My Dad, the Hardcase
by Chip Masterson
chipmasterson@yahoo.com

Dad's kind of a hardcase.  He isn't mean, or overly strict, and he never hits 
us.  But we knew when we'd done wrong, and the fear he struck in us was worse 
than any fist.  Not that those big fists couldn't have killed us.  We knew he 
loved us too much to hurt us.  But the idea he could was enough.

He did have a mean streak, though, and loved watching us sweat.  Sometimes he'd 
just put us on for a long time, "You sure that's what you want to do, son?" His 
eyes would riddle us with self-doubt as surely as if they'd been machine guns, 
and empty us of pride or arrogance just as quickly.  But he also taught us to 
trust and believe in ourselves, so that when he were right, and stood up against 
him, his love was all the warmer.

I thought he might give Mom a nervous breakdown, though. He loved to humiliate 
any of us but with Mom it was different.  If he felt she needed punishment, it 
was dealt out at the dinner table.  He knew what his powerful body did to her; 
when I was older I overheard him say to some other guys she was a total dick 
slave.  I hated him for reducing her to that; but then I'd seen the effect he 
had on her.  We'd be eating dinner and he'd fix her with those steel grey eyes 
in that craggy, impossibly handsome face.  Every time he'd lift his fork he'd 
flex his biceps, or he'd stretch and flex his pecs and go into a mock-sleepy 
double biceps stretch.  She'd try to stare at her plate and eat but her eyes 
were drawn to that body she had every night and every morning and still couldn't 
get enough of.  The more he'd stare and casually flex, the more she'd squirm and 
flush until she'd finally excuse herself to go to the bathroom.  He'd ripple his 
forearm against his knife and mutter with a grin, "Wonder what's eating her?"  
And there was nothing we could say or do.

We couldn't challenge his authority, but we also couldn't get up to go check on 
her.  We all had woodies, all six of us.  This sex show occurred regularly 
enough that it just became natural and we never doubted that we were straight, 
and simply turned on by the erotic exchange taking place as we ate roasts and 
fried pork chops.  We all knew we'd grow up to be like Dad, maybe never as big 
or strong, or handsome, but powerful and possessing all the women we could ever 
want.  At least, that's what I figured.

I'm the oldest, and it's always been my responsibility to help the younger ones 
deal with Dad and his moods, his expectations, his punishments.  I love my 
brothers, and would never do anything to hurt them.  But Dad... that's another 
story.  The one I'm telling now.

Dad's a longshoreman, what I guess they used to call a stevedore.  Some of the 
oldest guys still call themselves that.  Dad's not the oldest, but he's the 
strongest.  He could easily do the work of three or four young men, if the union 
would let him.  Sometimes he does anyway, carrying huge crates or I-bars on his 
shoulder like they were stage props.  He not only had the strength but the 
stamina of half a dozen young men.  He was never a foreman, but always the 
natural leader, the one the others looked to.  He made or broke foremen, and 
preferred to have the authority and expertise without the responsibility or need 
to answer to fat weak men higher up on the jerk-chain.  He loved the workout his 
muscles got in demanding physical labor, loved feeling his body rise to meet 
every challenge, conquer ever obstacle.  But he didn't limit himself to work.

Back when union jobs paid well he bought the little house with the big yard.  
Over the years he collected the objects he worked out with.  Not Olympic plates 
and barbells but used farm equipment, axles, tractor tires.  He built a lot of 
shit himself, welding and sometimes simply twisting and wrenching things 
together.  Watching him do barbell curls with a big rig axle with buckets of 
dried cement hanging off the wheels, or deadlift the end of a battered Airstream 
trailer filled with junk, made me hit the gym at school pretty hard.  The idea 
of that much strength in one man who could one day lose his temper scared me.  
Someone had to be able to take the blows while the others got to safety.  At 
least, that's what I thought at first.

The coach saw I had great genetic potential and kept the other weightlifters out 
of my way.  I worked out a lot of aggression on the football field, but Dad 
never came to the games.  I honed my skills pitching for the baseball team, 
playing pick-up basketball and as captain of the wrestling team.  Soon I became 
the number one athlete in the school, and had my share of girls to go with it.  
They loved being seen with a strapping golden boy, over six feet of friendly, 
quick, solid muscle.  The only problem was when they inevitably came over and 
ran into Dad.  

Dad had an effect on them that was practically hypnotic.  Something in the way 
he smelled (Old Spice and honest sweat), the way he didn't much care one way or 
another about them, but always looked them in the eyes once and smiled, seemed 
to ignite them.  Once we got away from the house they practically tore my 
clothes off.  But the sex wasn't great, because I knew it wasn't all me.  He was 
standing there, behind me, and they were looking at him.

I even got the impression some of the guys were friends and hung out with me 
simply because of him.  And these were guys who were one hundred percent males, 
not fags.  Guys who could almost out-wrestle me.  Guys who'd be number one 
themselves if I wasn't around.

I got strong without his ever noticing.  At least, I didn't think so, for all 
the attention he paid.  He mostly wanted to know about my grades and chores; he 
didn't seem to give a rip I was the most popular guy in school and had to turn 
girls and even grown women away left and right.  Not that I did much of that; I 
could always squeeze in two or three somewhere.  

It was on my eighteenth birthday.  He took me aside after cake while Mom and my 
brothers cleaned up the kitchen, and walked me back out into the dark yard.  He 
lit a big stogie and I watched the flame flare before his paint-brush thick 
blond-red moustache with its three or four silver hairs.  I watched his biceps 
bulge as he lit it, then bounce as he shook the match out.  He ate dinner in a 
wife-beater because the house got so hot, even in winter.  It was summer now.  
He was cleanly washed and smelled of Ivory soap, and a light sheen of oil was 
coating the hairy meat of his shoulders.  I marvelled at the thickness of his 
chest, how deep it was in the center.  At how the hair always seemed groomed, at 
how large the nipples were that poked through the stretching fabric.  It made me 
forget how thick my own pecs were.  For the moment.

"Boy, you're almost a man tonight."  He puffed on that cigar and sent thick 
smoke into the still air around us.  I tried not to gag but my eyes watered a 
little.  "There's one thing we have to do first.  Come with me."  And he walked 
over to the shiny Dodge Ram he had us wax every other weekend.  

We drove out to the docks where he worked.  I hadn't been out there in ages, but 
the smell of salty wood rot and fish brought back those memories.  Seeing him 
ordering men about, hauling big weights that made the cranes groan, rivalling 
the forklifts for speed and power.  It almost seemed like a dream, something 
unbelievable.  But tonight I knew all that was just a prelude.

He gave the watchmen something and the guy left.  With a shove Dad sent the 
giant warehouse door sliding on its track.  He threw a switch and a few lights 
came on overhead, casting huge shadows with the cargo stacked around.  His lats 
swelled gently as he dragged th great door closed again.  Walking away from me 
he spoke cleanly in the echoing darkness, his deep, rich voice filling the 
space.  

"Your grandfather almost built St. Cecilia's singlehandedly.  Gram worried so he 
used both hands."  He turned his head over his shoulder and winked.  He'd 
stopped before a large stack of steel girders.  He still spoke with his back to 
me.  "The day I turned eighteen he took me to a quarry that was still in 
business.  He made me a man there.  Some big blocks of granite got broken, and a 
very expensive crane was wrecked, but I emerged with his approval.  I expect 
you'll do the same, son.  At least, I hope you will."

He turned around and faced me across of circle of light.  Scratching his boots 
on the rough concrete floor he assumed a wrestler's stance.  "Come on, boy, 
let's see what you got."

"You think you can take me, Pops?  You're on."  And I charged him.

He stood his ground and I rammed my shoulder into his gut.  Pain flashed out and 
down my arm as I spun away and he stood there, and laughed.  "That what you're 
putting out on the football field, son?  Must be playing a bunch of girls."  And 
he fell on me.

His speed was amazing.  Before I knew it he had me in a half nelson and was 
pressing his big thumb into my deltoid insertion..  His legs wrapped around mine 
and immediately started to force them apart into splits.  Pressure and pain 
threw my mind in a tumult but the more I bucked the tighter his hold became, as 
if I was helping him take up the slack.  My thick neck bulged but I could feel 
the vertebrae begin to bend as I smelled his workman's sweat spread around me 
like a cloud.  Behind me his rocky torso bruised my back as he jerked me against 
himself.  My head bent down and sideways as my arms floundered in the air and I 
gasped for breath.

"Had enough yet, punk?"  The cigar smell filled my head as he dug into my biceps 
with the thumb I once saw drive nails into 2x4s..  My legs were nearly at a full 
split and I was very glad I could do it on my own; but I acted as if it were 
torture and he stopped short of his goal.  I pounded the floor and he shook me 
hard so that my teeth chattered, though my jaw was wedged shut against my thick 
pecs.

I caught him by surprise by going limp for one second.  He overcompensated and 
relaxed enough for me to swing my head out from the headlock and twist a 
shattering blow into his ribs with my elbow.  I once put a kid in the hospital, 
unintentionally, but the blow merely glanced off the iron ripples above the 
bone.  I used my momentum and spun out from his grasp, sliding behind him faster 
than he thought I could.  I boxed his ears and as his hands raised spontaneously 
I spun on my granite ass and locked my legs around his chest.  

Instantly he tightened his abs and erectors and I knew I could never force him 
down so I grabbed his hand and swiftly bent it backward, putting pressure on the 
elbow.  He flexed the arm and began pulling it away but in the brief moment of 
pain he lost his balance and I flipped him down sideways, deftly twisting out of 
the way.  My shirt had long since come out of my jeans and his hand, pulling 
free, grabbed at it, ribbing the cloth away from my body.  I could barely link 
my ankles on the other side of his massive chest and I jammed my thighs against 
his armor.

His feet scrambled, trying to get an angle to wrench himself free, so with legs 
that squeezed beer kegs flat I ground my quads toward each other.  I forced a 
surprised yell out of his lungs while his rigid muscles fought back against my 
strength.  "Come on, Dad," I said through gritted teeth, my arms spread out for 
support, "if I was naked I could fuck your armpit."  I double my pressure and he 
grimaced.  

His thick-roped arms were busy trying to pry my leg off his chest so I secured 
my ankles and flattened him some more.  He barked and I could feel the muscles 
of his back start to soften against my insane power.  I dealt out three sharp 
bursts and his face went red as his bones creaked.  His hands gave up on my 
dinosaur quad as it shattered the strength of his quivering pecs and one hand 
reached for my feet while the other dug into my crotch.  I twisted and squeezed, 
I was unstoppable, and Dad started to wheeze.  His fist shot out and broke my 
nose.

Blood and tears filled my face and I lost my grip.  He threw me off and I jumped 
to my feet, my sight lurid and watery.  His voice was harsh and he was breathing 
harder than any dockwork could produce.  "Where'd you get to be so strong, kid?  
I never seen you lift."

"You forget, old man, I'm a star.  The guys in machine shop filled an iron 
drainage pipe with steel and welded it under two old Volkswagens we got from the 
auto shop.  That's what I squat.  I curl 50-gallon oil drums full of water.  I 
bench the front end of Chevys."  And I ripped off my torn shirt, exposing the 
sweaty, heaving planes of my pecs as they shadowed my brickwork abs.  My veined 
arms rose in a double biceps that rivals his, except where his are hard and 
rough from work mine throbbed with liquid power under thin satin skin.  

"Nobody beats me, boy.  I don't care what you think you can do."  Hate glaring 
in his eyes, he reached out and lifted a girder off a stack behind him.  It 
wasn't on top and the steel made a squealing, grating sound as he wrenched it 
free. The other girders tumbled down against his legs but he didn't move; he let 
all that weight knock uselessly against him.  Then, twisting at the waist, his 
upper body a mountain of muscle almost as deep as it was wide, he swung it at 
me. 

The blow sent me flying; I braced myself but there isn't much that could 
withstand the power he put into the hunk of steel.  He raced to me where I 
sprawled in my back and raising the I-bar above his head, biceps bunched and 
filling his long arms, he drove it down at my chest.  I rolled aside and heard 
the girder creak at it smashed into the concrete.  Whipping around I grabbed the 
end and shoved it up and back at him.  I noticed the girder had bent out of 
shape at the end; two inches thick in the middle six inches wide across the 
ends, and he bent it with his power.  He held on; I held on.  Each of us tried 
to press the other off balance.  His arms still above his head, me gripping the 
girder against my side, he locked eyes and I knew he was so enraged he would 
kill me.  If he could.

My breathing deepened and I couldn't resist flaming his fury.  "You didn't beat 
Grampa, did ya?  Did you think I'd just roll over and take it, old man?  After 
what you do to us, after how you treat Mom?  What'd he do, shove his dick up 
your ass after you lost?"

He roared and dug his feet into the concrete, twisting and shoving.  Above our 
breathing the girder groaned and suddenly bent upward in front of me.  My arms 
throbbed and where my biceps met the edge of the bar it began to bend beneath 
the muscle.  He yelled and where his hands gripped the steel the steel curled, 
and with a loud groan the girder twisted before him.  I smiled and the girder 
trembled and shrieked into a contorted S.  I couldn't knock him loose as his 
outstretched arms warped the begging steel, so again, I pulled and yanked him 
off balance.  I stuck out my foot and tripped him; when he hit, he pounded his 
fist into the concrete and shattered the surface layer.  One look at his eyes 
and I feared, for the first time, his wrath.

Nearby was a big forklift and I dashed up into it.  I'd watched the men use them 
before and remembering how, I drove it at full speed straight at him.  He caught 
the two forks under his arms and took steps backward, slowly bringing the 
machine to a screeching halt.  The treads grumbled and bounced against the 
lift's weight as he bore down on the forks.  Steel began to cry and squeal.  I 
tried to dislodge the forks by lifting them but his arms, thicker than the flat 
steel, held them in place.  They jerked and shook under his tightening arms, the 
peaks of his biceps gouging tempered surface.  The chain stretched and flattened 
against the gears; it was capable of lifting 3 tons of weight but it couldn't 
pull free of Dad's mighty arms.  He held my gaze and his moustache bristled as 
he snarled and grinned.

I smelled burning oil and heard the chain links buckling under the ferocious 
muscle man's power.  I put the lift in reverse but that did nothing but further 
grind the tattering treads against the pulverizing cement.  His thighs were 
ripping out the seams of his jeans, even his thick calves were splitting their 
way out of the wretched denim.  I released the forks and they shot down beneath 
his pressure.  Screaming, he held on and twisted his thick body and sent the 
forklift skittering across the floor, spinning around and around on ruined 
treads with a stomach-tightening squeal.  The thickness of his back and 
shoulders and chest easily equaled the density of that machine.  I held on, 
dizzy, until the forklift slammed into the fallen girders and bumped me out on 
top of them.  He came over and with one foot shoved the tonnage of the machine 
away.  The force sent the mangled truck up on one tread and took it over onto 
its side with a huge clattering crash.

He stood over me, panting and huge, his muscles rippling through his tattered 
tank-top and shredded jeans, his fists opening and clenching.  With a move I 
learned in tae kwon do, I sprang up onto my shoulders, powerful abs sending my 
legs up and around his head.  My abs contracted with power unknown to any 
forklift and bracing myself on my shoulders I pulled him up off his feet, 
throwing him backwards against the stack of girders.  Steel clanging and falling 
hurt my head as I whipsawed upright and now stood over him as he scrambled to 
stand amid the shifting I-bars.  Spinning around, I kicked with lightning speed 
that iron jaw to send him back on his ass.  He glared at me and where his hands 
clenched against the bars they squeezed the steel.  I stood before him, 
breathing, my huge chest rising and falling beneath bowling-ball shoulders.

Wiping a small trickle of blood from his chin with the back of his hand, he 
nodded at me.  I marveled again at the thickness of his arms, biceps and triceps 
that seemed like another man's thighs.   If I'd known some fancy moves like 
that, I might have beaten my Pa."

 You ready to learn, old man?  Learn the hard way?"  I trembled inside my hard 
words.  I couldn't get the thought of his rippling body tossing and kicking that 
forklift around like it was a Tonka truck.  The depth of muscle, the 
hardness....  Something in me was getting hard and I didn't like it one bit.

He stretched and dropped his open hands at his side.   Son, you got a lot to 
learn yet.  You still a virgin?"

I laughed.   Not since junior high."

As he passed me he suddenly whipped around and held my hands behind my back.  
Pressing up against me, his grizzled chin biting into my neck and his moustache 
tickling my ear, he whispered,  I think you are.  But you're not gonna be.  Not 
after tonight."

One thick hand held my wrists in a vise and I heard denim rip, caught a flash of 
blue flying off behind me.  A huge tug overpowered my thighs and sent me 
backward against him, buttons flying off my jeans and the gathered material 
falling below my ass into a sort of shackle.  He spit into his hand and in a 
couple swift strokes I felt his hardness behind me, the cock that made Mom 
scream and pass out; I filled the half-lighted warehouse with screams of my own 
as he rammed up into me.  I roared and twisted but his legs wrapped around mine 
and his hard body plunged against me and his free arm reached across my chest, 
twisting nipples and massaging my thick muscles.  His face nuzzled my neck and 
ears gently in counterpoint to the savage rape and I found myself trembling, 
yielding to his authority and power, stars bursting with pleasure in my head as 
he filled my guts with the come from which I sprang.  

He pulled out and another shriek of pain ripped through my body; then throbbing 
relief.  My cock was hardening in the afterglow and I felt his dirty boot at my 
ass, forcing my jeans down over my quivering thighs.  I reached down and ripped 
them off over my boots, the hard denim tearing in my hand, and when I turned 
around he was standing there, grinning.  Come streaked with shit dripped from 
his still-turgid cock onto the concrete.  As swiftly as he had, I whipped an arm 
out and brought my right biceps against his neck, spinning around and securing a 
stranglehold even he could never break.  He clenched his ass but my rod broke 
through his defenses and sank half-way up its shaft in one thrust.  He didn't 
scream, just inhaled sharply, and I felt his sphincter massage my cock as I 
buried it in him.  His hands stopped squeezing my iron-hard forearms and went 
down to his own cock, and as I returned the favor he brought himself to orgasm 
again, spewing seed all over the tumbled, bent girders to match my child-seed 
creaming up inside his ass.  I pulled out and backed away and we stood facing 
each other, dripping with sweat and come and testosterone, and he spread his 
thick arms before him, beaming with pride.

 Come give your old Dad a hug."

                             THE END

chipmasterson@yahoo.com