The Ax-Master, Part 3
By: Chip Masterson (chipmasterson@yahoo.com)

Steve watched the skies for hours each night.  Stock still he imprinted star
patterns on his brain so that the slightest movement would register as a
possible satellite.  I felt sorry for all the people in the area who bought
satellite dishes; with a stone no bigger than his fist, Steve would warm up
and pitch.  We'd watch and eight times out of ten we'd see something like a
shooting star in the direction he threw the rock.  Once we saw a parachute and
figured that would be the end of spy planes fly-overs.  

I guess some alpha males need to mark their territory a little more thoroughly
than others.

Steve dug in and waited for the next government contact.  He never roamed in
search of food anymore: he went so far as to actually get groceries for us. 
Not that he bought them; he arrived one night with a Piggly-Wiggly trailer
he'd lifted off its cab at a truck stop and carried off in the night.  Having
become accustomed to wild meat, the food tasted entirely fake.

But the government kept its distance.  After the nuclear incident Steve's skin
had remained red; he slept for nearly twenty hours at a stretch.  Having
nothing more than our come to massage him with Tony and I jerked each other
raw.  Fortunately Steve's incredibly rich come was no problem to extract
either, even in deep sleep, and within a week he began to turn around.  He'd
awaken only long enough to eat and void; fortunately, the salted and smoked
meat he'd put by had sustained us all until he was cured.  

Despite all the semen we'd mined from his balls to heal his skin, he awoke one
day with a sharp gleam in his eye and immediately wrestled us to the floor,
feeding us his biceps and pecs while he fucked us again and again.  His cock
and mouth hungrily devoured us until every defense was shattered; I was
nothing more than one single sucking, licking, groaning and screaming muscle,
pure pleasure made flesh and subservient to his every need.  He was so hungry
for us even his asshole opened and Tony and I traded off fucking him while he
fucked the other one.  We'd pound on the rocks of his back as his glutes
threatened to crush our cocks and balls, yet he never lost control.  That's to
say, he totally abandoned conscious thought for instinctual sex, but that
instinct never harmed us.  The amazing power that could seal a critical
reactor core in the earth and knock satellites out of orbit simply enfolded
and consumed us until we merged, three in one, united in his power.  For those
lost hours we had no identity beyond his pleasure.  

We slept and he, alive again, brought home a live brown bear, male and not
unconscious: he had so completely dominated, subjugated and tamed it that at
his command it would perform any task.  He left it for our protection and we
didn't dare come out of the cabin.  He delivered two elk next, one still
alive--for the bear.  I began to feel a little jealous of the new pet.

But it was someone dumber than the government who sought revenge against
Steve.  The construction company, pissed that the development company had
measured the constant obstructions as community resistance and pulled the
contract, came looking for trouble.  They had gathered a small force of the
strongest, meanest, steroid-pumped construction workers, lumberjacks and back-
woodsmen in the northwest to take out this newcomer once and for all.

Steve suspected something was up; he caught the faint roar of engines, of
tracks on the trackless ground.  He sent the bear off in the other direction;
he didn't want it getting hurt.  Tony and I hid away from the cabin, in the
woods.  He stayed inside; and waited.

The night was quiet, and it seemed an eternity as the sounds of tires and
treads made their way across the unpaved logging road.  The creaking and
squealing of enormous weights grinding to a halt washed over us, and silence
swept into the gulf left behind.  I heard my heart beat and Tony's sweat as it
dripped onto the dry leaves.  

The explosion made me wince and cower involuntarily.  Opening my eyes I
witnessed a fireball where the cabin had been as the missile from the bazooka
cratered the yard.  Steve was a black shadow thrown into the trees by the
blast.  Chuckling laughter revealed they felt they'd finished before they'd
begun.  

We couldn't see where Steve landed but knew he must by now be creeping around
behind the men.  The crackling flames from the explosion covered our footsteps
as we moved around to see who had fired.  A flat trailer attached to a
Peterbilt cab held a dozen or more men, all congratulating themselves and
lighting cigars.

The men were uniformly huge.  Even from a distance, in the firelight, I could
see no one under 250 pounds.  Some seemed like football players, other steroid
abuse advertisements.  Assuming a mean weight of 275, there was something like
a couple of tons of male muscle on the bed of that truck.

Steve had no trouble at all crouching beneath it and standing up from rock
bottom with the bed at arm's length over head.  The men jostled and fell with
the sudden move, the cab tipped up until the couplings tore loose and with a
roar Steve THREW the flatbed toward the burning ruins of the cabin.  The men
flew with it, suddenly yelling and scrambling to get away from the fire.  

The front of Steve's massive body was black from the blast; only his eyes and
gritted teeth showed white.  As he walked, his muscles flexed and cracked
through the carbon coating his skin, rendering his body an increasingly
fractured-looking monstrosity of power.  He strode into the fiery remains of
his home and started grabbing men in each hand and flinging them into the
fire.  Stunned by the impact, they quickly came around and ran or rolled
screaming away.  

Seven huge men sprang across the flames and hit his body with a resounding
crack--and fell away, each holding a shoulder or head.  Steve grabbed thick
necks and hauled men off the ground, flinging them like rag dolls against the
trees over fifty yards away.  A heavy grinding artillery-like sound rose above
the noise and terror and out of the smoke appeared a light tank speeding along
with another dozen men on it.  Steve turned swiftly, cocked his fist and
belted the front of the accelerating tank.  With a horrible gong the craft
bounced back on its treads twenty yards or more.  The front end, which peaked
up and back, was slightly creased, the dense steel plating having lost its
integrity upon meeting Steve's fist.  The men aboard flew off upon impact, or
leapt more likely, because they fell on top of Steve, and each other, with
enough force to catch Steve on the recoil and take him to the ground.  The
dozen began punching, straining and kicking, clearing slightly as groups of
three tried to restrain each limb.  His muscles bunched and flexed against
their power and the intimidation factor worked its magic.  Flexing his lower
back he rammed his body straight up, landing on his feet and bending up while
supporting the weight of those men, again over half a ton on his arms alone,
and hurling them off like Tarzan.  He roared as the men regrouped and went
forward with a clearly rehearsed strategy.

Lining up around him, they began a tight sequence of kicks and blows in
blurring succession.  Steve couldn't work up the power to go offensive, the
massive limbs moved so quickly all he could do was block and defend.  He
tensed his muscles but these were men who routinely shattered rocks, bricks
and steel plates with the speed, power and accuracy of their blows and kicks. 
Steve moved swiftly enough to counter most blows but the routine kept
shifting, feet and hands pile-driving into him and suddenly he staggered. 
They jumped at the weakness, hammering the bent leg and stretched ribs with
the wet sound of heavy, flying boots against tearing skin and bruising muscle. 
The fury increased and Steve's head went down beneath the barrage. 

The men continued their sadistic pounding but Steve was now no longer a good
target.  The blows and kicks necessarily slowed and changed form.  Steve
twisted and the blows became more irregular.  One of the men suddenly screamed
as Steve jumped up holding the man's foot, and began hurling him around in a
circle, knocking the other men down.  The flying man screamed and tried to
reach for his knee but the centrifugal force exceeded his strength.  With a
sudden snap Steve stopped--and the man shrieked as his body tore lose from his
leg entirely.  A quad as big as my chest hung like a ragged drumstick as the
man's torso flew into the forest darkness.  Steve used the muscled leg to
hammer at other men who scrambled away.  

One huge steroid-pulsing brute heaved a rock overhead that must have weighed a
quarter ton.  Biceps trembling, he screamed as he threw it.  The immense stone
flew at Steve, who turned in time to bring a forearm up to protect his face. 
Rigid as a statue but so much harder, his arm was bent at a right angle as the
rock struck it--and cracked in thirds with a thunder clap along weak quartz
veins.  One chunk smashed through a man's leg, spiraling him to the ground in
agony.  Other men threw smaller rocks weighing perhaps a hundred pounds, but
the stones hammered uselessly at his pecs and shoulder blades.  The skin
reddened but never bruised as his broad chest met the fusillade and scattered
it.  The men ran out of rocks just as Steve caught two--one in each hand.

His hands merely seemed to blink into new positions, so fast was his muscular
control: one straight out from his shoulder, the other back behind his hip. 
Three men went sprawling in the dust while the small boulders sailed through
them into the darkness.  One man rocked on his back, hold bloody, exposed
ribs.  One man tried to crawl away, his head a pulp of blood.  One man didn't
move at all.

The seventeen-ton howitzer swept down and knocked Steve forward.  It bumped on
impact but kept driving.  As it crawled over Steve's back he suddenly rammed
his arms into the earth and threw the immense tonnage backwards: Tony and I
gasped together and I had to grab my cock.  The tank flew back five, ten feet
and skittered sideways on backtracking treads until the driver could stop it
and rush forward.  Steve was prepared and rammed his fist into it again.  A
deepening cavity filled with shadow as the tank again bounced backward on its
furiously spinning treads, the steel scraping and squealing against the rocks
and hard earth as Steve's arm overpowered the engine and forward momentum. 
The engine sputtered but the howitzer lurched forward, rushing a third time at
our hero.  This time he put his shoulder down and ran towards it head-on.  

The impact sounded like an jet airline crash.  The entire front compartment of
the tank collapsed beneath Steve's armor-shattering deltoid and his ridged
quads flexed and drove the machine backwards as the treads flung hard earth up
in huge chunks and clods.  The crinkled 20mm steel plates shot rivets into the
air as they pulled loose from the hull.  Steve ploughed in, bellowing above
the piercing whine of the engine until he came to a cliff face: and pushed the
tank upright against it.  A dozen and a half tons of steel bore down on the
end of the treads as they dug pits in the ground and Steve pressed his hands
into the belly of the tank.  The turret tried to turn but only ground off bits
of rock.  The occupants started firing the cannon; or maybe it was simply
Steve's muscle exerting insane pressure that triggered the 120mm cannon's
death spasms.  But each time the big gun went off, Steve's two bigger guns
pressed into the recoil and crushed the tank deeper into the stone face.  

Tony remembered the humvee and started to cry, all the while stroking his dick
and salivating over it for lube.  I couldn't stop jerking off as I saw the
plates deform in the firelight, rivets pop and zing, and the internal cavity
of the tank narrow and compact.  Each shove crunched the steel box in on
itself as if it were heavy cardboard.  The cries of the men inside came out
through the cracks his muscle force opened in the solid steel sides.  He
crammed and bent the tank inward and the engine sputtered and halted, sparks
flying out from the wheels and gears.  His hands compressed the war machine
into itself; big rocks broke loose around it and the gun barrel bent downward
as Steve's massive, writhing back and rock-pulverizing legs and rippling arms
wadded it into the cliff.  A last missile stuck in the bending cannon and
exploded, but only sideways: Steve's might continued to contain and recompress
any outward expansion.  Gears and wheels and bits of melting treads blew off
on either side and the fire ignited the last rounds of machine gun ammo in a
deadly spray of fireworks.  Men ran for cover all around as the howitzer
spurted and jerked and ejaculated the last of its deadly load helplessly into
the night until Steve's giant strength sealed the openings shut with
overlapping warped steel plates.  

With a last titanic shove all went quiet except for a few dim popcorn-like
pings from within the bulk and Steve backed away.  The massive, mutilated
armament stood upright, crammed into the rock and remaining there as if it had
been foil pressed around a turkey.  In all the noise Steve's hearing picked
out the click of automatic rounds loading into chambers and cramming his fist
back into the tank's battered underbelly, peeled off a 20 mm plate and turned
around.  The plate sent the spray of gunfire off into the woods but it kept
coming fast and furious.  Using the bent-up plate as a shield he reached back
around into the tank, and yanked.  The howitzer pulled loose from the cliff-
face, chunks of rock tumbling to the ground, and with one fucking arm he
hoisted seventeen tons of steel ordnance, crushed from nearly six feet high to
little more than three, bristling with broken gun barrels and splayed wheels,
and hocked it through the air!  The huge weight soared under the power of his
arm and men scrambled out of the way as the immensity plummeted to earth with
a spray of dirt and flying, broken metal parts.  

The men quickly regrouped behind the smoldering hulk.  They shouted and
someone got the rocket launcher ready.  Taking pot shots while Steve
approached behind his shield, they loaded the bazooka and fired.  The missile
flew past him and exploded against the cliff, sending more rocks flying. 
Steve didn't even flinch.  The clicking of triggers signaled they'd spent
their ammo and Steve hurled the shield at someone who thought he was unseen,
sneaking up along the side.  The steel plate took his head off.  The launcher
was loaded again and with a hot blast the rocket sailed toward Steve.  But
Steve was faster than its propulsion.

In a flash Steve moved aside and grabbed the missile.  Using its own force he
mastered it and swung it around in a perfect swoop to send it right back where
it came from.  Before the men had time to blink the missile slammed into the
barrel of the bazooka and detonated, spraying the woods--and us--with blood
and flesh.  But Steve was gone.

Panic reigned as the mercenaries tried to regroup against Steve's overpowering
onslaught.  They didn't know where he might have gone; the woods closed in all
around them.  In a tight group they ran back toward the semi, but whether to
attack from a strong point or attempt an escape I wasn't sure.  More
thunderclaps rent the forest as thick branches that each winter supported a
ton of snow bent slowly under Steve's hands.  The branches bowed as his arms
moved against their mounting pressure to realign themselves, and bark rocketed
off until the curvature forced by Steve's untrembling triceps proved greater
than the wood's cohesiveness could bear.  With thunderous blasts the crippled
branches exploded from the trunks, sending deadly splinters in all directions;
but his forearms, thick as rocks, sustained the vibrating force and steadied
the branches and launched them in two solid heaves that outpaced the running
men.  The men scrambled and clattered into the sudden foliage.

I think they realized there was no escape, that Steve could outflank any
attempt to flee.  That's all that could explain what they did next.

Steve strode out of the forest toward them, deliberately, unhurried.  He knew
that would terrify them even more than a blinding run.  Another Caterpillar
crawled toward him, a crane with a bucket on the end poised in the air.  He
looked up as the claw-ended bucket descended, ready to crush him.  If he were
a normal man.

Steve's arms caught the bucket and let it close around his head.  As the
blades touched his neck he pulled back with his arms, biceps crowding against
his bristling forearms, triceps pressing veins through the dirt-encrusted
skin.  The engine whined as black hydraulic cables leapt and yanked against
their moorings.  The bucket opened steadily, shaking with the battling forces
driving it closed yet forcing it open, and the thin sound of heavy metal
beginning to crease under unforeseeable stress cut like a saw through the
night.  Steve heard shotguns cock and in an instant turned and pulled with all
his might.

The giant arm straightened out and pulled loose from the tractor, which fell
onto its nose.  Shot rang off the metal as Steve used the ripped-loose arm to
swing around at the shooters, cantilevering its weight against his own and
sweeping a swath around him.  Men fell backwards and fired into the air. 
Steve let the arm fly with a sling toward the road out of the forest, where it
landed as an effective roadblock.  The semi huffed into life and Steve ran to
the rock face.  Reaching toward a prominence he turned his body again, ripping
a half ton or more of rock right out with a mere twist.  This proved an
effective shield against further firing.  The guys scrambled to reload and
rock was suddenly above them, smashing down into the truckbed and breaking it
in half with a shower of sparks.

The heart-racing scent of fuel and oil chased the burnt-out sparks as the semi
lurched forward.  A few men clung to the truckbed and fumbled with pistols as
Steve bellowed in anticipation; their faces echoed the terror of that rebel
yell.  The only road open went deeper into the forest and the driver insanely
floored it as Steve's blur came toward it at a slight angle.  Steve whizzed by
the cab and leapt onto the bed itself.

I couldn't find Tony but knew where the motorbikes were kept for emergencies. 
I grabbed one and raced alongside, to witness for myself the grand finale.

Three men aimed and shot but Steve's astonishing muscle control made him too
fast to sight.  Steve quickly plucked the guns from their tight, shaking fists
and the men screamed as their grip was broken.  Clutching their burning
forearms they gazed at Steve with blank, abject submission, like curs before a
man.  One leapt off into the speeding darkness, and another decorated himself
with a bright stain of tangy piss.  Steve's big nineteen-year-old hand easily
spanned the combined widths of the Glocks, and his fingers slowly squeezed.  

Tempered steel that contained explosions and channeled hot steel on a flawless
course seemed to melt like rubber in the hot sun.  The barrels splayed apart
and the chambers collapsed, spilling shells like guts down onto the bouncing
truckbed.  A painfully crunching grind popped momentarily above the racing
motor as the internal mechanisms of three guns were forced from place and
crushed together by Steve's implacable fingers, powered by the seething nest
of pythons balled up in his forearm.  Welds split, panels warped and the
remains of the semi-automatics, now no wider than an inch of sprung works
pressed together, dropped to the floor and bounced off into the dark.

The smell of urine was now tinged with salt as the two men, dropped to their
knees, kneaded their tenting jeans and fell on their bellies before him.  The
driver, of course, blindly sailed forward and hit a deep rut that knocked all
the men off, including our hero.  I didn't slow down; I know a speeding drop
won't stop Steve.  In fact I bet he hit the ground running.

He passed me like a ball of fire, those legs pitting the earth with each
footfall.  Pulling even with the speeding cab he shoulder-butted it, knocking
the speeding rig up onto two wheels with a deep clang.  The rig fell to the
earth and Steve rammed it again, making it swerve from its course with sheer
might.  When the driver regained control, Steve leapt in front of the fender
and braced his arm across the grill.  The driver poked his hand out the window
with small gun.  Without taking his eyes off the road, Steve reached back and
grabbed the man's fingers around the gun.  He screamed and Steve let go, the
gun falling out of sight.  The driver hit the gas and tried to swerve back and
forth on the logging road.  Steve dug his feet into the roadway.  A fine spray
of dust and small rocks grew thicker and denser as his feet plowed deeper into
the packed earth and his broad arms wrangled the cab like a wild steer. 
Hundreds and hundreds of diesel-fueled horsepower raged to follow their own
course.  Steve's back, engorged with blood and swollen to the width of the
cab's hood itself, rode those horses.  His arms began to master them, one by
one.  The truck's swerving course began to straighten out as the driver
pounded with the helpless steering wheel.  The ear-piercing wail of confused
gears rose out of the engine's roar.  I pulled ahead: the cab slowed down,
through no act of its own.  

The driver yelled just as the universal joint tore off from the pressure and
he lost all steering control.  Never mind: Steve guided it along the roadway
as the big diesel engine labored to maintain its forward motion.  The man
downshifted for purchase but couldn't gain any advantage over Steve's swollen
muscle, the pecs sticking out half a foot from his breastplate.  His back
arched as the engine lugged and steamed, the wave of earth at his feet
lessening.  Steve tugged backwards in hard jerks to once and for all bring
this stampeding herd of horse-powered steel to heel.  With a high rattle and
loud pops the engine suddenly died in his arms and the wreck of the semi
ground to a halt.

The wheels were splayed outward: when Steve let go the wheel broke off and it
fell over onto him.  One hand stopped the pull of gravity and the man inside
fell halfway through the window.  Steve's other hand grabbed him by the neck
and pulled him out.  Carrying him by the scruff of the neck, Steve stepped out
and let the truck fall into its grave.

He carried the man like a torch before him, back to the ruined cabin site. 
Men hiding in the woods began to drift along, terrified but firm in the
knowledge that escape was impossible.  Altogether nine men arrived at the
campsite; the others, dead, dying or unconscious in the forest around us. 
Tony strangely hung back, away from Steve and me.  I crouched by his thigh,
glorying in the heat and sweat emanating like a corona from the aching,
pulsing muscle.

He ordered the men to strip.  Most of their clothing was torn anyway,
revealing bruised and battered but still impressively huge and hard muscles. 
Free of their constraints, cocks sprang to attention in the dimming firelight,
though from what I'd heard shouted I'd thought all the men were straight. 
Steve didn't need to bark orders or even speak much above a whisper.  The men
all turned and bent, grabbing their ankles and leaking precum in streams.  And
waiting.

Steve fixed Tony with an look that made him burst into tears.  He apologized;
and I understood.  Steve lifted one heavy arm, pointing the way down the road
out of the forest.  After everything he couldn't harm Tony for his betrayal;
casting him out would be punishment enough.  What would Tony do, what on earth
could he do, now?  Resume his old life?  Explain all that had happened?  I
trembled at the horror of that, and instinctively clung to and stroked Steve's
leg.

Steve tousled my hair and I sat back on my heels.  Steve approached the men,
all older than he, some taller, but as like him as children to a god.  He
admired their broad, rippling backs, their round hard asses, the piano-corded
hamstrings and thick lobed calves.  I felt a terrible stab of jealous, envy,
anger that I could not provide him with so much muscle.  He caressed their
hanging lats and using only his own spit, began raping them one by one.  

The first man spurted his load as soon as Steve rammed through his defenses. 
He looked as if he'd fall forward but Steve's hand secured him firmly, and the
pile of muscle at the end of Steve's ramrod softened, relaxed, completely lost
itself in the power of Steve's thrusts.  Steve erupted inside him, causing him
to rise up with a gasp; when he dropped the man, he fell directly into the
dust, eyes gone white and lips frothing.  Steve moved on to the next one.

He held out longer against Steve's assault.  By about 10 seconds.  He spewed
come over his own face with Steve inside him, probing and thrusting and
destroying any shred of dignity or manhood independent of what Steve gave him. 
Finally the man began to weep, weep while smiling helplessly, and Steve once
again filled him with more come than two horny hermits in a bathhouse could
produce.  Without missing a beat or getting the least bit soft, Steve moved
into the next guy, leaving the spasming man writhing on the ground.

The third guy had lost his load already but Steve found a way to make his cock
spring up, red and angry and full of shooting pain.  Steve hammered those hard
darkening glutes until a second load wrenched loose from the tormented man's
loins.  He opened his mouth as if to scream but no sound came out of his
scrunched face, just a sheet of drool over his lower teeth as his own seed hit
the roof of his mouth.  Steve kept up his assault, refusing to let that
tortured cock deflate.  With a grin that at last revealed the physical
pleasure coursing through his body Steve incredibly came again, so thickly
that come squeezed out from around his cock and blew onto his own thighs. 
Releasing that man to his twitching semi-consciousness, Steve stepped to the
next man.

This huge hulk, nearly 290 pounds I'd guess, was already whimpering when Steve
made him his bitch.  Steve seemed to be cooing to him, and pulled him upright
with a thick biceps around the man's throat.  Steve chewed on his ear and
whispered something with an evil grimace as he plunged deep into the man's
bowels.  The man's look of fear fell into the most childish humiliation.  He
wanted to grab his own cock but seemed constrained by Steve's words, until
that thick eel lost its lunch.  He caught the sticky semen and smeared it over
his face and into his mouth, hungrily eating his own come.  Steve kept on
until the man was dry, and longer still, and finally plugged him with yet
another monster load.  Only I was prepared for the amount of juice his
swinging lemon-sized nuts could pump out in successive orgasms.  The remaining
men shivered and wept and awaited their turn.

In the end all nine men lay on the ground, digging their heads into the earth
and trying to cope with the overloading sensations that fired every nerve
ending.  I gloated over, and hated, all these big men, so completely humbled
by a mere boy.  When Steve finally wiped the last of the lubricating shit off
his cock by plunging it into the mouth and throat of the man who had led the
attack, who had driven the semi in cowardly retreat, it looked as though some
of them might never recover.  Though I doubt they consciously heard anything,
Steve commanded them to have all their men, dead, dying and wounded, gone by
noon.  I know on some level they did hear, and would obey.

Steve came back to me, and only to me expressed the full weariness that
overcame him.  But the night wasn't over yet.

Deeper in the woods an explosion threw the trees into sharp relief; even here
we could feel the heat.  One of the men had mentally snapped under the strain
of realizing what they were up against in Steve, and had hauled all the
unspent munitions to a particularly dry spot in the forest.  Firing into the
pile from a safe distance, he ignited an inferno that even Steve couldn't
stop.  The flames swiftly flew among the treetops; Steve knew the remoteness
of the area, and the sort of defensive shell around it he'd built up by his
actions these past few months, would keep wary firefighters at bay.  There was
only one solution, and it would take everything he had.

He snapped one of the men to attention and got him to organize and transport
the others.  With ease he set the crane back on its tracks and tossed the
shattered arm and tree-limbs from the roadway.  It wouldn't be very fast but
it was the best they could do to get away.  Then Steve took off while I took a
road that would bring me along the ridge above the Armstrong Dam.

Sirens greeted him when he arrived.    The guards and nightmen were already
loading into trucks to escape the fire.  Steve approached them and suggested
they double back beyond the lake.  They complained of the added distance, but
he convinced them there was no other way out.  His authority made itself known
and the series of jeeps and trucks took off, passing me where I watched the
spectacle.

He dusted his bare feet on the concrete basin for traction.  He took three
deep breaths.  He ran at the dam.  Flying over the turbine housing, he
impacted it just under the half-way mark.  His first blow sent seismographs
jumping all down the seacoast and a wave washed twenty feet up the eastern
shore of the lake.  Yet the dam was built to withstand the strongest
earthquake imaginable: a 10.9.  A force that great had never been recorded in
the area; even Steve's quake that shook Portland was a child by comparison. 
The towering mass of concrete and steel easily held back the millions of
gallons water that constantly flowed against it, and mocked the little man at
its base, where it was 320 feet thick, tapering to 30 feet at the crest.  He
walked back and gave himself a little more room to build up speed.

This time his thighs exploded and drove him toward the wall with steps that
shook small rocks loose from the earthen walls around him.  When he was 200
feet away he launched himself in what could freely have been the longest human
jump on record.  Instead, the dam interrupted his flight with its massively
engineered might: and the seismograph fell off its table in Eureka.  The boom
momentarily drowned out the blaring siren, as if a jet had just broken Mach 1. 
Yet still the huge construct reared up, smoothly, against him.  He hurried
back farther.

The smell of the fire, the roar of the animals filled the dry channel. 
Underlit columns of smoke rose volcanically at points under the horizon. 
Steve knew that every minute counted.  

Again he piled forward, bellowing as his feet starred the concrete surface of
the canal.  Soaring again above the turbines, a mere blur of mass and
velocity, he hit the dam with a whump that seemed to reverberate through the
entire structure.  Clods of earth tumbled down either side of the dam and I
could feel the vibrations in my feet.  Water, though far below the crestline,
begin to slosh up into view and spray the top of the dam with a fine mist.  

The problem was the turbines: there was nothing to hit, the wall was thickest
and the machinery too complicated to rip loose; yet he lost momentum leaping
over it, yardage his feet could not use to increase his speed.  Weary though
he was, he stood on the housing and realized it had to be his main might
against that huge construction, or nothing.  

Whump.  Knuckles against concrete.  Nearly two hundred feet thick at this
point.  Whump.  Whump.  Whump.  Whump.  Whump.  Whump.

The beating from his fists sent murky waves scattering through the lake.  He
drove each punch from the bottom of his feet through every inch of dense
muscle in his back.  With each impact small rocks and rivulets of dirt
clambered down the embankment.  Whump.  Whump.  Whump.  Krrk.  Whump.  Krrrrk. 
Whump.  Klllkkkk.  Whump.  Krrrraaaakkk.  Whump.  Kummfff.

The fire was closer, casting a hellish glow over the scene and drawing a
flickering shadow of Steve that rose to dominate the wall withstanding his
power.  Stepping back, he sent a round-house kick into the same spot where
each strike had landed.  The dry clinking of layered concrete sliding onto the
turbine housing punctuated the crackling of the forest fire, the heaving
breaths of Steve's chest.  His pecs glistened in the starlight, so pupmped the
drops of sweat falling off his nipples splashed far from his feet.  He kicked
again, and again, a whirling dervish of unerring accuracy that punished the
dam for daring to pit its strength against his own.  Panting, he paused,
lifted onto his toes, and rammed his shoulder into the shallow depression. 
And again.  And again.

The rocking motion made me sick.  His weathered skin started to break against
the deepening crater in the obdurate wall, and smears of blood appeared.  With
a cry of gathering rage Steve began pounding again with his fists, blow
falling on blow.  The hole began to deepen.  Water began splashing over the
top of the dam as the pounding churned the lake waters to froth.  He smashed
the concrete inward up to his elbows until he hit a girder and kept smashing. 
His lats sprung outward with each blow, shaking sweat off in waves.  The heat
from the fire began to build.  Steve grabbed the edges of the hole and tried
to pry it open.

His arms were blocks of iron muscle; the landscape between his shoulderblades
crinkled like a new mountain range rising between two colliding tectonic
plates.  A hairline crack shot up the front of the dam and the sound of things
sliping out of place inside the dam came in muffled waves with each heave. 
The hairline thickened to match the veins that sprouted over his shoulders,
pulsing with power as they fueled his arms.  Water began to trickle down into
the basin through the turbine shafts.

Reaching into the hole, he grabbed the outermost girder and pulled.  A scream
of tortured steel split my skull as his body drew the bowing steel out,
breaking off bergs of concrete that fell beside him, or hit his arms or chest
and shattered.  Steve's arms outmatched the thick girder's tensile strength
and it sheared off at the top.  He twisted the girder like licorice, his angry
fingers grooving the helpless metal, and yanked it out of the gap.  Holding it
overhead, he began ramming it into the hole, harder and faster and harder, his
arms almost as thick as the girder itself.  

He pulverized the concrete that broke loose and continued to dig into the dam. 
He obviously calculated correctly, for he broke into the main spillway shaft. 
Wedging the cracked, rebar-sprouting concrete chunks into the shaft below him,
he continued to drive deeper into the dam.  I could only see the sparks flying
out from steel against steel, against stone.  My heart froze realizing he
would be caught in the flood.   I slipped down the embankment to the turbine
housing and ran to the crack.

The dam was dizzyingly tall from this vantage.  I shouted into the din of
crashing, crushing cement and steel and Steve screamed for me to get out.  I
crawled in after him, dodging the shrapnel of the disintegrating structure.  I
grabbed an odd steel plate and held it up as a shield, my arms buzzing in pain
as flying chunks of dam struck it and glanced off.  Steve stopped, his chest
heaving, his back almost filling the narrow crevice, as he faced the last
fifty feet of dam.

A terrifying creak towered over us and water trickled down through a tracery
of cracks around us in the weakened structure.  Steve turned, his face a mask
of rage, ordering me out.  My cock stiffened at the sight and began spurting
painful gobs of come as I refused.  "All right, then, hold on!"

I fastened myself to his calf; his thigh was too thick and sweaty now for me
to hold onto, and he placed his hands against either side of the crevice.  And
pushed.  

Looking up past his ridged glutes, I couldn't see his shoulders as his bulging
erectors and rhomboids exerted themselves against the dam.  His fingers
clenched, pulling off pebbles.  Almost immediately a deep-voiced groan
reverberated through the structure.  His feet scrambled a bit and his arms
pressed outward, forcing his power into the tonnage, shattering its solidity
with his man-strength.  Looking up past his trembling, hard cock, I couldn't
see his face past the mounded pecs that quivered as veins throbbed across and
underneath them.  Only the top of his head and his golden, sweat-drenched hair
appeared over the bulging musculature.

A horrible rumble rolled all around us as forces only Steve's arms could
generate humbled and crippled this human masterpiece of engineering.  Steve's
great, hot muscles worked their feat silently, while the inadequate resistance
of tons of concrete, earth and steel pitted itself angrily, noisily, against
him... and failed before his surmounting will.  Cracks rang throughout the
structure and enormous weights collapsed onto themselves and still Steve
pushed.  His arms were half-way straightened and I stayed between his legs for
shelter from the falling boulders that hit is body and flew off course, his
density greater than the pull of gravity.  

Still he pushed the yawning walls apart and the struggling dam lost its
battle, moved back beneath his hands, and with a shattering sigh knelt before
him.  Water squirted in jets from rents around us: and Steve's hands reached
forward and held the wall for a moment, revelling in the power of his flesh to
hold back the water a little longer than the broken dam could.  Finally a
deafening crackle split the air around us and the water hit us like a wall of
ice.

At first Steve easily withstood the blast, flexing his quads to wedge me in
tight.  The vast power of the water flowed past us, dragging away the cracked
and bludgeoned shards of the dam.  Steve leaned into the blast, with only his
footing to secure us.  Still we stood for another ten seconds, twenty, twenty-
five seconds, Steve defying the tons of water, laughing above the roar: until
the ground beneath us caved in and sent us spewing into the roiling flood and
I lost my grasp on Steve.

Bobbing above the waves I could see the dam continue to fall in,
spectacularly, sickeningly, as the eager water tore it to shreds.  The walls
of the embankment melted, pulling trees and building down into the maelstrom. 
I knew I was doomed as we were swept toward the forest; I knew I'd hit a tree
and be smashed like a bug on the highway.  But above the roil Steve appeared,
swimming across the current, and his great mitt clasped the scruff of my neck
and dragged me along with him, across the flood to the side of the channel.

An outcropping of granite appeared from the quickening mud and Steve latched
on with a starfish grip that nothing would break, with me in between.  The
water streamed past us, blowing out of the channel in a wave that hit the
wildfire full-force.  The roaring water, the hissing steam and the smashing
trees abated slowly, leaving my ears ringing, my head spinning, my body
shivering against Steve's might.  Still he pressed against me, again defying
nature, and again my cock rose, defying nature itself.  Steve's cock pressed
into my belly and without moving, clamped onto the rock, we began coming in
extended orgasm, come that wouldn't end, while we covered each others' face
with kisses.  

The water soon dissipated, and the forest recovered as forests will.  But
Steve's actions had destroyed a powerful hydro-electric facility, eliminating
the rural energy grid for the area and resulting in the emigration of most of
the areas inhabitants... for the short term, anyway.  I couldn't help but
wonder if this had been something Steve had counted on, in choosing this
course of action.  

But our enemies now had an even greater grudge against us.  As Steve and I
staked out a new home with the bear, on higher ground, I had time to wonder
about Tony's treachery, and what, after all we'd witnessed and been through,
he could possibly have hoped to gain.  I pondered if he made it out of the
forest in time.  I hoped the reason for his siding with the construction crew
and possibly giving them information about Steve's tactics abilities had left
clues that had survived the flood and fire, and that I'd learn, somehow, what
had hardened his heart against us.  My dread for what the future held could
only be allayed by Steve's golden smile; this thick-muscled youth of
unknowable strength, who now seemed to need me more than ever.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chipmasterson@yahoo.com