No. 2 tried to inhale but couldn't draw breath as long as Kris kept his arms tight: so Kris
tightened them further.  Ribs snapped, some inward, some out through the skin.  The
powerlifter's hard belly was now larger than his chest as his helpless pecs ballooned around
Kris's forearms, and Kris's biceps fractured the bone of those mighty arms.  With one final deep
breath, Kris grabbed hold of his own forearms and began dragging his arms closer together,
folding the man in half.  When Kris held his own elbows, he dropped the corpse.  And stood
there, breathing, and wiping the blood from his face.  

You see, Kris had wadded up his share of beer kegs with his bare hands as well.  Oil drums too. 
He loved the feeling of the steel curling under his fingers as he worked the stiff metal into itself,
the solid structure collapsing under the will of his hands.  These skills always come in handy
someday.

The old men jumped to their feet and screamed.  Never before had any contestant so utterly
mangled another strongman.  Kris felt certain his ultimate victory was complete: who would
even want to fight him after this awesome display of brawn?  Psychologically he'd crushed every
other combatant in the place.  Or so he thought.  

The danger, he felt, would be when he slept, or showered, or worked out.  

The competition ended when it should have gone on deep into the night; the spectators were
exhausted, spent from the breathtaking (literally) spectacle Kris had provided.  The combatants
men grumbled: delays like this only made things worse, gave more opportunities for stealth
murder by the weaker, more frightened men (and the ones possibly there under coercion; but that
wasn't talked about either).  Everyone was surly and resentful as Kris made his way to the arena
shower area.

This was a spectator sport as well: some of the bodyguard-combatants aimed fire hoses at the
winner to blast the blood and gore from them.  The viewing area was crowded as Kris withstood
the water pressure that covered the windows with pink froth.  This was the only shower you got
so he spread his butt cheeks and let the hydraulic pressure clean the salt off his balls.  He stroked
and flexed and luxuriated in the water.  Old men cried out as they got painful new erections after
having rubbed themselves raw so soon before.  When the water shut off he slung his hair around
and shook like a lion, and walked back to his bunk.  Fuck clothes; they just got in the way
anyway.  There was a brief scramble as wizened talons shredded his pants and shirt.  He hadn't
brought anything else with him.

****

It was his own fist grabbing the hand with the palm-frond stiletto that woke him up.  Once his
arm went rigid the other man's entire weight couldn't move the blade any closer to his neck.  He
straightened his arm and slammed the man's head against the steel frame of the upper bunk,
effortlessly pressing his 200-plus pounds into the air.  His hand crushed the man's fist and the
blade fell, sticking into Kris's pec.  Kris bunched the muscle and forced the blade back out. 
Reaching underneath his bunk he found the poison dart he'd saved from his first moment ashore
and jabbed it into his attacker's ear.  The man spasmed and Kris flung him out to the middle of
the floor, leaping up after him.  He felt a number of them in the pitch blackness.  The first to
strike was the Bruce Lee man, who cracked bones against Kris's upper arm.  Kris grabbed the leg
faster than he could spin away and slung the man around in a widening circle until men began to
fly, scramble and yell.  He let the man go with a sickening thud.  And felt the other men creep
back to their bunks.  

It was too hot to let a dead man lay there all night so he tossed him out the door.  Turning to
where he knew the camera was he apologized for their not being able to witness his defense-as-
offense.  Chuckling laughter crackled through a World War II era speaker: "Don't worry 151. 
It's infrared.  And on tape for posterity.  Have a good night's rest."

****

Mornings were for workouts.  The equipment was limited so only the strongest and meanest men
used it; everyone else had to roam around the island and find tree limbs and rocks to use.  These
were all under surveillance as well.  Kris decided he wanted to do some benching.  So he
approached the man benching.  

"Get up," he commanded.  

The man continued to pump out reps with a paltry 500 lbs on the bar.  Kris stopped his rep with
one hand.  The man racked it and swung up to grab Kris's head in a leglock.  The man tugged,
trying to flip Kris over but Kris resisted, and grabbed the man's calves with his hands.  Digging
his fingers into the split between the muscles he pried the legs apart.  The man felt himself losing
to Kris's strength and tried to wriggle free but Kris completely controlled him, opening his legs
farther and farther apart.  The man yelped as Kris forced his thighs into a full split–and with a
sharp crack broke the hip joints.  The man screamed and writhed and Kris threw him on the floor
and went to load plates onto the bar, ignoring him.  From the stack he grabbed two hundred-
pound plates in each hand, pinch-gripping them as a warm up, and slid one onto each side of the
bar.  

As he sat down, a man doing pullups with a 200# dumbbell strapped to him, said, between reps,
"You're not going to leave him there.  You gotta clean up after yourself."  Then he pulled
himself back up, muscles dancing in his forearms as his big bi's split and grew and his lats flared
out as the concert of muscle in his upper back dragged a combined weight of nearly 500 lbs into
the air.

"I'm not losing this bench," Kris said.

"Dude, you got the bench," he said, pushing himself out from the bar and lowering himself
slowly to a dead hang.   "Now finish him off.  I can't stand the noise."

Kris got up, locked eyes with every man in the room, then walked over to the writhing man who
wept, clutching at his legs. Kris reached down and caressed the man's head.  He felt his cock stir
at the power he held over this man, a power he would use.  He picked the man up gingerly by the
pits and listened as his breath whistled through the pain.  His legs splayed out, the weight of his
own quads torturing the shattered joints.   Kris kissed him, lightly, on the lips and rubbed his
foot-long cock against the man's own, hidden and soft a pair of cut-off jeans.  Despite the man's
agony he could feel that cock stir in response to Kris's virile presence.  Placing the man's head
gently in the bend of his arm, chin on biceps-peak, he caressed the top of the man's head and
tongued his ear as the pressure increased.  His arm-rock hardened against the man's jaw,
fissuring the bone, but Kris never let up gently caressing and frenching that head as its eyes
popped and with a stifled moan it cracked like a nut in Kris's vice-embrace.  The man's legs
went limp even as he shot a load in his death throes, and Kris returned the favor, spattering the
jittery man with his own seed.  Then he carried the man out and dropped him in the dirt in the
yard.

When he got back, the bench was empty.  Kris looked underneath it, and saw one of the legs had
been hacked almost through.  Not enough for anyone to notice at first, but with enough weight it
would buckle.  Kris took one of the forty-five pound plates and laid it upright against the ground. 
Bearing all his weight down on it he began rolling it: and as it scraped over the gravelly concrete
it seemed to flatten, become more oval, like a giant penny left on the railroad tracks.  When it
was the same height as the leg, he pulled it up and held it before his broad chest.  

His pecs flexed a couple of times and then his arms bore down on it.  His knuckles turned white
and his arms trembled.  He took a deep breath, swelling his chest so that each pec grew almost as
large as the plate, set his jaw and shoved.  The plate bent beneath the pressure generated by his
muscle.  He breathed again and jerked the plate into a deeper V-shape.  Once again, all activity
stopped to watch the newcomer exert his superior muscle force.  His hands shoved again and the
plate caved inward. Taking it back to the bench he placed its 90 degree angle against the square
steel post, and with more quick shoves that pumped the cartography of his back into high relief, a
volcanic range of muscle, he deformed the plate around the support post.  

"That should hold it," he said, glancing at the bar.  "I don't need a warm-up though."  He slid the
other two 100 pounders onto the bar and began to rep out the incredible weight of 900 lbs.  Six
perfect clean piston-like motions with a full flex at the top pumped vast amounts of blood into
the swelling muscles of his chest.  He sat up and flexed, and heard someone drop a dumbbell. 
Smirking to himself over the effect he had on grown men, he slapped another pair of hundreds
onto the bar, which bent beneath the poundage.  Over half a ton of dead weight he hoisted in the
air, powered up and lowered slowly until it grazed his shining pecs before hurtling up to arm's
length in defiance of gravity and all previous human endeavor.  He reveled in the thought that no
one was as strong, as young and as hot as he was.  And knew no one dared attack him during this
set, or any other.

After four work sets with 1100 pounds he stripped four plates off and proceeded to do rows with
a weight most trained men cannot even deadlift.  But he yanked the bar up to his chest and
lowered it strictly again and again.  Then he walked over the pull-up bar where the other guy was
shaking out his bloated, aching biceps.  "Strap the weight back on," Kris ordered, and the man
obeyed, though his hands shook with fatigue.  "Now hang onto my neck.  Consider it grip work."

The man did as he was ordered, digging fingers into the striations of Kris's traps.  Kris jumped
up to the bar, palms facing away, and pulled the load up: with his own body weight, about 750
pounds.  His biceps and lats cranked out one quick full rep after the other, going so fast the other
man could barely hang on: after all, his traps thickening beneath his fingers.  The heat had passed
100 degrees and the sweat made Kris's mountain of meat slippery, but the dizzy man clung to
him, feeling his cock against Kris's ass as he felt the power and watched the splits and peaks of
Kris's monster biceps.  Kris dropped at the feeling and stood over the man in heat.  

"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head and letting his wet hair sling droplets around him like a halo. 
"But I have an idea."

Three quick strokes got Kris hard as a girder (his own strength had already semi-aroused him),
and he heaved the other man up, dumbbell and all, and lowered him gasping onto his cock. 
"This should help you keep a grip on me," he said with mocking contempt.  Shaking out his
bursting biceps, he jumped up again, palms supinated, and began powering out the reps with the
man sitting on his big teen cock, scrabbling his fingers over Kris's rock-hard bi's and burying his
face in Kris's pecs.  Kris slowed down as the final reps grew harder; every time when, from a
dead hang he contracted his body upwards the older bodybuilder impaled on him groaned, and
thrashed, and finally spurted come all up his gleaming torso.  The man clutched Kris's lats and
rubbed his cock against Kris's cobblestone abs, squeezing out his juice as Kris gave him another
ride up, and paused, and then another.  Kris kept repping until the man could take no more.  Then
repped a couple more times to torture him with his strength.  After forty perfect phenomenal reps
(dead hang to chin over bar) he dropped and put his arms around the man twisting with agonized
ecstasy on his cock.  A man who'd forgotten where he was, lost in the majesty of Kris's fucking. 
But Kris hadn't forgotten.  

He hugged the man and thrusted deeper.  The man hugged him back–until he found it hard to
breathe.  He tried to push away but Kris held him close.  Kris flexed his pecs, trapping the man's
face between them, sealing off his mouth and nostrils with liquid iron flesh.  The fuckee could
only try to press against the inside of Kris's lats, which were solid as a wall, but Kris caressed
and hugged tighter, brushing his lips through his hair as his cock grew thicker inside the man's
ass.  He started to buck, and with each buck he squeezed.  A muffled scream could barely be
heard leaking out through the striations in Kris's pecs so Kris flexed harder and the man went
silent, though he struggled like a fish out of water.  The pressure of his pecs crushed the man's
nose and pressed teeth out of place.  Kris's ass clenched and flexed, huge round ridged and cut
glutes squeezing as Kris's balls knocked against the 200 lb dumbbell still swinging from the
man's waist.  A sharp click signified his spine breaking, and a series of snaps succeeded as ribs
bowed and broke.  Kris opened his mouth and moaned, a string of thick saliva dropping into the
dying man's hair.  His abs clenched and rolled and he began filling the man's guts with his
dickspit, tossing his head in ecstasy and crushing the man down onto his cock so that his legs
flew up sideways and hard bones crackled.  He crammed him down and viscous cum spilled out
onto the floor.  He pumped until he was dry, until his cock screamed for air and isolation from all
contact.  He pulled the broken rag-doll of a bodybuilder and carried him outside under his arm to
drop on the corpse of the would-be benchpresser.

Then he moved on to squats.  

The Olympic bar wasn't long enough to fit all the plates he'd need to use so he strolled over to a
big army surplus truck.  Kris ordered the other men to bring the entire set of plates out.  Nearly
five thousand pounds of iron disks were stacked in the back of the truck.  When all the men
moved out of reach of Kris's long arm he ordered ten of them to sit in the truck bed and keep the
plates from sliding around.  Kris grabbed the bumper and lifted.  The truck groaned as the weight
left the wheels, then left the suspension, then dragged the wheels into the air.  Kris straightened
his legs, breathed deeply and sank back down until the tires just grazed the ground.  Then he
exploded upward again, sending the ten men scrambling to keep the weight from shifting.  Kris
squatted the truck until his thighs dwarfed the men surrounding him.  Bigger than their waists. 
Bigger than some of their chests.  Kris savored his reign as king and his legs were far from tiring
as ten men rode his bucking bronco ride and came all over the stacked weights.

*****

Kris's number didn't come up until nightfall.  The afternoon fights were uneventful, though each
one ended with a man losing his life.  Combatants tried to mimic Kris's moves from the night
before but hadn't the dexterity or strength to carry them through.  Attendance was light, for the
first time in the history of the games.  Apparently there was quite a bit of activity in the video
surveillance booths during Kris's workout, however.  

The stands were full, though, by the time Kris's number fell out of the drum.  He could smell the
apprehension, the expectation like a thousand taut little wires pulling him in all directions.  He
walked into the arena to face his hapless opponent, a mob henchman who'd murdered many, had
been spirited out of a maximum security prison for the games.  He was older, kind of fat, but
cold, ruthless eyes nestled in a rock-hard head.  Kris knew he'd have a weapon of some sort.  

Kris approached him confidently, watching and listening.  A glint and the ping of a thumbnail on
the blade revealed the shiv the man had fashioned and lashed at Kris, cutting him across the top
of the thigh as he danced out of reach.  Kris hated seeing his own blood spilt, and despised
anything that would mar his beauty.  He waggled his fingers to make the man move toward him. 

The mobster set his cold face and lunged but Kris was too fast for him.  Kris hit his wrist,
snapping the bone and sending the shiv skittering over the rugged concrete pit floor.  The man's
eyes went wide and Kris punched him hard in the belly, driving him off his feet and into the air. 
He landed gasping on his ass and tumbled over.  In what became his signature move, Kris
reached down and grabbed him by handfuls of backflesh and hoisted him overhead.  He pumped
him up and down a few times and then held him at arm's length above his head: and started to
bend him backwards, without using his own head as a fulcrum.  The mobster cried out and tried
to straighten himself but Kris's arms and lats were stronger than the man's whole body.  His back
bent like a bow as Kris grimaced with pulled until vertebra began to split and crack open under
the strain.  The man wailed, blood bubbled from his mouth and fell onto Kris's thick pole,
mixing with the precum beading its slit.  Kris twisted him as if wringing out a rag.  The man
cried for his mother.  With a savage roar Kris mastered the bones and pulled the man's head
against his feet, bones bursting through the fat with nauseating rifle-like reports.  Kris shook him
overhead like a flag, and slung him into a gutter for those on KP duty to clear away.  So far,
Kris's number had never come up for that; nor would it.

But his number came up again for the next round.  He was winded after killing that 350 lb
mobster over his head; so for the next match he didn't fool around.  A large man, an ex cop,
entered and stood up to Kris, hands on hips, looking down his proud nose at Kris.  Kris looked
up, grinned, and in a blur that wasn't completely visible even on slow playback, plowed his fist
into the side of the ex-cop's head.  Head-butting had been this man's specialty but Kris's terrible
fist crushed it inward and shattered every bone in his face.  He fell like a lump and Kris kicked
him into the dead gutter.

The next three matches went this way, Kris bored by this feeble competition.  Men came out, and
Kris dispatched them with one blow to the head or chest, once punching through the breastbone
to grab the man's heart and wrench it out.  The audience grew restless; a muffled hiss and boo
was heard.  Kris's eyes sought it out and fixed the man with a look of deadly contempt.  He
shrank behind two bodyguards, neither of whom looked happy to stand between him and this
killing machine.  The numbers were called; 151 wasn't one of them.  

His eyes flashed and his chest heaved and he strode out of the arena, brushing past the two other
men feeding into the death ring.  But a commotion occurred among the spectators, who barely
watched the new contest.  The drum rolled almost before the man who had been squatting the
first day finished off his opponent with a vicious leglock.  Kris was recalled, to face the squatter.

The man's thighs were seriously distended.  Mooring cables of muscle bunched around them like
Moorish columns.  Kris looked positively balletic next to him.  And he flew at Kris, feet first,
and knocked him back against the side of the pit.

The blow stunned him and the man jumped up, butting Kris against the wall with his shoulder. 
Kris sustained the blows and decided to give them all a great show.  He brought his knee up into
the hard abs of the squatter but it had no effect.  The man simply grabbed his knee and flipped
Kris around so that his chest pressed into the wall, and started bending Kris's leg backwards. 
Kris tightened his quads, braced himself to the wall and straightened his leg back out, slowly
struggling against the other man's strength.  His triceps bloomed as he levered his leg out and
down.  The man battered the side of Kris's head and Kris stumbled into the arena.  The squatter
leapt again, securing another leglock around Kris's upper arms and chest.  And wasted no time in
bearing down.

Kris had nowhere to maneuver, no hands free.  Those giant thighs loomed above and below him,
suspending him in the air almost.  His feet gained no purchase as the squatter's flexibility
anticipated his struggle and forced Kris's muscles toward submission.   For the first time since
he'd arrived, Kris marveled at another man's musculature.  These legs were works of art, deadly
nests of twisting pythons.  Kris's breathing became shallower; he felt the smaller muscles of his
back quiver, begin to fail.  He tried to buck but the man's advantage drove him back down.  Kris
began to sweat more heavily in the raw tropical heat.  

Kris tried to move but was held immobile, incased in a hot seething muscle tomb.  The squatter
wasn't even breathing hard, was drawing it out for the benefit of the old men, wanting to become
their favorite.  And it was in this vanity Kris found his opening.  The mans's legs might have
killed him, but they hadn't; and now, wouldn't.

Kris began flexing his pecs, flexing his back, flexing his biceps.  The squatter grinned and
clamped down but Kris opened enough room to draw deeper breaths.  With each breath his rib
cage expanded a little more, and the iron muscle supported its opening.  The squatter looked
angry, and tried to squeeze again, but by now his thighs were beginning to fatigue from the
sustained effort.  With the first muscle tremor deep in the man's legs Kris lunged around,
sideways, placing each shoulder against the thighs and forcing them open.  Leveraging his arms
he tried to open them farther but these quads were still stronger than Kris's arms. 
The titanic battle continued as no one dared to breath: the two muscle giants locked in a
motionless struggle. The squatter was now furious, and began trying to crush Kris for good. 
Kris's cock began to fill with blood, anticipating victory.  Kris bellowed and drove one thigh
high enough to scramble out from under it.  As it snapped back Kris flipped his combatant onto
his belly and pulled those thighs backward.  The man yelled as Kris drove with his own nuclear
legs, making the man pound the ground in humiliation.  Kris needed to punish those thighs but
they were still too powerful to crush, to fully destroy.  So he went for his signature move.

Heaving the man up, he grabbed a fistful of trap in one hand and a fistful of hamstrings in the
other: and pulled.  The man felt most comfortable constricting things to death, Kris would do the
opposite to him.  He intuited a special terror of stretching in the squatter: so he stretched.

The squatter sought to throw Kris off-balance by gyrating his powerhouse thighs but Kris moved
beneath them, his own truck-squatting quads absorbing and stabilizing the movement.  His lats
bunched, his delts crowded against his head, and he pulled.  Harder.  Muscles began to spasm in
Squatter's back and his legs threw out forceful kicks that Kris's arm was barely able to control:
so he jerked Squatter and heard his back pop.  He increased his outward pressure and could
practically hear the skin getting taught.  Muscle quivered and convulsed as Kris poured on the
pressure: more joints popped and stressed ligaments began to tear.  The man cried out and
thrashed but every movement brought more pain as his body was slowly stretched out of
alignment, muscles cramping and tearing, things starting to separate.  Kris's cock throbbed with
the struggle, feeling the man's strength flow down through his own arms and into his body as he
double his efforts, and doubled them again.  The man screamed and his skin reddened as broken
blood vessels multiplied.  A sickening ripping sounded as muscles failed and pulled loose, skin
tore open and the spinal column pulled apart.  He writhed once, slicing his spinal cord and
rendering him powerless to resist (or rather, slow his death any further) and Kris yelled and
yanked his arms down, shredding the man into two halves over his head.  Guts spilled down over
his head and the crowd roared he Kris stood there, holding two halves of one man in either hand ,
arms bulging and twitching with exhausted supremacy, cock spurting gallons of cream into the
sloshing remains of the squatter's insides.  

The audience nearly rioted in its ecstasy; men leaped into the arena to touch Kris and bow down
to him.  Kris pulled away in repulsion from their soft, stringy, and wiry fingers and walked off to
the shower, dropping the squatter's remains as if he'd forgotten all about them.  His cock stayed
hard even under the cold blast of the fire hoses.

An escort awaited him and took him to a private room with a massive vault door that locked
from the inside.  He also got real food, not the gruel that had been handed out before.  He
devoured the rare porterhouse and fell into the eiderdown bed and slept like a stone until dawn.

*****

He woke to find steak and eggs outside his vault door.  As he consumed them greedily, a stout
man of middle-age and indeterminate race approached him.  "No. 151, we see your training
exceeds our weight room capabilities."  Kris looked at him coldly, noticing the small penis that
seemed enraged by his mere presence lumping out the man's silk pants.  "Please follow this map
to a special training area we have constructed for you.  No one else has yet discovered it."  He
lay the map on the edge of the table and backed out, smiling and eating Kris with his eyes.  Kris
glanced at the map and devoured his steak.  

It led him deep into the heart of the island.  A large boulder sealed the entrance.  Kris double-
checked to make sure this was correct, and put his back into it.  The rock was tall, but not wide;
by prying into it he could feel the weight move behind his muscle.  He flexed his arm, marveling
at the bits of rock that flaked off in response.  He tugged, savoring the crack of the rock breaking
loose, and with a few quick exertions he sent the rock shattering onto the ground.  But the gap
wasn't wide enough for him to fit through without going sideways.  So he widened it.

Wedging his shoulders in, he flexed again: but this time the solid rock remained solid.  He set his
thighs and shoved upward, meeting total resistance.  His heart beat at this defiance.  He hardened
his muscles and pebbles squeaked out around them.  With a deep growl he MOVED forward and
upward and the rock MOVED slightly in response, but its weight bore back down onto him.  He
didn't fall back but supported the tonnage, wedging himself deeper into the crevice, refusing to
turn his body away or twist himself around to pass through it.  He heaved again and soil slid into
the space opening at the bottom of the rock to one side as its hugeness shifted in response to his
muscle.  He scraped farther in, crushing rock to dust with his delts, and brought his hands
forward to grasp the far side of the crevice.  With this help he pulled himself almost to the other
side; and felt the rock wall teeter, heard birds fly off it and sandfalls rain all around him.  One
more titanic shove and he brought himself clear, hearing the massive rock face groan back into
its bed.  His skin bore a few scratches but the crevice now bore the almost comic-like outline of
his upper body.  

Inside was a paradisal glade full of strange contraptions.

A large crane had been rigged up to a tall waterfall to provide the resistance for some sort of lat
pull.  Rocks had been set up as Flintstone-like barbells.  Kris laughed at the ludicrousness of it,
especially after he'd just muscled his way through a wall of rock.  And heard the motorized
cameras whirring.

A rack of cold rolled steel bars of various lengths and diameters stood to one side, near the
entrance.  Kris looked at the map, and saw that the trail continued past each set of objects. 
Clearly he was meant to work his way through them all, and this was a sort of warm-up.  Franco
used to do this in his teeth.  But Franco always bent rebar, a softer, less dense metal.  Kris would
show that short Sicilian fuck what arm power was.  Holding the bar before him at arm's length,
like Steve Reeves with the fake bar in "Hercules," he began working the bar.  His arms swelled
against the rigid steel.  He drew the bar closer in, setting his back, feeling it harden.  The bar
stayed firm.  Taking a pec-swelling breath he applied greater pressure.  With a quick wrench he
flexed his biceps and bent the bar ten degrees.  Another wrench gave him ten more, and then he
jerked it farther out of shape.  Adjusting his grip so that he could push down on the steel
weakened by his strength, he continued to warp it in one steady push until the ends met.  Few
men could ever do this to an inch of rolled steel and all of them needed a fulcrum like their head,
neck or knee.  But Kris was merely getting started.

He took two square bars, each three-quarters of an inch thick.  On top of each other they really
made his biceps jump up and resisted his first pull.  Kris's heart beat a little faster at this
challenge.  He grinned: he'd be damned before he'd place the bars over his head or around his
thick traps for additional leverage.  Gripping the ends until he felt the metal quiver, he pulled
again, harder.  The bars resisted again: and Kris unleashed an onslaught of power that increased
until their united tensile strength failed beneath his mounting freak muscle sinew.  Each bar
squeaked as his arms, delts and lats destroyed its forged shape into a sharp curve.  Barely letting
up to change his grip, he continued driving the ends together until they sparked against each
other.  But he wasn't done punishing them for defying him.  Holding the ends before him, arms
crossed, he pulled again, dragging the ends past each other and mastering the bars that tried to
wriggle free from the pressure.  He jerked and torqued them until they each had a tight loop in
the middle and were nearly straight again.  Then he began bending them further, grinning anew
at how the spring-like force built up further, only to be met and bested by his conquering brawn.
Finally the ends met in a perfect circle with the smaller loop at the bottom.  When he let go they
didn't spring back, so thoroughly had he outstressed the steel.  He felt warmed up enough.

Next were two boulders weighing over half a ton each with a thick bar joining them.  Not very
big; granite is dense.  But Kris is denser.  He deadlifted them easily, jerked them up to his
shoulders, and pressed them overhead.  Over one ton of weight, over his fucking head, lowered
and raised again.  Instead of letting it fall he lowered it to his chest again and threw it five feet
from him.  He was starting to like this.  

No Olympic lifter could dream of doing this.  Here he was, all alone, shattering every world
record ever set.  He knew he could sprint faster than any trained athlete, and had clocked himself
running a mile in three minutes, and two miles in a hair under six.  He actually picked up speed
on his second mile.  He threw shot like it was a football, not only for distance but accuracy.  If he
entered an Iron Man competition he'd finish hours before the any other competitor.  And he
knew Mr. Olympia Ronnie Coleman wouldn't stand a chance on the posing stage.

A huge boulder sat at the top of a carved granite ramp, as a sort of leg press, held in place by a
rope secured to the large crane that also held the waterfall lat pull.  Kris set himself into the crude
machine, put his feet against the rock and released the rope.  Immediately gravity tried to crush
him as the rock slid down its track.  His burning quads told him it must weigh in excess of three
tons.  He stopped it with his knees at a 45 degree angle, and slowly pressed it back up; and its
weight dragged it back down toward him.  His thighs exploded pushing this huge rock back up,
grinding it along its ungreased bed, and felt the gravel and dust from the friction gather against
his glutes.  He let the rock fall faster and pressed it back up, toying with it until suddenly he
exploded and sent the tonnage flying ten feet into the air, landing and rolling along the turf until
it fell into the pond and sank.  That was that, he thought, getting up.

Two more huge rocks were set in a sort of Hercules hold, strung by heavy chains from an iron rig
Each rock was again over half a ton.  He stood between them and pulled them up from the
ground, doing chest flies, pumping his pecs as the weight rose and fell.  Then, to further shock
his audience, he stood up and began doing cable biceps curls, again dragging the ton of solid
rock off the earth with only his biceps force.  He pumped them again and again until they
crowded his upper arms for space.  The iron cage groaned under the strain of his lifting; clearly it
had been put together hastily.  Finishing his biceps pump he switched grips again and began
doing one-armed triceps pushdowns with each boulder.  His tris blasted outward, shadowing his
arm in the tropical sunlight.  With a thump he let the rocks sink into the soil, and moved on.

Next was a bench press.  A thick two-inch bar connected the one-ton boulders on the platform. 
The bench was padded stonework.  He stretched out his pecs, reveling in the ripple of fibers as
the plate-sized muscle flatted, yet remained thick on his sternum.  He lay down, took a grip and
heaved the rocks up.  The unbelievable weight swayed in his hands until he found his balance,
and controlling the tonnage he lowered the bar to his pecs.  Kris's pecs burst into flaming pain as
they rioted the weight into the air, bunching into dense thickness Pamela Anderson Lee would
envy.  He lowered the weight and exploded upward again, pain rampaging through his straining,
grinning face.  Never before had any man been this strong, to bench the equivalent of a large
pick-up truck again and again.  And again.  And god damn fucking again.

At the top of the rep, he jerked his hands closer until they were six inches apart, and continued
incredibly with close-grip presses, his arms and shoulders blowing beyond all human proportion
as they manipulated the weight in defiance of all physical laws.  Concluding eight more gut-
wrenching reps he racked the weight and jumped up, feeling full of life and fury, and brought his
hand down in victory on the bar.  The thick steel caved inward under the blow, bending into a V
with the boulders waving in the air.  

Bellowing in his youth and virility he moved on to the gargantuan lat press, stretching his cable-
taught lats into wide sheets of thick rippling muscle.  Securing his knees beneath the carved
outcropping, he released the lever that placed the giant steel trough under the waterfall.  It filled
with water that pounded down into it and dragged his arms up.  Struggling against the continual
stream of gallons of falling water he pulled: and at first nothing more happened than that his back
arched and flexed and his lats grew perpendicular to his waist.  Heaving a deep breath he pulled
again, and raised the trough upward against the beating current.  Arms trembling, abs rocked into
solid formation, he brought the tungsten bar to his chest.  He roared in triumph, and controlled
the trough as it lowered.  The sound of the water battering the steel filled the glade and he pulled
it upward again.  Water sloshed from the trough as it spilled over, drumming and driving it
downward: yet he moved it upward, back muscles interlocked like cogs and gears, arms
quivering with the effort.  Bringing it to his chest he held it there, in ecstasy at the tension he
mastered.  His cock flopped upward against his abs and he lowered the trough for another
impossible rep.  Again he mocked natured by raising the trough against the flow and holding it.

The crane couldn't take the tension; the engineering hadn't taken into account four or possibly
more reps, no one had conceived it possible.  The steel girders buckled and the trough fell. 
Enraged at being robbed of his victory over physics Kris grabbed the steel suspension cable and
jolted it downward, further crippling the crane's steel.  A horrible whine now filled the air as
Kris kept pulling, yanking, and jerking downward until the whole mechanism collapsed inward
and pulled loose from the concrete foundation into which it had been sunk.  Roaring, Kris kept
crumpling it into itself until it sank into the pond and he stood flexing his biceps in victory over
the mangled construction.  He stood there, glaring at its twisted bent-up length, breathing harshly
through his hoarse throat, and heard a single set of hands clapping.

Turning, he saw that he was no longer alone.  A man of enormous proportions stood some fifty
feet away, applauding.  He blinked at the unbelievable size and perfect shape of the man, who
chucked his chin at the tangled steel crane.  Kris looked back at in with pride; and turning
around, saw the man was gone.  As if he'd only been an illusion.  But deep footprints of
phenomenal size indicated he had not been.

On his way out two men ambushed Kris at the narrow pass.  One had a sharp bamboo blade that
Kris caught easily in his hand and cracked in half with a tight squeeze.  This drew blood and the
men saw the look in his eye and tried to scramble through the portal.  Kris reached in and
dragged them back.  Carrying the bodybuilders in the air he pressed them against the side of the
rock, inches from the ground, and looked up into their terrified eyes.  "Fuck with me?" he said
through gritted teeth.  And pulled them down.  

One he spun into a headlock, grating the man's head against his serrated intercostals.  The other
he flung back up against the stone face and plugged his tight ass with his aching cock.  Each man
screamed as Kris pumped his juice into the one and compressed the skull of the other between
his upper arm and side.  With each thrust he rolled the man's head around like a hard boiled egg,
sending tiny fractures through the skull but not killing him yet.  The man's thick-veined arms
could find no purchase against Kris's iron musculature.  The other man groaned as his own cock
engorged, pressed downward against the rock.  His torso bloodied the rock while Kris kept
scrambling his guts from within.  He pulled the man off the rock face and held him with one big
hand.  His cock could be seen pushing up through the man's loosening abs as Kris's orgasm
continued, the come's hydraulics rippling the flesh; the hapless bodybuilder's own cock started
jerking soda in a death fountain as Kris's cock burst through his abdominal wall and spewed the
last globules of come feet beyond the man's spraying guts.  The head-crunched man started to
choke on his own vomit.  The orgasmic fireworks were so intense that Kris unconsciously flexed
his other arm, flattening the other man's skull and jerking so hard his flattened head ripped off
his neck and spurted brains onto the ground.  The decapitated man's cock shot a deathload as it
fell to the ground.  Dropping those remains Kris continued to fuck the impaled man, dragging his
body up and down over his angry, missile-launching godmeat.  After ten minutes of sheer
tingling body-drenching joy he let the shattered corpse fall to the ground and plunged into the
pool to cleanse himself of the dirt these weaker men always leave on his magnificent teen body.

*****

That night he was selected to be a bodyguard, so he could watch the matches and be ogled up
close by the wealthy men.  Only the toughest, strongest, heaviest and cruelest men were left at
this stage.  Kris was moderately impressed by a couple of them.  One bald guy covered with
tattoos and thick muscle took on a powerlifter type who threw him repeatedly onto the ground. 
Baldy tired of this and yanked the man's arm out of its socket, then pulled the whole are off with
a gushing rip.  While the man screamed he rammed the arm into his mouth, dislocating his jaw. 
The lifter dropped to his knees, Baldy yanked the arm out and proceeded to fist the guy with his
own arm.  He shoved the whole fucking arm up the guy's ass so far he lost it.  Baldy's arms were
swollen and drenched with blood and shit by the time the lifter croaked.

Another pair grabbed each other by the head and tried to tear them off.  They danced around until
one succeeded in cracking the other guy's neck.  His arms fell to his side but he wasn't dead so
the other guy picked him up, held him with one hand overhead, and pile-drove him into the
concrete.  But he had his comeuppance.  He pulled the next match with a guy who battered him
around the arena with his fist until his face was a mass of pulp.  Then the guy worked over his
body, macerating it with a boxer's blows.  To finish the job, he placed his legs on the guy's
shoulders, and pulled.  Lats stood out in ebony relief against the light, glistening in the heavy
heat, and he twisted the man's head off his jumping body.

It appeared Kris had set a new standard for violence and everyone was trying to live up to it as
best he could.  Kris yawned, which somehow upset the drum-keeper.  Against usual practice,
Kris's number came up, and he jumped down to face a professional wrestler.  This guy did all
sorts of wrestler's moves, slapping himself and psyching himself up.  He was big, quick and
agile and Kris let him take the advantage for the sake of drama.  Being body-slammed only hurt
the concrete, but Kris gave the wrestler credit for being able to pick him up at all.  The wrestler's
beefy biceps quivered, his body just going to seed.  He climbed the wall of the arena and leapt
onto Kris, who simply jabbed his fist into the air from where he lay.

The wrestler hit his fist: and bounced backward!  Clutching at his chest he scrambled away as
Kris shook out his fist and approached.  He kicked the wrestler, sending his 300 lb bulk flying. 
He picked him up by his lats and hurled him against the wall.  Lifting him overhead, he modified
his signature move per the earlier bout and pumped him up and down with one hand.  Then
tossed him back and forth from one hand to the other.  Then caught him in his arms like a baby,
and curled him against his chest: and kept curling.   The stunned man struggled but Kris's brutal
arms compacted him like the trash he was.  

The wrestler tried to bite him so Kris dropped him to the ground and twisted him over, cramming
his hard thick teen cock into the older wrestler's ass.  He drove the man into the ground with his
cockpower, sliding him across the concrete until he left a bloody trail.  Grabbing the man's big
arms he forced them back, and drew himself up.  He thrusted deeper, pulled back farther and the
man's struggles turned to violent thrashing.  But Kris's arms pulled harder, and the shoulders
popped out of place.  Kris arched his back, his biceps peaking though his arms were extended,
and began forcing his great thighs against his victim's, pressing them farther out.  As he began to
fill the man's guts with jizz he ripped the arms off the man's body and cracked the man's legs up
beside his body.  Dropping the twitching arms he grabbed the broken legs and began forcing
them up backwards, crushing the wrestler's hamstrings with his biceps as he forced them
backward and scraped the body across the ground.  He braced his body to spew new come inside
the dying man.  Shivering with orgiastic frenzy he brought his arms together, cracking the legs
from the torso like crabmeat: and the limbless torso suddenly sprang upright, stuck on Kris's
dick.  Squeezing the thighs, blood gushing out, he withheld his come until it was too late.  He
released his final splooge and blew the heavy carcass right off the end of his cock.  Old men
clutched their hearts and medical teams rushed in, others fainted and the heavy smell and mist of
thousands of dicks coming filled the arena like an opiate.

Kris didn't wait for his number to be called again, he showered and went to his vaulted room and
locked himself in, to sleep.

*****

The next day he thought he'd given enough bullshit shows for the old men and decided to roam
deep into the jungle to find something more interesting to satisfy his hunger.  He left his
breakfast uneaten and let his nose carry him.  It didn't take him long to find a wild pig, kill it and
eat its warm flesh.  But everywhere he heard the whir and click of cameras.  So he plunged
deeper into the darkness.  There had to be something greater to defeat.

Kris ripped his way through the foliage, tearing the undergrowth away, using his hands instead of
a machete.  As he forced his way deeper into the island he felt something stalking him.  His penis
twitched in anticipation of an unexpected death-fuck so he made no attempt to hide his presence. 
He felt like King Kong, breaking whatever dared to be in his way.

A low growl, deep beyond human, seemed to come from all around him.  A blood-chilling snarl
hit his ears as the half-ton tiger hit his back, making Kris stumble but unexpectedly losing its
own breath from the impact.  The tiger seemed to glance off his hulking solidity and crash
beyond him.  Kris regained his balance just as the cat leapt out of the darkness again.  Kris
rushed at the deadly beast, driving his shoulder into the tiger's chest.  The flesh-rending paws
missed him but a thick shredding fang sliced open his beautiful cheek.  Enraged, Kris wrapped
one arm around the beasts's chest and drove it back into the bole of a tree.  With his free hand he
reached into the snarling mouth, grabbed the evil tusk and wrenched it out of the animal's upper
jaw.  The animal screamed in pain and fury and scrambled to shear his body with its paws but
Kris stretched his arms and legs and pressed the animal spread-eagled against the tree.

The animal's size and tendon-muscle attachments made it king of its domain, immensely
stronger than any man would be of comparable size and weight.  Yet Kris's preternatural strength
had enabled him to start lifting weights at 15 that most powerlifters work their lives building up
to.  His cock pressed against the tiger's matted fur and bloated belly as he felt his strength match
the predator's, continuing to restrain it as it scrambled and writhed against the tree.  He rammed
his head into the giant cat's throat, keeping its bleeding mouth from his face and neck.  And he
felt his strength outlasting the tiger's, outmuscling its advantages, destroying its survival with
brute manstrength.

He pressed his body into the struggling beast, driving with his truck-squatting thighs and feeling
ribs compress.  His arms mastered the greater leverage of the tiger's forelegs, forcing them back,
stressing its shoulders to the breaking point.  His legs spread far and continue to drive the
animal's kicking legs backward.  His abs clenched and twitched and his cock pumped precum
into the thick fur.  And the giant tree creaked under the building pressure, its roots pulled at the
ground.  The tiger screamed and roared as it felt death in the hands of its would-be prey.  Chest
to chest Kris roared almost as loud, and began pumping his thighs in short, hard bursts of
unbelievable power.  

The tiger's bones began to fracture under the exertions of Kris's muscle body and its own frantic
wriggling.  Muscles began to rip loose of crackling bones and ribs bent past their ability to flex. 
Thrusting and ramming the animal against the tree, Kris thrilled at his own overpowering
strength and the rush of sex to his can-thick cock.  Hearing the bones snap forced come to gush
up into the animal's fur, and its snarl changing to a high whine followed by a thick gurgle.  Kris
jammed his cock through the tiger's abdominal wall and fucked its guts as it died.  The limbs
cracked and broke backward as Kris flattened the killer and ruptured its strength with his own.

Pulling back, the furball fell in a tangle of twisted limbs and terrified pop-eyes to the ground, and
Kris continued to pump come over it in viscous cable-thick ropes.  His heart beat hard in the
heat, and Kris reveled in the sweat running off his body.  When he opened his eyes and surveyed
the scene of destruction apart from the eyes of lust, he saw the huge five-foot diameter tree
canted backward, its roots pulled up inches out of the earth.  And decided how to complete his
workout.

He hadn't practiced any boxing moves since he arrived.  He shook out his arms, and landed a
blow against the tree that splintered the hardwood.  Driving with his hips and abs, he punched
with his left, destroying the tree's bark.  Faster and faster he threw his fists against the stubborn
tree, feeling it sink beneath his power and creak and groan to remain upright.  

The once-straight tree now stood 30 degrees from perpendicular.  Kris walked around the other
side and decided to work on the "pull" portion of the workout.  Thick ridges extended the length
of the tree and he grabbed them, crunching his fingers into the wood.  And pulled.  

The tree stood fast until the contractions of Kris's back and biceps made it tremble.  Leaves and
branches took up the force and vibrated.  Monkeys and birds screamed away while Kris just
doubled his efforts.  Sweat sprang from his pores in the heavy air; Kris seemed to shimmer in the
semi-darkness.  Roots popped and cracked and clod of earth began to blast up on the far side of
the tree.  Kris looked up, face taut with strain, and saw the tree had almost reached a 45 degree
angle.  Grinning around his gritted teeth, he tensed harder and listened to the massive hardwood
creak and pop in response.  He tugged and with each tug soil flew up from around the great tree's
weakening base.  One huge root pulled free of the ground and flapped in the air, and Kris
redoubled his exertions.  

His lats stuck out sideways from his rippling abs and his back mounded behind him.  His biceps
nearly popped the skin, forcing his very veins out of the way of their bulging.  His thighs rivaled
the tree's complex structure, and diamond calves split and parted.  Kris felt the tree stopping,
finding some deep resistance to his man-might.  Without pausing Kris wrapped his arms around
the side of the tree to wrestle it flat to the ground.  

One hand pulling, one pushing from above, his pecs savaging the bark and grinding splinters into
dust, Kris roared and forced the tree to his will, his muscle.  The tree shook but didn't move and
Kris realized its top had landed against another tree.  His quads responded by pumping as he
wrested the tree back and away.  More roots cracked into the air, flinging huge dirt bombs
through the jungle.  The roots on the angled side split along their length, their dense fibers burst
by Kris's contracting muscle fibers.  Finally gravity aided him with one last shove the mighty
tree crashed to the ground, ripping up a ton of earth knotted in its tangled roots.  Dirt slid into the
yawning pit.  Kris leapt atop the tree and beat his chest like King Kong.  There was nothing he
couldn't conquer.  Drawing deep triumphant breaths, he went to deal with the tree that got in the
way.

*****

When he got back to the arena, the games were savage and short.  Only a handful of competitors
remained and they took each other out with ruthless efficiency.  Kris decided he would choose
his battles, and sat near the drum.  When his number was pulled, if he disdained his opponent,
he'd give a look and the drawer shakily put his tile back.  The man could only use one hand;
everyone only had one hand free when Kris was around. 

Kris lay back, eating grapes and picking over an entire turkey.  He savored the whimpers and
moans of the men around him, longing to touch him but not daring.  Before the evening wore
very late there was only one combatant left to face Kris: No. 10.  A pro football player, over
three hundred pounds of muscle who killed his opponents with one blow to the head.  Kris,
feeling put-upon, jumped into the arena and approached. 

The footballer looked insane, as if the continued savagery had driven him over the edge.  He
gnashed his teeth and rolled his head.  Kris stretched his body lazily, listening to his joints pop
and crackle.  Kris decided to give one last show to these pathetic, flabby, rich men.  Men whose
money couldn't buy them the muscle he'd built.  He'd show them what a man really was.

He strolled toward the footballer and just stood there, locking eyes and nodding with a smirk. 
Kris raised his eyebrows as if to say "Well?"  The man reached out in rage and piled his fist
down onto the top of Kris's head.  Kris set his neck and felt his knees buckle slightly, but he
didn't fall.  He just looked up and smiled.  The man hit him again, harder, but Kris's thighs
supported the blow.  The man screamed at him and flexed his big, bulky biceps.  Kris grabbed
them and squeezed.  

The man flexed against Kris's finger strength but Kris's forearms bulged.  His fingers began
sinking into hardened muscle.  And Kris grinned up into the man's face.  And squeezed harder. 
Sweat broke out on the footballer's face as he struggled against the pain.  Blood seeped out
around Kris's savage fingers and thumbs.  Flexing his own biceps, Kris met the man's hardness
with superior strength and squished the muscles flat.  The man screamed.

Kris reared back and slammed his tree-shattering fist into the man's jaw, driving it into his neck. 
The footballer flailed to grab his throat but without biceps his arms wouldn't curl.  He staggered
back, choking on his own teeth.  Kris grabbed his hands and crushed the man's fists inside his
own.  The footballer's watery eyes bulged in agony and he fell onto his knees.  Kris knocked him
flat.  

Grabbing the man's immense right thigh in both hands, Kris applied incredible pressure.  His
arms flexed and reddened.  The leg kicked but the quad muscles were no match for Kris's fingers
and he pressed until he felt the thick bone shatter beneath its would-be armor.  The man began to
convulse and Kris, enraged that his kill could be taken from him so quickly, plunged in to ass-
fuck him.  With the man's legs over his shoulders he skidded the footballer across the ground,
enjoying the spasms and convulsions caressing his iron cock.  He grasped the bulky body and
held it still while it vibrated to death beneath him, but it stopped before Kris completed his
orgasm.  Screaming in fury he began to rip the body apart in a bacchanal of lust and terrifying
power.  Bones, muscles and organs were slung around the arena as Kris punished the corpse for
dying too soon.

Finally he stood, erect cock still dripping, and demanded his prize money.  He'd given all he had
to give to these fuckers and now he wanted to leave before the night was over.  But a dry rustling
laughter went through the audience that confused him.  An old man, the registrar from day one,
rose to address him.

"No 151, you have indeed done well.  But your labors aren't complete yet.  If you'd paid
attention to something more than your own pleasure" (his tone confused and angered Kris)
"you'd have noticed that No. 1 was never called.  No. 1 is reserved for last year's winner, should
he wish to challenge this year's new champion.  The last match will be between No. 151 and No.
1."

The tiles clattered out of the drum and Kris saw an immense shadow emerge from the tunnel
leading to the showers.  As the light fell across the impossible slabs of pecs that preceded the
man's face, Kris realized who it was.

"You're the man I saw in the glade."

The giant laughed.  His cock wagged like a third leg before him, the most massive piece of meat
Kris had ever seen.  No. 1 was nearly a foot taller than Kris, half again as wide and contained at
least two hundred more rock-solid pounds of bristling muscle.  Kris didn't think such a man
possible, a man whose chest was clearly triple his waist size.  His arms were mammoth slabs of
rippling, veined muscle.  And the power moved under his thin skin like a turbine.  Kris could
almost hear it humming.

"I understand you kill insects."

"That's no way to honor the dead," Kris answered, dripping with irony.

"Bugs.  Beetles.  Volkswagens.  Child's play."

"You can do better?"

The man had a slight Texas drawl and melon-sized delts.  He cracked his fingers in sharp reports. 
"My brother knocked over a little Stop-n-Rob shop (and I really mean ‘knocked over') and I
didn't want him to go to prison.  He was my little brother.  So I waited for the prison bus to
approach an empty stretch of road and ran to meet it.  The driver saw me running at the bus and
hit the brakes: then he hit me.  The bus stopped and I bounced back a bit.  While the driver shook
his head I dusted myself off and launched this fist"--he held up, clenching the fingers and making
his impossible biceps peak–"into its grill.  The grill sank inward.  Then I began really hitting it.  I
punched the front of the bus and front panels wrinkled up.  It rolled backward under the force of
my fist.  The driver was dazed and couldn't get the bus started, but he started--to panic, that is.  I
hit it again and again, driving it back up the road into an oak tree.  The guards were confused and
once they started trying to fire, well, I'm not just big, these muscles are quick."

No. 1 began a display of muscle control that made Kris hard and evoked gasps and applause from
the crowd.  His muscles danced and flexed to stone-hardness then flowed like lava.  He hit a
series of poses so fast it was hard to see, yet it registered in one's mind after the fact.  Then he
crossed his arms before his pecs and continued.

"They couldn't hit me, but I spun around the bus until they were dizzy.  Laughing at them. 
Mocking and taunting them.  Then I battered the front end until the windshield shattered and the
engine would never start again.  I decided to squeeze my little brother out.  I wrapped my arms
across the front of the bus and pushed.  The tree creaked.  The side panels creaked and shivered
as their precise fittings to the chassis were destroyed.  My body kept shoving and panels popped
out.  The windows cracked.  The big tree groaned.  And I pushed.

"The prisoners were yelling and pounding on the bars and the harder I pushed, the more the bars
on the windows began to bend out of shape.  The front tires started to splay outward and the bus
tremored.  Posts inside the bus started to bend as the floor rose and the ceiling caving.  My arms
pressed patterns into the metal my boots punched holes in the asphalt as they drove my back and
chest into the vibrating machine until the chassis itself started to compress.  The vehicle emitted
snaps and pops and little explosions as the roof panels blew off from the warping steel frame.  I
kept shoving and the tree started to uproot.  It ripped from the earth and I kept compressing.  The
back end was folding around it.  I felt the chassis twist and I drove harder.  And harder.  And
harder again.  Too hard for the bus.  Too strong for its steel.  

"It warped out of shape.  It groaned and squealed while I just breathed.  I made it whine.   I made
it shriek.  I made it beg and I said ‘No.'  It quivered to straighten out and my biceps said ‘No.'  It
buckled.  I pressed into the buckle.  I started to come, bursting the fly on my jeans, getting off on
my own shoulders and pecs as they deformed a fucking prison bus as it shuddered and shortened
and compressed.  All because of my muscle.

"The tree pulled out and the bus rolled off the road and rode up onto the trunk.  Heavy roots
snapped like twigs when I rammed up it there.  I leapt--leapt, mind you, a standing jump--on top
of it, peeled off the remaining panels and punched through the steel roof.  Then I pulled the steel
apart and it ripped in my hands like cardboard until it was wide enough to accommodate these
shoulders.  I liked to feel it tear in my hands, solid steel shearing in my fingers.  I liked the
screech as my muscle tore it open.  I dropped in.

"The floor was rippled beneath my feet.  The guards in the front had all fled out the front
windshield soon as I left.  I went around snapping chains and handcuffs as the prisoners backed
away from the heat radiating off my muscle, terrified of my massive wad-pumping man's cock.  I
heaved my brother out first and the two of us made Mexico before nightfall.  I don't care what
happened to the others.

"I've earned half a billion dollars over the last five years.  Well invested, I'm one of the
wealthiest men in the world.  I'm wealthier than most countries.  I have more power than mice
like Bill Gates or presidents or generals.  In fact, these men around us wanted to end this combat
three years ago.  I made them continue.  Not just by threatening them with my muscle.  I could
bankrupt any one of these men with one phone call.  I could plunge their entire country into
poverty.  Remember the ‘Asian Miracle' bubble bursting a few years ago?  I burst it.  I flexed my
muscle, stopped the miracle growth in its tracks, brought the whole juggernaut to a screeching
halt, and half the world crumbled.  And there was nothing anyone could do about it.  Still isn't.

"These ‘men' are my slaves.  And they never get to touch me.  They only see me once a year,
when I come out of those shadows, take the hundred million they've scraped together, and
disappear.  And they love me for it."

For the first time in many years Kris unconsciously gulped.  He resisted the man's intimidation
but it seeped evil fingers around his heart, shaking his confidence.  So what if he'd just held a
grown tiger helpless and fucked it to death, then uprooted four big jungle trees?  No. 1's sheer
confidence and mass threatened to swamp him.  Yet he had to have a weak spot.  Kris would find
it, fuck it, and kill him with it.  As long as he didn't look No. 1 in the eyes.

They walked around each other, gauging the other's size, ferocity, will.  Kris flexed as he walked
and couldn't help noticing the contempt on No. 1's face.  Clearly he would not be able to impress
him.  There would be no psychological warfare this time: it would be muscle against muscle. 
The ultimate combat.

No. 1 simply stood there, daring Kris to make his move.  Standing there like a mountain Kris
couldn't get around and might die ascending.  A Mount Everest of male muscle.  Like that other
great peak, he created his own weather and Kris fought not to get caught in its swirling storm.

In a split second Kris sprang at No. 1 with blinding speed.  Yet No. 1's fist as suddenly appeared
before him and clipped him on the jaw as Kris's fist hit his pecs.  Kris felt horrible pain in his
wrist and saw stars as he bounced off No. 1's immobile body onto the hard flooring.  No. 1's
only movement?  His foot lashed out and impacted Kris's ribs, sending him tumbling.  Kris leapt
to his feet and a knee almost buckled as the blood rushed to his head and his burning abs.  No. 1
walked toward him slowly and Kris forced his fear down into the furnace of his anger.  Kris's
thighs drove him with tree-uprooting fierceness at No. 1's abs, ramming his hard head into the
stone wall of flesh.  He shoved the searing pain of the impact into his fury-furnace and felt with
satisfaction a twitch in the giant's midsection as he staggered upright.  And half-imagined
hearing a slight rush of wind.  

A fist slammed into Kris's mountainous back and piled him to his knees.  Kris flexed to protect
his spine and grabbed the giant's swinging balls.  He crushed them in his fist but No. 1 purred
with pleasure and slammed his knee into Kris's cheekbone, sending in dazed and flying across
the ring.  Kris shook his head and stumbled to his feet, breathing hard and watching the
unstoppable stampede of masculinity rush at him with a smile.  He set his thighs but the blow
lifted him off his feet.  He felt the concrete wall actually crack behind him as he hit and lost his
breath.  And No. 1 threw his body against Kris before he could slide down and kept Kris from
drawing his breath back.  Spreading his arms and legs across the wall like a starfish over a clam,
or like Kris over a tiger, he proceeded to crush Kris flat.  He couldn't breath in.

Kris flexed hard (he could swim underwater for five full minutes and beat a six-man crew team)
but his ribs griped and bones screamed.  In his ear he heard the giant chuckling as his dick poked
up against Kris's balls, threatening to find a way into his tight, flattened asshole.  No 1 pressed
his forehead against Kris's and Kris felt his skull shiver from the force of the big man's neck. 
Unable to breathe, pain flaring in every inch of his body, Kris's arms were incapable of making a
dent in the steel wall compressing him like a junked car.  For the first time in his life, he blacked
out.

When he came to, he realized No. 1 was going to toy with him like a mouse all night; the cat's
revenge, he thought bitterly.  No. 1 held his wrists behind him in one hand, and bound his ankles
with his other hand.  Completely trussed, Kris struggled to free himself but the man's hands
utterly dominated him.  Terror burst through the firewall of concentration and raged through his
stretched-out belly.  No. 1 lifted him up and slammed him to the floor.  He picked him up and
swung him around until he was dizzy.  Kris's thighs flexed and tensed but the man's single arm
outmuscled both his legs.  His two arms stood no chance against the other arm, which tortured
his wrist bones with unspeakable pressure.  No. 1 laughed as he battered Kris like a potato
masher against concrete, which actually cracked under the force, a testament to Kris's remaining
iron hardness.  Kris felt tears come to his eyes; and the humiliation lit a bonfire of rage.  

Amazing even himself, Kris extended his limbs with such a sudden explosion he broke free of
No. 1's grasp and tumbled to the ground.  Adrenaline surged and he scrambled away and caught
his breath.  No. 1 looked surprised--and amused.  He curled his fingers, inviting the best Kris can
offer.  Kris sprang, feet toward his chest, and the man flexed.  Kris hit the wall and pain inflamed
his legs.  No. 1 never gave a centimeter.  Kris got up and No. 1 knocked him to the ground.  He
got up again and again was crushed to his hands and knees.  Twisting away to give himself some
distance, he caught his breath and heard hissing.  Booing.  He ignored it and threw himself at the
continent of meat again, at the last split-second aiming his thumbs at the giant's eyes.  The giant
caught his wrists and stopped their impetus but Kris wrapped his thighs around the man's waist
and crunched.  He felt the muscle withstand his pressure but his strength returned and he used
No. 1's hardness to increase his leverage.  Slowly his thumbs gained an inch, driving the giant's
forearms back against their solid biceps.  Together they stood like that for what seemed an age. 
Kris ground his legs against that midsection that never moved, and forced his arms at those eyes
that never even looked away.  The giant's cock rose and licked precum across Kris's asshole. 
Kris felt the sweat of terror spring out on his wrists and they slid in the giant's grasp as for a
moment his attention was drawn to his own cock.  Gritting his teeth and bellowing Kris surged
and jammed his thumbs into the man's eyes and dug them out.  The man screamed in agony and
threw Kris off, ripping his locked legs away from his waist with the power of his arms.  Kris flew
thirty feet and tumbled head over ass into the wall hard enough to see stars.  But he grinned
seeing the man's bloody face and violently swinging arms.  

No. 1 simply lashed out and roared with fury.  His fists hit the arena wall and sank into the
shattered concrete a solid inch.  He yanked them out and pulverized cement followed in a cloud. 
Kris knew one such blow could cripple him.  He aimed for No. 1's knees and hit them sideways
with car-compressing force.  He heard a snap and the giant stumbled, swinging a fist down that
caught him in the deltoid, sending him flying ten feet.  Kris got up, his shoulder dislocated.  He
muscled it back into place as the giant ran at him.  He tried to dodge but the giant's hearing
allowed him to follow and No. 1 caught and carried him across the arena to the wall, which again
cracked behind him.  The old men moved away as the lip crumbled.  

The man's strength seemed to have increased with his pain and fury, but his judgment appeared
clouded: he let Kris slide down and started to pummel him.  Kris's rock-hard abs and pecs
cracked beneath No. 1's fists which flew too fast for Kris to twist out of the way or attempt to
block.  But since he couldn't see, Kris reached up, grabbed his bellowing lower jaw and yanked
it down.  It tore out of place and blood gushed out; the man paused and Kris began pummeling
back, his own tree-destroying fists pounding the man's abs and pecs: and Kris felt them softening
beneath his blows.  He increased his power and the giant stumbled backward, slinging his death-
dealing fists wildly.  Kris dodged them expertly and sank blow after blow into his midsection,
and the muscles buckled and spasmed beneath his fists.  Kris doubled his fists and brought them
up against the side of No. 1's head, knocking him to the ground.  The arena shook and went
deathly silent.

Swiftly Kris was on him, cramming his cock against the giant's sphincter.  The muscle tensed
and repulsed his attack, his glutes tightening to force Kris's cock out.  Kris brought his joined
fists down on No. 1's lower back and felt the bones slip out of place.  With one hand he grabbed
the man's head and banged it into the concrete and with his other he pried apart those striated
glutes and began working the man's asshole with his fingers.  The giant raged and bucked but
this time Kris controlled him and manipulated his great body.  It took both arms to the giant's
one but Kris wrenched them each out of joint.  Even so the man's strength threatened to break
loose so Kris jammed his entire fist into his anus and curled him up like a giant puppet.  

The man's clenching ass was no match for Kris's forearm, which bulged and tore the muscles
apart.  Kris shook him and he slid down onto Kris's extended biceps: and Kris flexed.  His giant
gun macerated No. 1's sphincter, blood and shit sliding out through the tight fit, and Kris flexed
harder, making his arm bigger, cracking the giant's pelvis with his biceps power.  The man's legs
kicked at Kris but his corrugated abs had recovered and resisted the blows.  He shook the giant
and swung his head against the wall again and again before flinging him onto the floor.  The
asshole a ruin, Kris shoved his cock down the man's open throat and raped him while grabbing
handfuls of upper body muscle.  He marveled at the muscles' thickness and density before
crushing it in his grip.  

The giant convulsed in his death throws and Kris began coming, his manjuice spurting out
through the gaping maw between No. 1's ruined spasming glutes.  Kris pumped his jizz through
the giant and pounded on his chest, feeling the sternum break and the rib shatter.  The man
visibly flattened and Kris dragged him up into the air, bearing the immense weight on his cock
and raising a fountain out the man's ass.  And he kept coming for nearly twenty minutes.

*****

Kris stood in the middle of the arena, naked, the gore washed from his body.  The registrar
approached him with a check.  Kris looked at it: one hundred million dollars.  But behind it was a
dense financial report with holdings totaling nearly three hundred billion dollars.  It seems that
the former No. 1 had been so cocksure he had left his estate to his successor, and never specified
what that might mean.  Kris stood there, realizing he was the most powerful man on earth, and
grinned at the registrar, who feebly reached out a hand to shake Kris's.  Kris grabbed that hand
and placed it against his hard nipple, and rolled his pec beneath it.  The old man looked as if
shocked electrically, smiled and grabbed his heart, falling dead the next instant.  He heard the
helicopter land at the beach, and went off to meet the world so newly his.

The end.