Sarge Flex Masterclass

MASTER CLASSES

Each of the Sergeants brought to The 'Block a specialist technique, and were promoted to the rank of Sergeant on the basis of their expertise in these areas.

Interrogation: Sgt "ACE" Amberson
:Finance: Sgt "CHIEF" Schulz
Physical training:: Sgt FLEX
Combat:: Sgt "WOLF" Mack
Security:: Sgt HOODER
Motorbike Training: Sgt "BEEF" Horst
Equipment: Sgt "PROSECUTOR"
Incarceration: Sgt
Surveillance: Sgt BULLITT

Some of these areas could be described as "grey" - euphemisms for some of the murkier activies of The 'Block. Some were merely hobbies the Sarges had more than a natural interest in.

New Officers could pay for one-on-one seminars, with lucky sub "clients" (paying) used as material for masterclasses in these disciplines.

On an occasional basis the Senior Officers would give Masterclasses in their given technique for new Officer members of The 'Block. Sgt "ACE" Amberson's workshops were mandatory, and ranged from subtle mindgames, to waterboarding and out-and-out station-house rape..

Tonight Sarge FLEX was rehearsing his pre-contest posing routine, for the inspiration of the rookies, before The Masters contest next week. Strength training programmes, professionally designed by the IFBB Pro in Residence, who was always an honorary Sarge., were mandatory for all Officers.


Flex had been massing AND cutting up, following an experimental stack and feeding routine he had tested on Officer Jerry.

As a single light came on above the platform, even the senior ranking Officers drew breath as a massive shadow was cast, filling most of the stage.



Even the Sergeants, all amateur competitive bodybuilders as Cellblock rules demanded, were shocked by the amount of new muscle the mature pro had managed to amass in secret.

After a stunned silence, the crowd roared triumphantly at FLEX's new inhuman gains. The Sergeants sitting at the front, in high-back director chairs each with a cocksucker servicing them, led the cheering, with the rookie Officers standing, their cocks in their gauntlets, jacking and hooting the musclecop on.

FLEX was sitting astride a Harley hoisted onto the platform., wearing Dehners, cop belt, and tiny black rubber posers. FLEX's pinhead hintite made his barn shoulders stretch out into the distance, looking anatomically unfeasible. He was twice the width of a normal human.






His head looked like an afterthought, an evolutionary anomaly to the superior aerodynamics of the vast yoke of muscle drowning his skull... The evolution of his anatomy had long dispensed with the need for a neck column, as his skull was now sunken into the two menacingly large traps that bulged as high as his ears, each one bigger than his skull. His head looked like it was being squeezed off his shoulders, useful now only for feeding, and the production of hormones. And smoking cigars of course.




FLEX's double-dark posing tan displayed the razor-sharp contrasts of his skin-tearing definition.



And his metallic Russian posing shine glittered on his diamond cut intercostals. FLEX's shine hurt the eyes of the crowd sitting in the dark, shards of light flashing off his burnished steel contours.



He was a living granite megalith.



FLEX had put on so much muscle his entire body shape had now changed. His anatomy had evolved alongside horizontal lines to accommodate new muscle growth.. FLEX's bulging lats and intercostals grew out sideways, forcing his heavy arms out a 45 degree angle.




Broad pendulous pecs hung, distended, over the edge of his rib-cage, touching the top abdominal, his nips invisible, pushed under and out to the side by the weight of his pec beef.



FLEX"s outstretched his arms, and his tris hung heavily underneath, elbow joints disappearing under thick muscle attachments as he lifted them upwards, nodding in arrogant rapture.





On cue, the paper-thin rubber poser suddenly ripped open as his 10 inch pumped cock bloated up, tearing the poser as it burst through, dripping arrogant pre-cum.



FLEX then rehearsed his routine mandatories, dominantly and aggressively, each pose made cock-centric by incorporating cock-stroking into every pose.



Unfortunately he would be obliged to perform these IN a poser for the contest. And without stroking.



Then the lights dropped again. The Senior Staff Officers hooted, knowing the freestyle COP routine was coming.

A routine that he would never be allowed to perform in the IFBB, and that he REALLY wanted to do.

A rank of volunteer pain subs appeared lined up behind the monster.. FLEX, was massive next to these worms, three times the mass and three times the man of each of them. With a massive paw the muscleman lifted one sub up by the neck, and held it away at arm's length, its feet wriggling. Turning to his audience, FLEX nodded and then slowly flexed the other bicep, and smiled at the crowd; naked, erect, dominant and arrogant. The crowded hooted and punched the air. The sub passed out and was dropped on the mat.

Flex grabbed another sub and flipped it over his shoulder, its head dangling in front of his abs. FLEX then rammed its skull down onto his rampant cockhead. The crowd hooted as the sub choked on the bulbous helmet breaking its jaw. With the inverted sub mouth still impaled on his cock, FLEX walked along the line of quivering subs, and tossed another over his other shoulder.. With both subs dangling face first, FLEX grabbed their skulls and, alternately rammed them on his erect musclepole, with trademark bodybuilder crowd smile, finishing of with a lat-spread, a worm on each shoulder.



FLEX pulled their mouths off and, steadying his massive weight on his quads, pressed each sub from the shoulder with one arm, his cock rising triumphantly in tandem as he pushed them up over his head.

Some of the cheering newbies shot their loads into their gauntlets at this point.

FLEX then threw the subs from a great height behind him over the side of the platform.

Only four subs remained. Two were slightly stockier, and were known pain pigs.

The pigs moved forward and stood next to each other sideways to the crowd, FLEX facing them, bloated cock visible side-on to the crowd..



With a sudden crushing swing, Flex alternately punched each one in the gut with each fist, increasing his force with escalating brutality. As the blows reached a constant rhythm, FLEX pumped out jizz in controlled shots in time with each punch. The crowd went wild cheering with congratulation at the musclecop's arrogance, vanity, cock control and power.

FLEX then selected a pocket size skinhead, a known bucketfanny, and bent it down in front of his massive 33 inch quads, each one the size of the 7 stone fucktoy's chest. FLEX forced his massive pole into its pussy, as the skin screamed with ass-tearing agony. The gang of cop thugs laughed as FLEX grinning then pulled the squirming meatpuppet fully onto his 10 by 7 inch pole.

Then with one upward move FLEX lifted the screaming skinhead off its feet with his cock inside it. As FLEX took one hand off the fucktoy, he leaned back to flex the other bi, supporting the sub's entire weight with the musclelimb gouging its hole

".MUSCLESNUFF!! MUSCLESNUFF!!" hollered Sgt Amberson, baying for FLEX's trademark finishing shot.

FLEX pulled the little sub off his pole, and shoved his cock right down its throat till it started suffocating. Then the last two pigs knelt either side of the big man, as FLEX wrapped his 24" guns round the two pain pigs pencil necks, smiling and crushing, till they were also flopping, passed out.



As the crowd erupted all three subs dropped away lifeless from the musclemonster, as he then raised up towering above, inflating his pumped cock AND triumphant lat-spread simultaneously, showering his roid-load over their broken bodies, the spoils of a deserving VICTOR and leader of men.







"FFFFFFUUUUUUKKKKKKK!!!!!!! SGT Amberson and SGT WOLF roared with approval, shooting their delayed loads into the throatpussy kneeling between their breeches, high-fivin each other as they thrust the last drops down the subs necks

"And THAT's how you do it". FLEX growled into the dangling boxing-ring mike, squeezing a final most muscular, flex-waves passing down from his traps through to his pendulous twitching beefpecz dripping with roidload.




SARGE 'WOLF' MACK ON THE CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.

Jail Training Center

From the Jail Training Center website:

"World famous facility. Education, training and experimentation with all aspects of both psychological and physical control. Police, military and sports gear. Real Cops, Real Marines, Real Army Guys!"








JTC appears to be the old Academy location in N Carolina, but it's hard to tell just from the previews available on their web site. Tried joining recently, but they don't accept VISA and there doesn't seem to be an email address to contact anyone at the JTC. Can anybody give me feedback on the site??

Heads up: Looks like their 'free' preview costs $7.50! Sarge D

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK

Rogue Leathercop 04

THE CONVERSION

The former sub peered out, bleary-eyed, his blindfold removed for the first time in days. After being gang-banged, his head was kicked in by the SARGES, and his nose broken twice.

Then suddenly the beatings stopped, to be followed by weeks of endless blindfold workouts, and kept in gym gear from neck to ankle, not allowed to see his body. And the gym, like his cell, had no mirrors.

Force-fed protein shakes funnelled down his neck, hundreds of injections all over his body and balls, agonising night-long vac-pumping, and then handcuffed and blindfolded to a prison bed often with protein-shake vomit running down his chest when not being forced to bone-breaking workout.s with a gun at his head. And after being chloroformed one day, he came to, with what felt like knife-marks all over his chest.. Most disgusting of all was the forced cigar-smoking and deep-hauling, resulting in a lot of the protein vomit, and his now coarsened rasping voice..

The only time he was not blindfolded, was when the Officers recruited him into brutal sub punching and forced subskull and ass pounding, himself beaten later if he didn't get hard, or shoot his load in the subs - like he once used to be.

Now he was instructed to take off the gym sweats. in Sergeant Flex's cum-splattered posing mirror, for one second he did not recognise what he saw. He thought there was another bodybuilder standing next to Coach FLEX, with a smashed up boxer's face staring back at him, covered with a heavy rough beard sprouting out of what was left of a neck, buried in bulging bull-traps.

In the dark Jerry had felt his arms, pex and stomach had gotten bigger, but looking back at what he thought was himself he saw the heavy bulk of a wrestler, or an off-season powerlifter. His body was no longer shaved, bronzed, lean and shiny, but hairy, and inked with what he now realized were still-raw backstreet tats, and a deep posing tan that made him look a Latino WWE wrestler. Pendulous off-season pecs, with the word "TOP" scrawled on one, had tracks of greasy roid acne and gyno man-nips.. His chest had been inflated from 40 to 49 inches of part-bulk, mostly-muscle, with some definition given by painful synthol injections all over his torso. His arms had pumped from defined 15 inches to 19 off-season inches bulging with synthol, pushed out sideways by bulky lats that. gave him a dramatic V, capped by cannonball delts covered with site marks.

During his mysterious month of forced muscle gain/torture his trainer/torturer Sergeant FLEX had ruined his looks, like he said he would. There was no trace left of his "pretty-boy Abercrombie looks" - just some fucking ugly thug. He was unrecognisably muscular, but an ugly Shrek, victim of some weird experiment that had backfired. He didn't understand why.

Jerry started crying, shaking uncontrollably.

Surprisingly, FLEX changed his tone. Lighting a 'gar, he put a heavy arm round the now-thug's shoulder. "I said no-one would have ya now, but look at ya now bro, you"re frackin YOOGE buddy. All the pussy's gonna wanna piece of this musclecop, yeah? That's why we put all the hard work in, to show ya what it takes to be a real man, bro. Ya 250 pounds of FUKKING COP BEEF buddy. Ya one of us now!, Sergeant Jerry!"

The lunk stopped sobbing, and turned to FLEX. Really? 250 pounds? And one of the Sarges - they're not gonna kill me?

Vain to the last Jerry realised there was a way out, and he may as well make the most of it. Hell, the Cellblock cops have a sweet life. And all the forced fukking and beating which didn't do anything for him had started to turn him on a bit......

"Come on COP, flex ya beef - show me what ya made of buddy".

Jerry shakily lifted one arm up, amazed by the size of the ham-sized limb in front of him. Squeezing it up, he smiled tentatively over to FLEX, as the bowling ball blew up instantly, enhanced by skin-straining synthol. FLEX smiled back; "And the other one".

Jerry flexed both biceps and squeezed harder this time, surprised amazed by the sheer weight of his arms. Jerry impressed himself with the V of lats that he'd never had before. The rookie builder checked out the thickness of his pecs, as they twitched and flinched as he moved his arms.

FLEX, already topless to intimidate the rookie, joined in the gun show. "Come on, man, MOST MUSCULAR" he shouted, demonstrating a crab shot in the mirror, 320 pounds of veined bulging beef, flexing and twitching, overblown bull-traps threatening to engulf his grinning 'gar smoking head.

"FFFUKK YEA:" the rookie replied in admiration of his now fellow musclebud, Sergeant Jerry was all too easily slipping into the mindset of the ugly MUSCLECOP he had morphed into, aroused and impressed as he imitated FLEX's posing, turned on by his own comparable muscle mass, becoming more arrogant and hard with every newly flexed muscle.

Jerry's painfully pumped and sliconed bullIcock was by now fully pumped, dripping with arrogant self-discovery.

"DO IT MAN" Flex roared, by now with his jock off, flexing his favourite most muscular/cock pose - a crab flex whilst jacking his 10 inch cock with both hands. Side by side, puffing cigar smoke, the two meatheads most-musculared, and flexed their torsos, squeezing muscle and cock in the same pose, roaring louder and louder with each stroke.

"Fuckin BIG MUSCLE, MAN! Shouted Jerry at the mirror, glorying in his image, and psyched on roids.. "Fukkin COPMUSCLEGOD!"

""DO IT, COP, FUCK THAT JIZZ OUT" roared the twitching ball of bullmuscle next to him that passed for human..

"Fukkin.......

"POWER!!!!!!!!!.........."

Roaring in unison the muscle-crazed hulks splattered the cum-stained gym mirror with roided jizz.

"FFFFUUKKKKKIN MUSCLEMAN!!!!". Jerry shouted, still pumping test out of his heavy vacced cock, and lumbered right up to the mirror nodding with self-congratulation as he flexed a bi, and savoured his VANITY.

FLEX sidled up to the rookie, and suddenly whacked him cross the pex. Grinning at the startled rookie, FLEX flexed a side chest with his cock still standing to attention and snarled:- "Come on BIG MAN, punch these pex. Give me what ya got, COP."

Drunk on power and roids,, Jerry smashed a paw into FLEX's granite CHESTBEEF. A wall of muscle stopped the rookie's fist, as the musclebull merely smiled back.

"ALL ya got, FAG? Harder!!!! FLEX puffed up a massive 62 inch lat spread. The rookie punched the huge musclecop on his brick-like abs, landing his full 250 pounds on his roid-gut.

Looking at the their 600 pounds of raw masculinity in the mirror, the two neanderthals punched and flexed, smashed and posed, displaying their invincibility, arrogance and raw power....

SARGE 'WOLF' MACK ON CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.

Rogue Leathercop 05

THE TRAP



Other bikes were parked in front of the signless, windowless building. SARGE "ACE" AMBERSON kicked the bike's stand into place, and ordered the gimp to dismount, as best it could.

"KNEEL!" was the next thing it heard, hooded and blindfolded under the helmet. It dropped nervously down onto the gravel.. The gimp realized things were now serious.

Adjusting his crotch after dismounting, ACE took a leash off his cop belt and chained it to the collar of the hood, and with one hard tug nearly pulled the gimp off its knees., as it stumbled trying to stand up. It walked following the sound of its new MASTER's boots crunching on the gravel..

GIMP noticed the drone of distant traffic fading, changing to the ringing of the steel tips of ACE's boots on what must be the metal floor of a passageway that led deep into a building. And from the exciting smell of cigar smoke, GIMP realized ACE had lit the cigar he had been chewing as he rode the Harley.

Padding behind, GIMP heard ACE's boots suddenly stop as the unlit passage came to a dead end. GIMP heard the rattle of keys on ACEs cop belt, and the clang of what sounded like a metal gate and then another creaking door.

ACE yanked GIMP through the gate as the door slammed shut behind. Excited and terrified, GIMP realized there was no turning back.. ACE had kept the location and even entry to the building secret.

HELMET OFF" ordered ACE in a different, menacing voice. Gimp struggled, barely managing to slide the tinted lid off and drop it on the floor.

"STRIP". Already shivering, GIMP unzipped the rubber top. Before he even got to the rubber shorts, they were ripped off in tatters by ACE.
GIMP's pitiful cock sprung out, shrunken by fear.

"HANDS ON HEAD".

GIMP quickly raised its paws up to the hood..

"AGAINST THE WALL" barked ACE; as GIMP was too slow moving it was slammed face first against the brickwork...

"LEGS APART" growled ACE,. kicking them wide open with his WESCOS, as he put the sub in an arm lock. Expertly cuffing the vic., the leathercop barked more orders.

"EYES DOWN. DON'T MOVE.!"

GIMP heard the rattle of keys again, and the sound of hinges opening and closing. GIMP's heart was racing as it stood blindfolded and naked, for what seemed like an hour, not knowing what was happening behind. All it could hear was the creaking of leather, the thud of boots on the floor followed by the sound of zips and snaps fastening and, most terrifying, what sounded like a weapon being cocked

GIMP suddenly heard the sound of boots approach it, and the weight of an arm on its back as the hood's eye-patches were ripped off from behind. ACE took the arm band and all the money in it., and put it in his Langlitz jacket. GIMP realized this was becoming more than a fantasy cop shakedown

"TURN ROUND" growled ACE, with a voice now completely unrecognisable from before.

Through the slits in the hood GIMP could see the glow of ACE's cigar clamped in his jaw.. But GIMP also saw ACE was now wearing a different uniform. A peaked Officer Cap with different insignia., with the brass-tipped visor pulled down onto his nose, eyes shielded by black Aviators.. ACE was wearing a unfamiliar breast badge, stripes and decal on his epaulets, and was adjusting a white lanyard of high rank. GIMP also noticed a nightstick and holster had appeared on a heavily tooled-up cop belt. And in the other gauntlet was gripped a heavy, black bullwhip. ACE had even changed his Harley WESCOS to high shine COP DEHNERS. They must have been in one of the metal uniform lockers that GIMP could now see lined the corridor walls.

GIMP felt as if looking at a different man to the one he met at the EAGLE - a Paramilitary Officer or vigilante COP. But this made GIMP want even more to worship the authority and power of the uniformed, muscled COP - to be near HIS maculinity. GIMP's asshole and throat were hungry for the COP's cock. Confused by awe, desire and fear, GIMP wondered what was coming next..

The Leathercop turned a wheel-lock and slid a heavy door open. Blue cigar smoke floated across shafts of light streaking into the corridor, as GIMP was lead through the doorway, handcuffed. From behind the Leathercop's wide shoulders GIMP saw what looked like a signing-in desk manned by a heavily muscled leatherclad cop behind a grille. The Cop thug, lit up from above by a single overhead bulb, was wearing similar leather shirt, cap and decal as ACE, with a stogie jammed in the corner of his mouth. Behind were a rank of CCTV screens and hanging on the grille various straps, gags, instruments and hoods identical to the one GIMP was wearing. The Sergeant stood up to salute ACE, then shook gauntlets.

"Signin in a civilian.". The Sarge handed a clipboard through an opening in the grille.

"Number -. 050511"

"Any valuables, BOSS?"

The LEATHERCOP grinned, patting his chest pocket. "Nope. No valuables".

SARGE passed a cockcage through the grille, as ACE swiftly locked it on the gimp, handing back the key to SARGE.

"Brand ready, BULLITT?"..

The thug, grinned back, as it passed a long cattle brand through an opening in the grille.

The GIMP started squirming at the sight of the iron brand red on its end, and tugged on the cuffs.

"Wanna hand, BOSS - brandin it the old-fashioned way?".

The GIMP started freaking out as it saw the red metal coming towards it.. "KEEP STLL, PIG" shouted ACE.

Lurching through a gate in the grille, in one brutal move BULLITT headlocked the gimp, crushing its neck with a massive veined bicep - instantly subduing the struggling vic for its MASTER..

ACE took the brand and landed it on the gimp's arse as it braced itself for the heat, flinching with the cold metal - realising with relief that the red "glow" of the metal was only ink..

"Now property of the Cellblock" barked ACE..

SARGE BULLITT pressed a button under the counter. GIMP following ACE through a sliding door and down a passage. ACE turned left into a large room, with a pool of light in the centre, around which were arranged high-back leather chairs in front of another bank of screens. The familiar blue haze of cigar smoke hung over the group.

ACE's boots crunched as HE approached the chairs, GIMP pulled behind on his collar. From behind ACE's wide Langlitzed back three Leathercops became visible in the chairs, smoking cigars with their boots resting on stools, watching what GIMP thought was cop porn..

As the clink of ACE's nightstick against his SAM BROWN got louder, two of the COPS suddenly booted their stools aside and stood up to salute ACE.

"At ease, men", ordered ACE clasping the gauntlets of the Officers. Both cops were in identical full Langlitz uniform and breeches, booted, Muir Capped and armed. GIMP was sweating with desire - realising he was about to serve a leader amongst men - the fantasy MASTER and COP he dreamed of. GIMP's shrivelled cock started to grow, but painfully restrained by the metal cock-cage. Unlike the bulging uniform codpieces of the three powerful Leathercops he hoped to serve...

A third cop remained seated, visible from behind only by the peaked cap towering above the back of the black leather chair, cigar smoke curling above.. ACE walked round to face the cop, seated as if on a throne. To GIMP's excitement he saw a collared naked sub lashed to the chair between this Leathercop's boots, servicing his cock, while the uniformed Officer sat back enjoying a cigar, whisky and cop porn

The cop reached up a gauntlet to greet ACE.

"Evenin' CAPTAIN". This cop must be an equal to ACE, thought GIMP....

SARGE 'WOLF' MACK ON CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.

Rogue Leathercop 06

THE STING

Three or four Cops in varying rank of leather uniform barged into the room led by Sergeant FLEX.

"So where's that little fukka then FLEX?" Captain SIR demanded, angrily.

FLEX laughed. "Here BOSS"

One of the cops lumbered forward and, wheezing, straightened up in a lat spread. The bare-chested sweating thug wore a Sam-Brown shoulder strap squeezed between hairy swollen pecs, two leather collars as bicep straps; with a bloated roidgut spilling over straining breeches barely containing a massive powerlifter's arse. And the pumped cock had burst open one of the cod's poppers. The grinning goon's greasy pex, and stomach were inked with prison tats, with his bulging Syntholed biceps, traps and delts peppered with roid acne and site marks.

A shining shaven pate topped a flushed stubbled mug, with a drooping handlebar tache trailing down to a swollen-veined neck. Captain didn't recognise the dark-skinned lunk in cop shades. Was it that new Latino Prison Officer? Captain couldn't tell, but he knew one thing - he was one ugly fukker.

"Howdie BOSS" the lunk said saluting, in a cigar-raddled growl.

"FLEX!?! What the FUCK'S going on?". Captain demanded, sitting back down in annoyance with the time waster. "AND WHO'S THIS MEATHEAD?"

The goon removed its Aviators with shaky, iron-blistered paws. A smashed up nose and the puffy, scarred eyelids of a loser cage-fighter completed the look of this shuffling, protein-farting goon, belching cigar smoke.

"Sergeant Jerry reporting for duty, SIR!" the goon barked, inflating his chest further, whilst adjusting his crotch.

Something about the broken, rattle of the voice tipped Captain off.

"Jesus H Christ!!!!!!. Is that you Jerry, ya little fag?". Captain realised, suddenly realising to get on board with the elaborate hoax he now vaguely remembered. "Yeah, You look awesome bud. A REAL COP"

Completely oblivious to the joke, the roided goon high-fived Captain back beaming with pride., and pumped out a double bi, turning his head and nodded smiling arrogantly at its left bicep blowing cigar smoke on the fat, syntholed-swole peak.

Sarge FLEX winked at Captain: "Show the Captain what ya made of bud" as FLEX mimed a most muscular to Jerry, joining in as the goon squeezed out a crab shot. FLEX nearly split his 62 inch leather uniform shirt down the lats, popping open the snap on the collar. Jerry displayed his gurning muscle with his mentor, getting visibly hard with arrogance as his cockhead started to show over the top of the regulation codpiece.

"WHOA there, big guy, there's plenty of time for THAT later" chuckled CAPTAIN, "we got some nice training material for ya to play with."

"HELL YEAH" "this COP's in the mood to do some SERIOUS DAMAGE" the rookie top roared, grabbing his crotch.

Captain pressed a button that opened a door behind his desk leading to the private elevator to his personal. Dungeon, christened in last week's retirement party.

As the four Sarge's wide shoulders squeezed into the elevator, Sgt Jerry, fukked on roids and whisky, was excited to try out his new mass and COP role.

"Mask on, Bud" Captain ordered handing Jerry an executioner's half-hood. "COOL, SIR" the eager thug chuckled.. The other Officers all wore regulation Aviators and Muir Caps with gold insignia of high rank, and hand-made finest leather real-gold-braided uniform shirts, tailored to the cops muscular proportions - though FLEX's shirt was more rectangular than "V" shaped.

In the dark room the four LEATHERCOPS saw a naked hooded figure in the dark, strapped to a St. Andrew's Cross, facing a mirrored wall.

"Stand straight, PIG" Captain ordered. The pig straightened up at the sound of heavy cop boots approaching.

GIMP was terrified and excited at the same time, knowing the exquisite pain and pleasure coming to him, yearning to serve and feed from the COPS pure unbridled masculinity.

Captain and FLEX sat in two leather thrones and lit a cigar, while Sgts Amberson and Jerry approached the sub.

Amberson gave Sarge Jerry some boxing gloves to wear. "Show us your right hook, COP". Sgt Jerry sidled up to the pig, and with one straight-shot, punched it in the kidneys. A muffled scream came from the zip-hood..

"Nice one", the COPS nodded to each other. Without stopping Jerry continued to rib-punch the sub, admiring his sweating muscle in action in the mirror behind, and how his new untested strength made the sub buckle under the force of his massive arms.

"Feel that POWER, fag!" Jerry barked pounding the punchbag. "You COP meat, now boy." The sub mumbled in agreement.

Amberson handed Sgt Jerry a bullwhip. "Do your worst, COP"

"Hell yeah", grunted the sweating lunk., taking off the gloves, and grabbing the whip. Without any warning, J lashed the waiting sub. "Take this, PIG"

Jerry brutally flogged the moaning painpig, aroused by his new strength, the noise the whip made with each stroke, and how the pig's back arched in reaction to his dominating strength, flinching but not resisting.

Jerry enjoyed admiring his new self, unrecognisably massive, in executioner half-hood, with heavy biker-tache drooping below, his hairy inked pex glistening with sweat.

"Feel my power, PIG!" Jerry roared, as he admired the thickness of his new syntholed guns rising up then crashing down.

"Fukk it up COP", the other cops hooted, as thy slowly jakked their inches, enjoying a cigar and the training session. Sgt Amberson had taken his cod off, and was holding his heavy inches in his gauntlet. Amberson took his PR24 from his Sam Brown, and handed it to Jerry.

"Open that hole up, COP!"

Jerry snatched the baton, and in one brutal move buttfukked the screaming pig.

"Right on, COP" congratulated Sergeant Amberson, shaking the grinning rookie thug by the gauntlet. Jerry turned round and pulled out the baton.

"YOU want a real man inside ya PUSSYBOI!"." Jerry roared, throwing the baton down and grabbing GIMP by the shoulders and pumping its ass with his siliconed 9 X 8 pole. "Take this COP COCK, worm!"

Jerry pounded the moaning sub, lifting it off its feet with each cock-thrust, and crushing his pecs into its back, rocking the cross out of its sockets..

Jerry lifted his arms and flexed a double-bi in the mirror, still with cock in the sub's chute.

"WORSHIP THIS MUSCLE, pig", Jerry roared. GIMP mumbled praise through the ball-gag. "BIG MAN can't HEAR you, FAG." The gimp mumbled its praise louder.

"I"m gonna breed ya FFFUKKIN CUNT!!!" Jerry roared, shooting his first roid-load into the subs bruised ass. Jerry roughly pulled out, as Sgt Amberson high-fived the rookie cop. "Good work, Cop", he smiled, cigar in mouth, shaking the rookie interrogator's hand with his gauntlet and patting the thick-set thug on his broad back.

Sgt Amberson took a cigar from his cop shirt pocket, and lit Jerry's cigar.

"Cheers Man, feels fukking good, bud" Jerry grinned, pulling his gauntlets back on, cupping a clenched fist in the other gloved hand. "Gonna try these bad boys out". Jerry grinned through the cigar smoke, curling his bicep back and forth.

Sarge Jerry sidled up to the hanging sub, and roughly wrapped his 19" bicep round the fag's neck, as taught by SARGE BULLITT. The 10" glowing Jeroboam blew smoke into the sub's nose holes. "You this COP's pussy fag now boi, yeah?" The sub shook as it nearly passed, out slowly choking as bicep peak began to cut cut off its airway. Jerry punched the sub in the ribs with the other gauntleted fist to bring it round, then blew smoke into the holes as it struggled for air. "Take the smoke FAG!" Jerry ordered.

"EXCELLENT!" the other cops hooted, congratulating the rookie.

Sgt Amberson by now was hard, his pumped inches sticking out, and had taken his uniform shirt off. Amberson's chest outmuscled the rookie's - 52 inches of ripped, lean mature pro-muscle, expertly and expensively perfected by Sarge Flex, as exhibited in the competitions mandatory for Cellblock Officers. Boulder shoulders tapered to a roidgut tucked into flared Officer breeches. The sub didn't stand a chance between these two walls of muscle.

"What ya say to a good old spit-roast, Sarge?" Jerry grinned at the Leathercop. "Hell YEAH, buddy."

Amberson uncuffed the sub from the cross, and in one move slammed it face down onto the fuck table.

"Which hole you want, bud", Amberson knew which hole suited his plan. "Try its skull for size, Cop."

Amberson's massive, and seasoned pumpcock now stood fully erect, more impressive than the rookie's month-old vacced tool - expertly pumped and siliconed over many years. The glistening, brutally veined muscleweapon stood out menacingly next to the other attachments on Sarge's cop belt, by far the most dangerous and impressive of all the weapons of pain. Amberson's cockfukk was the most feared part of his repertoire.

As he pulled open the cheeks of the sub, he gripped his steel-hard member with the other gauntlet and firmly guided it into the loosened cunt. Sarge slowly but implacably forced the muscleweapon into the subcunt who let out a deafening scream. Through years of expertise, and reacting only with a puff of cigar smoking curling out of one corner of his unsmiling mouth, Amberson merely acknowledged the sound as signal that HE had broken the ass ring, and, task completed, to calmly carry on driving his weapon with one continuous, thrust till holstered right to the base., for the fullest cock pleasure as he deserved, as a Senior Officer and Interrogator.

Jerry was in awe of Amberson's mastery, total control and ruthless, unsmiling, emotionless professionalism, as if Sarge took no pleasure from his "work" - except the arrogant pleasure a professioinal torturor derives from the total power and dominance of a lesser mortal - with sexual gratification coming almost solely from Amberson's evident arrogance.. This Alpha-male self-belief, (called a "God-Complex" civilians) was shared by all the Senior ranking Officers of The 'Block....

The power-crazed rookie, spurred on by Amberson's display, bent his head down at the exhausted sub's head and barked right in its face:

"You want this COP COCK, faggot." Jerry waved his member in front of its eyeholes. The sub mumbled loudly. Jerry unzipped the hood's mouth hole. Before the sub could draw breath and respond Jerry was brutalizing its throat with his cock.

The thug forced the heavy cockhead into its mouth and then pounded it into the back of its neck, forcing his full length right down into its gagging throat.

Amberson grinned at the rookie. "Feel good bro?"

"Hell yeah - oh FFFFUKKKK yeah!" Jerry roared on the brink of shooting a second load in the sub's skull.

"Look at your Master, pig" ordered Amberson as he reached over and pulled off GIMP's hood off just at the moment Sergeant Jerry blasted his roid-load into GIMP's guts..

Jerry pulled his still dripping member out of GIMP's skull, as threw his head and arms up, flexing and roaring as his rampant cock pumped the rest of his load over GIMPs face.

The hoodless gimp cried out:

"Sir, YOU are the FUKKING BIG MAN, SIR - Breed this faggot cunt, SIR!!!"

GIMP gurgled through the cum pouring out its mouth, able at last to speak and see without the hood, looking at musclethug looming above and the bloated cock shooting jizz in his face.

Sarge Jerry looked down at the unhooded worshipper's face below his pex. He stopped moving as his face turned white.

"DAVE!!!!? Fuck, is that you. - It's me, Jerry. You're FUKKIN GAY?!!!"

The sub, covered in cum, still with Amberson inside him, looked quizzically at the thug, and for a moment of disbelief, paused, and then cried out..

"Jerry - Oh my GOD....Don't look at me......What the fuck happened to YOU?!!"

The other Sarges hooted with triumph and high fived each other as Captain Sir turned on the lights.....

SARGE 'WOLF' MACK ON CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK

Masterboot 01

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MasterBoot 02

THE NEXT WEEK

I arranged to meet up with MASTERBOOT on the following Friday. We stood side by side on the same balcony, enjoyinyg a cigar and a cold one. We compared notes on suitable material, but didn't waste time memorizing any: they would come.

I noticed the former released slaveboi of a bud climbing the metal backstairs. Signalling the boi over with a flick of his gauntlet it seemed MASTERBOOT had already had used this sub..

"Meet BOI, BOSS". I nodded to the boi, not yet ready to let on that I knew its former BOSSDAD. "Good evening SIR" the boi spoke, head down. "I have not met SIR in the flesh before".

BOI had in fact contacted me on Recon out of the blue a couple of weeks back: "SIR is very impressive. This would be honoured to speak to SIR". I had resisted encouraging BOI with a reply, and boi was now suitably reserved at the bar

Clipping a leash from his cop belt onto BOI's empty dog-collar MASTERBOOT shook my gauntlet with the other hand.

"I will see you very shortly, BROTHER - there is something I need to do" he smiled as he led BOI towards the metal staircase.

"I expect to see you shortly, Bro", I winked.

As MASTERBOOT'S broad leathered back disappeared into the gloom, a plume of blue cigar smoke trailed behind him.

I reached for my Bud, and turned to faced the bright, bar end of the platform to check out any new material. I shifted my weight onto my right boot, and rested the other on the footrail under the drink-shelf: a sign to gathering bootlickers my Chippewas required a tongueshine. My dick was now getting really hard so I put the cigar in the corner of my mouth, gripping my beerbottle in one gauntlet so I could adjust the codpiece filling up with my dick. I left my gauntlet on the cockpiece and cupped my bulging cod; I thought about getting my cock out as it was getting slowly crushed in the cod.

This display caught the attention of a short-arse rubber skinhead - scrawny and easily crushed, unlike last week's skinthug. It was one of many gathering bootvultures that had probably been staring at my boots all the time I'd been there..

I carried on enjoying my cigar and the adulation, which only made my dick even harder; fuck it, I nneded to give the bad boy some air. I flicked one of the top clasps open and my helmet forced itself out of the top, with the half the shaft still inside the cod..

A lot of the hangabout subs straightened up at this sight, but the rubberskin must have reached desperation point, and braved the walk across the platform. It stopped in front of me looking for eye contact.

It looked up for reassurance but it got none. I fucking ignored it and carried on enjoying my cigar looking at the front of the bar. It could do its own fucking work.

Humiliated in full view of the gallery, in resigned desperation it shrugged it shoulders took a deep breath and assumed the position: kneeling in front of my raised cop boot, arms clasped behind its back, head bowed down next to my boot.

It was a good five minutes before I even glanced down at the lowered skull before me. Having passed the first stage of its training, I decided my the slave could clean my boot. I slowly angled my right Chippewa up and down, admiring my shining boot gleaming in the dark. The bootslave risked it, and took this as permission to lick the bar-shit off the sole, and greedily slathered the rim clean, hands still behind the back at all times.

After five minutes I removed the boot from its mouth and placed it on the steel floor. The bootslave realized that it was to tongue clean the other boot; this meant bowing its head right down to the floor, supporting itslef on all fours like the dog it is.

After another five minutes boot training on the left Chippewa, the sub paused, and nervously sat up on its knees, and, dared to look up at my bulging cod. Its mouth was wide open ready to take whatever I chose to throw its way.

I chose to spit beer in its face.

The sub hardly dared flinch, just licked the liquid dripping down its head and stinging its eyes. It duly bowed its head in thanks and stared back longingly.

By now precum was dripping down my shaft inside the cod. Without expending any more energy than I needed to, I tapped the cod with my beer bottle to start the next part of the worship. The rubber sub nervously raised its hands from behind its back and carefully reached to pull open the cod flap. It looked afraid of what might happen next.. My hard eight incher loomed above its head. It opened its mouth wide opened and put its tongue out. Begging like a dog. I made it wait a good four minutes kneeling on the iron grating.

With a single flick of a gloved finger I pointed at my cock. Like a starving dog it reached up its tongue and started to carefully clean the precum dripping down the shaft. It waited a while before attempting the helmet. As it did I swiftly reached my gauntlet down and pushed its skull down on my . I raped its mouth right down to its throat. Just where I wanted it. It could work out how to breath.. Skullholster keeping the cock hard, beer in one hand, gar in the over.

30 minutes cockmassage should be enough before I fuck my load down its guts.....Let the bar gets a good look too...

I enjoyed the rest of my beer, and the Casablanca, nodding to a few buds as the passed by. For a while I forgot the skull and only occassionally remembered the skullsheath clamped on my cock when I was adjusting my weight from one boot to the another

I knew twenty minutes had passed because that's how long half a Jerry takes to smoke. And why are the cockvultures staring more than usual? Fuck - I forgot the cumbucket...he he. A few thrusts should.....FFFFUUUKKKK!!!!!!!. do it. There; nuts feel lighter: for a while. The sub got a good meal inside it too.

When I had done it the honour of fucking its throat, it stood up bleary eyed, bowed again and stumbled off.

BOOT ORGY

Still no sign of MASTERBOOT? Where is the BEAST? Think it's time to see if he is thuggin that vic downstairs...

I clear a path through the crowded platform to get to the metal staircase. Good to see the two thrones still there in front of the stairs...

My steel boot-tips clattered satisfyingly as I clunked down the metal steps to the bar level to get a beer. What was MASTERBOOT doing to BOI?

At the bar I watched some porn and fired up a new Jerry..

Still hard, the dark cruising arch seemed like a good idea. I walked round towards they connecting doors, where BOI emerged with MASTERBOOT's leash hanging from its dog collar.

BOI bowed its head before me.

"SIR; SIR MASTERBOOT has invited you to use this boi with him upstairs SIR". BOI handed me the leather loop of the heavy chain leash and bowed his head. Great; whatever MASTERBOOT had been doing to BOI was only the first course....

"Follow me boi". I yanked the chain to pull the boi's head down further and strode off back to the stairs. The cruisers cleared way and I enjoyed their subs oggling; and winked to a couple of buds., grabbing my crotch

Clearing a way up the stairs, I turned the corner. There was MASTERBOOT seated on a Throne, already with another slave sucking his jackboot.

MASTERBOOT nodded his Muir cap and smilied, letting a curl of cigar smoke from the corner of his mouth. "You get the material I pimped you".

"Sure did Brother". I ascended the other throne and leaned over to shake MASTERBOOT's gloved hand and to pass the leashto the other . Boi stood before MASTERBOOT'S throne as a subject: bowed head and hands clasped behind. MASTERBOOT did that same signal with a single finger, and BOI dropped to HIS boots and got to work tongueshining.

"It is yours to use. We share material as brothers".

My Chippewa was already next to MASTERBOOT's jackboot on the footplate. One sharp move and I had my bootcap in BOI's mouth.

"As it should be Brother. Side by side again with our slaves".

"Fukk yeah bro.. I think I need another slave - you agree BOOT?". I looked at the many subs lined up again oin the gallery, and nodded to one. Two rushed over instead and pounced on my boots, squeezing BOI out the way. MASTERBOOT beamed with congratulation through cigar smoke and asked as he opened his codpiece without looking?.

BOOT "You gonna fukk BROTHER?"

"For sure BRO". MASTERBOOT's 9 inch monster rose up between his leathered thighs. BOOT yanked BOI's head and growled::

"What are you born for,"

"SIR to serve YOU MASTER, SIR". BOOT nodded with self satisfaction and impaled BOI's skull on his cockweapon. I grabbed a tongueslave skull and peeled the cod off another time and rammed my still hard inches inside the greedy subskull.

"It is perfect, WOLF"

"Where we belong bro."

As we sat like kings; a bud of MASTERBOOT's swaggerred towards him, new in town from a couple of years in doing porn in LA. Tall, good-looking and still relatively young he shook MASTERBOOT's gauntlet, and peered at the massed worshippers before us with calm interest.

"WOLF, meet LA COP"

"Good work there, WOLF" he replied, offering a gloved hand.

"Cheers" I replied shaking his hand over BOI's head.

LA COP was already cupping his crotch and reaching down to inspect BOI's body. MASTERBOOT nodded to LA COP who drew up to BOI's ass, priming it hard with a few preliminary hard wakks of the hand. BOI, well trained and now solely concentrating on my Chippewas, hardly flinched. LA COP then then reached for a short truncheon hanging from his belt and started to beat BOI first across the ass. BOI only flinched once as LA COP's baton moved up towards BOI's back. I felt him on my boot as BOI bridled against the brutal blows.

SARGE 'WOLF' MACK ON CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.

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CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK

Langlitz Leathers

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Website: http://www.langlitz.com/

503-235-0049 (Phone)
503-235-0959 (Fax)

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If you live close by or happen to find yourself in Portland, stop by their shop, a short five minute drive or 15 minute bus ride from Portland city center. The store's open Monday to Friday and closed weekends.

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK

Retirement Party 01

The room waited quietly for the captain to make his appearance. It was mostly dark in here, but hazy tendrils of blue cigar smoke floated through occasional spots of dim red light, suffusing the space with an ethereal glow and scenting the air with the smell of sweet tobacco. Here and there in the darkness a shape moved – not so much seen as sensed in the smoky twilight.

A regular, almost hypnotic, boom-boom-boom beat of a Trance track filled the void between the muted lights, but over and around this music you could clearly hear the creak of leather, the clink of metal and deep muted voices in the darkness. There were men in the room, although how many and exactly where was impossible to say. A sense of anticipation filled the air. They knew he would be here soon.

A motor whirred into life somewhere outside the room and a low rumbling in the walls grew louder. A faint light glowed along a three-foot section of floor and then the motor stopped with a muffled metallic whump. A panel opened in the wall and light flooded into the room from an overhead bulb in the small one-man elevator platform controlled by a numbered keypad with a code known only to one person.

It wasn't a bright light by any stretch of the imagination, but it almost seemed so to waiting leathermen in the dimness. All eyes – leathercops and inmates alike - turned towards the luminous ruby rectangle and the board-shouldered figure in a peaked Muir cap who stood momentarily silhouetted in the elevator doorway.



More than just his shoulders were broad. Standing over six feet tall, the beefy uniformed man almost filled the elevator car. The BULLCOP was built like a truck and below his PENDULOUS PECS he sported a MASSIVE 'ROID GUT that threatened to burst his buff-coloured leather CHP uniform shirt. He stood with his legs apart – as wide apart as he could in this small space – for practical purposes to help keep his balance as the private elevator descended from his office three floors overhead, but the position also reinforced his NATURALLY DOMINANT ROLE, and only incidentally displayed his lower torso to best advantage .

His MASSIVE THIGHS, as powerfully built as tree trunks, stretched to their limit his matching leather CHP breeches with their distinctive blue-and-yellow stripes caressed the outline of each leg and ran down into his thick Vibram-soled 17 inch 12 EE big black WESCO BOSS BOOTS. A man who DEMANDED WORSHIP. A UNIFORM-CLAD DEMIGOD. A LEATHERCOP. A LEADER OR MEN. CAPTAIN JACK.

Shadows cast by the overhead light on the peak of the captain's Muir cap hid most of his features, leaving only his mouth and strong, clean-shaven chin visible. A slight smile shadowed one corner of his mouth as he slowly surveyed the room and his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Like the light in a submarine, the dim red light overhead helped make the transition from 'regular' light to dungeon light a little easier.

CAPTAIN JACK smiled to see his fellow LEATHERCOPS gathered here in his honour. It was his last night as the Cellblock captain after 18 months in the position, and this was both his retirement party and the christening of the private play space he'd had built in an unused space behind the old dungeon in the Cellblock's basement.

The dungeon next door – affectionately called the Catacombs - had been the main feature of the Cellblock since the 'block's inception, and over time the space had built up quite a reputation in the leathercop community as the place to play because of its authenticity, the amount of equipment available, and the caliber of the men who made use of the space, both as leathercops and inmates.

The old catacombse had taken up just about half the basement. The other half – this half - had been an old coal burning boiler room and coal storage area that had long been abandoned – maybe a hundred year ago – but nothing had ever been done with the space until now. CAPTAIN JACK had had the room cleaned out right down to the bare walls and created a playspace entirely to his specifications. Hoists, winches, benches, cells. Dog cage. Eye bolts along walls and floor. Toys suspended from walls. Everything he wanted in a private space meant for his use alone.

The general entrance between old play space and new was through a transition area, now an open bathroom to the right with a toilet, exposed shower and tub sink, and a padded solitary confinement cell to the left. There were no openings at all in the solitary cell, except a small eye-level peephole and a slot near the bottom of the door through which food could be passed.

A heavy sliding panel separated this private space from the more public, but served the same basic purpose: it was both a playroom and a cellblock, well stocked with restraints, equipment and a wall of six cells made of cinderblocks with authentic steel bars and locking doors for incarceration purposes. The private elevator – linked directly to the captain's third floor office and home-away-from-home– made getting to and from the private space that much easier for the captain – one of numerous perks for the office holder.

Because he'd planned the room and paid for its furnishings, CAPTAIN JACK knew there were hooks permanently fixed into the concrete walls and ceiling beams, a series of pulleys and hoists just overhead, and a seriously twisted collection of bondage tables, crosses, chairs and medical equipment scattered around the room, but in the current light only a fraction of these furnishings were visible. That was fine with the chief: he could navigate his way around the room in total darkness if he had to. It was, after all HIS space.

After tonight, this playroom within a playroom was to be the private domain of CAPTAIN SIR, the new chief, and whoever he authorized to use it, but for this one event, it was appropriate to let all the Cellblock staff break-in the new space.

He could see all manner of men standing before him in and around pools of light – some in full light, others in shadow – but all men he knew and most he admired. These were his buds, his play partners and his worshippers, and he was glad to share this evening with them.

"Gentlemen, let the games begin!" he said and carried two 24 packs of beer into the private playroom and unceremoniously dropped the refreshments onto a white medical table in the centre of the room. A cheer went up from his men, and you could almost feel the anticipation rising. The captain turned away from the table and faced the room. "Seal the door, MR ANGUS," he commanded, and immediately a heavy metal panel at one end of the room rumbled closed along its metal track and then stopped with a heavy clunk as it slid home against the far wall.

BIG ANGUS the guard positioned by the door, pulled down on a rocking steel arm bolted to the centre of the panel and six three-inch bolts shot out from the top and bottom of the door into matching slots in the ceiling and floor, locking the watertight panel into position. He then rotated an old metal wheel set at chest level above the rocking arm, freezing it in the down position so that the bolts remained in place. SAGE ANGUS then took a padlock and chain from a wooden box on a shelf near the door, threaded it through the spokes on the wheel and metal bar so that neither could budge, then snapped the brass padlock home, joining the two ends of the chain together and sealing the room shut. The only padlock to this key was on the key ring hanging from CAPTAIN JACK's belt.

Locked in. There was no getting out of the captain's private brig until the whole locking process was reversed, and everyone knew the captain had no plans to give up his key until the next day. What happened here tonight happened all night, no exceptions, no outs, and all participants knew it. It was going to be a night to remember.

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.

Retirement Party 02

The incoming chief, CAPTAIN SIR, reached into the top case of beer, popped a tab on a can and raised the frothing brew in the air in a salute to the room. "To the captain," he said and the room responded in kind. He handed the cold brew to CAPTAIN JACK and walked with him to two chairs set up on a small plywood platform which had been temporarily set up alongside the medical table. A dais of sorts, although calling this makeshift structure in a basement dungeon a dais might be more than a little pretentious.



A tall wooden chair – rescued from an old church being converted into a community centre – had been set up for him near the medical table in a soft halo of light, and he sat down heavily into the padded seat. It had been a bishop's chair when it was in the church, and looked appropriately royal – ornate curlicues and carving decorated the high back and arms, and its' backrest and seat were lined with rich burgundy leather cushions.

The wood creak as it accepted the old captain's 248 pound frame, but held firm. He looked regal seated here, and he knew it. The king of his domain. The master of ceremonies. A LEATHER GOD. He knew that quite a few of the inmates gathered here to mark his final night as captain were drooling over him, and not a few of the leathercops too for that matter. He was frigging hot and he was in his element. This wasn't going to change after tonight. In the morning he might not be captain any more, but he'd still be one hot fuckker.

A smaller wooden chair sat next to his, and CAPTAIN SIR took his place in this one. It too had been rescued from the church, along with some of the pews which had been recycled into beams, a sling and even a solitary confinement box. The two chairs usually sat in the captain's office upstairs, but they'd been manhandled down here with some difficulty earlier in the day for just this purpose. The two captains, the old and the new, were the guests of honour at this event, and were prepared to watch – or direct or participate in the entertainments if they felt the desire – in the evening's activities.

First on the program was a Synthol demonstration. Several inmates/clients with medical fetish interests had volunteered to be Synthol guinea pigs for the evening, and BIG ANGUS passed his Muir cap in front of this little group of men clad only in small white bathhouse towels tied around their waists.

Each willing participant dropped his locker token into the cap. BIG ANGUS shook the cap to mix up the tokens then held his cap out to CAPTAIN JACK who randomly selected a token and handed it to ANGUS.

BIG ANGUS read the token and then turned to face the waiting line of boys. "165, step forward" he called out, and one of the bois stepped away from the others.

BIG ANGUS looked at the unselected line of towel-clad bois. "Thank you for volunteering for this challenge, but we'll have to find other uses for you elsewhere tonight. Unfortunately, this is the only scheduled medical scene, but I understand some of the men here tonight may require your services in a clinical capacity after tonight's formal activities. For the time being you are to stand quietly and watch only. As usual any sound or movement from any of you will result in punishment for all of you. Is this clearly understood?"

"YES SIR," the bois replied in unison and as one assumed an at ease posture as they had been trained to do - legs apart and hands clasped behind their backs.

BIG ANGUS now turned to the nervous toweled boy chosen by lottery to become a Synthol pincushion.

"You understand the ordeal you are about to undergo and you have willingly agreed to allow this process to be done to you. You have agreed to be held in bondage and injected with Synthol anywhere and everywhere on your body, and you have agreed that this can be done to you for the duration of this dungeon session. Additional consent is neither requested nor required, and where the injections will be made and how large a volume will be injected will be determined by your SYNTHOL MASTERS."

As if on cue, two heavily-Syntholed leathercops stepped into the light beside BIG ANGUS. Now ANGUS was a pretty big man himself – a 50 inch chest and close to 20 inch arms on his 230 pound frame – but these guys were MASSIVE compared to him. Cartoonish huge, in fact.

BRAD wore only a shiny red lycra posing suit and thigh high WESCO laceup boots. With his shaved head and gleaming oiled body, he looked a lot like the famous American Synthol rentboy right down to the BASKETBALL SIZED SYNTHOL-LOADED BICEPS and SHOULDERS. BRAD might still pass for normal – almost. He was just a little too big to be real, and not all of his web audience knew that half of his flex came from a clear liquid pulled with a syringe out of a bottle.

KLAUS on the other hand could never be mistaken for natural. He wore more traditional gear from the waist down tonight – flared black leather Langlitz breeches with a white strip running down the outside of each leg and Dehner cop boots. But from the waist up was another matter. The Sam Browne belt he wore at his waist and over his shoulder protruded out over IMPOSSIBLE PECS, BLOATED BEYOND PHYSICAL REALITY and HEAVY WITH SYNTHOL. PILLOW-SIZED, pecs that could never exist outside a chemist's lab, How could his pec flesh even hold it's shape with this much oil pressing against it? His arms were like BARRELS, losing all distinction between bicep and tricep into a SINGLE MASSIVE THIGH-LIKE DEFORMITY. Long lace up leather gauntlets on each forearm tapered to normal sized wrists, making his whole arms look like SYNTHOL BALLOONS tied to his hands.



Like BRAD, KLAUS thought his look was hot and was proud of the injections he'd undergone to achieve it. Now he was prepared to do the same to a willing vic and see where his size fetish might take him too. Also like BRAD, he thought it would be better to try Synthol options on someone else before he tried them on himself.

Earlier in the evening the two SYNTHOL FREAKS had entertained the waiting men by injecting each other with Synthol. First one would jab a Synthol-loaded hypo into his partner's bloated flesh, then the other would take a fresh stab at his partner, slowly increasing their size into inhuman proportions, each egging the other on to even greater volume.

Shoulders. Deltoids, Triceps. Biceps Pecs. Balls. The Synthol freaks matched injection for injection, and were cheered on by watchers in the room, who gradually grew silent as the men achieved monstrous proportions. becoming more cartoon like than human with each additional shot.

The vic looked fearfully from one SLAB OF SYNTHOL LOADED BEEF to the other. Was this going to happen to him? Is this what he'd volunteered for?? Frack! But at the same time he was excited too. He really did want it, and he wanted to be bound while it happened to him.

As though they were reading his mind, the three leathercops hoisted the towel-clad boi onto the medical examination table and began fastening padded leather restraints around his neck, wrists and ankles. BIG ANGUS roughly shoved a huge leather padded gag into the table-bound boi's mouth and forced it in as deep as it would go before buckling it behind his head. The gag contained a hollow tube in its centre which stood out from the gag about four inches. A similar amount of tube pressed against the inside of his mouth. It was uncomfortable but – almost – bearable.

Out of the corner of his eye the boi could see that somebody was unlocking a glass-fronted cabinet and taking out assorted shiny metal pieces and equipment - kidney dishes, clamps, syringes, needle tips, Synthol vials, MANY Synthol vials - and placing them on a wheeled cart which was then brought over to the side of the examination table he'd been strapped to. BIG ANGUS reached up and turned on a huge overhead examination light that bathed the entire area in a brilliant white light.

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.