Huge is not enough!

It’s their first time at a gay bar. They knew for quite a while they wanted to test some waters at a place like this. But you know what people say about all good things. This time they are ready. Above all else, they’re absolutely, horrendously huge. That’s the first thing the doormen notice about them, while giving them a look that manages to combine the expected fake, but cool, intimidation a bouncer needs to set the tone for newcomers, as well as the shocking realisation and certainty that is these two new faces were to bring the place down, there’s nothing they could actually do to prevent them.

Menander is in the front. He wears a leather harness, custom-made of course to fit his ridiculously huge musculature and, more so, make it shine, shock, impress. It’s but a collection of thick ribbons of leather that are only there for show as they hug his enormous pecs that otherwise form a shelf he can’t see beyond when trying to look down. And down he looks as he can’t ever get enough of the handicaps his own muscle growth has produced, nor of the thick hair that the meaty muscle tits are adorned with. Leather surrounds them, faking additional meat support which his pecs obviously don’t need. It’s a ploy to make them stand out even more. They need it too as the leather that goes around them might be leaving them fully exposed, but the “underwire” of this pretentious meat bra get smashed and lost right there those pecs end and the curve of an enormous muscle gut begins. As previously instructed, he kind of hugs his own muscle gut, keeping his meaty hands on it but only as far around as they can go. Biceps colliding with pecs, range of motion impeded by overgrown, hanging even, lats and the sheer mass of this gut just make it impossible for his hands to meet as he reaches around it. This stance is not for resting. It’s a statement. A statement of freakish growth and fully controlled power. The way he waggles trying to move forward, while keeping his gaze down, since that’s what pleases his master, Periander, implies anything but control though. Quads collide, skin chaffed from contact and friction, as they awkwardly move forward in a manner that makes it known such power isn’t for anyone to control, even if unleashed by accident. Buried deep in the meat is what appears to be the front of a weird jock strap. It’s like it’s trying to burrow its way beneath the mass, like it’s there solely for avoiding arrest for indecent exposure. As if a monster like this cares. But it the sacrifices one makes, every one in a while, to appease the innocent bystanders. It’s not really a concession though; more of a tongue-in-cheek gesture of “good” will. You see, it’s all surrounded by the pubic forrest that expands upwards trying to conquer the unconquerable expanse of this muscle gut and attacks inner thighs, furring up the outer legs, trying to find its way, and succeeding at that, to thick, flaring calves that seem more to be making some room for shins to fit than the other way around.

Periander is right behind Menander. The beast in front doesn’t know when to stop sheepishly moving forward. It’s not its place to think and it’s not like it can adequately inspect surroundings with most of its field of view taken up by its own muscle. It’s best this way. He keeps his now feeble mind focuses on what counts. Master knows best after all. Periander pulls the chain firmly. It’s attached to the collar around Menander’s thickly muscle neck. Even this is custom-made for traps and neck muscle for a monolith of power —a properly strong base for that empty bald head to rest upon — that is just impossible fr a ring-shaped collar to handle. As he pulls, Menander knows it ’s time to stop.

Periander never gets tired of this. Right before his eyes there’s a monster of his own making, an all powerful man’s man whose will was broken and reshaped to his Master’s content. Seeing this immense wall of muscle that’s supposed to be human back, “dirty” from the extra manly hair growth that any human society in history would have frowned upon, is just the gift that keeps on giving. Seeing these lats push Menander’s arms in an awkward resting position, moving as if they have a mind of their own, doing the best impersonation of tectonic plates ever witnessed by man, makes him proud and horny as hell at the same time. He made this for his own enjoyment. He alone can command this mountain of masculine flesh and broken thoughts, he alone is meant to parade it, use it, make it grow bigger, meaner, more disgusting and powerful. Master is the only one who can overpower this beast. For, as much as Menander goes beyond the biggest male bodybuilder alive, Periander is that and then some. The Master’s cock hurts as it tries to escape the simple prison that his jeans form. Even them are unbuttoned. It’s impossible to button up and, truth be told, his own muscle gut looks best when left to its own devices, making its heft known to its bearer and the world alike.

But the couple has work to do. They ’re here for a reason after all.

The by now awestruck bouncers are trying to say something. Ah yes. They need names. No use in waiting for them to pull themselves together. Even Periander gets what’s going on by now. The chained beast slightly turns his head towards his Master, knowing full well there’s no hope to really turn enough to face him. Essentially he’s silently asking for permission to give out his name to the bouncers. The Master nods. Dealing with the normies is beneath him which means this kind of thing is up to his pet. It’s always refreshing pulling its chain and see it wince just a bit, tis face contorting a bit, that power brow getting all thee more noticeable and somehow the most expressive part of that horrific face that’s partially obscured by a still developing, in parts still kind of mousy, beard.

Periander gets the message, turns back to face the bouncer and just says “Periander, property of Menander, and Menander, rightful owner of Periander”. The booming voice leaves no room for nonsense. The bouncer just makes way. He’d be warned and had noted down those names on a slip of paper in order not to fuck up when the time came. The bouncer had been told not to mess about with this couple, under no circumstances whatsoever. Menander just grunted approvingly, as if he was mockingly appreciative of the bouncer’s preordained discretion. Another slight pull of the chain and the couple moved forward without a care in the world but still in a way that’s impossible for normies not to find at least casually intimidating.

The bar door was opened for them. Arrangements had been made. They went through heavy curtain that felt like paper to them, assuming they registered at all on their tough, thick skin. This is a quiet bar, meant for intimacy. Music was on just as another way to keep people company, not to drown out their conversations of their lusty moans. Even so, everything got just a bit quieter still. No one has every laid eyes on such a pile of powerful meat before, let alone it’s even bigger, somehow more monstrous version that followed, chain in hand. The regulars only managed a glimpse at these horrors before instinctively getting the message that they’d better keep their distance.

After a few more steps forward, Menander reigns in his visibly heaving meat shield of a slave. He gets close to its ear as he forcefully cups and grabs its jock strap. It’s already drenched, even the pubic hair that’s almost swallowed this joke of an undergarment is slick with pussy juice.

“Good”, he whispers. You fooled anyone into believing you’re a proper muscleman.

Periander’s, or, really, Periandrah’s thick clit spasmed with excitement as she gasped in the most baritone of ways.

“As far as the world knows, you’re now a macho musclebear. You passed as a man. But remember. ‘Man enough’ to them is never enough for me. It’s a long way to go till this crowd straight up leaves horrified by your thick muscle mass, overwhelming masculinity and unspeakable power. Till you pass as my perfect little female of the muscleman species”.

Periandrah’s cum fills his hand, now dripping down.