DISCLAIMER:  THIS STORY INVOLVES AUTOCARNAGE, AUTOAROUSAL, SEX WITH MACHINES, SOME BLASPHEMY, 
OCCASIONAL SWEARS, AND A GRISLY DEATH INTENDED FOR YOUR SEXUAL GRATIFCATION.  IF YOU’RE UNDERAGE 
OR OF A DAINTY DISPOSITION, DON’T READ THIS UNTIL YOU’RE OLD ENOUGH OR GROW A PAIR, AND DON’T 
COME CRYING TO ME IF YOU DO.

Auto Asphyxiation (Snuff Ending)

By Chip Masterson


“I’ve always wanted me one of these.”   The deep voice almost made me jump.  

I was the last customer at the dealership.  Well, not actually a customer, exactly.  I planned on buying 
something through the Auto-program at work.  I was just wasting this smarmy salesman Vince’s time doing 
some field-testing.  He was about to get wise to me and hustle me out; I could see it in his oily eyes.  
Still, I had to squeeze a little more info out of him before I called it quits.  That’s when the deep 
voice snuck up behind us.

Which is odd, when you think of it.  The voice came from above my head, like from God or something, but I 
felt it in the pit of my stomach, like something that owned me.  Well, some people say God’s like that too.  
I don’t know – never gave it a thought before.  Now, it’s all I can think about.

And when I say above, I mean above.  I’m a good height, 5’11”.  Nothing to be ashamed about.  This voice 
came down from a full foot above my head or more.  I wondered if some basketball star was in town, wanted 
to order up yet another SUV covered in bling.  I turned around and gasped.

Not because it was someone famous:  I didn’t recognize him at all.  I gasped ‘cause, I don’t know.  He was 
big.  And by big, I don’t mean Michael Clark Duncan big.  Or Vin Diesel big.  Or even Mike Tyson big.  I mean 
a guy so big, once you saw him, you’d never put any of those other guys in the same category.  Once you seen 
this dude, if he’s big, then Vin Diesel’s, say, medium.  Tall, wide side to side and front to back, across 
the chest that is, or the thighs; in between those two points his shirt hung loose and flappy.  Like the body 
beneath was so far away, it had nothing to cling to even in this humidity.

He exuded heat.  His own humidity.  Probably produced his own weather patterns.  He looked heavy.  He looked, 
well, like a human SUV.  Or maybe a Humvee.  Or maybe a tank.

“Did you sell a sedan to a little man, about this high?” the big bald giant said to Vince, in a polite, 
almost disinterested tone.  “One with a whole package, the works?”

“The sedan or the little guy?” Vince asked with a husky laugh.  He chewed his unlit cigar noisily.  

“Oh, I think you know what I’m talkin’ about.  Extended warranty, all customized… except when it was delivered, 
the color was wrong, the options were wrong, the detailing was lousy and the damn thing wouldn’t start?”

“I’m sure that’s some sort of mistake.”  Vince chuckled in a way that sounded like tuff-luk.  Tuff-luk.  Tuff-luk.

“He tried to correct the mistake, only you chased him off your lot using words that nice people oughtn’t use.  
And I believe you said something about having to file suit under the lemon law, or something like that.  When 
all he wanted was what he paid for.”

“Who the hell are you, his bodyguard?”

The giant ignored his question and walked back the SUV.  “You know, I’ve always loved these.  Like I said before.  
Big.  Powerful.  They project a certain je nais se quoi, Git-Outa-Mah-Face virility.  Don’t you think?  Power.  
Road Muscle.  Run-Right-Ovah-Ya.  Ya pipsqueak.”

As he ran his hand over the hood, it looked as though he were just admiring it, but the car sank beneath his hand.  
The struts creaked.  But he was only rubbing.  It didn’t make sense.  He breathed through his nose.  It was like 
the vehicle was cowering.  I remember thinking, Huh.

“In fact, they’re so powerful, they turn me on.”  He turned and cocked an eye at Vince.  “Surprise you?  Shouldn’t.  
Power excites everyone.  The power of someone else, of, say, a beautiful woman to grant or withhold what you most 
desire.  Or your own power, to take what you want.  That’s the only truly erotic thing in the world.  Power.  
Everything else is variations on a theme.

“Now this,” he said, slamming the palm of his hand down on the front fender so the SUV crashed to the floor, ass-end 
rising, “this is erotic.  This metal beast here.”  The truck didn’t rise back up:  he was holding it down.  And yet 
his arm looked relaxed.  How could that be?  “So erotic, that I have to touch it.  Touch it all over.  With my body.”

He removed his hand, and the car bounced back up, bobbing angrily.  He unbuttoned his shirt.  Now, his proportions 
are so perfect that, in once sense, it makes him look smaller than he is by making every part harmonious.  Often you 
notice how big a guy’s arms are because they’re out of proportion with the rest of him, while someone else, like a 
pro bodybuilder, is so evenly matched all over that you can’t tell if he’s 5’6” or 6’2”, just looking at a picture 
of him.  But as the stranger began to take off his shirt, the first thing that struck me was how many yards of fabric 
there must be in it.  Then it fell open, and I gasped again, at the body beneath.  

It was as if every muscle had been imagined in its most perfect state, and woven into his body.  Pectorals that were 
both square and thick, sitting inches off his ribcage, itself invisible but rendered in armored muscle.  He pulled the 
shirt over his shoulders, which took twice as long as I expected, and I saw twin basketballs reinvented into musculature.  
Arms that defied my imagination – I couldn’t relate what I saw moving before me with what I had on my body, or for that 
matter Vince on his.  There must have been enough flesh to make an entire mini-me from each arm.  As the shirt dropped, 
he turned and I saw a back that would make King Kong turn tail and run.  He was unbuttoning his jeans.  

They must have been custom-altered, or possibly cut and sewn right onto him, because he had to work to get them off.  
Muscles all over his body knitted together as he worked to spare the seams.  His ass rose high like two new moons, 
round and hard and perfect.  His thighs looked big enough for families of four to live inside each one.  Calves that 
reinvented the concept of calves as four thick balls of sinew.  He turned around so we could see his glory.

He wore a gold thong, nearly invisible from behind it was so thin, and something that ought to have been cheesy 
but instead looked regal.  His junk strained outward in another perfectly round arcing bulge, counterbalancing 
the twin worlds of his ass, and below hung nuts nearly as big as his balled-up calves.  He smiled, a wide, brilliant 
white smile, and I realized it was impossible to tell his age.  He might have been twenty-five, or forty-five.  What 
hit you, beyond the salty wave of his musk, was how alive he looked, how vibrant.  Waves of life came off him that 
I found strongly arousing.  Irresistible, even.

Which is odd, because I’ve never thought of myself as queer before.  But he made me queer if I wasn’t already.  
Every ragged voice of protest that rose up in my mind against being queer was knocked flat by the shockwave of his 
life force, streaming off his black body like the sun.  His voice broke my reverie.

“I have to.  I have to love this sexy beast with my whole body.  I am compelled.  Compelled by power.”

He walked around to the front of the SUV and reached around the sides – he was so big, his arms so long, that his 
hands had no trouble reaching each side.  He lay his head down lovingly on the hood and said, “Mmmmmmmmmm.”   And 
hugged it.

His muscles didn’t so much flex as roll, slightly, like creatures surfacing under a sea of oil.  A steady popping 
sound filled the air and I my eyes flew wide:  the front panels of the truck were caving in beneath his arms.  He 
nuzzled the hood with his head even as it tried to bend up, pressing it back down with his deep-corded neck.  It rose 
against that pressure along the sides, and I heard the spring-mechanism stretching until loud twin bangs announced the 
joints bursting.  He kept smiling, and murmuring, and hugging, and the truck kept caving in and shaking.  The headlights 
exploded.  

Agony burned my penis.  My heart raced:  looking down, I realized I had come spontaneously, even before I was fully 
hard.  My cock was still thickening as deeper muscles forced my aching balls to blast come down my pant leg.  My 
jeans felt tight and sticky and I got lightheaded.  I heard metal squeak and looked up.

His hips bucked against the grill.  They bucked and the truck bounced.  He lifted the whole front end off the ground 
with a hip-thrust, grinding the outer arc of his limb-sized cock against the cracking plastic alloy.  He held it in 
mid air and cock-rubbed it, his arms still writhing as if composed of moray eels.  The tires began to splay.  A 
squeaking sounded, which made cold sweat dance on my body, because metal – you see, unlike cheap Hercules movies or 
TV shows – why do I know this? – actual steel rarely makes a sound when it’s bent.  It’s only when it begins to twist 
in a way that fractures form, the kind of twisting that only occurs under immense pressure, does it cry and plead for 
the pressure to stop.  But now the SUV was pleading for its life.  

Honest to god, I’d just finished coming but my rod still throbbed like a jackhammer.  I couldn’t believe he was mangling 
that truck with his bare hands – cracking into the engine compartment with his hard cock – I couldn’t understand my 
reaction to it!  My chest thundered, my brain swan … why was my stiff prick saluting him?

The fenders had nearly bent double around his forearms and the tires bent out horizontally.  The car rocked as his hips 
drove his thong-trapped cock against it.  He licked the hood, and then bit it.  Bit clean through the metal, tearing a 
chunk out with the CREEEING screech of metal tearing open.  He bit it again and tore the hood clean off, shook it like 
a terrier killing a rat, and tossed it into a hybrid with a twist of his mighty neck.  He dropped the truck hard onto 
its bent front axle, and pulled his arms loose from the mangled body panels.  

The veins of his forearms and biceps were visible as creases in the broken paint inside the troughs his arms had squeezed.  
The grill looked like a W:  It had tried to bulge out but had been humped back in with his dick-hammer.  The whole front 
end narrowed like the bottom of a W.  Looking lovingly, he reached in with one long-fingered mitt and with a few hard 
wrenches, yanked the engine out.  Caressing it with his tongue, he squeezed the engine block in a bear hug, his lats 
swelling out like swarms of locusts devouring the prairies.  Loud shots rang out as the engine block cracked into 
fragments, slipping and altering in his arms as he ground it against his chest.  Metal shavings rained down, dusting 
his gold thong with silver.  When he dropped it with a smile, it cracked into a dozen pieces, the bright striated surfaces 
glaring in the light.  No match for the striations of his pecs.  A lusty gleam came into his eye and he leaped onto the SUV’s roof.

It crunched under his weight and the windows cracked.  He squeezed and wrestled with it, crushing it down with his arms, 
folding it up into them.  He wrapped his legs along the junction-line where the engine compartment joins the cab, and 
scissored.  The windshield bulged out, trapped against his abs, and shattered.  His legs moved toward each other, 
compressing the truck sideways between them.  His cock tore out of confinement and fountained precum into the cab.  
I did a double-take at his third thigh – women normally give birth to smaller objects than that cyclopean monstrosity.

I came again, though my nutsack had pretty much emptied itself into my shoe less than five minutes before.  Dizzying 
pleasure spread through my body, but my cock screamed as the sights, sounds and man-smells that forced watery cumsquirts 
out of it.  I leaned back against a chair; it slid and I fell skidding into it.  My legs stretched taut, my feet cramped 
and I compulsively grabbed my crotch and roughly rubbed and kneaded it through the semen-soaked denim.

Then his lovemaking went into overdrive.  He hugged and squeezed and writhed and drove his cock into the machine, and 
it bent, twisted, deformed beneath him.  He crawled over the roof and began pumping into it, crushing it down against 
the upright seats.  I could see the seats bending, actually bulging until foam padding burst out through the leather.  
His back writhed, his arms bulged and the SUV flattened.  Soon he could grasp the bottom of the chassis and arched his 
back, his ass riding into the air.  The SUV bent upwards beneath him, curling into the shape of his body.  A shrieking 
noise of metal grating and plastic cracking grated my ears.  

He worked his ass and shoulders and each movement compressed the truck into something smaller.  Tighter.  His thighs 
kneaded the metal like dough and I realized those big car-crushers that squeeze a whole Lincoln into a cube don’t have 
anything on this guy.  His calves flexed suddenly and overpowering masculinity fill the air, a heavy primordial scent 
that made my cock pound and my butthole wet.  Something dripped out of my ass, and it wasn’t shit.  The whole dealership 
smelled like the first cradle of life on earth.

The back wheels splayed out and began curling up, inside out.  He could use his chin against the back end and crunch 
the vehicle deeper into his embrace.  With steady, loving gyrations he reformed the SUV into a shape no bigger than 
himself, and then, cuddling harder, even smaller.  

Now he stood up, the newly corrugated SUV suspended like some cocoon between his chin and thighs, warped and misshapen.  
With one final squeeze his arms sank through the densified metal structure, steel screaming beneath his biceps’ power.  
Then he dropped the mangled mass and pumped come out over it, easily a gallon, maybe two, shucking his huge meat and 
slinging it like frosting.  Then it stopped just as suddenly:  Not the way it normally does, petering out with a few 
shivers and dribbles.  It stopped as if he willed it, shut it down, but the orgasm still electrified his body.   I 
could see it in his face, his eyes, his lips:  he’d closed the spigot but kept it going without release… to continue 
channeling its power.  His balls swung.  His skin prickled as the choked-off ejaculate retreated before his silent 
command, angry but content in its expectation that soon it would be fully released, to wreak havoc where it will.

“W-who a-a-are you?”  Vince’s voice sounded choked.  I looked at him, for the first time since the … demonstration 
started.  Sweat stains from his pits and back soaked through his Men’s Warehouse coat.  I didn’t see the cigar, in his 
slack mouth, on his desk or on the ground.  I think he swallowed it.  The giant came over and bent over, placing his 
brutally handsome face inches from Vince’s vein-riddled cheeks.

“You wanna know who I am?  I’m John Henry, that’s who I am.”  He let it sink in – except it wasn’t a joke, or a rap name.  
It was John fuckin’ Henry.  He stood up straight.

“I beat that jack hammer, alright.  Then I held the hammer in my fist while it ran until it pulled itself apart.  Hell, 
I even punched out the locomotive, WHAM!”  His smacked his palm with his fist and the windows rattled.  “Knocked it 
back on its wheels and off the track.  Then I wrapped up the inventor of that diabolic steam hammer IN a rail, coiled 
it with these hands” (he clenched and opened his fists, muscles bristling) “around and around his fat oily body so they 
had to cut it off in sections with a blow torch.  It took them four hours to cut him out, and it took me about four 
minutes to tie him up.  

“That story about me keelin’ over after I beat the hammer?”  His eyes focused on a point far in the distance.  “A cover 
story, invented by my friends and admirers to help me escape, be free.  Fact is, I didn’t come close to dying that day.  
Haven’t come close a day since.  Fact is,” and here he leaned in, staring directly at Vince, his deep bass rumbling, “that 
day I was too fuckin’ strong to die.  And I’ve only gotten stronger in the decades since.  Now, I’m not only too strong 
to die, I’m so strong, ain’t nothing can kill me.  Fact is,” he intoned, dropping his voice another octave so that we 
felt it vibrate through our guts more than heard it, like it was singing out of our own bones, “I suspect God Hisself’s 
a little scared of me.  More than a little.  But then, hell, how would I know?  Ain’t had the nerve to show His face 
around me.  Whereas I go pretty damn much where I please.”

“Now then,” he said, his voice rising as he rose to his full height and cross those rail-twisting arms over bullet-stopping 
pecs, “over there’s one of those trucks I’ve seen on the TV.  You know the one they do, they brag how strong the bolts 
are, and hang the 5000 pound truck by a single bolt over some dweeb in a labcoat’s head.  And they say it’s got six of 
those carriage bolts holding the bed onto the cab.  So,” he said, walking over to it appraisingly, then half-turning to 
ask over his crown-like shoulder and retaining-wall of a trap, “does it really have a 30,000 lb.—that’s 15 tons, son, 
if you can’t do the math in your head—does it really have a 30,000 lb tow capacity?”

“No,” the dealer said, sweat pouring off his spotted head, making his comb-over greasy and spiderous.  He swallowed 
hard.  “That’s for safety, you see.  Keep the truck in one piece.  The engine can haul 3,000 lbs in the bed and tow 
another 9900 behind it.”

“Huh.  So it’s overkill, is what you’re saying.  Something flashy to suck in the rubes.  Something the truck DON’T 
FUCKIN’ NEED to get the job DONE.  But hey, it makes a little man feel big and strong, DON’T IT?”  Every time John 
Henry snarled, Vince gave an involuntary start, like some primal instinct urged him to bolt but his pride wouldn’t 
let him obey.  “Let’s put it to the test.  Get in.  Start it up.”

The look in John Henry’s eyes made the dealer wish he could piss his pants right there but that nagging pride remained 
and he struggled to hold it together.  Still, those eyes told him not to disobey a direct order, and the voice hadn’t 
opened the door to a possible “no,” so he found himself obeying.  In truth, his arms and legs started to obey instantly, 
before his brain caught up with them.  He was half-way across the showroom before he knew it.  After that, there was 
nothing to do but climb in and crank it.  

“Now,” John Henry said, walking around the back.  He placed his bare feet against the concrete floor and put both 
hands on the undercarriage.  “With this arm,” (he popped his left bicep and though his arm was fully extended, the 
muscle rose like a breaching blue whale), “I’ll create the maximum payload.”  Veins emerged on the distended ‘cep, 
accompanied by creaks and groans as the shocks absorbed the load and the springs compressed and the struts contested 
the weight.  pop pop pop pop POP POP POP they went as John Henry’s left arm tested their maximum endurance.  Nothing 
tremored in his arm, to compare with the fussy noise the truck’s suspension made.  His arm did its job without complaint.  

“And with this arm,” he said, rotating his wrist around the tow coupling so that his right bicep peak shot across 
his forearm like an atom bomb being moved into position, “I’ll see what kind of power this truck thinks it has.  
GUN IT!”

The shotgun boom of his voice cut through the idling engine coughs with an imperative force that made Vince’s foot 
press floor it before, again, his brain registered the command.  The engine wailed and snarled.

Everything in the truck leaned forward with the surge of engine force: 200 horsepower from the get-go, before the 
RPMs cycled up to the max.  It creaked and vibrated.  But all it did was lean:  it didn’t actually move a hair.  
The motor whined as the RPMs rose to 4000, 4500, 5000 revolutions per minute, charging all 300 horses against the 
pull of John Henry’s arm.  The wheels lost purchase almost instantly, spinning against the cement and the ton-and-a-half 
payload generated by his left triceps and a lat so thick it suggested something continental rather than human.  

“I SAID GO!” John Henry barked.  Vince’s hands began working through the gears, powering up into the lower gears, 
grinding the engine to find a way out, even though he knew he’d die if the truck won: it would fly through the wall 
and straight into oncoming traffic.  And he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.  Terror flooded through him at the thought, 
followed swiftly by amazement and the acrid smell of white smoke from the overheating wheels mixed with his own 
stink waves.

Nothing he could do, nothing he could make the truck do, seemed to matter.  The truck remained motionless.  Well, 
not quite:  it began to shake like a wet dog.  The checked power of all those horses bucked back through the frame, 
and as the heavy rubber of the brand-new heavy-duty tires ripped down to the steel belts, the beast lost its grace 
and tried to bounce itself out of John Henry’s grip.  

The tow link looked flattened.  If anything gave out, it wouldn’t be his grip.  His forearm’s rugged belly 
distended.  My teeth chattered.  I felt a blaze of soreness stretch my cock harder and longer than it’s ever 
been in my life – I swear to god, if only for this one night, it grew inches bigger than it ever had before.

“Whoa, there, calm down now,” he whispered to the truck.  “Daddy’s got it all under control.”  More veins, 
but no tremors, spangled across muscles that swelled before my eyes, and the bouncing subsided into double-time 
shivering.  The tires peeled to pieces; I ducked behind a desk as hot flying rubber took out one cardboard display 
after another.  The more control he asserted over the bolting truck, the more its building, unspent fury got forced 
deeper inside it, until the weakest links began to pop.  The left shock blew and the bed sank, then the right one.  
John Henry exerted greater mastery, and you could almost hear the spring coils scrape and tangle together, locking 
into place.  He even brought the jittering front end under control:  and a curious high whine joined the furious, 
impotent howl of the panicking engine.  Inside the cab, Vince was jiggling like a doll.  And there was nothing he 
could do.

Vince could have stepped out.  The truck wasn’t moving.  It’s counterintuitive to step out of a truck going full-bore, 
but it wasn’t moving.  He could easily have stepped out.  But his brain never thought of it.  And no other voice had 
allowed his foot to move in that direction.  Turns out John Henry had expressed his utter command of man and machine.

Sparks flew as the wheels bit into the cement.  Smoke tendrils curled out of the hood:  The engine was overheating, 
a weary, lugging sound.  The feedback from the all the frustrated violence proved too much.  At the last second Vince 
switched to four-wheel drive and the front wheels ground, tried to move forward, ground down and began to spin 
helplessly in place.  Loud, painful clanking and bitter black smoke poured out from under the hood, while something 
dark sprayed into the floor from underneath: not a fine mist but thick pumping fluid.  Like the truck’s blood.  Or 
worshipful come.

The truck sputtered to death with clunks and a horrible ratcheting wheeze.  As it shuddered its last, John Henry let 
go and it crawled three inches forward and stopped with a loud flatulent bang.  He crossed his over-pumped arms again 
across that mammoth twin-peaked chest, muscle trying to muscle other muscle out of the way, and rubbed his chin appraisingly.

“Hand it to you,” he said to Vince, who still couldn’t get out of the cab.  “Specs are about right.  Gives out a 
tad over 3K, could haul another five tons … if that’s all that was holding it back.”  He chuckled knowingly, quietly, 
and said to himself, “But it wasn’t.  It wasn’t”  Louder, he said, “And those bolts held it together, kept it from 
shaking apart.  Hand it to you – it’s solid.  But I wonder: 15 tons?  Could that truck really, if suspended from the 
proper crane, support fifteen tons hanging from its ass?”

How’s he gonna test that?  I thought.  There wasn’t a construction site for miles.  Hauling it out somewhere – hell, 
he could probably carry it – then rigging it up, attaching the weights.  The tow link was mangled beyond use, the bar 
bent.  We’d be there all night.

I’m such an idiot.

“Let’s give those so-called carriage bolts a test they ain’t had in no laboratory.  Vince, my  MAN,” he shouted, making 
Vince jump.  “You wanna do this in the truck, or out?  My money, you’d want to be out of it for this, but hey, everybody’s 
got to follow his heart.  Isn’t that right?  ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU TOLD MY BOY?”

I smelled ammonia.  Ammonia and that smell that comes after eating asparagus.  Oh, dude.  “Ah, hell, man, what you done?  
Now it’s ruined.  The whole truck is ruined.  You never get that stank out.  Ain’t no ‘Nature’s Miracle’ for that.”  He 
reached in and pulled Vince out of the cab like a bear moving a cub.  A dark stain slicked the front of Vince’s cheap 
slacks and dribbled off his Hush Puppy.  But he wasn’t crying.  He seemed beyond that now.

John Henry set him down, rolled up the window and shut the door gently.  Then he reached down, grabbed under and in one 
move, lifted the truck off the ground from the side.  

It would take a supercomputer to map the arabesque complexity of back muscle that surged and spread as he hefted two and 
a half tons off the ground in a split second.  Maybe two computers.  And he lifted the “bad” way, bending from the waist, 
not lifting with the legs.  Next he raised it above his head, delts and traps snaking around his arms and neck.  He 
looked to see where the bolts were.  Casually, the way you check to see what sex a puppy is.  A 5000 pound truck.  Ducking 
his head slightly, he shifted his grip and hauled it over his head, spinning it sideways a bit.  Then firmed up his grip.  
One hand on the bed side of the cargo bolts, one hand on the cab side.

He turned to face Vince, to show him what it looks like when a Real Man supports two and a half tons in his arms, above 
his head.  What it looks like as all that weight is born by shoulders, torso, hips and legs.  What muscle looks like 
when it’s working.  What a Real Man looks like when he does what he wants.  He winked at Vince and said, “Time for a 
road test.”

Those extended arms thickened into pillars of vein-knotted black flesh.  His forearms bulged with dozens of crazy facets.  
His biceps looked thicker this way than most strong men’s whole arms do, fully flexed.  His triceps were no longer perfect 
half-moons, but distended egg-shapes, like the moon pulling itself apart.  But it wasn’t the triceps being pulled apart.  
They were doing the pulling.

His lats ballooned, with veins strung over densely separate fibers.  I thought, if some 300 lb NFL tackle got a good 
speed on and threw himself against John Henry right now, he’d be lucky not to cripple himself.  John Henry smiled as 
tick-tick-tick sounded within the truck’s frame.  His pecs rose thicker than many bodybuilders’ when fully crabbed.  
Big dark nipples rose and fell as his breathing quickened into a militant regularity.  A light dusting of curly hair 
fell off his chest and my knees buckled as I realized … the hair had been squeezed out of its follicles by solid 
expanding pec muscle.

Tick-tick-tick.

The smile faded.  Changed.  Darkened.  He tilted his head looked up at the undercarriage, lips tight.  Intention 
replaced the smile.  Intention that had Just About Had Enough.

If those eyes ever looked at me with that expression, I might have a heart attack on the spot.  First from simple 
blunt fear.  Then from shame at having disappointed him.  Then with dawning terror of his just punishment, knowing 
I deserved it.  I’d cream myself to death.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tickticktickticktickticktickTOCKOCKOCKOCKOCKOCKOCK KKKOWKERPOWWWW!

The sound shocked me.  Something hot whizzed by my ear at bullet speed.  Maybe faster.  He was smiling again, 
coldly.  And holding each half of the truck in his hands.  He twisted each end to show us the ragged ends of the 
halved bolts.  To show how he’d burst all six with his bare hands.  Over his head.  After already holding the truck 
back at full bore (13000 lbs) and then raising it over his head (5000 lbs).  After previously wrestle-fucking an 
SUV into mashed scrap-metal  

The more it sank in, the more I had to keep repeating it, to try to fit what I’d seen inside my mind without ripping 
it loose from its moorings.  With his arms over his head, John Henry had pulled outward with a force that so far 
exceeded fifteen tons of pulling pressure that the bolts fragmented.  Exploded.  Blasted apart, embedding shrapnel 
in the walls and shattering some plate glass windows.  Three car alarms went off in the lot.  When Vince flinched 
to shut them off, he ordered “Let ‘em sing.  There’ll be a full Hallelujah Chorus by the time we’re done tonight.”

That’s when I realized, he wasn’t done.  He wasn’t tired.  He was just warming up.  Even more incredible: he wasn’t 
done with the truck.  I started firing blanks in anticipation, my hips jerking helplessly, my abs spasming.  My eyes 
tried to roll up in my head but I refused them, I kept focused on John Henry’s miracle-performing masculinity.

Easily manipulating the ton-plus section in each hand, he extended his arms out to prove what “muscling out” a weight 
was all about.  His fingers began to flex.  Things began to pop.  Bang.  Scratch and scrape and screeeeee.  Each 
truck-half shuddered.  Twisted imperceptibly.  The long, strong fingers kept flexing.  Flexing into fists.

A weird crunching grind accompanied each flexion.  The trucks kept shivering in his death-grip.  Then I saw, trailing 
down each arm, thick twisted cables made of pipe, bolts, wiring, strips of metal that didn’t belong, didn’t make 
sense … until my brain was finally able to wrap itself around what he was doing.  Well, not completely around.  More 
like, cup the peak of what he was doing as it flexed beneath its palm.  He was crumpling the truck like foil.  His 
hands were eating the truck, gathering it, crushing it and squeezing it back out in long ropy turds.  That’s what he 
thought of the truck and its power.  Muscle-dinner.  Then shit.

I realized my mouth hung open when a viscous trail of drool dripped off my chin and hit my crotch-grinding hand.  I 
gathered some of it while my other hand jerked open my jeans and using my own thick spit, began jacking my sore, 
empty prick.  Those forearms – now they were bigger, they had to be bigger than the biggest biceps I’d ever seen 
before this.  Thicker.  Rounder.  Harder.  Rippling with peaks.  The fingers and thumbs reached for structural 
elements, punched holes through steel if they had to, and bent it, pulled it down into the hungry palm from every 
direction at once.   Never too fast, never stretching for more than they could chew at a time, but steady and man-strong, 
not listening to the resistance of any element.  Chewing it.  Chewing truckmeat.  Breaking truckbone.

The cab twisted back and forth like it was being sucked down the world’s most powerful garbage disposal.  The 
windshield fractured and broke loose of the writhing body.  The doors flexed in and out, flexed deeper and popped 
out, like some breathing robot, until they flexed too far and bent, bowed, creased.  Upholstery exploded as leather 
ripped and was dragged by those tentacle-fingers into the gnashing throat of his palm, welded and merged with steel 
and cable and nuts that hadn’t the sense to fly free when they had the chance.  The dashboard cracked, its elements 
breaking free, some falling to safety on the ground, but most onto the floor of the cab.  To be melded into something 
inconceivable that coiled at his feet like satanic serpents.

The truck’s tough bed formed a trapezoid, then snapped into a parallelogram, then shook and crunched into a shape 
even Einstein or Escher couldn’t fathom.  One side panel flew off but the rest had the misfortune of bending inward, 
caught in the slow-motion Cuisinart of those amazing fingers, those forearms….  Those forearms that now began to 
rival the thighs of mere normal men.  I could sense bodybuilders everywhere, one so-called Quadzilla after another, 
turning restlessly in their sleep as they sensed the domain of their own gigantic legs encroached upon by something 
that wasn’t even a leg.  Wasn’t even the corresponding muscle group.  Paul DeMayo, Brad Hollibaugh, Craig Titus, Ron 
Coleman all frowned and shivered in unknown fear.

The axles were bending as I watched.  The wheels, and what was left of the tires, pulled into the relentless vortex.  
The engine broke free and fell to the ground before his fingers could reach it.  It had cracked nearly in half.  The 
steering column crunched, and the steering wheel snapped and united with plastic and door panel insulation and door 
panel metal and some tire-rubber.  All of it squeezed tight to a diameter of one inch and then excreted onto the floor.

He was nearly done.  The truck had been mangled and gulped and reformed by musclepower into a steaming pile of 
corded debris.  Bits of flotsam lay around it, but nobody would ever know it had been a truck.  A truck that 
challenged John Henry.  A truck that lost.  

I whimpered.  One of my balls shot up into my body; I had to shove my fingers into my belly and shove it back out.  
I looked over at Vince, who looked near catatonic.

Rubbing his hands to free it of the fine powder of plastic, ground steel and glass, John Henry looked 
around.  “What next?”

He walked over to a station wagon, a throwback, novelty vehicle.  A classic car from the 70s, heavy, solid, brought 
out of retirement to compare with the modern SUV and Minivan, its “family” car replacements.  He needed to rest his 
arms and fingers … kind of.  John Henry didn’t hide that he was breathing hard from his efforts, and stretched.  
Muscle tautened like suspension cables securing a bridge in a heavy storm surge.  The sort of storm surge he might 
cause, or dominate, or knock out.  A bridge might hold up against the onslaught of Mother Nature, but John Henry 
would likely bust it to zinging pieces, with cables bursting shots into the upper stratosphere.  But I digress: 
these cables weren’t puny bridge cables, but his muscles.  

He spread his arms wide, back flaring and flapping like some mutant manta ray.  He stretched them overhead, punching 
out his lats in huge storm-surge bulges.  His ass flexed and rippled, savagely cut and monstrously hard.  Then he 
began bending backward… farther … farther ….  Reaching back for the floor, each foot planted firmly on the ground, 
anchored by the sheer weight of thigh muscle.  His thick cock flopped heavily, languidly, semi-hard.  Vertebrae 
crackled, cords bunched and writhed, and the armor plating of his abs and manhole-cover pecs (thicker, harder) 
stretched, smoothed out, flickered into filaments of dense manpower.  His waist flattened to nearly two dimensions 
as his fingers touched the floor, feet immobile, and he kept bending until his palms cupped the concrete.  His fingers 
flexed and the thin cement surfacing spider-webbed.  (He didn’t need that much rest.)  Then, slowly, he bent farther, 
bending his elbows, and his massive sequoia-legs levitated off the ground.  

Crunching his hyper-extended abs, he raised his legs with agonizing slowness to parallel, then up degree by degree 
until they knocked against the suspended lights.  Carefully, deliberately, he walked around the car on his hands, not 
rushing, not hesitating, his balance never wavering.  He examined the undercarriage.  He examined the bolts, the struts, 
the transaxle.  On the far side, he steadied himself on one hand and with the other, gripped the side of the car.  Flexing 
shoulder and lat and biceps of unknowable hardness, he lifted the car to shed some light on its bottom side.  Higher.  
Higher.  The car creaked on its wheels, forty-five degrees, supported by the upside-down arm of an upside-down man.  A 
human male, black, powerful, coldly angry and reveling in what his body could accomplish.  Spider-man might collapse 
from the strain, but not this Man.  Not John Henry.

He gingerly lowered the car so as not to damage so much as a tire tread, then continued around the front.  Still on his 
hands.  No muscle quaked or tremored with strain or exhaustion.  Damn, they looked fuller and glossier than before.  
His elbows bent slightly and he was airborne, flipping back over in perfect grace, landing perfectly upright, a dismount 
no Olympic gymnast could better.  He landed with a thud we felt in our back teeth, that made our joints jolt.  The car 
popped up off the ground and landed again, from his impact.  As if surprised.  And maybe just a little pissing-itself-with-fear.  
As if it knew what was coming.  But it had no idea.  Neither did we.

“They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” he chuckled.  He bent double and stretched his basket-ball player arms across 
the hood.  His hands reached over the fenders.  With no more grunt the air escaping for dear life, he levered the car 
up off the floor and slowly straightened up with it, guiding its length along the same arc he’d guided his less heavy, 
but oh so much more powerful legs. The chassis groaned and crankled as it had to support its own weight against 
unaccustomed gravity.  He didn’t stop or miss a beat until it was towering overhead, knocking the lights that now 
created weird shadows as they swung, highlighting crevassed muscle from new angles.

With a slight jerk, the car rose into the air and with a blur, a brown smudge no eye could completely follow, he released 
it, raced around to the other side and caught it again.  The car had risen maybe six, maybe eight inches, and by the time 
it came back to the same position he gripped it again against his chest, the front axle inches from the concavity of his 
belly.  Then we saw what the flexibility demonstration was all about.  

Leaning forward with the car, he jerked himself backward almost a full ninety degrees and then snapped back to the front, 
whipsawing the car in his arms like a piece of wood.  The car exploded in the middle, incapable of withstanding the speed 
and power generated by that nuclear back, those rock-crushing abs.  Its roof buckled as the chassis bent back with a 
grinding scream of savaged steel, safety glass actually powdering from the extreme speed.  John Henry stood there a 
minute, not needing to gain his balance, and turns his head toward us.  Big white grin.  The station wagon, firm against 
his chest but sagging backward above his head, groaned, rear wheels slowly gyrating.  Oil and other fluids from ruptured 
lines and crushed cavities gurgled out and down into his mounded delts, darkening his sweat-salted skin like the blood 
engorging the muscle beneath.  

Without waiting for our reaction to escalate, he shook the car again, a quick snap back and forth, like he was swatting 
a fly.  The car squealed in protest, practically flopping as if hinged. Tufts of upholstery bulged from the flattened 
window frames.  Doors unrecognizable as anything but scrap shuddered and tried to spring loose, trapped in place by the 
car’s own mangled body.  

I had to grab and squeeze my balls and stretch my sac – I don’t know why.  My ass began to itch.  I reached back to 
scratch it, but the itch moved deeper.  I’d contorted myself like a Chinese gymnast before I realized I was finger-fucking 
myself.  How many other men had he done this to?

“One more oughta do it,” his bass voice rumbled.  And again he snapped from the waist, the wagon now flailing like a 
giant noise maker at New Years.  Half the car that is; the other half remained squeezed in his iron bear hug.  It had 
flattened and we barely noticed it, captivated by the upper half, the horrid banging and shearing of metal, of leather, 
of rubber.  I saw now how the engine block bulged out beneath the half-sprung hood, like a hernia, while the panels 
accordioned beneath his arms and the front axle bent around his abs as if made of soldering lead.  But the car didn’t 
break in half.  Some stubborn strands of steel had torn lengthwise instead of cross-wise, and the upper half of the car 
still dangled, like a broken wing.

We heard metal grind against his abs and pecs as he tightened his death grip, and a grim determination outlined his 
square jaw.  With a sneer of contempt he viciously snapped the car in his arms around, snarling body English into it.  
The back end of the wagon shredded loose and flew upside-down across the showroom floor, hitting the front wall above 
the plate glass windows.  Cinderblock exploded out and car-end nearly went through, snagging only on a roof beam that 
collapsed into it.  Three more windows shattered as the half-car teetered there.  Stuck in mid-air.  

With a deep breath that drew more whines from the half-car in his arms, he flexed his biceps.  The hood popped off, 
bent double, and the engine popped out, smashing onto the floor.  He looked at the rest of the car in his arms and 
thought, Why bother?   It fell onto its back, the impression of his pecs, abs, shoulders and arms eerily pressed 
into the flattened mass of metal structures.

My poor cock pumped air again.  How many orgasms was this?  In what, half an hour?  I’d lost count.  Lost track of 
time.  Lost about ten pounds of sweat, drool and come.  My hand stuck halfway up my own ass.  And I couldn’t remember 
a happier moment in my entire life.  By being tingled and sparkled as if made of air and light.  I prayed that it 
wouldn’t stop.

I was ready plant my ass on an orange construction cone when he did something that froze me.  He looked at me, as if 
for the first time, and said, “Hey.”  My stomach knotted.  There was no terror waiting in his eyes for me, no fear.  
I can’t say there was respect, either, because I looked like a fucking clown:  literally, a fucking-clown.  But he 
respected my honest reaction to his power.  My shameless freedom.  My confusion and helpless adoration.  He’d probably 
seen in a hundred times before.   And never ceased grooving on it.

“My little man back home is a techno-geek.  Me?  I ain’t never seen a machine can do what I can.  Fact is, I’ve been 
dying to run down to that nuclear power plant and see if there ain’t some way we can test how much electricity these 
muscles can generate, versus that plant at full capacity.  My thought is, my BI” (POP-POW) “CEPS” (POP-POW) “would 
dwarf their output, and my whole body would create more energy than they could store, swap or sell in a year.  Their 
generators may not even be capable of handling the load I would lay on them before I even broke a sweat.  I could 
redefine NUKE” (quads POP-POW-POW) “KUE” (lats POP-POW-POW) “LAR” (pecs POP-POWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOWPOW) “Power.  But 
all that’s for another time.  I need your help for this.”

He walked over to a small duffle back that he’d dropped by the door when he came in.  As he reached down to it, his 
lats flared again, his hamstrings rippled and calves gnawed hungrily at the air.  I thought – hoped, feared – his cheeks 
might part but they stayed firmly closed; if he suspected my thoughts, which he undoubtedly did, he said nothing as he 
turned back around and showed me a small device made smaller by the porterhouse thicknesses of his pecs.

“He saw this little – machine – on a show called ‘Monster Garage,’ which features a couple of guys who look pretty 
tough … for white boys.”  He winked at me; my stomach fluttered.  “So he made a prototype.  He wanted to be here to 
see if it would work but I felt it was too dangerous, so I figured I’d try it out and if it works, he can build another 
one.  ‘Cause he’s gonna need to build another one when I’m done.  Now, when I left this evening, I thought I’d only get 
to compare it to another car, but you’re my lucky charm.  Now I get to play with three.  ‘Cause stinky Vince there, he 
knows he’s in the wrong, he’s willing to do it takes to make it right.  Aintcha, Vince?”

Vince had secretly been massaging his own member when John Henry looked at him; his hand darted guiltily away as his mottled 
face turned purple and I wondered if he even breathed honestly, or on the sly somehow.  Like through a hollow tooth. 

“This,” John Henry said, drawing our attention back to his pecs—er, I mean the device he was holding in front of them, “is 
a remote control device for a full-sized automobile.  Now, Little Man preprogrammed it for this test run, knowing there 
wouldn’t anyone to operate it, ‘cause he knew I’d volunteer anyone on the scene to drive a car himself.  So after I 
install it like he showed me, disconnect some other parts and click the clock, after a few seconds the engine will start, 
throttle and choke automatically, and then it should move into gear and roll forward.  We won’t worry about steering or 
braking – that’ll be later test.  I’ll direct the steering and provide all the brake it needs.  Believe that.  This is 
just to see if we can get the damn car moving on its own.  And if it can go uphill.

“I’m the hill.  He programmed it to increase speed, lower the gear, whatever it takes to get up the hill.  Here’s where 
you come in.  You’ll be behind it, to make sure that when it can’t get up the hill, it has all the power – and I mean 
ALL the power – at your command to help push it.  ‘Cause I don’t want it to peter out.  Then Vince there, he’ll be 
behind you, and he’ll add some push as well, to see if we can’t get these cars up and over Mount Everest.”

He puffed out his chest and flexed big egg-shaped biceps, thick with thick squiggly veins crazing the peak of one, 
and delts nearly as high, then brought it down into a crab that made his pecs swell like some time-lapse version of 
plate tectonics creating the Himalayas.  The effect his confidence, power and virility had on me can only be called 
awe.  John Henry is what religions were invented to explain.

He looked around the dealership display floor.  Almost everything had suffered some sort of scratch or damage from 
shrapnel ejaculated from a dying vehicle courtesy of John Henry’s contracting muscles.  He saw what he wanted – a big 
luxury sedan, painted one of those dark-blues you have to pay double for, lots of shiny wood veneer inside.  He hooked 
a hand under the front end and, even after all the strength he’d expended so far, effortlessly lifted the business end 
with his indomitable bicep, and towed the car into the center of the showroom.  

Almost gingerly, he opened the hood and with a few deft movements, attached the remote device to the carburetor, ran 
some lines to other parts and disconnected the accelerator pedal.  Then he looked around for another victim.  

A purple minivan rested on a pedestal like some suburban idol.  He hooked his hand under the front and dragged it down 
off its pedestal, wheeling it around like a toy and dropping it unceremoniously behind the sedan.  Then he saw what 
could only be what Vince’s would anchor us all with.  A glint shone in his eyes.  It was a bigger truck than the one he’d just … digested.

I’d done some research before coming in - the super-duty truck was one I looked at, ‘cause, well, I was attracted to 
its … Power.  Size.  Solidity.  I knew I’d feel invincible in it.  Now I almost felt ashamed, cause I was all wrong – I 
had no idea what true power was, until now.  

Anyway, this so-called “super-duty” truck’s 362 horses could move 13,200 lbs while carrying 2185 lbs in the bed.   Over 
seven and a half tons.  I knew it might challenge John Henry, after the work he’d already performed – he had to be 
wearing out, right?  And combined with two other strong, new engines?  It might turn things around.  It might at least 
put up more of a tussle.  I wasn’t gonna bet on it, but who knows?  Maybe he’s got a trick knee or something.

I immediately doubted the wisdom of banking on that when he pulled the truck sideways across the floor.  The tires 
scudded and bounced and his arms hulked to cock-numbing proportions.  He wedged it between the concrete wall at the back 
of the showroom and my Mom-mobile.  He clucked with his tongue and Vince – the huddled wreckage that had been Vince, 
anyway – shambled over and got in.  John Henry delicately closed the door and tapped it in a friendly way.  He then 
held the van door open for me.  I climbed in and got the feel of the van.  It wasn’t my kind of car at all but it 
looked like it could haul ass – or a little league team.  Through the pristine windshield I watched John Henry cross 
to the front of the sedan.  

He turned the remote control on, closed the hood and put his hands on his narrow hips.  A few moments later the engine 
roared to life, idled, then revved.  This kid lucky enough that John Henry has his back was some kind of wiz, alright.

The gears shifted and the car rolled forward until it nudged his vast thighs, nearly as wide as its own grill.  It stopped 
there.  For a moment, nothing happened.  Then I heard it:  I heard the remote respond to the impediment.  

The big car pressed into him, tires aching to move forward.  The motor growled louder.  When the RPMs hit a certain level, 
it downshifted and began revving again.  So far the car just shuddered in place.  The engine raced up and down, up and down, 
each time driving harder against John Henry’s legs.  Nosing turned into butting as the rear wheels chomped to get past him, 
over him, through him.  Another peak was hit and the car dropped into the lowest gear, determined, serious.  Not playing 
around anymore.  

The motor screamed.  He opened that wide, wide mouth and hollered back so loud I thought the windshield would crack.  The 
rear wheels lost their traction, their power now greater than their grip.  They peeled white smoke and an ear-splitting 
whine.  Then the remote did something amazing:  it slowed down, chugged a bit, then floored full-throttle.  John Henry 
whooped at the effort and grinned, but it couldn’t budge him.  The tires spun so fast I thought they’d melt.  The shivering 
automobile began swaying in the rear, frustration driving it to fishtail, anything to let all its pent-up rage out and 
get around this stubborn obstacle to MOOOOOOVE.   mooove moooove MOOOOOOOOOOOOVE it howled.  

“NOW!”  John Henry boomed, his lungpower easily overmatching the engine’s bellowing, and I hit the gas, pressing into 
the back of the sedan and steadying it before it spun out of control.  Before he had to use his hands.  Which sooner or 
later he had to … didn’t he?

Maybe not.  In the reflections of windows that hadn’t been cracked by pistoling debris, I saw the ends of the sedan’s 
formed bumper crack loose.  But I felt some give, something like forward motion hinted at, and say him steady himself.  
Lean forward.  Hah!  I thought.  Once the truck fires up, we’ll push him back to the wall.  A crazy thought entered 
my mind:  would we stop?  Once we had him pinned, would Vince?  Could the remote control?  I wondered if there was in 
fact a remote device to control it in that duffle bag.  

Vince must have had the same thought, saw him sway, seen my van creep a quarter-inch forward, ‘cause without waiting for 
a command, he started the truck, revved twice and locked it immediately into gear.  And slammed into my ass.

That’s a thought I don’t care to dwell on.

Still, the sudden onslaught of automotive might almost made John Henry lose his balance.  He hadn’t expected Vince to 
have any self-will left.  He waved his arms and took a step backward and I gasped.

A step back!  It was working!  We were beating him!

A weird thrill infused me at the thought of an epic battle in this shabby, fluorescent-lit hall.  The showroom suddenly 
seemed too small, too confined for all the power and anger and desire within it.  This must be how Lex Luthor must have 
felt inside one of those giant robots, battling Superman with vicarious arms and legs.  

Another step back and the sedan practically leapt on him like the shark at the end of “Jaws.”  Vince hooted, an angry, 
ugly sound.  John Henry’s handsome face clouded, drawing up something more than anger: wrath.  That step back was a false 
one, a bracing step.  He right knee rose and the sedan jerked forward against his angled left leg.  He placed his foot 
on the hood of the sedan and without much more than a silent, imperceptible grunt, but a look that could peel paint, 
pushed back.  

That one massive leg stopped the sedan.  The automobile shrilled and started wagging side to side.  The man’s leg began to 
straighten and the car slid back on forward-spinning wheels with a screech that split heaven.  The leg hardened and the 
sedan crunched into my grill.  I shifted down and floored it and his leg tautened and forced my wheels to begin spinning 
harder, faster.  I could feel the truck grating into my backside.  The steady rocking buck took on a feeling of last-ditch 
desperation, as if the engines knew they were reaching maximal capacity against an obstacle of unknown, unknowable capabilities.

My windows popped and cracked.  The van felt the backward thrust of John Henry’s right leg shoving the big screaming 
sedan into its front and the furious super-duty truck behind it.  My windows cracked.  I could hear body panels go BOYP 
and crinkle as I took full forces from both directions.  The big truck’s wheels caught and spun, caught and spun as Vince 
ran it through the gears, trying to create power surges that might weaken or wear down John Henry before the engines blew 
or we ran out of gas.

His chest began to swell as he swallowed quantities of air.  He grimaced at the exhaust stink … and a grin curled the 
wide-set ends of his full lips, playful and devilish.  He leaned his blast-carved granite body down against his thigh 
and pushed all three of us back into the wall.

Vince screamed “NO NO NO NO NO!” and pounded his fists on the steering wheel and dash.  His tow link scraped into the 
cinderblocks.  I could see a reflection in old-fashioned hubcap on a floor display – his standing calf, splitting like 
the earth swallowing the Atlantic Ocean.  My van jerked, popped and cracked at the strain and shook wildly, stuck in place, 
engine bawling.  The big truck behind me had a deeper throat and wider roar, and it began to buck up and down against the 
resistance.  This was hopeless – who was I kidding that we could outmatch him?  

I did some quick math in my head – something over nine hundred horsepower… I tried to picture a herd of nine hundred 
horses, all rioting and stampeding against some massive tree John Henry had ripped out of the earth with one big hand 
and held up to block them.  Him holding them back, pushing them back, bullying all those wild straining muscles and 
hooves and bucking haunches – nine hundred powerful beasts stopped, herded and tamed by him – his one colossal leg mastering them all!  

How many horsepower must that leg be generating to stop us in our tracks and then reverse our direction?  My heart 
palpitated, trying not to multiply that force by his other leg, his arms, pecs, back, delts and ass all at once.  I 
straightened my legs and pressed back in the seat to lock my balls between my thighs, keep them from a terror-retreat 
and squeeze any last ounce of jizz out of them so I wouldn’t have to endure another empty pop when his power forced 
me to come again.  I could feel the impulse growing, the helpless sense that all resistance was being broken down, 
every defense of sanity or reason crushed by his superhuman strength.  But what I saw in the rearview as I adjusted 
myself I couldn’t believe – so keeping my foot on the gas, I craned my head out the window.

The wall had cracked.  Cinderblocks grated in and out against each other as cement crumbled under the onslaught of 
thigh-strength.  The ceiling sagged and groaned.  His leg didn’t tremble with the effort, it grew, hardened, a kind 
of living petrifaction – even the veins ceased to throb with his slow-steady pulse and stood rigid, almost indistinguishable 
from the insanely striated musculature.  I saw his leg straighten further out.  The cinderblock wall caved.

Ceiling tiles and big heavy cinder-bricks rained into the bed of the pick-up and smashed on the floor.  The roof 
collapsed partially, held up by its cross-beams alone.  The super-duty howled with emasculated fury as that big 
black man’s leg pumped it back over the broken foundation and half out into the cold night. 

In a flash, he dropped down into a runner’s crouch.  The sedan jerked forward only to slam into his right palm and 
bend around it.  Arm bulging, he began bulldozing the entire line of us backwards into the car lot.  WITH ONE HAND.  
His legs pumped and his left arm shot out sideways for balance.  The intent drive in his face made the engine’s 
whines and howls seem humiliating, ridiculous.  Rubber flew in all directions.  All the screeching motors and rabidly 
spinning tires ground, slid, smashed their way backwards into the first line of cars.  All were facing us.  All had 
met their match.

I looked at the control panel.  My engine overheating light flashed red like crazy.  I could practically watch the 
LCD image of the fuel tank empty as it guzzling gas.  I had a thought, one last demented thought: what if the engine 
didn’t overheat?  I might have enough gas to outlast him – that his vast endurance couldn’t possibly outlast an entire 
tank of gas, after everything he’s already expended, could he?  Fighting three cars?  He had to wear out 
sometime … didn’t he?  DIDN’T HE?

We hit the first rank of shiny, brand-new autos, glinting in the sodium lights.  Alarms exploded in a cacophony of 
blaring whoops and honks.  The back of the truck crunched into two at once and they skidded backward, squealing defiance.  
John Henry didn’t slow down.  His legs kept churning into the blacktop and I heard body panels of the (previously) parked 
cars crease and dent and tires skid as the cars twisted sideways.  

The sedan engine lugged and mine labored – only the super-duty still raged full-bore.  Steam crept out the emerged 
from my hood and a jet of gray smoke shot out of the sedan’s tailpipe, another from the engine.  The two parked cars 
locked against the cars beside them.  John Henry’s shoulders hunched and rotated, his chest widened and the cars simply, 
incredible BENT.  All four skidded into the next rank of waiting victims.  John Henry’s smile had fixed itself into 
determined pride as his muscle kept bullying us backwards.

Twisted chrome and torn-off side-mirrors crunched beneath my van as the car-jam grew to ten vehicles.  One coupe grated 
up onto its side, got speared by another which kept it from flipping, and both twined back into a third.  Another 
sedan actually bent around another one as they writhed and got further tangled.  More alarms BUwee BUweed and BOOP 
BOOP BOOPed.  Another coupe stuck to the rear of the super duty truck and seemed to shake apart, pieces flying and 
winging off the rising and falling jumble of MANicular vehicle-slaughter.

Vince revved rhythmically and shifted, rocking back and forth to break against John Henry’s forward momentum – he’d 
actually begun building up momentum!  Against all our engines and the growing barricade!  My cock spasmed.  We had 
nothing, nothing to help us against him.  Cars crammed into cars, crawled over and under each other, high-impact 
resistant windshields shattered and frames bent.  Alarms pierced the sky.  Steel seethed and writhed like eels in 
a boiling pot.  

Now at least twenty totaled, smashed-up vehicles gridlocked behind us.  That barely slowed him down.  Made his thighs 
dig harder into the macadam, leaving pits of gouged asphalt.  I thought I saw his arm tremble – but it might have 
just been the heat radiating off the clunking the sedan or my own wheezing, lugging van.  He gritted his teeth – I 
saw his jaw clench – FINALLY he was feeling our resistance!  

But still we moved back steadily, about foot a second – that’s over half a mile an hour!  I jolted as another row of 
cars stuck in our debris-glacier, one that could jam us no more easily than feathers the wind.  The flying wedge 
began to curl back around the truck, around me, a tangled, rotating riot of flashing metal.  Sirens began to strangle 
and whimper out, though fresh voices joined the chorus when headlights broke and grills imploded.  Crunching, crimping, 
squealing, squawling, scraping, clawing at the ground, the cars turned over, spun on their hoods, breached and fell 
backwards.  

Through the fumes and smog I could see his smile had vanished.  Both hands now gripped the accordioned mass of the 
sedan, elbows bent, arms thrusting.   Sparks flew and the engine, glugging dimly in the din.  Massive delts shouldered 
their way into the growing wall of heaped-up autos – our steady progress became jerky, as more and more steel, rubber, 
glass and foam resisted any further compression.  One last lane of cars stood before the far wall.  My engine clug-lug-lugged 
and stalled.  I smelt gas and turned it off.  A night breeze cleared the air a bit and I saw that same cruel look he’d 
had on his face before, when he ripped the truck in half.  Only now his arms trembled.  His legs quivered.  His 
brickwork abs tremored.  But he didn’t.  Stop.  Coming.

By now the jangling crash of steel and the baroque-on-acid alarm symphony could wake the dead, but nothing lay beside 
us but more empty car lots; behind us vacant lots.  Whoever patrolled the famed Boulevard of Cars, miles and miles of 
every make, decided to patrol somewhere else.  Not even watchdogs barked.   My ears filled with the death rattle of my 
van, the sick lurch of the super-duty still struggling to fire, and the screech of steel folding and shearing and 
deforming in ways no sane designer could have thought possible.

John Henry’s entire glistening, oil-streaked body now tossed and pumped, his breaths coming in ragged gusts.  I’d been 
overcome before by his effortless mastery of tonnage, how he handily crippled the greatest tensile strengths … but 
watching him now, surging oceanically against the towering pile of tangled wreckage, refusing to be stopped by 
thirty or more cars cold-welded to each other by sheer force … it released something in me that must be tantric awe.  
My skin tingled in a total body orgasm, releasing fluids from every orifice.  Fresh come found its way into my 
penis and gushed out with no help from my trembling hands.  Each time John Henry’s titanic muscle heaved, more come 
and drool and sweat – and other things – pumped out of my body, the only possible response and worship I could offer.  
The offering of every newborn to its godlike parents: gifts it makes itself.  

At some dizzy point I realized it was too late to get out.

The door couldn’t open – it bent too far inwards.  Jagged glass filled the windows but even as I formed a plan to 
crawl through one, the steel changed, collapsed, shrank.  I scrambled into the buckling back area as the roof poofed 
outward and the bucket seats began to heave and splay.  I thought I could hear the big brick wall in the back give, 
felt the massive debris-field shudder to a halt.  Was this it?  Was he finished?  

Two alarms continued to blare.  I looked out the empty space where my windshield had been, and though the sedan 
arched and had to be whole feet shorter, his massive weather-altering torso rose like Gargantua from the sea.  
His body-thick arms SHOVED the conglomerate again, SHOVED again, SHOVED again, pressing stuck metal tighter, 
punishing everything that dare complain with raw muscle power.  One siren winked out with a strangled stutter.  
His face ticking, he creased his eyes and WALKED into debris field, arms wide, thighs stomping, cramming everything 
into impossible densities.  My van corkscrewed up.  The last alarm died.  I waited in the eerie, 
crinkling, steaming silence for what would come next.

Nothing settled.  The metal-storm-surge was wedged together too tight for anything as weak as the Earth’s 
gravity to move so much as a sheared-off nut.  Suddenly the world shook.  Metal and glass shards scrunched 
flat.  The shaking got stronger, louder, each drumbeat creasing steel into the earth.  Suddenly metal tore 
and a bicep bigger than my head appeared as John Henry ripped the roof off my van and casually tossed it aside.  
His arms still trembled as he walked away, steps jerky … but with every step he stomped steel flat and shook 
muscle, and muscle slung and bounced and gorged on blood.  He must be starving, I thought.  He walked on – I 
climbed up to survey the damage.

It looked like a tornado began in the showroom and swept up everything in its path, swirled together into a merged 
mess and dropped it against the far wall.  The sedan had folded in half, tireless front and back wheels 
interlocked.  My van curved up almost elegantly, as if the minivan had tried to imitate a smoke wisp.  All the 
paneling had fractured off the super-duty truck and some still hung there like some kid had glued random pieces 
on a model.  But there were no recognizable cars in the debris field around us, a morass of jagged steel and 
seeping fluids.  There weren’t even recognizable car parts.  

The far wall bowed out, nearly falling over.  The debris field was, at most, thirty feet wide.  I tried to count – I think 
we pushed through five rows of cars.  I looked at the edges of the rows, where a few untouched cars remained on either 
side.  There had been eight rows of cars altogether.  That’s a lot more than thirty feet, end to end.

John Henry’s arms pried open the truck cab and he let Vince crawl out onto the steaming hood.  Vince scrambled over 
the flotsam, tearing and cutting himself until he sprawled to the asphalt.  Somewhere, that asshole found the courage 
to fight back, in all the wrong ways.  Gasping like a dying fish at the bankrupting devastation wreaked on his 
dealership, the smashed main building and the savaged lot, he sputtered to his feet, cursing and kicking at the mess 
until I thought he’d break his foot. 

“My lot!  My lot!  You’re gonna pay for this!  All of it!”  He screamed like a little boy kicked off the team for 
being a brat.  “All of it!  I’m gonna make you pay!”  I was shocked:  after seeing what John Henry could do with 
his muscles, all he could think about was money.  But then he got vicious.  “I’m gonna make your faggot boyfriend 
pay too!  He’ll be sorry he ever stepped foot on my lot.  He’ll be sorry he was ever born!”  I gasped as he spit in 
John Henry’s face.

Or tried to – he couldn’t spit that high and the weak spatter landed on the vast steppes of John Henry’s chest.  

Everything might have been left as is if Vince hadn‘t lost it.  But John Henry’s face showed he’d gone over a line.  

In a low, level voice that brooked no dissent, the mighty Man said, “You’d best get in your car and leave.  Right now.”  
He breathed through his nostrils, in and out, like a bull.

Vince quailed at the tone of voice, the look in the Man’s eyes.  He tore around the back of the showroom where a 
sports car was parked – one of those high-test 550 horsepower beauties that costs a grand per MPH it can 
reach – that’s $141,000, starting price.  He pulled a key out of his front pocket and wiped it on his shirt, 
leaving a dark smear that made me sick, and jumped in.  Naturally, his own car worked just fine.  He raced 
around and out to the street, flipping John Henry off once he was well past him.  He swung wide onto the strip 
and peeled out to get every grand’s worth between him and John Henry as fast as possible.

John Henry looked at me.  In the distance a siren sounded.  It wasn’t coming fast – it sounded kinda like, “I’m 
giving everyone plenty of time to clear the scene before I get there, so go on, scat.”  John Henry didn’t budge.  
He chucked me under the chin and said, “I’ll be seeing you again.”  

He tore off on foot, gaining speed – impossible speed, after what he’d just finished.  I shivered – he went off 
the same direction as Vince had.  I had the awesome feeling that no matter how fast Vince could get that baby up 
to … it wouldn’t be fast enough.  Not near fast enough to outrace John Henry.  If he was of a mind to catch up, that is.

I staggered around, reeling, tingling, wondering where I parked.  Where I left my pants. I stumbled back into the 
dealership, the roof teetering scarily above me.  The sheer majesty of what I’d experienced was slowly sinking 
into my grudging, still-rebellious brain.  Even if it wasn’t true that he was some hundred-and-fifty year old dude, 
he was some kind of miracle.  If I were a man like him, I might just pick ol’ John Henry as my alter ego.

I searched everywhere but couldn’t find my pants.  The siren had vanished, gone somewhere else.  Or been scared 
off by John Henry shaking the entire street with every step.  I had eighty bucks in my wallet I didn’t want to 
lose, and didn’t want to try to make it home naked.  I was starting to lose my buzz and get agitated when I froze:  
was that Vince’s voice?  

Couldn’t be.  He peeled out of here doing 140.  He’d be in the next county by now.  And he’d die before giving 
up that car.

The voice got louder.  Whinier.  Pissier.  “Put me down!  Put me down you motherfucker!”  

It was Vince.  Wonder if his mom knows he talks like that.  

Then I heard John Henry’s voice, rumbling so deep I felt it in my feet:  “You don’t want to fall out or jump 
out, now.  Might break your leg.  And then how would you get away?”

He might have meant it jokey-friendly, ‘cause that was the tone he put on, but a current of deep anger grounded 
it and the lightning of his emotions riveted every word in place.  

I stood agog as John Henry carried that racer back in over his goddam head.  His biceps were basketball-sized, 
maybe bigger, swollen with blood, bloated, but diamond-hard and bouncing as they gently rocked the car from side 
to side to keep Vince off-balance.  Yet they trembled; his breath heaved.  I realized that tired as he was, his 
workout wasn’t over, and if there’s one thing John Henry wasn’t, it was a quitter.

Then I noticed something even odder:  the car wasn’t damaged.  Even the tires looked fine.  As if it had been 
scooped up at speed.  At 140 miles per hour.

My cock twitched.  I shivered.

“You!”  Vince screamed, startling me and pointing a stubby digit at me.  “You’re a witness!  You have to testify 
for me!”  

John Henry cocked an eyebrow at me and said, “Up ‘til now, you could claim you were held hostage.  If you stay, 
that makes you an accomplice.  Your call.  Boy.”

My cock twitched.  My cock rose.  Bobbed up, higher, then to parallel.  Then higher.  Then, despite all previous 
torture, straight up in the air.  I asked in a trembling voice but with a growing grin, “Watcha gonna do, sir?”

“What I shoulda done in the first place.  Don’t touch yourself.”  That cold steel look filled his dark liquid eyes 
and I felt back behind me for something to hold onto.  Vince fumbled with the door.  It was locked.  It was a fuckin’ 
convertible.

His arms trembled … then flexed into hardness.  He banished the trembling, the weariness, by act of will.  Those 
biceps peaked almost up to his wrist.  His big deep eyes narrowed slightly.  In one movement the car bent up into 
a V, each end rising above the caved-in middle.  Lines tore and things flattened in the undercarriage as the 
chassis folded inward to a ninety-degree angle.

The doors buckled and paint chips flew off.  Chrome trim broke.  Vince screamed as the steering wheel crushed his 
pelvis and the dashboard trapped his legs in the seat, breaking his knees with a sickening snick.  “You broke my 
legs!” he screeched.  “Help, help me,  I can’t get out!”  He struggled and screamed with pain.  He couldn’t get out.

“This is what it feels like when you get caught in a bad deal and guy responsible for it won’t let you out.  
Just so you know what it feels like.”  John Henry shook the car once, HARD, and Vince cried and whimpered.

But he still wouldn’t apologize.  He still wouldn’t admit he’d done anything wrong.  In his agony, all he could 
think to say was, “You’re gonna pay for this.”

It dawned on me: the thing that sealed his doom wasn’t spitting on John Henry.  That wouldn’t affect his pride 
anymore than a fly taking a dump on his foot when he wasn’t watching.  You don’t even notice that stuff.  It was 
threatening his Little Man.  That’s when John Henry had decided not to let Vince go.

I realized that because he could have killed Vince out on a lonely stretch of road, where he caught him.  Or 
carried him away from the road entirely.  Or wrapped him, inside the car, around a tree, and make it look like 
a freak accident.  I could that:  Vince screaming as John Henry bends the sideways car around a big tree and 
grind him to death inside it.

But he didn’t.  He brought his kill back to me.  To show me.  Like a promise.  Now I knew why he told me not 
to touch myself – I might have popped right there.  He wanted me to last.  I wondered, dimly, whether he had 
others like me and Little Man, and where….

John Henry narrowed those big eyes and sucked another breath through his perfect nostrils.  Another smooth 
bending of Detroit steel brought his lats flaring out in jumbo-jet relief, strung with veins like Christmas 
lights.  The car shuddered back onto itself, into itself, breaking Vince’s shins.  The steering wheel held, 
dragging his thighs out of their hip sockets.  Blood-curdling shrieks subsided into sobbing, blood-drenched 
moans.  Yet even now he wouldn’t plead for his life, beg for mercy, confess his sins.  “You’ll pay,” were 
the only words he could form. 

The sports car now formed a thirty-degree angle.  John Henry’s massive pecs bounced and rippled.  He steadied 
himself on his feet, still holding nearly a ton of steel over his head in a narrow grip, forcing the bend up 
along the length from near the bend itself, and set his mouth.

With one more grunt, he folded the car in half.  Vince gurgled and scrambled sideways along the seat.  Wet 
popping came from his something – legs?  Ribs?  Strangely, there was no blood yet.  Just the drip of transmission 
fluid and oil.  John Henry admired his handiwork, the car neatly folded in half, ends even.  He smiled.

“You know, you have to work your abs every day.”  My abs quivered.  He tossed the car lightly into the air 
and dropped onto his thick, muscle-matted upper back.  Shot his legs up and out as the car twisted and fell, 
and they caught it in a scissors hold.  And stopped it three feet above the floor.  He froze, his great arms 
spread out to the sides for support, his ass inches off it as well, and holding the car up with his abs, 
between his legs.  

I gaped.  His abs looked like mesas packed together in some insane desert, a Grand Canyon carved not by one 
winding river by a series of space-lasers.  Or better, Manhattan:  whole blocks of sky-scrapers separated 
in their grids by the narrowest of streets.  They were so separate, so thick, so dense, so high, you could 
stuff diamonds between them – if you wanted to grind some diamond dust.

Still suspended in air, the car creaked and Vince groaned and burbled within it.  John Henry flexed his 
thighs slightly and a banshee shriek tore out of the folded car.  The car responded by grinding and squeaking 
and crunching.  His thighs flared, huge barrels of muscle, compressing the car in the middle.  The shrieking 
choked and coughed horribly until jets of blood shot out either end, the way a dying star throws off gamma 
rays.  I narrowly avoided getting hit but John Henry gyrated his hips, smushing the interior of the car, 
smearing the still-living Vince’s flesh into the upholstery of the only thing he value besides cash.  United 
him with it.  A sick wheeze sounded that might have just been air from the seats struggling to escape.  From 
then on, it was just the sound of metal being crushed.

Only a narrow strip separates the two great oak-trunks.  Somewhere in that compression were seats, dashboard, 
steering wheel … and Vince.  Some of Vince at least.  The two ends curled back out from the pressure, making a Y.  

Reaching up – still supporting the weight with his abs – he grabbed either end and continued folding it back 
down.  The origami car shuddered as the trunk collapsed and the spare donut tire inside burst.  The engine 
bulged against the undercarriage but this time the angle and pressure were wrong, the engine couldn’t burst 
out, and the solid mass cracked like rifle shots.  Engine block metal and parts fragmented further, tinkling 
into any available space.  Sharp bits forced their way out but his hands controlled and flatted it over his legs.  
He released his thighs and lowered them like a gymnast, then stood.  The car never touching the ground.

His elbows shot wide and he pressed the ends into the middle.  Turned the sports car into a big M.  I couldn’t 
stop thinking about Vince, folded up within his own car – there couldn’t be a bone left unbroken, not even the 
tiniest ones in his ears and feet.  And yet, horribly, I heard something huff-huff within it.  It must have 
just been air leaking from a crushed tire, but I could’ve sworn it said something that could have been… 

“Help me.”

If that could be spoken without a working jaw or intact spinal cord.

John Henry must have heard it too.  His face took on a grim pleasure as he bear-hugged the mass and squeezed 
it against his pecs.  It flattened further in sharp metallic bursts.  Wherever his arms encircled it, metal 
gave way.  Now matter how pinched steel already was, he found the room to squeeze it some more.  Every possible 
space caved in, trapped within his pecs, biceps and forearms.  

When his hands interlocked, the mashing took on a sensuality.  His eyelids fluttered.  A beatific smile 
hovered just over his parted lips and his body swayed.  Hips rolled.  As he crushed.  As he flattened.  As 
he squished metal into metal, stuffed metal inside metal.  Massaged it like clay.  It squeaked and screeeeeed 
and crunkled, curled and shredded and matted together, but he didn’t stop.  His pecs didn’t stop pressing, 
pulling, shoving back against his biceps.  His muscles worked against each other yet together for a single purpose.  
His back widened, rippled, opened and closed as if jaws moved within the deep fleshy structures.  And still the 
compaction continued. 

The last tiny fragments of glass sprinkled out in a cloud.  The car was now about the size it would be if it had 
gone through an industrial crusher.  But it had gone through John Henry’s bear hug, and he wasn’t entirely done 
with it yet.  Swinging the still ponderous ton mass down between his legs, he wrapped his thighs around it one 
more time, on end.  They flared again, rivers of muscle in spate, each thigh dwarfing the task between them.  
Engulfing every edge.  He squeezed.  

A tinkling, crunching sound filled the air as even more pressure shattered internal structures that had thought 
there could be no further compromise.  But there was no saying no to John Henry, and he demanded more.  And 
more would be granted.

Terror gripped me now in a cold sweat.  I’d felt a little hot watching Vince go down, but now it was like, is 
he challenging the laws of physics?  How could that – that – that AUTOMOBILE even fit between his thighs like 
that?  And still be getting any smaller?  I staggered around the side to see if it was just squeezing flat and 
out but his thighs so surrounded it that no, it wasn’t flattening, it was imploding.  Imploding with tiny 
explosions.  As if his thighs were overstressing the molecules, cramping the atoms, forcing electrons down, down, 
down until they scraped against protons, unable to escape.  

Thighs flexed and worked it from a semi-cube into something like an egg.

Flex.  Crunch.  Smaller.

Flex.  Crumple.  Smaller.

Flex.  Crinkle.  Smaller still.

I started to hyperventilate.  It was too much.  It was simply too much.  He had to stop.  He couldn’t keep going, 
I mean …he HAD to reach a point where even he couldn’t make it any smaller?  Where its sheer density would stand 
up to even the pressures he could generate with sheer muscle power and will?

He saw my face going slack and pale, the panic in my eyes.  He smirked and nodded.

Flex.  Shrinkle.  Smaller.  

He worked the egg around lengthwise and flexed again.  I thought my heart would stop.  It simply shrank, not 
into … but between his thighs.  Come hit me in the face.  My come.  Caught in my hair.  I looked down and it 
nailed me so hard in my eye it stung.  I jerked my head back and come spurted ten feet into the air.  Out of my 
cock.  MY cock.  

His smirk turned to smug pride.  I looked at him helplessly as goo fountained out of my penis, his eyes alone 
saying to me, “Whatcha think, I can’t do more if I wanna?”

Flex.  Kah-kah-kah-rnccccht.  Smaller yet.

I started to cry.  I couldn’t help it.  One spurt of blood shot out from the middle of the mass, but that wasn’t it.  
It wasn’t that he could make me come on command, over and over and over, either.  Here was a man who could shove 
aside the laws of the universe itself if they got in his way.  That kind of power – I couldn’t stop myself.  I 
came and I wept and my cock kept jerking even when it had emptied itself yet again.

Flex.  Krinch-rench-chutchutchutfffff.  Smaller again.

“St-stop it.”  I pleaded.  “Stop it, puh-please.  Puh-please, sir.”

Flex.  Krkrkrkrkrkrkrkrick.  Even smaller.  Head cocked.  Smirk.

I sobbed.  

Tenderly, he said, “I stop when I’m ready.  Boy.  I stop when I’m ready.”

And he stood there, another few minutes, with his thighs utterly encasing what had just a quarter hour before 
been a sports car … with a man inside.  Nothing was visible but black sinew and muscle.  Held there.  Muscle 
rippled as he … corrected the atomic structures of the components to his specifications.  His hips gyrated, dick 
at half-mast.  A drop of precum gathered at the shlong-lips, glistening in the light.  

I wanted it.  I wanted to eat it.  But I knew I couldn’t, without permission.  And for now, he withheld it.

The permission that is.  The precum began to stretch down, fall you might say, except it was so thick it only got 
halfway to floor and hung there, swinging slightly, pearly.  It didn’t break free.  His seed was too strong ever to break.

He reached down and reached between his thighs.  The prick-drool slung against his arm, caught in the musculature, 
and distended as he grabbed the object within and raised it up to the light.  I thought I saw steam or smoke rise 
from the surface of what appeared to be a shiny golf ball.  He held it out to me, his arm bulging with the weight, 
his distended bicep popping up.  He offered it to me.  

I sobbed.  It was so small.  So shiny.  I wanted to back away, run, shriek.  Instead, I found my arm reaching out 
to it.  Still weeping, uncontrollably.  Spent cock twitching back to life.

His other hand shot out and gripped my wrist.  If I’d grabbed the ball and he’d let go, it might have torn my arm 
off.  It still weighed, well, nearly as much as a car.  It would have seared my skin.  He dropped it and it cracked 
the concrete, cratered it inches deep.  He crouched down, muscles bulging everywhere, and blew a cooling breath on it.  

“Now, try.”  I bent down and I couldn’t budge it.  Couldn’t even make it roll.  He rose.  Crouching there, I looked 
up at him, at the godlike expanse of manhood towering above me.  

“You’re an accomplice now.  You can’t even go home.  It’s not safe anymore.”

His voice was velvet, dark and deep.  I felt I could swim in it for hours and never drown. 

“I’m not sure I could find my way home.  I’m not sure where I live.”

“I do.”  He raised me up by the hand and enfolded me in his arms, squatting slightly so that my head pressed 
into his cleavage.  Then he rose, lifting me off the ground and holding me in his arms, against his pecs.  

At first the muscles felt terrifyingly obdurate, hard as rocks.  He could squish me more easily than he had Vince, 
pop me like a pimple.  Then they softened imperceptibly – relaxed into a smooth firmness which accepted the 
impressions of my face, my nose, my tongue.  My fingers massaged his arms, his triceps, his lats, anything I could 
reach.  

“I do.”

The End.

chipmasterson@yahoo.com