Top dog

by BRK   

Cocky Navy SEAL cadet Jake normally powers past all competition, but the unstoppable Marcus is bigger and tougher than he is. Fortunately, Jake’s not above using any advantage he can to win.

“Gauntlet time already! I can’t wait to show all these mofos what I really got.”

A friendly snort. “Sure you will, Hopkins.”

Jake’s ears pricked up as he retrieved fresh regulation briefs from his gear, unselfconsciously naked in the steamy, dank locker room. The 62-week Navy SEAL training program was brutal, but Jake was thriving—he positively lived to push himself and break his own boundaries. His determination and singular prowess had catapulted him ahead of everyone else his whole life… which ironically meant that the one thing he wasn’t fully prepared for was the place he had so thoroughly earned: membership in an elite group of guys all of whom were as motivated, as exceptional, and as hardcore as he was.

“Fuck you, Chandra. I’m kicking ass. I’m kicking all y’all’s ass.”

“Yeah, and we all know who’ll kick your ass.”

Letting out a tense breath, Jake examined himself with his usual critical eye. He was 6-foot-1 of lean, lanky muscle, from his long swimmer’s legs to his stack of flat, perfectly square abs to his perfect, sculpted pecs, strong arms, and thick, rounded shoulders. His nickname at high school was Apollo. At parties, people had drunkenly begged him to strip off his clothes, do handstands, tear through the swimming pool, anything that demonstrated the seemingly limitless capabilities of his fine-tuned, divinely proportioned machine of a body. With his spiky short black hair, playful grin, and pin-up boy mixed-Italian looks he could have any guy he wanted—hell, he swore back home guys had gone gay just to be with him for a single night.

He was it. He was the deal. He got his way. And if he squinted—if he was that delusional—he could almost convince himself that it was him that Chandra was talking about. The one that would beat everyone’s ass in the gauntlet. Numero uno. The top dog.

There was a stir in the musky locker room, and Jake knew what it meant. He looked up, a weird string of emotions flickering through him as he saw him. His unwanted rival. He was stepping out of the steamy haze of the shower area like he was being filmed in slow motion, a stoic look on his face that exerted more sheer, spine-tingling confidence than all the smug sneers Jake had seen on a hundred overconfident wannabes.

Marcus was naked apart from a towel around his waist, every inch of him screaming “more”—more than ordinary, more than enough, more than any poor fool passively taking him, the spectators in Marcus’s unstoppable journey. The man was tall—taller than Jake at 6-foot-3—and absolutely packed with strength and power, his stone-hard body freighted with muscles on top of muscles. Every expanse that Jake had diligently firmed and toned and cultivated on his own body over years of work and training was grown, and thickened, and exaggerated to an incomparable tanklike strength. Even the man’s flat-ribbed, chiseled abs and tight waist looked stronger than a normal man’s, the impression compounded by the way the slight, elegant swell of his lower external obliques just above the hips accented his manly silhouette—making Jake’s classic Olympian’s torso look like a flattened paper towel tube by comparison. Marcus’s buzzed-short blond hair and handsome, stony features capped his serious, laconic vibe, making the lither, spiky-haired, goofy-grinned Jake look like a player.

Then there was what was under that damned towel.

The bulge gently pushing out the rough off-white terrycloth was easily Marcus’s most prominent asset. This was a heavy, pendulous cock that was clearly massive even when soft, and, or so he’d heard, even bigger hard. Whispered commentary within the program had his fully erect granite prick reaching somewhere past 9 fat inches, some accounts insisting that the thing stuck out in front of him like a battering ram. Completely straight—much like Marcus himself, Jake thought ruefully.

While Jake was happy to be naked and show off his body, above-average uncut tool included, Marcus not parading his mythical junk out in the open for all to see only added to its mystique and drew more attention to this one particular physical outlier among many. It seemed to sum him up somehow, symbolizing his total potency, a fact reflected in the in-program nickname slowly spreading through the trainees.

Hopkins was still spouting off in the next row. “Pfft. The Elephant? I can take him.” The tone was a little too airy—even he didn’t believe it.

“Uh huh.” Chandra sounded amused.

Jake watched Marcus pensively as the bigger man padded around a corner and out of sight. What could he do to get an edge? It wasn’t in Jake not to exceed and surpass every challenge, but Marcus was like a brick wall in his way. Jake was flexible, strong in his own way, and absolutely determined—but in every test, every race, every measure, he was falling second to Marcus again and again.

How could he take down the Elephant? What was Marcus’s weakness? The gauntlet was a set of competitive physical contests, all in their regulation blue Speedos, and already Marcus had proven himself the master of physical tests. What about Marcus would put the man at a disadvantage?

An idea struck him, and a sly grin spread instantly across his face. Sure, the unimaginative might call it underhanded, but sometimes proving your worth meant taking advantage of the chinks in your rival’s armor. He would get it done, and in the process he would show his fellow cadets exactly who was the true top dog.

Gauntlet day. The sun was high and warm, the beach sand hot under their bare feet. Three dozen well-trained, physically impressive cadets in blue Speedos milled in a loose-limbed and finely tuned group near the training gear, water bottles in hand, buzzing excitedly as they prepared for the first test.

Jake was grinning as he limbered himself up where he stood, barely paying attention to the quips he was trading with the equally jazzed guys around him. This would be his first test—a trial to see if his plan to level the playing field with Marcus would work as expected. He couldn’t wait.

“Hey where were you after breakfast?” Lautrec, a shorter, dark-skinned powerhouse, asked him suddenly.

Jake smirked, eyes on the six heavy ropes mounted at intervals along the near side of the solid wooden training complex, each secured at a height of 30 feet to a long, square beam along the top of the structure. “Fucking your dad,” he answered almost automatically.

“Ew, leave my pops alone,” Lautrec said. “He’s a fine man and don’t need your skanky dick.”

“If he’s that fine he’s already had it,” Jake joked, finally turning to Lautrec with a wink. “Nothing but the best for my skanky dick.”

Lautrec smiled and shook his head. “Cocky fuck.”

Nodding, Jake looked around for his quarry. Marcus was not far away, like Jake surrounded by a group of guys, but he wasn’t engaging with them and they were mostly tossing remarks to each other around him, like waves lapping at the shores of an island. Jake was struck again at how massive he was, even surrounded by muscular, fit men trained beyond anything resembling ordinary. In the intense pre-noon sunlight he looked particularly impressive, his biceps bunching as he downed his water, methodically hydrating for the competition ahead.

Jake watched intently, sipping his own cool water as if to consciously mirror his rival. He was barely suppressing his inner exhilaration. He’d successfully scored with his brother’s connection the night before—Caleb knew a guy who knew a guy—and the results were sliding down Marcus’s gullet right in front of him in real time. Apparently the stuff wasn’t exactly name brand, the guy had said, and might have some “extra stuff” mixed in, but it would do the job. That was all Jake needed to know.

Minutes passed—even in SEAL training there was plenty of “hurry up and wait.” The cadets were antsy, ready to show their stuff. Jake was watching Marcus, and when a subtle expression of slightly confused dismay crossed his face, Jake’s excitement mounted. A moment later, Marcus adjusted his heavily bulging Speedo uncomfortably, and Jake almost shouted out the “Yes!” that surged up within him,

Suddenly it was time. The instructor called for their attention, barking out the instructions as the observers readied their stopwatches. “Go!” the instructor roared, and the first cohort dashed their bottles to the sand and ran to the ropes. In the middle, at rope #3, was Marcus.

Even as he started climbing, making the hand-over-hand haul up the rope look easy as always, Jake could tell his Speedo was pushing out more than it should have. As his crotch rode the rough surface of the cable-thick rope, the problem only seemed to worsen. The obvious tubular shape of Marcus’s increasingly thick and rigid cock became more and more obvious. Best of all, Marcus looked distracted and alarmed, shaving precious seconds off his normally unbeatable speed. Chandra, the thick-muscled godling racing up rope #4, was actually gaining on Marcus as they reached the halfway point.

The crowd of cadets below was murmuring, trading snarks and whispered exclamations at Marcus’s obvious problem. Jake couldn’t be more thrilled, actually chubbing a little himself at the spectacle. Marcus now seemed to be trying to keep his crotch away from the rope as he pulled himself desperately upward, which unfortunately was almost impossible, and Jake realized that Marcus’s aroused state had made him acutely stimulus-sensitive—so much so that riding against the rope was causing more problems than mere erection.

Marcus’s bulge was now looking immense and literally obscene—there was no hiding the fact that Marcus now had a huge, raging boner his regulation Speedos could barely contain. Even his balls looked heavy, the material straining over the surface of his orbs. The astonished murmuring of the crowd was louder now, and some were openly wondering if Marcus was going to bust a nut by the time he finished.

The anticipation was intense as the race reached its climax. Marcus slapped the beam barely two seconds ahead of Chandra, first of the six but well shy of his usual dominance. The last of the climbers finished and they all descended their ropes as rapidly as possible, and the instructor had to yell for silence before calling up the next cohort.

Jake was elated. Ignoring the heavy half-erection straining his own Speedos, he smirked as Marcus vanished red-faced behind the remaining cadets, his expression forbidding approach as the others glanced back at him and whispered among themselves. Jake’s plan was working, and this was only the start.

Jake pistoned his body up and down, powering through the push-up marathon that was the second test of the all-day trials known as the gauntlet. All three dozen of them were arrayed in ranks along the beach, ordered to complete the full run of 500 push-ups or (figuratively) die trying, the idea being to increase their conditioning until by the end of the program all of them could successfully complete all the trials. They weren’t there yet. Even for this elite caste the ask was high, compounded by the back-battering beatdown of the sun and the slow bake of the sand against palms and toes, and Jake was tracking the slow erosion of their cohort as the trickle of dropouts started.

Jake reveled in this kind of physical challenge. It was what his body was made for, and yet he still somehow fell short. Usually, it was only Jake and Marcus with the core power to stick it out all the way to the end, and so far Marcus had always finished first.

Jake smirked to himself through his tireless rhythm. “Stick it out.” An apt choice of phrase, because at the moment it perfectly described Marcus’s problem.

They weren’t in any fixed arrangement, which meant that Jake had been able to choose a position in the ranks that allowed him to track Marcus as they dropped down and began pumping, one row back and a couple down from his nemesis. He could watch Marcus working, and it wasn’t going well. Marcus never sweated, even on a hot beach day like this, but he was sweating now, his tanned, square-jawed cheeks ruddy with all kinds of physical and emotional response.

The problem, in a word, was Marcus’s cock.

Far from ebbing, the erection Marcus had gained from the rope friction in the previous test had, if anything, gotten even larger and more adamant. No longer held back by the straining Speedo to hover near his hip like before, Marcus’s erection had assumed its ultimate rigid, massive state. It was erupting straight out from his hard-muscled groin like a cement bollard on a city sidewalk. The blue fabric contorted comically over it like it might punch through at any moment, the waistband pulled inches out from his body in a ludicrous effort to contain the outthrust pillar of raging manflesh.

But that wasn’t even the best part. Marcus’s huge, fat, immutable erection—and seriously, the estimates he’s heard had to be wrong, that thing was ten inches minimum—was so big and so granite-stele rigid it was jabbing the fucking sand with every undulation of Marcus’s push-up regimen. Jake could actually see Marcus’s normally unstoppable rhythm faltering as the other man tried to avoid stubbing his huge, sensitive, utterly ummovable cock against the hot, unforgiving beach—so much so that Jake was pretty sure that first the first time ever he was gaining on him.

Jake watched, fascinated and aroused by the sheer fact of his having engineered this stutter in the stolid, sexy ubermensch’s relentless perfection. His heart actually skipped a beat when, against all odds, Marcus stopped his push-ups, looking directly down at his huge, troublesome stiffie. Was he dropping out? The others were exchanging glances, with those who’d already konked out on the sidelines trading more looks and whispers, but Jake’s eyes were only on Marcus, barely aware of keeping up his own steady, unwavering pace as he waited anxiously for what Marcus would do next.

For a long couple of seconds Marcus hung as he was, staring down at his outthrust prick. Then, holding himself effortlessly aloft with one bulging arm, he reached down and angrily shoved a deep fistful of sand aside under his erection, making a depression so he wouldn’t be jabbing hard flesh into hard silica. Jake snorted as Marcus resumed his push-ups, quickening his own pace with a grin.

He kept watching, thrilled to see that the hole was only making things worse. Agonized pleasure flickered across his face, and Jake realized that Marcus was feeling pleasure from the hole rubbing against his straining cock. He’s fucking the beach, Jake though giddily, unable to tear his eyes away. He’s fucking the fucking beach!

More and more of the others were collapsing, leaving the field to the hardcore machines like Jake and Marcus—only Marcus’s game was off. Jake found himself tantalized, thrilling with delicious suspense. Would he make it all the way through without succumbing to the orgasm he was building toward with every single thrust into the hot, hard sand? Would he keep going even if he came? Would he ever be able to show his face around here again? Marcus’s dominance was passive, the result of his size, beauty, and prowess, not charisma or force of will. Another man might turn a public orgasm during the gauntlet into a legend and a keystone of his next-level preeminence—Jake might manage it, but not the stoic, stand-offish Marcus. Right?

Jake’s nerves were on edge as the reached the last burst of pushups, only three or four of them left. Marcus was red-faced, staring at nothing, his rock-hard, ten-inch, fabric-straining pillar fucking the sand with every go. Jake was just ahead of him, he thought. He could win this.

Down to the wire. 498… 499… “Five hundred!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered. Marcus kept going, barking his own 500 a few beats later, but he knew he’d lost for the first time in a while. Jake jumped to his feet as his friends gathered around him, slapping his sweaty back in congratulations and rubbing his aching arms and shoulders, but Jake’s eyes were fixed on Marcus as the other man rolled onto his back and glared at his cock, unscrewing his water and taking a long, cooling gulp.

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