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.

There was a lot of amused whispering and snickers among the sweaty, hard-bodied, naturally cocky exemplars of physical and operational prowess as they clustered in little groups hashing out the unexpected sexing up of the push-up trial, heat number two of a SEAL trainee gauntlet that was turning out to be more than just the usual brutal challenge to mind and body it was every year. Occasionally a few pairs of eyes darted toward the object of their gossip, Jake noticed, as of to refresh their memories of the unprecedented beach-fucking Marcus had been forced to resort to once he popped an unstoppable hard-on in his Speedos that shoved directly into the sand with every down-push. Marcus stood off to the side, their glances and bunched-up muttering effectively separating him from the pack—but was Marcus’s isolation excluding him, or would it make him even more dominant?

The expressions of his fellow aspirants left the question open. There was a lot of smirking and adolescent ridicule as they cracked locker-room jokes about Marcus and his situation; but Marcus’s ingenuity in digging a hole for his dick was appreciated and seemed to tickle them in a positive, back-handedly admiring way, and finishing the punishing event like a boss despite having a giant outthrust boner literally in his way was genuinely impressive, even if he came a close second. Bottom line, no one was talking about Jake’s win: the attention was all on Marcus, as usual.

Marcus was standing apart from the others, his back to the group. The trainees participating in the gauntlet not being allowed to leave the testing area in the interim between trials, Marcus had not been able to flee into the shadows or duck behind any convenient walls or other obstructions, so he hid his predicament for the moment by standing absolutely still at the edge of the testing area, his densely muscled 6-foot-3 form facing stiffly (as it were) away from the officers and his fellow putative SEALs, his round, muscular ass and long, lat-flared back telling one and all to consider him absent and unapproachable—in other words, to fuck off. This literal and metaphorical stance seemed to amuse the others as much as the rest of it. Even the trim-line of his close-cut, light blond hair above his neck was straight, perfect, and unassailable.

Jake eyed the powerful figure pensively, conflicting feelings sloshing in his gut behind the tight, flat, endless abs that were universally seen as one of the highlights of his long, lanky body, his overall look more that of an Olympic swimmer than a brawn-packed, army-destroying warrior. This whole thing was supposed to be about Marcus not being the only top dog of the camp. Marcus’s not-so-little dilemma was meant to allow Jake to gain an edge over the too-beautiful, too-strong, too-sexy victory machine. A Marcus distracted by sudden, full-blown, relentless arousal was a Marcus he could finally push past and beat out for once. It had seemed like a pretty harmless way to handicap the taciturn ultimate soldier and let someone else, maybe someone who always came second in every competition with the man, someone who wasn’t as big or as admired, claw past the constant champion and eke out a victory of their own. All things considered, it would be pretty ironic if the guys ended up spinning the fact of Marcus having fucked the damn beach as so epic, the standoffish demigod became the permanent alpha of the trainees—aloof, scowling, and utterly peerless.

Like the others, Jake was grudgingly impressed by Marcus’s performance. Which bugged him—as did the way his own cock was presently significantly chubbed in his own Speedos from the sight of that sweet, hard, perfectly spherical ass and the acres of tapered back ranging downward from traps to glutes. The back of Jake’s neck was hot, and not just from the noontime sun beating down on them and the sand under their bare feet like a weaponized star.

The commander in charge of the trials happened to standing nearby behind him, making notes on a clipboard as he quietly discussed the events with one of the instructors, and Jake’s ears pricked up as one of the others quietly approached the stone-faced officer.

“Sir, I wonder if you’ve noticed—” the trainee began in a low voice.

“Noticed what, trainee?” the officer barked, his pen still scratching.

“Well, sir,” the trainee went on awkwardly, “one of us seems to have a problem—”

Jake frowned, glancing over his shoulder in concern. Was this idiot trying to get Marcus exempted on medical grounds? Or, worse, disqualified from the next trial, or the gauntlet itself? That was no good. Jake wanted to gain the day’s apex fair and square, not by forfeit. Okay, well, maybe “fair and square” wasn’t the right phrase, but still.

He needn’t have worried—the veteran officer was not known for his soft disposition. “You think being a SEAL is about not having problems, trainee?” the commander asked, turning on the young hottie. He didn’t raise his voice, but he had turned the caustic glare of his full attention on the hapless trainee, and no good ever came of that. The trainee’s expression quickly went blank. “You think you’re going out into the field and have all your problems taken away?” the officer pressed. “Everything easy? Peaches and cream? Is that what you’re expecting as a SEAL, trainee?”

“No, sir!” the trainee responded, startled.

“Problems are good. Problems are what we need. Hell, if I knew how I’d give every damn one of you a problem, and then we’d see how you handled it!”

The trainee gulped out a quick “Sorry, sir!”, backing hurriedly away, and the commander grunted and went back to what he’d been doing. Jake forced down a snort of laughter as he turned back, imagining the entire cohort of hunky alpha recruits standing at attention with their Speedos suddenly all pushed out by stiff, unslakable monster erections just like Marcus, their stoic faces tinged red with embarrassment and need. A tiny part of Jake was almost tempted to turn around and tell the commander he could make that scenario happen for him if he wanted, but fortunately he knew better. Besides, the only unstoppable boner he was interested in was the one that belonged to his big, tough, impressively hung rival for the status of undisputed top dog.

Moments later the instructors called out for all the trainees to line up at the far end of the beach. Two wide lines had been drawn across the strand, 400 meters apart at opposite ends of the waterside training zone. Jake grinned as he took up the ready position in the first rank, three down from a grim-faced Marcus, eyeing the hot, pitted sand between himself and the finish line. Footraces were one of the few venues in which he could give a bulkier nemesis a real challenge. Marcus was fast from the sheer power in his thighs and calves, but Jake’s sleekly muscled form and years of endurance training made him hard to beat, whether at a dead sprint or pacing yourself in a marathon. Jake always slaughtered anyone else in any kind of run, and even Marcus found Jake sticking close to his back and sometimes, in longer events, nosing past him for a win. A 400-meter wouldn’t normally offer him much hope of coming out ahead, but with the wild card Jake had tossed into the mix…

He glanced down the row. Marcus was mostly hidden, his heavy pecs emerging slightly behind the Italian guy next to him like a budding sunrise; but his outthrust pillar of a cock was in full view, so big it was actually over the starting line, the rest of Marcus remaining fully behind it. If anything it looked stiffer than ever, straining the limits of the blue regulation Speedo desperately trying to hold it back. The waistband was pulled out several inches from Marcus’s taut, flat, and altogether inviting Adonis Belt, as if the whole setup were engineered on purpose to give Marcus (and Dominici next to him, if he liked) a frank and obstructed view of his mighty shaft and the veins snaking along its broad, ramrod-straight surface.

Jake blinked at the implacable erection. It had to be his own depaved lust making the thing seem bigger every time he looked at it. He’d seen a lot of cocks in his life, in person and otherwise, and that one had to be 11 inches easy and thick as Jake’s hairy wrists. Where had Marcus been hiding that beast? It had to be heavy as fuck even when it was soft.

Jake’s cock flexed, swelling the bulge of his own Speedos a bit more, and a flush of heat coursed through him. His mouth was dry, which was a shame as he really wanted to use it to get that giant, stone-jard knob very, very wet and slippery—the better to push down his own needy throat.

As he stared he heard Chandra and Hopkins snarking somewhere in the second rank behind him, reminding Jake of the non-phallic reality in progress around him.

“I hear the Army guys get to wear shoes and run along a track when they do sprints,” Hopkins said.

“Pussies,” Chandra sniffed. They laughed. Jake shook his head and refocused on the race, tensing himself for the starter’s gun. Marcus was the one who needed to be distracted, and even with that and his own natural abilities Jake’d need all the concentration he had.

“First rank! On your marks… get set…” The starter pistol cracked, and Jake and the others leapt into motion.

As usual Marcus used his strength to pull ahead, pounding down the beach at a fantastical speed. Jake was right behind, catching up faster than he usual did in a race like this. The rest lagged behind, sturdy and fast but not fast enough. As the pistol cracked a moment later for the second rank to start he glanced over at his rival, wanting to laugh as he saw the giant erection, barely contained erection sticking straight out in front of Marcus as he ran, shifting only slightly left and right and Marcus’s legs alternated, driving the big man forward.

He looks like some invisible force has got hold of his dick, yanking him down the beach, and he’s desperately running to keep up with it, Jake thought with a smirk. Was his gait off, too? He remembered his ponderings about how much the damn thing weighed. It had to be throwing off his center of gravity and affecting his balance during a sprint like this.

Now that he was this close he could see easily into the gap created by the distention of his waistband, exposing not only Marcus’s thick shaft but a narrow swath of well-trimmed blond pubes, too, just barely in sight as Jake caught up to the other man. It wasn’t just the waistband, either. The legs of the dark blue Speedos were also stretched out, making a dangerous gap that Marcus’s big fuzzy balls—which looked bigger than he remembered, almost the size of oranges—were in grave danger of slipping out of at any moment.

The pubes and shaft started slipping out of sight, and Jake realized Marcus was pulling ahead. For a crucial second Jake had let himself get distracted, just like he’d told himself not to. Marshaling his energies, he poured on a burst of concentrated speed, spending everything he had to come level with Marcus. Yes. Yes! It was working. He was so close—so close!

They were shoulder to shoulder, almost at the finish line. His legs burned deliciously with the effort—always a spur and an encouragement to a man like Jake. With a final push he propelled himself forward, his bare feet hitting the narrow white stripe just ahead of Marcus’s big dogs. They kept running, slowing to cool down as the others from the first rank crossed behind them in a mass, but as soon as he could Jake circled and returned to the finish, trotting up to the instructors recording the times as soon as the first rank was through. “Well?” he huffed, shifting back and forth to keep moving and feeling the sweat tickle over his bare chest and and down his long abs toward his half-hard cock.

The instructor with the stopwatch gave him a flat look that seemed to be hiding a smile. “Too bad we weren’t doing a photo finish,” he said. “Your buddy would have won by a… nose.” The other instructor snorted.

Jake laughed along, but a quick glance over the shoulder of the instructor with the clipboard confirmed that they went by the feet crossing the line, as [er the regs, and Jake had indeed been marked as the actual winner of the first rank. Tingly with glee, he turned to find Marcus unexpectedly close behind him, confirming the rankings like Jake. He slapped a hand on the sweaty slope of the man’s massy, steel-hard trapezius. “Looks like I beat you,” he said. “What do you think of that, Beast?”

Marcus took in a ragged breath, and as the big man looked up at him Jake saw that his eyes were a little wild. Fuck, he’s been hard for an hour, Jake thought. He must be horny as hell, and with no way to do anything about it. He smiled inwardly. Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned “beating” him…

Marcus was staring heatedly back at him, panting shallowly and silently, his massive, heavy pecs rising and falling slightly with each breath. The man might be straight as a highway in Kansas, but desperate desire often overrode your innate programming.

Suppressing the cheeky grin that really wanted to surface just then, Jake contented himself with a wink and a quick squeeze of Marcus’s shoulder before turning away and sauntering off. As he did so he made sure to add a little extra sashay to his hips in case Marcus was watching his perfect, cock-loving ass shifting in his Speedos as he walked away.

The gauntlet had to have a winner. It gave everyone something to strive for and spend their testosterone trying to achieve, crushing their limitations to become the unstoppable warriors they were meant to be.

The process was simple. All of the trainees competed in the first three trials. If there was a clear winner, they got the laurels—or, in this case, the body paint that marked them as the top dog, gleefully graffitied all over their torso by the entire rest of the crew and kept exposed for an entire week until it wore off (strictly crowd-enforced, with no showers and no shirts or other covering allowed). Jake had helped smear Marcus’s brawny, god-sculpted torso in red and blue on two occasions already, and right now turning the tables and making Marcus and the others paint him up in triumph was something he wanted so bad he could taste it.

If there was no clear winner from the standard trials, as was the case today, the two highest cumulative scorers faced each other in a final test. Jake would wrestle Marcus for the title and the win in a test of strength and skill, his challenge being to pin this powerhouse who outsized and outweighed him to the sand and keep him there for three long seconds. Somehow, Marcus, who always mastered and dominated by power, strength, and force of will, must be decisively and incontrovertibly overcome.

A thousand thoughts ran through Jake’s head as they faced each other at the ready in what was called the neutral position, ringed by a wide and noisy circle of trainees, officers, and others from the base who’d wandered out to the training beach for a gander at the epic match-up. Most of the onlookers were seeing the same mismatch Jake was. Marcus was taller and impressively thicker than him, easily outmatching the lanky, well-built but far-from-beastly brunet, enough the match-up almost looked unfair. The blond beast had an undefeated record in wrangling like this, in-gauntlet and otherwise, and just looking at him it was obvious the odds were as stacked as his almost disproportionately thick chest. Even so, it wasn’t a foregone conclusion. Jake had moves and strength of his own. He’d taken guys bigger than him before. Plus he was hopped up on adrenaline and the rush of having won those earlier trials, his heart pounding like a thoroughbred, which might boost his game and let him push himself a notch or two higher than usual.

Bits of conversation from the excited, gabbling crowd reached him. Jake heard someone call him “scrappy,” which made him smile. That was what you said when the little guy was obviously outclassed and hope was as thin as a communion wafer. At 6-foot-1 and built like an Olympian Jake wasn’t used to being the “little guy,” but with Marcus everything was upended and a little surreal.

Then there was the wild card Jake had thrown into today’s contest. Marcus wasn’t just unstoppably hard, his jutting, girder-hard erection looking so impossibly massive Jake could have sworn it had strained itself to reach a full 12 inches long with a thickness that approached a soda can, pulling the abused Speedos to the breaking point. It was clear that Marcus was well past aroused—he looked positively deranged with horniness. It was like the burning lust of ten men had been forced into his already heated blood, swelling his cock and nuts to inhuman size and devolving the big man into a creature driven by instinct and id. His eyes fixed on Jake, unfocused and desperate, and Jake found himself so turned on he was mentally begging the match to start before the wrestling match became a swordfight.

Jake keeps his eyes on Marcus, plans forming in his mind as he listens for the instructor’s orders. They come soon enough. “Take your stance… begin!”

As the match begins, instead of trying to pull back and make Marcus come to him, Jake takes the offensive and rushes Marcus. Marcus towers over him as they embrace a bear hug and tumble to the sand, Marcus’s additional height, muscle, and strength immediately coming to bear, spurring Jake to take the only action he knew would give him full advantage.

He rocks his body up and down, the additional friction finally freeing Marcus’s elephant hard-on from its Speedo cage. Though mostly hidden from the crowd between them, Marcus’s tool was now erupting upwards in its full, unencumbered might, stabbing against his belly, beer-can thick and 12 inches solid if it was a hair. Now more determined than ever, Jake kept up his rocking as they flipped, and while Marcus was crashing down on him, he knew he needed to keep up his work of Marcus’s aroused body as long as he could.

Locked within Marcus’s embrace he snaked a hand down and gave Marcus orange-sized balls a squeeze, sparking a wave of ecstasy and anger in the bigger man. They were so close Jake could feel the edging climax building up in his rival. Jake was almost there, in every sense.

Distraught, Marcus threw Jake to the sand, face down, exposing to the crowd his mighty rod, red with anticipation. The Speedo, no longer containing the pillar in any way, now strained across the burgeoning balls below, leaving Marcus’s cock visible in its full, massive glory. Jake heard some in the crowd gasp. A few guys whistled.

Marcus paid no attention—it might have been just the two of them in the universe. He was already covering Jack with his body on the ground, trying to pin him once and for all.

But this was exactly what Jake was after. He resumed his rocking, grinding his firm, praiseworthy ass, upwards. Working Marcus’s dick forced it to slide between his two cheeks. Marcus seemed unaware of his intentions, focusing all his efforts on putting Jake head into a hold. All at once Jake gave one last shimmy of ass against cock, and Marcus’s dismayed grunt told him he finally understood what was going on—but it was too late. Jake slides a hand down, giving his balls another squeeze while strategically flexing his glutes. This was just enough to send Marcus to reach the point of no return, forcing the orgasm that had been relentlessly building and building until it could no longer be denied.

Marcus’s body spasmed as the climax overcame him, and Jack used the opportunity to flip him on his back with him on top, while holding Marcus’s ginormous dick. It felt like a solid pole, hot with pure, fleshy lust, already reaching the 13” mark. Marcus gasped as the cum gushed out of him uncontrollably, covering his massive, beautiful chest as Jake gripped and stroked the huge, shuddering tool with both hand. That’s the only painting you’re getting today, Jake thought, thrilling as his own cum surged out of him, soaking his Speedos, while Marcus came and came, defeated and exalted all at the same time.

Finally, it was over, and Marcus lay beneath him, physically spent despite the lingering rigidity of his impressive dick. Jake grinned up at the others, his sweat chest heaving. “Anybody got a towel?” he joked, getting a round of crass laughter—though what got a moment later was not towels but buckets and buckets of cold seawater, tossed over both of them by the happy mob. Jake laughed and sputtered, and even Marcus seemed to be grinning as they tried to fend off the watery attack. Jake wondered if a new gauntlet tradition had been born—dousing the winners, at least, if not the method of victory.

Jack had won the top dog title, but as they stood next to each other a little while later to formally acknowledge the winner, it kind of seemed that Marcus had won as well. Though his tool had finally softened, his bulging Speedo even when flaccid was fucking massive, pushing the waistband out just enough away from his body to expose more of his blond pubes, the brush of hair as tantalizing as the enormous blue package was provocative. Jake might be top dog, but Marcus, now more than ever, was still the elephant.

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