Hercules Unearthed
By silicondog@earthlink.net

I dug up Hercules because I needed the overtime.

The morning it happenned I was pulling Saturday OT on the construction site, 
excavating the huge hole where the Santa Monica Stadium was gonna go.  I was 
alone on the site, and I liked that -- I like to strip down to the jeans and 
boots and give the street a show.   Last month I came in second (heavyweight) at 
the California contest, and when I get into the cab with my dreads thumpin' 
around my shoulders and both tit rings in the sun, I love gettin' the stares -- 
both guys and girls.

Anyway, there was nobody around and I was only an hour into the shift when my 
shovel hit something with a big clang!  I thought it was a rock, but when I 
pulled up, I saw something that looked like an oversized iron casket getting 
sucked out of the ground in the mass of dirt.  I swung the shovel over and it 
fell to the ground with a thick "bong!"  Killing the engine, I got out of the 
cab to see what the hell it was.

It was a huge iron tube eight feet long and over a yard wide, with weird 
engraving on the side, sealed like a can of tennis balls.  I thumped it with my 
fist and it felt solid as a rock.   In the early morning, it was totally silent 
after the shovel's engine stopped ticking over.  But then I heard something from 
the tube, a vibration like a growl from deep inside.  And the iron coffin moved!  
Something inside it shifted and the thing shifted a few inches again.  I put my 
ear to the iron side and though I heard something growl -- and then it rang from 
the inside!

I jumped back and there was another clang, like a bell being rung from the 
inside.  Again the great iron mass shook from within -- and then I saw a dimple 
forming in the top of the tube.  A new clang and the dimple grew until it was 
the size of my own head, and I could see it shaping as if knuckles were pounding 
on it from the inside.  As the minutes passed, whenever the iron tube wasn't 
clanging, it started to groan a little and the sides creaked and twisted 
outwards, as if something inside was widening the walls.  

With the heaviest blow yet the side of the tube hammered out over a foot -- and 
a crack opened up in the top.  I gasped when I saw what I thought was two sets 
of huge fingers reach to grip the sides of the crack.  They swelled with power 
and the iron under them compressed as if it was no stronger than chocolate.  The 
rip opened up even more and I could see that this thing had to be at least a 
half foot thick of iron.  From the opening I heard some huge animal snarling and 
growling, gasping for breath and with another heave the tortured iron swelled 
open under the immense fingers, which I could now see merged into great hands 
with tendons writhing across them.  

These hands swelled again and the sound of tortured iron rose into a loud 
cracking grind as six inches thick iron yielded to the vicious power and the rip 
advanced up and down.  Those great hands were tearing apart solid iron, which 
cracked and popped as the muscles grew and the sides compressed under its 
fingers.   When the tear was a yard long the hands withdrew -- and two immense 
arms as wide as my legs reached up, stretched up up up out of the tear and its 
elbows rested against the mashed crushed edges of the iron coffin.  I stood only 
a yard away and watched these huge arms stretch open the metal until, like a 
cocoon spun by a caterpillar, its sides were totally ripped apart, hellishly 
dented with fingermarks and squeezes.

A man slowly clambered to his feet from the remains of the tube.  Seven feet, 
naked except for a worn faded piece of animal skin wrapped around his waist, and 
sandals that looked as if they were crumbling with age.  His face was that of a 
teenager, curly black hair with locks dripping onto his ears and forehead and 
the beginning of a goatee beard under his open, gasping mouth.  His skin was 
dusty and a faded tan color, swelling and shifting from the muscles under them.  

The body was greater than any other bodybuilder I ever saw in my life; shoulders 
over a yard wide that had barely fit the huge tube; abs and intercostals that 
squeezed and rolled around each other even relaxed; two nipples with a tight 
dusting of black hair under two broad shields of pecs.  As I watched, two small 
trickles of sweat rolled down the dust of that huge chest.  I watched those arms 
that had just pulled apart a half-foot iron coffin quiver slightly from the 
stress, and long heavy fingers stretched back and forth.  

He slowly stepped out of the tube and I could feel the vibrations of his body 
under the soles of my boots.  His weight sunk his body an inch into the compact 
earth.

"What's your name?" I asked, looking up into big brown glazed eyes.

"Hercules" was the whisper -- and he passed out in my arms.

---

An hour later his huge sleeping body was in my apartment, the sofa sagging under 
his weight.  We had fallen to the ground together, his body feeling like a huge 
tan marble statue lying on top of me.  After a lot of struggle, I was able to 
get out from under him and rolled him onto his back.  I looked around; there was 
nobody on the street so early in the morning.  I pulled my pickup truck over 
next to him.  He was unconscious, dead to the world as I tried to lift him up.  
I'm a good 240 or so and if you read the June Flex magazine, you know I can do 
shoulder presses with 140 pound dumbbells, but this guy had to be over a quarter 
ton of dead weight.   Finally I found the keys to the forklift and pulled it 
over next to him.  I rolled him up onto the forks, and lifted him up over the 
back of my pickup, then pulled him down onto the truck, its shocks sagging and 
bouncing under the density of his body, and covered him up with a tarp.   
Another minute with the forklift and the peeled apart metal tube lay next to 
him.  

I live only a few minutes away, but it was the most careful few minutes of 
driving in my life -- no way I was gonna get picked up for Driving While Black 
with a seven-foot corpse in back.  

I still didn't know why I brought him home, instead of calling ....who?  911?  
Cops?   He looked to be a teenager, but how had he gotten so big?  I wouldn't be 
missed from the job -- we're ahead of schedule and I had locked up behind me -- 
and now I sat next to him, sprawled over the sofa, his breath slow and steady 
and deep.  I reached over to feel his pulse – slow but strong.  His muscles felt 
like some kind of flowing granite, and skin cool and flawless.  I reached up to 
his arm and tried to squeeze; even relaxed I could only dig my fingers slightly 
into his bicep.  He started a little and I pulled back; he stretched out and 
groggily righted himself on my sofa, the cushions and springs squishing under 
his bulk.  He raised those huge arms over his head and I could hear masses of 
muscle, tendons and bones grinding for space under his skin.  

"Food....." he gasped.

"Stay there" I said, and went over to the refrigerator but he followed me.  His 
feet made the floorboards groan, even under the rug.  We went into the kitchen, 
his head seemingly reaching the ceiling.  I opened the refrigerator, but he 
reached past me and his body felt like the side of a battleship as he pulled 
back a cooked turkey I was saving for leftovers.  With a growl his big brown 
fingers held the turkey in his hand as he lifted it to his mouth and chewed it 
greedily.  The turkey crushed under his grip like a paper cup and I heard his 
teeth grind down bones as the whole thing disappeared into his mouth, bones, 
skin and all.  With his free hand he pulled a gallon of milk out, frowning at 
the plastic.  His fingers popped open the top and he poured the whole thing 
down, two small rivers of white trickling down into the hair on his chin and 
from there onto the heaving pecs.   "More" he growled, his voice deepening in 
timber with the food.

He sat at the kitchen table while I shoveled just about every edible thing in 
the place onto the table in front of him -- and he wolfed it down, vegetables, 
orange juice, cereal, crackers.  I pulled down some cans to open them up and he 
grabbed one and popped it under his fingers like paper.   His fingers closed 
around a coconut and caved it in like an egg, its milk dribbling down onto his 
chest as his jaws and teeth crunched down on the shell.

As his fingers peeled apart a can of vegetables, he asked "What part of Greece 
have I been buried in?"

Santa Monica, actually.  "You've been buried a long time" I answered.

This was crazy, but after I had hustled him onto my sofa I gave that iron thing 
another look.  It was real-deal metal, its inches-thick sides clanged when I 
pounded it with a heavy hammer, and he had peeled himself through its sides with 
only his hands.  

"Who put you in that?" I asked.  He had the eyes of a hungry teenager and I 
could almost feel his huge muscles soak in the food he poured down his throat.  

"I made the queen of my people jealous" he growled.  Thick fingers ripped a raw 
steak into chunks which went into his mouth one after the other.  

"When I was a youth I was stronger than any warrior" he started.  "In wrestling 
their their legs and ribs broke under my arms as easily they would break a twig.   
The only way I could be bested was when five or ten warriors tested my strength 
at once.  But as I grew stronger and taller, even ten of the strongest men in 
our army could not withstand my power.  I was given the duty of physically 
testing and training soldiers when I was fifteen and no other soldier would dare 
challenge me."

"Such was their fear of fighting me that the only way I could build their bodies 
was by fucking them" he growled.  

"As a young one I was so much stronger than all the others, but my body matured 
younger than the other boys and if they ran from me when I challenged them to 
wrestle, they watched as I bathed every day.  But even as I could defeat three 
or four of the strongest soldiers in wrestling, I could sleep with all of them 
in the night, exhausting them all, draining their strength even more.  I could 
only be sated unless I had left them dazed, my seed coating them from their 
chest to their thighs.   All could tell whose tent I visited in the night, since 
in the morning they staggered into the light with my come coating them, their 
legs stiff from my bending them behind their ears.   The day the queen called 
for me I had exhausted her entire private detail of soldiers, twenty-five of the 
strongest heaviest warriors in the kingdom.   Through the night their moans and 
whimpers had echoed over my snarls and growls."

"In my food she dropped a poison that paralyzed me.  I lay at her feet and could 
only watch four great oxen drag a heavy iron casket next to me.  She said that I 
would be sealed into it and taken where I never again would threaten her 
domination."

"I must have you for rescuing me."  As the giant said that, he was finishing up 
a bottle of wine which he had washed down the corn chips.  A heavy rattling 
belch ground up from his enormous chest and he stretched again.  As he stretched 
the flimsy pelt around his hips shifted around and the great boner which had 
swelled up under his loincloth as he talked about fucking the warriors visibly 
thickened, even under the cloth.  


Part Two: 


Herc Kills A Tank

"I need some metal to defeat" Herc told me last night.  We were in the garage 
with all the windows and doors closed.  He was naked (he barely fits into one of 
my big gym shorts), and was sitting, casually playing with a big crowbar in his 
hands.  Around him lay the shredded iron tomb in which he had lay for centuries.  
Its inches-thick bulk had been pried apart in his fingers until its pieces lay 
all across the garage floor, none bigger than a 45-pound plate.  Per his orders, 
I was naked as well.   He held the half-inch-thick steel bar in both hands and 
lay the bar down on his erect uncut cock, thick as my wrist and over a foot long 
over lemon-sized nuts that were always full of come.  

Pushing down on his own cock with the crowbar, his delts split and swelled even 
more, and pencils and snakes of muscles and tendons danced across his forearms 
while the crowbar bent over, his breathing remaining level as he finished 
wrapping the crowbar around his cock.  

It took a little while, but Herc has been pretty patient.  He got the hang of 
apartment living fairly well (including the bathroom, thank god) and has been 
regaining strength he lost through the millenia of being buried.  He hasn't gone 
outside and has spent days eating and nights with me.  Tonight, at somewhere 
over seven feet and so heavy that my truck squeaks when he sits in the cab, he 
said that he felt as strong as he did the day of his poisoning.  I finally got 
the idea, and after getting Herc used to the idea of going in my truck, we drove 
out of the city one early Sunday morning before daylight.  

It was a huge junkyard, with mountains of crushed stacked cars, hulks of 
automobiles, jeeps, rusted trucks, railroad ties, stacks of discarded girders 
and mounds of obsolete machinery.  As deserted as the moon, it was surrounded by 
a thick concrete wall over which we saw the hills of metal.  I parked my truck 
and told Herc "Stay there" and ran around to open the door for him, not wanting 
him to push the thing open through the locks.  We both walked to the gate, a 
thick steel padlock glinting in the rising sun.  

Herc reached for the padlock with his fingers, and spread his index and 
fuckfinger against the steel loop.  The lock bent like a licorice stick and with 
a "pop" tore open in his hand.  

"Suck my muscle" he growled, kneeling and placing the padlock in the crook of 
his arm, between the bicep and the forearm.  I went down and ran my teeth back 
and forth across the peak of his great arm, skin so tight it could not be 
wrinkled or pinched.  I could barely fit that peak into my mouth and sucked it 
while running my teeth back and forth across its top.  His bicep tasted slightly 
of sweat and felt like a tanned sculptured slab of granite as he flexed his arm, 
squeezing the padlock between the muscle and forearm.  Instantly there was a 
thick crunching sound like a heavy walnut, and I felt under my teeth the 
grinding of metal under Herc's immense muscles.  My lips too felt the vibrations 
of the padlock's crumpling under Herc's flex.  When he stretched out his arm the 
lock fell to the ground in a crushed lump as if it had been clay.  I could see 
the indentation of one of Herc's bicep veins run across the curve where the 
steel had been crushed in the arm.  

With a push he opened the gate, and we went in.  I was sure it was here 
somewhere, and for a minute we wandered inbetween the derelict heaps of steel 
and iron.  As we walked through the masses of metal Herc unconsciously flexed 
his biceps on his arms, and his fingers curled and uncurled. 

We found it laying in a clearing of dirt surrounded by other heaps of iron.  It 
had served as target practice by an army, and there was a dent in its side.  It 
had been rolled and deposited here years ago and forgotten until this morning.  

It was a tank.

I turned to Hercules.  "Here is your challenge."

He strode to the tank, towering above him, a heavy mass of sculptured, tempered, 
forged steel.  The shorts he had borrowed from me stretched across his butt and 
around his legs as if the cotton was lycra.  Jockless, his cock tilted over 
towards his right hip.  He felt the tank's side with his hand, running fingers 
across the cracked paint and rivets.  The tank's treads were still attached, 
heavy strips of meshed steel and cleats limp on the wheels.  Herc sank his thick 
fingers into them, and pulled, his great back muscles spreading wide as a bat 
and delts swelling towards his neck.  With a thick pop-pop-pop the treads tore 
under his fingers like a rotten cloth and he pulled the broken ends of the yard-
thick heavy tread off and tossed them against the wall of broken metal that 
surrounded the tank.  

His breathing only slightly heavier, he circled towards the front of the tank, 
and made a fist with his right hand.  Cocking it, he swung at the front of the 
hull with a jab that made the tank ring like a bell.  The mass of steel jumped 
and shifted in the ground for inches, where it lay for years before being run by 
Herc's terrible fist.  My jaw opened wide and without thinking I stripped off my 
own gym shorts when I saw the deep dent his blow had made in the tank, his four 
knuckles visible at the bottom of a four-inch deep indentation in the hull.  He 
lashed out with his other fist and made a deeper dent next, and the sound of its 
vicious impact onto the hull hurt my own ears with the ringing.  

He circled the tank like a lion circling a wounded prey and with a snarl ripped 
off the other set of treads, its metal links no match for his fingers.   
Crouching down, he grabbed one of the wheels on both sides and braced his legs 
against the tank, his thick butt on the ground.  The tank's wheel was squeezed 
in his hands as he pulled back.  His neck swelled and the heads of his delts 
looked as if they were crushing the bones under them as the wheel made a thick 
metal grinding noise and loosened under his fingers.  With one great pull, his 
torso lurched back -- and the wheel ripped free from its axle.  He stood with 
this keg-sized solid lump of metal in his hand, the dents his fingers made 
visible along its rim.  He casually tossed it to the side, his breathing 
heavier, cock thickening in his shorts.  

Jumping onto the tank's broad hull, Hercules walked over to the gun barrel, a 
long tempered tool of aligned steel.  He ran his fingers along its length, and 
at the end tried to twist it back and forth, testing what it was made of, how 
strongly it was made.  After a moment's thought he hopped on the tank's barrel, 
straddling it with his legs.  Reaching down to grasp his hands under its length, 
he clamped his thighs to brace himself.  Already I heard a soft creaking grown 
as the steel started to lose shape under the crushing power of his legs as he 
hooked his feet together.  

With a first heave, he pulled up with his arms -- and the tank's barrel lifted 
up a few inches in his hands.  The next heave pulled it a foot higher, its sides 
shrieking against Hercules' skin.  He straightened his body with the gun's 
barrel in his arms, and the long tube of inches-thick steel bent upwards until 
it reached straight towards the sky, its tempered length twisted by Hercules' 
torso into a 90-degree bend.  The fabric of his shorts were frayed and tearing 
where his skin was crushing the cannon, and for the first time I saw him break 
into a sweat, small drops on his spreading delts.  I clambered up to the tank 
and stood only a few feet away from him.  I felt like I was standing next to a 
nuclear reactor, I could feel the growing strength of this kid's body as with a 
new breath he reared back, the tank's gun in his arm, like a cable row except 
here he was twisting the gun barrel like a paper clip!  

The grinding and creaking of the metal doubled in volume as he kept his legs 
braced around the barrel and his butt braced on the tank's turret.  When he had 
pulled the gun until it just grazed his shoulder, he stretched up and got off 
the gun.  Where his thighs had clamped together, the barrel had been squeezed 
shut like a drinking straw.  I could hear him breathing deeper, muscles pulling 
in air as he wrapped his arms around the doubled cannon and his great kegs of 
thighs swelled.  The pumping thighs split the seams of his shorts up to the 
waistband as he braced himself and with one brutal tear ripped the barrel from 
the turret, the air filling with the squeal of cracking steel and ground metal.  
He held the doubled barrel in his arms, smiled at me, and tossed it to the 
ground, where it fell with a solid thump! I felt in my naked feet atop the tank.  

He squatted down next and grasped the lip of the turret in his hands, palms up, 
and clamped down, the metal already beginning to warp under his thick relentless 
fingers.   Almost fifteen feet across and four feet tall, the turret crackled in 
its welds as Hercules braced himself and then pulled himself up, uprooting the 
turret of the tank from the hull.  Popping the tank open like a beer can, the 
huge turret gave an almost painful squeal of bending steel, popping rivets and 
tearing welds as Hercules pried it away from the tank and with one kick dropped 
it to the ground besides the barrel, its tons of mass shaking the earth.

I saw sweat dripping from his hair, his goatee, and his fingers as he jumped 
nimbly to the ground.  He swung his great shoulder next to the tank and lifted; 
the tons of steel groaned as under his delts it lifted a foot off the ground.  
Grabbing the naked wheels he gave one more iron surge and the tank tilted higher 
and higher, his body pumping harder as the remains of the tank tilted more and 
more until it rolled onto its side.  Shoving with both hands he popped the tank 
upside down with a hollow "thump" as it dropped next to the twisted barrel and 
turret.  Jumping onto the tank's underbelly, he braced his feet against the 
wheels and sunk his thick prying fingers into a seam.  Inch by inch, snarling 
and growling with the pump of his young life, physically shouting his rage at 
his imprisonment of the years, Hercules peeled back the tank's bottom steel 
plating, rolling the dense tempered steel up and back under his hands until he 
stopped to spear one arm, then both arms, into the mechanical guts until with a 
great grinding sucking squeal he arched his back up, his arms holding the solid 
lump of engine block in his arms, four feet of high-temperature molded steel, 
hundreds of pounds easily!

Carrying the block like a 50 pound dumbbell, he clambered out of the shelled 
tank and stood before me with the block in his arms.  He seemed twice as thick 
as before he killed the tank, and he left a trail of sweat in the dirt.  His 
musk blew across my balls like a sauna blast.  His own great boner, twice as 
thick and twice as long, pointed at me like a spear.  He brought his huge arms 
together and the engine block fought and lost its last battle against Hercules' 
muscles as the mass of steel was compressed and mashed into one thick mass, 
extruded by his arms and hands, as his fingers left dents in the steel sides.  
As if also extruded his cock then began launching thick ribbon after ribbon of 
white, almost steaming with density, which arched over my head and splashed over 
the U-shape of tank barrel.  

Almost exhausted, Herc tossed aside the crushed block like a basketball.  It 
shook the ground under our bare feet as it fell and he lifted the cum-splashed 
barrel in his arms and hands as if it weighed as much as a chopstick.

"Lick it clean" he ordered.

I did.

NOT THE END.