doomtrooper77

[doomtrooper77]

It's been a while since I posted anything. Been on vacation and took a break. I am working on learning some new techniques in image generation and video generation. I am going to share some test like this here on Tumblr. Let me know if you like it.

Likes and shares are appreciated.

Have a good weekend.

[doomtrooper77]

Penthouse Visit

They were waiting for me when I stepped out of the building. No mistaking them for anything other than dangerous. Two towering monsters of men, both wrapped in pitch-black tailored suits, jet-black shirts, and matching ties. They looked less like bodyguards and more like professional executioners—silent, heavy, immovable. A uniform straight out of a nightmare or a mob movie.

They didn’t need to walk up to me. They just stood there like monoliths, watching. But they knew I saw them, and I knew pretending I didn’t would end with my teeth on the pavement. So I walked toward them. One of them, the one with eyes so unnaturally blue they looked metallic in the sunlight, tilted his square jaw down just enough to make it clear he was talking to me.

“Mr. Ambrizio would like to see you.”

Shit. My gut twisted.

I asked, “About what?”

The other one, the thicker, broader of the two, leaned in until I could smell stale cigar smoke and leather off his breath.

“Does it matter?” he growled.

The only answer that wouldn’t get me bounced off the concrete was a quiet, “No.”

He stared at me, jaw clenched, eyes like slabs of stone, like he was measuring whether I deserved a beating just for speaking. After a long, brutal moment, he gave a tight nod, turned, opened the door of the idling black Escalade, and jerked his thumb. I got in. What else could I do?

The bigger one slid in behind me, boxing me in with nothing but meat and muscle. The man with the icy eyes climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled off without a word. Even though it was one of those cavernous, state-of-the-art Escalades, the guy sitting behind me sucked up all the air in the cabin. Every movement he made creaked the leather and made the SUV feel like a goddamn coffin.

We drove in silence, just the quiet hum of the tires and the occasional click of a blinker. I counted time by the burning in my throat and the weight pressing on my chest. Twenty-five minutes later, we rolled into the rear entrance of a high-rise that had only recently been finished. I’d read about it in one of those financial magazines—88 floors of luxury, exclusivity, and billionaire isolation. The kind of place you only entered if you were rich or disposable.

We glided into the underground garage, headlights slicing through the sterile, concrete shadows. Another man was waiting for us—no jacket, but the same all-black uniform. He looked younger, but he still had the dimensions of an industrial refrigerator. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched, eyes dead, jaw tight.

The guy in back opened the door and grabbed my shoulder in a thick, calloused hand, yanking me out like luggage. My feet barely hit the floor before I started to speak.

“Easy! This is a three-thousand-dollar suit—”

Before the sentence even ended, pain exploded through my side. A rib-crushing rabbit punch hit like a steel piston. I grunted and doubled over, but he didn’t let me drop. His iron grip held me upright like a limp puppet.

“I don’t think you realize how deep in the shit you are right now,” he hissed. “You should be thinking about why you’re here and why we were sent to collect you. Mr. Ambrizio said bring you breathing—he didn’t say anything about intact.”

While I struggled to catch my breath, the man with the blue-grey eyes circled the vehicle and got in close on the other side. I was sandwiched between two slabs of violence.

“Let him keep this attitude, Nicky,” Blue Eyes said, his voice ice-cold, eyes flickering with something feral. “Maybe the boss will let us have him for some fun.”

A cold sweat broke out across my neck.

“Stand up and walk like a fucking man,” Nicky barked.

They shoved me forward toward a set of black security doors. More guards were posted there—same black pants, shirts, ties—but with custom black leather jackets embroidered with the building’s logo and SECURITY across the chest in bold lettering. These weren’t mall cops. These were soldiers.

The place was crawling with them.

We were funneled toward a freight elevator the size of a two-car garage—polished steel, the kind used to move high-end sports cars or corpses. The doors slid shut with a mechanical sigh, and we rode up in silence, my ears popping with altitude.

When the doors opened at the 88th floor, two more behemoths were standing guard. One stepped forward and held the elevator door. His suit coat pulled back just enough to reveal the matte black steel of an SMG resting in a shoulder rig.

Jesus. Were they all armed like this? It was like Ambrizio ran a private militia out of a goddamn condo tower.

We moved through the back halls of the penthouse. I caught glimpses through open doors—tastefully decorated spaces with cold masculinity. Leather, dark wood, modern steel. No fluff, no frills. Everything expensive.

Then we hit the final door. It opened onto the rooftop.

The pool stretched out before us, infinity-edged and reflecting the golden hues of a dying sun. And in it—cutting through the water with sleek, deadly power—was Mr. Ambrizio.

He didn’t swim like a man. He swam like something built for it—fast, clean, silent. A shark in human form. Or something worse.

We waited.

He kept doing laps. I lost count at ten. When he finally emerged from the water, I swallowed hard.

He was a monster.

6’4”, maybe 6’5”, and easily 400 pounds of hulking, chiseled muscle. His entire upper body was covered in black and grey ink—mythical beasts, symbols, and lines that crawled across his skin like armor. Water cascaded down his massive frame in glistening rivers, catching the golden light of sunset. Even soaking wet, the presence he carried was overwhelming.

He walked over like a panther—slow, deliberate, powerful. His thighs were so thick they forced that powerlifter waddle, but he moved with a predator’s grace. A tiger in a three-piece world.

I tried to step forward. I tried to say something. But one of the goons jerked me back hard and growled, “Shut up.”

I shut up.

Ambrizio dropped into a poolside lounger, soaking wet from the pool. Water glistened on his skin, pooling on the concrete. The massive gold chain around his neck shimmered in the light. Diamonds winked from his fingers and his watch. He sat like a king—silent, dripping, dangerous.

Seconds later, another large man came out through a set of folding patio doors that peeled back the wall like a stage curtain, carrying a short tumbler filled with something amber and expensive. He handed it to Ambrizio.

“Thanks, Teddy,” the boss said without even looking at him.

Teddy nodded and asked if he needed anything else. He waved him off.

Then he looked at me.

And for the first time, he spoke to me.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

His voice was low but commanding. I opened my mouth to speak.

“That wasn’t for you to answer.”

His eyes—like chips of glass—flicked toward the men beside me. One grabbed my arm and shoved me into the seat across from the massive mob boss. They turned and walked back inside without a word.

Then the real conversation began.

For fifteen minutes, he didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just reminded me, with precise, almost surgical calm, how much money he had “invested” in my operation. He quoted exact figures, percentages, and timelines.

I tried to dazzle him. I trotted out graphs and buzzwords and the kind of bullshit that worked on VC firms and hedge fund scumbags. But Ambrizio wasn’t buying.

He waited. Sipped. Watched.

Then he tore it apart. Everything I said, every misdirection, every justification—he countered with facts I didn’t even know were on paper. My own spreadsheets turned against me. My own lies collapsed under his calm, confident demolition.

“You always have some excuses for your other investors and board members,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It’s really disrespectful that you think that bullshit is gonna work on me.”

His smile was wide and sharp. His eyes, like diamonds, cut straight through me.

“I don’t like it when people disrespect me or my organization.”

I didn’t dare move.

“What most people don’t know about me,” he said, swirling the glass in his hand, “is that I’m a reasonable man. If we do business, I expect you to keep your word. Everybody eats. Everybody wins. But the problem is, people get greedy. They think they’re smarter than me. They think they can lie to me. And then they get fucking greedy.”

He paused. Let that silence stretch.

“What they forget,” he said slowly, “is that we can be greedy too.”

He leaned forward, ice clinking in his glass.

“Like now—you’ve got a 10 percent penalty tacked onto our agreement just for trying to bullshit me. That means you’re 30 percent in the hole. With me.”

I wanted to protest, to explain, but the look on his face stopped me cold. I nodded once. It was all I could do.

“You’ve got two months to fix it. I don’t care what you have to do, you hit the fucking numbers, and you get me my money. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Then everything shifted.

His expression changed. That simmering anger cooled into something else. Something worse.

He set the glass down on the side table, wiped water off his face, and ran his massive hand through his soaked hair, then down across his chest, his abs.

“I think you need to understand who you are in this relationship,and who the fuck I am.”

Then his hand slid lower, over the bulge in his still-wet trunks. He pushed back from the coffee table, leaned into the lounger, and opened his thighs wide.

“Now get over here and start working off that interest you owe me,” he said, voice deadly calm.

The look in his eyes told me there wasn’t a choice.

Not really.

And the other option?

That would hurt a hell of a lot more.

I was on my knees before I even realized it. Up close, he seemed impossibly large, like his muscles were carved from tattooed marble and layered with power. I looked up, and he stared down at me with the expression of a man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted, because no one had ever told him no.

Because no one lived long enough to try.

“Tale your time boy.” He said.

[Like and Shares are appreciated. It lets me know if you want more]

[doomtrooper77]

Nothing To See Here

I consider this image to be the human equivalent of, Nothing to See Here.

[doomtrooper77]

Mercenaries Series

I was going to write a little story for this.. but people have pissed me off and am not in the mood. However, I will not punish you for other people's actions. So, here is a set of mercenaries.

[doomtrooper77]

Don't Bring That Here ...

It seems every few years, whenever I post my artwork, I get certain kinds of people reaching out, thinking we are kindred spirits. My artwork features what I think are uber-masculine men, Bikers, mercenaries, Mobsters, Rouge Cops, Outlaw cowboys, leather, guns, aggressiveness, sadomasochist themes, fights, shootouts, boots, and even fantasy brutality. All in the name of art for those who see it as such.

What you don't see in my artwork is hatred.

The problem is that there is a group of people who think that liking these things means I feel as they do... hate as they do.

I DO NOT.

Years ago, many thought that portion of our society was dying out or evolving. Well, I think we know that is not true. It is alive and far too healthy.

What does this mean? If you embrace that hatred, I am not your friend, and this Tumblr Blog is not for you. If you find that you have been blocked and wonder why, this is why. No, we cannot talk about it. I find it doubly amazing that someone gay (in or out of the closet) would embrace the ideals of people who are actively trying to make your existence illegal again. Not to mention subjugating every color of the rainbow and anything with ovaries.

If that means I lose 99.9 percent of the people who follow me here (I know it doesn't), then so be it. I do this for fun. It does not pay my mortgage, put food on my table, or vacations with my partner. It's just an expression of the caveman part of my brain. It welcomes EVERYBODY who may enjoy the darker side of the spectrum.

In closing, don't get it twisted. This is not a place for your goose-stepping nonsense or sad fantasies of superiority.

[doomtrooper77]

Goals for us all!!!!

Mr. Ambrizio - Stepping Up

Nate and I were working out in the weight room at The Gym. This place wasn’t just a meathead haven—it was the muscle-bound heart of a sprawling criminal network. On the surface, it looked like any old hardcore iron paradise. But look a little closer, and you’d see the truth: this was a stronghold for made guys, their hangers-on, and anyone looking to curry favor with the family.

Not everyone was straight out of a mob movie. Sure, some were walking Sopranos stereotypes, but many were just construction foremen, truckers, sanitation guys, business owners, lawyers—you name it. What they had in common was connection. The kind that wasn’t printed on a résumé. The family’s influence reached wide and deep. There wasn’t a corner of this state and the surrounding state they couldn’t touch.

Yeah, a few civilian fanboys came through, but they were always vetted. They knew the rules—shut your mouth and keep your head down. Ninety-five percent of the time, nothing happened here but heavy lifting and grunted reps. But that five percent? That’s what made this place legendary.

I say “big guys” for a reason. Gear wasn’t just available—it was part of the ecosystem. Didn’t matter what kind you were after, it flowed through The Gym like water. Most of the guys tied to the family were monsters in their own right. And the higher up you climbed in the organization, the bigger those monsters got. The boss had a nickname: The Monster Maker. Nobody called him that to his face, but everybody knew what it meant. You didn’t go to war with these people unless you wanted a bloodbath.

Nate and I? We were nobodies. Low-level drivers and gofers. We went where we were told, picked up envelopes or truckloads of God-knows-what, and dropped them off to whoever we were told to. Half the time, we didn’t even know what we were hauling. But it paid better than any 9-to-5. Still, we wanted more. More juice. More respect. Nate especially. There were lines I wasn’t willing to cross. Nate? I wasn’t sure he even saw the lines.

In the scheme of things, neither of us were huge, but I tipped the scales at 260, and Nate was a solid 290. We’d been lifting for about twenty minutes when Fucking Tony Ambrizio walked out of the locker room.

If you asked Google what a mob enforcer looked like, it should spit out his picture. Six-foot-four and tipping damn near 400 pounds of muscle. A thick mane of steel-grey and black hair, matching thick mustache, tanned olive skin covered in ink, and a thick, massive gold chain resting heavy on his chest. He didn’t walk—he loomed.

Tony wasn’t just a made guy. He was a capo, one of the underboss’s inner circle. Even other captains gave him space. Not just out of respect—but out of fear. See, Tony wasn’t crazy, not in the traditional sense. He was cold, sharp, and savage. The kind of guy who didn’t blink while yanking your spine out of your body.

Nate’s eyes locked onto him like a dog on raw meat. I nudged him. “Hey, stop staring.” I knew this was the kind of made man Nate wanted to be.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nate mumbled, but his eyes kept drifting back. So did mine.

Thirty minutes in, Tony was pushing weight that most elite powerlifters would call a personal best—as his warm-up. Every rep, every grunt, made him swell, veins bulging like cables. Between sets, he stretched and flexed, and it was like watching something transform—like his body was getting bigger just from exertion.

I caught Nate openly staring. I discreetly saw Tony through the mirror, his eyes turning in our direction. He was blatantly staring back. I jabbed Nate again, “Quit it.”

Then it happened. One of the family’s other big enforcers walked over—some giant named Jimmy-something—carrying a gallon jug of neon blue liquid. He handed it off to Tony with reverence and respect. Tony cracked it open, chugged the whole thing in one go, and muttered something to Jimmy—while looking straight at us.

Jimmy turned to glance our way, then back at Tony, saying something low. My stomach dropped.

“Shit,” I whispered. I started grabbing our stuff. Nate didn’t move.

I kicked him in the calf. “Let’s go.”

We made it three steps toward the locker room before Jimmy cut us off.

“Hey.” One word. Commanding. Deadly calm.

We froze. Jimmy approached, big as a damn doorframe. His eyes raked over us.

“Mr. Ambrizio is heading into the cage,” he said flatly. “He’d like you to join him.”

I looked over, Tony sat there like a statue, watching us. I turned back. “Uhh, we were just finishing up—”

Jimmy stepped in, and his big hand poked me in the chest hard. I stumbled back.

“I’m not talking to you, kid.” He turned to Nate. “This ain’t a request.”

Nate hesitated for just a breath, then said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping between them. “Nate, you don’t have to do this. You know the stories. Just say you’re injured or—”

Jimmy cut me off with a snort. Then, to Nate: “Best way to survive this is to fight. You sandbag, he’ll know. You flop around, try to play soft, he’ll beat you into paste. But you show him you’ve got guts, fire in your belly, you might just walk out under your own power. This is how you prove you’ve got what it takes to move up.”

Nate looked at me and said, “It’ll be alright. Go get some coffee or something. I’ll see you later.” His face was set like stone.

I saw Tony heading our way massive, every step a low rumble. Jimmy turned to me. “Get your shit and get outta here. Don’t let me catch you waiting in the parking lot. Go sip your latte or whatever.”

Nate gave me a small nod as he followed them into one of the private fight rooms.

I walked to the locker room, looked back once and the three of them disappeared behind that reinforced door.

It was a little after 8 p.m. when I got the call from Lutheran General. ER staff said Nate had been brought in. I hauled ass over.

He was sitting up when I got there. One eye swollen shut, the other blackened. Lip split wide open. Nose broken. The entire left side of his face looked like a swollen fist print.  His left arm was in a cast. Dopily smiling from under a haze of painkillers.

“He said I got guts,” he kept saying.

The doctor told me he also had four cracked ribs. He asked what happened.

I just asked back, “What did he say?”

“Fell down some stairs,” the doc said, clearly not buying it.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

They released him the next morning. Paperwork said AMZ Iron Works was covering the bill—one of Tony’s shell corps. That told me everything.

Nate was quieter after that. Wouldn’t talk about the fight. Wouldn’t tell his family either. He healed, slowly. Stayed at his parents’ place for a couple of months. They kept asking me what happened. I kept giving them the same answer: “Ask Nate.”

Five years later, I still think about that night.

Nate got what he wanted. These days, he’s 350 pounds of pure muscle and menace. The only thing he delivers now is beatings to people who are late on their loans, or when he was at The GYM, he delivered that same blue gallon jug to Mr. Ambrizio.

He’s crossed lines I don’t want to know about. We’re still friends, but we live in two different worlds now. He’s never thrown it in my face. Hell, I think he even put in a good word for me.

I don’t drive anymore. I send drivers. I tell them where to go and what to haul. It’s a step up.

And it’s enough.

[doomtrooper77]

Mr. Ambrizio

[doomtrooper77]

Mr. Ambrizio - Stepping Up

Nate and I were working out in the weight room at The Gym. This place wasn’t just a meathead haven—it was the muscle-bound heart of a sprawling criminal network. On the surface, it looked like any old hardcore iron paradise. But look a little closer, and you’d see the truth: this was a stronghold for made guys, their hangers-on, and anyone looking to curry favor with the family.

Not everyone was straight out of a mob movie. Sure, some were walking Sopranos stereotypes, but many were just construction foremen, truckers, sanitation guys, business owners, lawyers—you name it. What they had in common was connection. The kind that wasn’t printed on a résumé. The family’s influence reached wide and deep. There wasn’t a corner of this state and the surrounding state they couldn’t touch.

Yeah, a few civilian fanboys came through, but they were always vetted. They knew the rules—shut your mouth and keep your head down. Ninety-five percent of the time, nothing happened here but heavy lifting and grunted reps. But that five percent? That’s what made this place legendary.

I say “big guys” for a reason. Gear wasn’t just available—it was part of the ecosystem. Didn’t matter what kind you were after, it flowed through The Gym like water. Most of the guys tied to the family were monsters in their own right. And the higher up you climbed in the organization, the bigger those monsters got. The boss had a nickname: The Monster Maker. Nobody called him that to his face, but everybody knew what it meant. You didn’t go to war with these people unless you wanted a bloodbath.

Nate and I? We were nobodies. Low-level drivers and gofers. We went where we were told, picked up envelopes or truckloads of God-knows-what, and dropped them off to whoever we were told to. Half the time, we didn’t even know what we were hauling. But it paid better than any 9-to-5. Still, we wanted more. More juice. More respect. Nate especially. There were lines I wasn’t willing to cross. Nate? I wasn’t sure he even saw the lines.

In the scheme of things, neither of us were huge, but I tipped the scales at 260, and Nate was a solid 290. We’d been lifting for about twenty minutes when Fucking Tony Ambrizio walked out of the locker room.

If you asked Google what a mob enforcer looked like, it should spit out his picture. Six-foot-four and tipping damn near 400 pounds of muscle. A thick mane of steel-grey and black hair, matching thick mustache, tanned olive skin covered in ink, and a thick, massive gold chain resting heavy on his chest. He didn’t walk—he loomed.

Tony wasn’t just a made guy. He was a capo, one of the underboss’s inner circle. Even other captains gave him space. Not just out of respect—but out of fear. See, Tony wasn’t crazy, not in the traditional sense. He was cold, sharp, and savage. The kind of guy who didn’t blink while yanking your spine out of your body.

Nate’s eyes locked onto him like a dog on raw meat. I nudged him. “Hey, stop staring.” I knew this was the kind of made man Nate wanted to be.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nate mumbled, but his eyes kept drifting back. So did mine.

Thirty minutes in, Tony was pushing weight that most elite powerlifters would call a personal best—as his warm-up. Every rep, every grunt, made him swell, veins bulging like cables. Between sets, he stretched and flexed, and it was like watching something transform—like his body was getting bigger just from exertion.

I caught Nate openly staring. I discreetly saw Tony through the mirror, his eyes turning in our direction. He was blatantly staring back. I jabbed Nate again, “Quit it.”

Then it happened. One of the family’s other big enforcers walked over—some giant named Jimmy-something—carrying a gallon jug of neon blue liquid. He handed it off to Tony with reverence and respect. Tony cracked it open, chugged the whole thing in one go, and muttered something to Jimmy—while looking straight at us.

Jimmy turned to glance our way, then back at Tony, saying something low. My stomach dropped.

“Shit,” I whispered. I started grabbing our stuff. Nate didn’t move.

I kicked him in the calf. “Let’s go.”

We made it three steps toward the locker room before Jimmy cut us off.

“Hey.” One word. Commanding. Deadly calm.

We froze. Jimmy approached, big as a damn doorframe. His eyes raked over us.

“Mr. Ambrizio is heading into the cage,” he said flatly. “He’d like you to join him.”

I looked over, Tony sat there like a statue, watching us. I turned back. “Uhh, we were just finishing up—”

Jimmy stepped in, and his big hand poked me in the chest hard. I stumbled back.

“I’m not talking to you, kid.” He turned to Nate. “This ain’t a request.”

Nate hesitated for just a breath, then said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping between them. “Nate, you don’t have to do this. You know the stories. Just say you’re injured or—”

Jimmy cut me off with a snort. Then, to Nate: “Best way to survive this is to fight. You sandbag, he’ll know. You flop around, try to play soft, he’ll beat you into paste. But you show him you’ve got guts, fire in your belly, you might just walk out under your own power. This is how you prove you’ve got what it takes to move up.”

Nate looked at me and said, “It’ll be alright. Go get some coffee or something. I’ll see you later.” His face was set like stone.

I saw Tony heading our way massive, every step a low rumble. Jimmy turned to me. “Get your shit and get outta here. Don’t let me catch you waiting in the parking lot. Go sip your latte or whatever.”

Nate gave me a small nod as he followed them into one of the private fight rooms.

I walked to the locker room, looked back once and the three of them disappeared behind that reinforced door.

It was a little after 8 p.m. when I got the call from Lutheran General. ER staff said Nate had been brought in. I hauled ass over.

He was sitting up when I got there. One eye swollen shut, the other blackened. Lip split wide open. Nose broken. The entire left side of his face looked like a swollen fist print.  His left arm was in a cast. Dopily smiling from under a haze of painkillers.

“He said I got guts,” he kept saying.

The doctor told me he also had four cracked ribs. He asked what happened.

I just asked back, “What did he say?”

“Fell down some stairs,” the doc said, clearly not buying it.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

They released him the next morning. Paperwork said AMZ Iron Works was covering the bill—one of Tony’s shell corps. That told me everything.

Nate was quieter after that. Wouldn’t talk about the fight. Wouldn’t tell his family either. He healed, slowly. Stayed at his parents’ place for a couple of months. They kept asking me what happened. I kept giving them the same answer: “Ask Nate.”

Five years later, I still think about that night.

Nate got what he wanted. These days, he’s 350 pounds of pure muscle and menace. The only thing he delivers now is beatings to people who are late on their loans, or when he was at The GYM, he delivered that same blue gallon jug to Mr. Ambrizio.

He’s crossed lines I don’t want to know about. We’re still friends, but we live in two different worlds now. He’s never thrown it in my face. Hell, I think he even put in a good word for me.

I don’t drive anymore. I send drivers. I tell them where to go and what to haul. It’s a step up.

And it’s enough.

[doomtrooper77]

Trucker 3 Pak - V2

I heard someone ask for more of these over the road Brutes.

So, you are stuck in the middle of nowhere, and your only way home is to hitch a ride with one of these three; which would it be?

[doomtrooper77]

Triplet of Truckers

Some of the hottest men I have ever seen have been over-the-road truckers. I think they deserve a little attention. Let me know if you agree. Likes and reposts are appreciated.

[doomtrooper77]

Talking to Big Franco

It was Friday after work, and some of the boys from the docks wanted to grab some beers and shots. There were a number of bars we frequented that catered to a rowdier crowd. We went to Spoke and Wheel. When we parked in the lot next to the bar, I saw a very familiar big black bike parked near the entrance.

When we went inside, I saw him sitting at the end of the bar, Big Franco. None of us were small guys, but we seemed like kids next to Franco. I had been debating whether to talk to him or one of his crew about what I saw a couple of days ago.

After some liquid courage, in the form of a few beers and shots, I decided to tell him. Pushing my way through the crowd, I made my way near where he and the bartender were talking. Both men looked up at me when I stopped near them. Their conversation stopped, and both stared.

Big Franco was one of those men you could feel menace coming off in waves. Even if you weren’t the focus of his anger, you could feel the potential of it, like the air during a thunderstorm.

“Uhh, Franco, could I talk to you for a minute?” I asked. His hard eyes locked on me for a few seconds, then he nodded.

“Uh, privately,” I added.

Those hard eyes just stayed on me for another ten seconds. Then, looking at the bartender and two people sitting near him, they all just got up and left. His eyes turned back to me. He gestured to the seat opposite him at the end of the bar.

“Okay, you got privacy. What’d ya want?” he asked bluntly.

Part of me was screaming to just walk away, but the rest of me said, Tell the man. I sat down and started.

“A couple weeks ago, you stopped down near docks 7 through 11 around lunchtime, and you told us you’d been having some issues back at the warehouse where you and your crew... uhh, work.”

His eyes sharpened when I said work.

“Yeah, I remember. You work on Irish Mike's crew. Your name's Dillion, right?” Franco said.

I know my eyebrows must have shot up—he knew my name and the crew I worked on. That was a bit scary. I’m just some working guy. I don’t have any affiliation with any groups other than the unions.

“Uhh, yeah,” I said. “You told us to keep our eyes open if we saw anything unusual happening on the docks. Especially down by... uhh, your area.”

His eyes narrowed. “So what’d ya see?”

Well, here we were.

“I just wanted to say, I ain’t no rat or anything,” I began.

He interrupted, firmer now, a little growl in his voice. “What. Did. You. See?”

“About a week ago, I saw the inspection foreman talking to a couple of guys in suits behind section 33. That section’s just behind your area. Something about those guys didn’t scream businessmen; it felt like something else.”

He leaned in slightly. “Something else like cops or Feds?”

“I didn’t see any badges or anything, but they were back there. And that foreman kept gesturing toward your area. I didn’t think much of it until I saw them again yesterday evening, with the same inspector. He was handing them a bunch of keys. I got close enough to hear him say something about the service tunnels.”

His eyes glittered.

“Keep going.”

“That made me suspicious, cause what would these suits be doing in the service tunnels?” I continued. “The biggest thing was I saw them again this afternoon, but this time they were over in the visitor parking lot. They were dressed in what looked like brand-new workwear and talking to more clean-cut-looking guys in a white van.”

Now his eyes were sharp like knife blades made of diamonds.

“I know this could just be random shit, but it was weird. They didn’t look like they belonged here. And you said you wanted to know when strange shit was happening,” I finished, trailing off, not sure if I should have said anything.

He stared at me for about fifteen seconds, saying nothing. Then he nodded and gestured to the bartender. Reaching into his pocket, Franco pulled out a roll of cash and peeled off a bunch of hundreds.

“This guy and his buddies over there drink free tonight. Whatever they want. On me.”

The bartender said, “Sure thing, Franco,” as he took the money.

The massive man stood up, looking at me again.

“Good looking out. You and your buddies have a good evening—on me,” Franco said.

He took two steps away, then came back. He put one of his massive hands on my shoulder near my neck, leaned down a bit, and asked, “What’s the name of the inspector speaking to the suits?”

Fuck. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask that.

“Listen, I don’t want to get involved with ... ” I started.

Franco leaned down so close he was less than an inch from my face. I could feel the big beard scratching against my neck. His big, gloved hand squeezed, not so gingerly, and he growled, “What’s. His. Name?”

His hot breath blew across my ear as he said it, not just with words, but a command. I told him the name.

His grip loosened, and he clapped me on the shoulder.

“Keep your mouth shut about what we talked about. Understand?”

I looked up at him, and he had a smile like a great white shark.

“Yeah, sure, Mr. Franco.”

He turned and swaggered through the crowd. The people who didn’t move fast enough got shouldered aside.

One of my buddies came over to where I sat and asked, “What was that all about?”

I told him, “It was nothing.”

Within sixty seconds, the sound of a big motorcycle starting up rumbled through the bar. We saw Big Franco pass by the front window as he sped away.

The bartender put a beer and a shot in front of me and my buddy and said, “Drinks for you guys are on the house tonight.”

My buddy looked confused. The bartender gestured toward me and said, “Your friend here is picking up the tab.”

My buddy roared in approval and clapped me on the back.

We

[doomtrooper77]

I have to know, because the AI art rarely shows the legs and feet. A lot of Troopers, bikers and enforcers in your stories wear lineman boots. What do these look like?

Ok thats easy.. lineman boots are designed after the boots that people who work on powerlines, telecommunication poles, and similar work wear. Usually, leather, heavy-lugged soles can be worn with or without steel or composite toes. Some would argue that they are the same as logger boots. Logger boots are boots that historically lumberjacks and timbermen wore. I don't necessarily agree with this comparison, because while they share quite a few of the same characteristics, the design is different enough to have a distinct difference to the trained eye. The fact is that guys wear lineman or logger boots in all kinds of jobs today. Construction, road work, hell, I used to wear some to the office long ago. I have been obsessed with boots and leather gloves since I was a kid (a very long time ago).

In the end they are big heavy leather boots, with heavy-lugged soles that look fucking hot. Feel hot. Smell hot and best of all TASTE HOT.

As for the AI issue with legs and feet, AI is still having a problem producing them properly. Too skinny, too short, too big, too long, sometimes it ALL of that together in one shot. Trust me, if the tools I used could produce boot shots like this.. you see it ALL THE DAMN TIME!

[doomtrooper77]

Back Road Trucker

[doomtrooper77]

Big Franco

[doomtrooper77]

what is not to like in this reimagining of another superb @doomtrooper77 BruteAI pic.

Muscle Boxing Cigars

[doomtrooper77]

Put on a Show

You were feeling pretty good about the fight your buddy got set up for you tonight. You’d made pretty good money on the last 3-4 fights. People were asking for you. Mind you, these are underground fights, and they didn’t show them on cable or anything, but there were pretty good crowds, and now they were being streamed on the dark web. Even with Bare Knuckle Boxing and Dirty Boxing becoming mainstream on the internet, these fights were a bit darker. It was more like pit fighting than anything else. No ref, the only rule was pretty much not to kill the other guy.

Ricky had set this one up for you. He said he had heard of this underground group making and offering big money for fighters. Everybody got paid something up front, and if you won, you got 3-5 times as much, and you were allowed to bet on yourself. Ricky got 3 grand up front. You jumped at the chance. Ricky said the promoters like you to put on a show. Not to make it too quick. I could do that.

Ricky told you to meet him at this old factory around 9 pm. When you got there, there were some rough-looking dudes at the door. Big fuckers who you could see was packing heat. You told them who you were, said that Ricky was already there, and pointed you to an old workers' locker room where he and other fighters were waiting. When you get there, Ricky is all smiles. There are 4 fights tonight. You look around and see the 6 other guys.

You ask Ricky which of them is your opponent, and that’s when he tells you it’s a random pick. The promoter comes in with a hat with poker chips out, and whoever has matching poker chips fights each other. You look around again, and while a few of these guys look competent, none of them look like they couldn’t handle it. Hell, a couple of them you’d have to hold back a lot to make it look good. That’s when you told Ricky to bet all of your potential winnings on your fight. Ricky grinned and went off to do so.

You start changing your gear when the seventh guy walks into the locker room. The chatter stops, and you can hear the heavy boot steps. You turn and see a wall of muscle walking through the room.  He had to be 6’2 or 6’3, which isn’t necessarily extraordinary, however, his shoulders were wide as a fucking doorway. He wore blue jeans, harness boots, a black tank top, and a black leather jacket. The jacket was stretched, fitting over his massive frame. One of the other fighters said what the rest of them were thinking, Fuck.  Another guy, a bit smaller than him, followed behind with a duffle bag.

They walked over to another bench and started to get ready. Ricky came back and said, “Who is that fucking bull?” I told him the seventh fighter, counting me, you get eight. We both looked at each other like, FUCK! Ricky then proceeded to give me the pep talk. That guy was all muscle, no go. He’s probably slow as hell. If you ended up fighting him, I would have to keep away and gas him out. I had fought guys like that before.

Ricky was tapping up your hands as the guy started to change. He started by taking off all his heavy biker jewelry. Rings, necklace, bracelet.  When he stripped down to skin, he looked even bigger, everywhere. Fucker had a cock like a damn horse. He was covered in biker ink all over. Arms, back, shoulder, neck, chest, legs.  I watched as he slipped into a torn jock strap that could barely hod him. Watched as he adjusted that leg straps around his massive muscular thighs and ass, then reaching in and adjusting baseball cock of his.  He slipped into some black trunks and sat down as the guy with him proceeded to tape his massive hands and feet.

When that guy was done, he stood up and started warming up like the other fighters. He stretched first. Bending and twisting at what should be impossible angles for someone that freaking huge. The pops and snaps of his joints echoed across the room as he limbered up. Which exactly what it was, you could see his movements becoming more fluid and smoother. The more you watch, the more you get a really bad feeling in the pit of your stomach.

It was when he walked over to the big punching bag hanging from an overhead beam, a big leather unit meant to take a pounding for a couple of decades. When the guy using it saw him swaggering over, he quickly turned and returned to the bench where his stuff was. The room got quiet again as the big guy approached the bag. Rolling his neck, he snapped a couple of jabs into the bag. Fast and based on the bag’s movement, strong. His shoulders swayed, and his feet began to move, and hooks, crosses, uppercuts, and body shots soon joined those jabs. His punches were not only fast, but they were also powerful. That big swung left and right and jumped up and down, depending on the blow. He started letting these growling barks as he hit especially hard. Fast, strong, fluid. He was up on his toes, moving side to side, back and forth, diagonally. While not Muhammad Ali, he was professionally fast. The whole room gasped when he suddenly spun and that massive, tapped foot came around in a blinding arc and smashed into the bag, sending it swing damn near horizontal with force. You can see a guy shaking their head, all beginning to rethink their participation. This wasn’t a fight with refs and rules. This was No Hold Barred. Again, the only rule was not to kill anyone.

One guy picked up his bag to leave, but he was met by two big bruisers at the door who told him it was too late. He tried to argue, but one showed him the holster with a big silver gun. I looked at Ricky, and he had a similarly shocked look on his face. The massive guy in the corner kept warming up. A sheen of sweat started shining on his massive upper body.

The “promoter” came in with three goons. They looked like they were straight out of a mob movie. He explained how the pairing for the fights would work. He had a leather bag with 8 poker chips. Red, Blue, Green, and Gold. Everything but gold was the preliminary matches. Gold was the main event. The main event paid more, but you also needed to put on a show. He explained again that these were No-Hold-Barred fights. No refs, one rule. Try not to kill your opponent. There were bonuses for those who put on the best show. Everybody knew what that meant.

He shook the bag and put it in front of you. You reached in and pulled out the Gold poker chip. Ricky clapped his hands because he knew the pay for that match could be good. I also know I could put on a show without really hurting someone. However, I didn’t want to try to do that with the Beast. There was a 1 in 7 chance he could be my opponent. The next three guys pulled. Red, Blue.  Blue.  1 in 4 chances. Green. Red. Only two guys left, the Beast and a wiry middleweight-looking guy. Everyone watched as the promoter shook the bag and put it before the Beast.  You and the guy with the green chip look at each other. You can see both of you hoping for the opposite color to be picked. The beast reached his massive hand into the bag, and the glint of gold flashed as he pulled the chip out. The Beast looked up at you; his eyes were hard and cold. The promoter grinned at you and then at the Beast. He said the fights start in 15 minutes. Red up first.

The Beast kept staring at you.  Part of you knew it was a psychological ploy to scare you. But there was something dangerous behind those eyes. Ricky came up and pulled you away. There was no backing out of this fight. You and Ricky strategized on different ways to take him down.

The two guys went out to the first fight. You could hear the crowd cheer and roar. 10 minutes later, one guy comes in with a bloody nose and mouth, and the other is being carried in holding his arm that is at the wrong angle. Fight two happens, and again, one guy comes in with a bloodied face and a swollen eye, his opponent comes in on a stretcher, knocked out, and with a brace around his neck.  

When the third fight starts, the Beast starts to warm up. He stretches his arms and legs, pulling those massive limbs at angles someone that big isn’t supposed to be able to do. Then he lay flat on his back and arched his entire body so that just the soles of his feet and the top of his head were on the rough concrete floor. Ricky and you watch as he starts doing neck rolls on the floor. That massive pillar of flesh his head sat on flexed and twisted like rubber. Back and forth, side to side. He kipped up and the guy who was with him had a bottle of water and a towel, ready for him but, he pushed him aside roughly and walked back over to the punching bag. His fist started flying, and you can tell he wasn’t holding back. The bag thumped and swung wildly. His barks and growls as he hit it were sharp and aggressive.

He kept this up for 3-4 minutes, his blows growing harder and faster. You should have been warming up yourself, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

Suddenly you can hear boos and angry shouts coming from the crowd. Minutes later, both fighters were roughly escorted past the locker room to somewhere else deeper into the old factory by 4 big bruisers.

The promoter came into the locker room and spoke.  “Those to pussy had not heart. Now I’ve got an angry crowd asking for their money back. So, I expect you two to give me one hell of a show.”  He said, looking from me to the Beast. The promoter grinned as the beast turned to him, and he was covered in sweat, and his massive, tattooed arms and shoulders were pumped and crawling with veins. He turned back to me and said, “Kid if you get a chance to put on a show, you better give him all you’ve got. But I have a feeling…..” he trailed off looking at the Beast.

10 minutes later, you’re standing in a literal chain-link cage surrounded by a hungry crowd. They announced it was the night's final fight and that all bets had been made and were final. They announce your height and weight, 6’1 and 275. They announced his height, 6’4 and 398 pounds. There is an excited murmur from the crowd as someone rings the bell.

He plods forward flatfooted.  His eyes boring into you.  You have a few options; you’ve got to get him off his feet. The knee.  Upon your toes, and moving back and forth. You snap a kick at his knee, and it connects. A solid thunk, but his leg does collapse. Ok, it's gonna take more than one. A few more jabs, and you snap another one, and it connects. Another solid thunk. It still doesn’t collapse, but the crowd can see your strategy and cheer you on. He throws a few slow jabs and a roundhouse, far slower than back in the locker room, and they miss. You can feel your confidence building. If you can get him down or limping, you might be able to take him apart.

You throw a jab and a left cross, just as he moves slightly away, you whip around and, using your momentum, you aim at that knee again. Putting all of your speed and weight behind it. If it connects, that knee is going to snap.  Just as your foot is coming around, you can see his face. The blank, plodding look is gone, and that hungry, intimidating look is back. Just about when that kick is going to connect, he lifts his knee straight up, and your foot flies right under where his knee was a microsecond before.  Your momentum starts to take you half around again when that knee he has lifted damn near to his chest extends and that big foot lands squarely on you right pec and you find yourself flying backwards into the cage.

You see the cage and crowd spin around as you fly through the air, hit the chain-link cage wall, and fall to the mat. You feel like you were hit by a truck. The crowd roars. Sucking in air and trying to orient yourself you manage to turn around and see him walking toward you. At first, he plodded flat-footed, but with each step, he began to rise on his toes. By the time you have your breath, he is moving with a smooth bouncing gait to easily match your own.

He moved blindingly fast, the last two steps toward you, and brought his knee up. You manage to move out of the way, and that knee hits the chain-link cage.  He had so much weight and power that the cage shifted a foot toward the crowd. You could hear the intake of breath from the crowd, then a roar. You take advantage and throw a hook into his back and ribs as he bounces off the cage. Then another. Enough power in those punches to put a man down. But to your surprise, he spins and raises his arm with a back fist. You manage to turn away enough that it glazes your cheek, but it is enough to send you stumbling.

When you look up, he’s on you. Jabs, lefts, and rights. You cover up, but the blows that hit your arms hurt, and when he sees you covering your face, the blows come to your midsection. Your breath is literally taken away. Fire blossoms on your side. The next blow that lands there, you can hear the snap.

You find yourself on your knees on the ground.  Holding your side.  You’re looking for the next blow, but when you look up, he has stepped back and looks down at you with disdain. He makes a gesture for you to get up. You have no choice, no referee to stop the fight.

He arrogantly holds his arms extended out from his body, inviting you for a free shot. The crowd is jeering at you. They are eating it up. You stand up, and now you are getting angry. He gestures again for you to take your shot. Squaring up, walking up to him, and nodding your head, you wind back and give him a full power shot to the jaw. His head barely turns. He grins and says again.  You do it again and take squarely, and that pillar of flesh he calls a neck doesn’t bend. You follow it up with another punch, then a shot to the gut, then ribs, then back to the head. By the 7th blow, you were punching. The 8th blow, he caught your fist in his hand and held it like wood in a vice. Through your angry haze, you see his vicious smile and bloody lip say, “My turn.”

The world exploded into stars, and his head propels forward and smashes into you like a wrecking ball. The world goes white, and you barely feel as he pushes you back into the cage.  You can’t tell what happens because you're still in a daze from the headbutt, but those massive fists land repeatedly. When you start to focus again, you can hear the crowd roar.  You're on the concrete and he's standing over you. You can see him standing over you, massive,  pumped, and absorbing the crowd's hunger. You can also see that his trunks are tented.  He’s fucking hard.

Something in your brain says. NHB, No holds barred. As he reaches down for you, you gather what strength you have left and slam your fist right into his cock and balls. The low blow lands base of his cock and square into his balls.  You hear the crowd gasp as they see it, and you see his eyebrows begin to rise, and recognition of what happened in his eyes. He’s a man, and that pain is something every man feels.  You see him step back and are waiting for him to fall over.  You see him sway, but he doesn’t fall over.  He leans back, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at you. His eyes are different now. The fire of the fight has been joined by something else.

You watch as he balls up his fist and slams it into his junk, two, three, four times. The fire in his eyes gets brighter. As he does so, a hush comes over the crowd, and then they scream in raw approval. A dangerous smile comes over his face as he grabs you and pulls you from the ground. You try to struggle, but before you know it, he turns you around and wraps those massive arms of his around your head and neck and starts to squeeze. He could easily put you out, but where's the fun in that?

With his massive arms wrapped around your head and neck, he lifts you from the ground and carries you around the perimeter of the cage, showing you off to the roar of the crowd. Stopping in front of each section, squeezing tighter and loosening up so you don’t lose consciousness.  When you both reach the portion of the cage where the promoter is, he stops, leans in, pushing your body into the chain link cage wall, and leans all of his weight against you. The promoter has a huge grin on his face as the crowd and camera take it all in.

His mouth is just over our right ear, and you hear him say, “So you thought that cheap shot would work. Fucker, that’s fuckin foreplay for me.” He said and flexed his arms tightly, then loosened them again, allowing you to breathe. “Maybe when I’m done with you here I’ll drag you back to some corner of this fucking factory and show you what happens when you get me all worked up.” He said and then you could feel his hard cock grind against your ass through both your trunks. The crowd roared even louder as he did it, and his hip movement became more pronounced. The promoter looked shocked until he noticed how wild the crowd was getting as they watched. His smile grew bigger. “Maybe I’ll show you right here in front of everybody. That would be one hell of a show, wouldn’t it?”

It wasn’t until later that you woke up in a room with a guy in a suit and two guys in paramedic uniforms putting an IV in your arm. Ricky was there. He told you that these were the guys the promoter hired to take care of fighters after the matches. A doctor and two paramedics.  You could feel a neck brace around your neck, something on your arm, and something around your midsection. The doctor told me that I had multiple cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, torn ligaments in my neck, and that they were pretty sure multiple fingers from a punch Best had been broken, if not my hand. You could feel a couple of teeth missing. They were going to take you to the hospital for X-rays and scans.

The promoter came in and said, “Great show, kid. The crowd loves it. You earned your bonus. The doctor here says you’ll live and recover. Make sure you tell the hospital you were in a car accident. We’ll ensure it’s taken care of as long as you do that.”  The bonus was 20 grand.

Just as they were wheeling you out to the paramedics' truck, the Beast was walking out, and he turned and stopped the paramedics. Everyone's eyes widened as the man pushed past guards and the doctor. Dressed back in his street clothes, he leaned down and said, “Good fight, buddy. They say you’re gonna be okay in a few months or so. I tried not to bust you up to bad; you got heart fucker. I can respect that. Let me know when you want a rematch.“ he said grinning, his eyes shining with humor and challenge.

As they wheeled me away, I said, “When pigs fly.” I heard him laugh as they slid me into the van.

[doomtrooper77]

Hoffman Powerline

You spotted the big matte black SUV cruise past the front window and roll into the lot. Fuck. Here they come.

It was late morning, and the breakfast rush had already thinned out, leaving the shop mostly quiet. You would get another push at noon, then close by 2 p.m. You knew their routine by now. They had been in a few times over the past couple of months, and you made damn sure you were the one waiting on them every chance you got.

You watched as the door opened and him,  just one of them this time,  stepped inside. It was the bigger one. Shit, he was huge.

You were not exactly small yourself. At 6'2" and a solid 320 pounds, you were a heavy, broad-shouldered bear who turned heads at every bar and event. But this guy made you feel downright average. He stood 6'5", maybe 6'6", and had to be pushing 400 pounds of thick, brute cop muscle.

He walked with a slow, deliberate swagger, his sheer size making every step land heavy on the floorboards. His uniform was brutal in its simplicity: navy-blue tactical pants stretched tight over tree-trunk legs, tucked into black, heavy lug-soled boots. His short-sleeved blue duty shirt clung to his massive frame like it was painted on. A thick tactical vest sat over it, loaded with ammo pouches, cuffs, and gear. A big automatic sat in his waist holster, and an even bigger piece was strapped into a leather leg holster.

Every step brought the creak of leather, the low jingle of gear, and the deep thud of those monstrous boots. You felt your jeans tighten almost immediately.

That powerlifter swagger people sometimes said you had was nothing compared to this. This was pure, predatory power wrapped in flesh, leather, and Kevlar.

He reached the counter. You swallowed and said, “How can I help you, officer?”

He reached up, peeled off a pair of black mirror wraparound shades, and perched them on his buzz-cut head. His eyes locked onto you. Ice blue. Not just pale, a vibrant, almost unnatural blue, so light they seemed to shift to steel gray from second to second. Some people might have found them creepy. You found them perfectly intimidating.

"Let me get an extra-large coffee," he said, his voice a low rumble, "five sugars. No cream."

Knodding your head. “Sure thing, sir.” Grabbing the XXL cup, you filled it, loaded it up with sugar, and turned back, catching him eyeing the donut case with a calculating look.

When you set the coffee down, he said, “Think I’ll take a few donuts too.”

You smiled, glancing at the name tag stitched into the edge of his vest: Sgt. Rappitti.

“Sure thing, Sergeant,” you said.

His head snapped toward you, a flash of hardness tightening his face. For a second, you thought you had crossed a line. But then his gaze tracked to where you were looking, realized you had just read his name, and the tension eased. Still, you could feel the blood pounding in your ears and your cock twitching in your jeans.

He leaned closer to the pastry case, lifting one massive, gloved hand to point. Thick fingers wrapped in tight black SAP gloves moved from donut to donut. You were too busy staring at those hands to hear what he said.

Only when he repeated himself, a little sharper, did you blink back to reality. You did not see the faint, hard little smirk that flickered across his lips.

You started bagging up the donuts. Then he said, “I’ll take an apple fritter too.”

“Let me go grab a fresh one from the back,” you offered, trying to steady your breathing. “Still warm, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

You rushed to the back. Screw the bag. You grabbed a box and loaded it up. Four apple fritters, fresh out of the fryer, plus a generous haul of pastries. It was over the top, but you did not care.

You came back to the counter, box in hand.

He eyed it and grunted, “I just asked for a few donuts.”

Quickly, you said, “I didn’t want anything to leak through a bag onto your uniform, sir. No big deal.”

He stared at you for a long moment, those mercurial eyes shifting again from ice to steel, before giving a slow nod. “Thanks.”

You thought about telling him everything — about the house, about the real reason he and his partner kept coming here, but something deep down said no. Not yet.

You rang him up for just the coffee and a couple of donuts, way under what you actually packed. He pulled out a thick wad of cash, peeled off a few bills, and dropped a twenty into the tip jar without a word.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” you said, your voice maybe a little too eager.

He picked up his coffee and the box of pastries and started to head for the door. You could not help yourself.

"Sergeant?" you called.

He paused, turning halfway back, his face already slipping into that cautious, slightly annoyed look.

“Yeah?”

You licked your dry lips, your eyes automatically dropping to those enormous boots. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking... what kind of boots are those?”

There was a beat of silence. Then he turned fully around, lifted one massive booted foot, and planted it squarely on the nearest chair.

You got an eyeful, the heavy black boots with thick lug soles, easily size 14 or 15 EEE,  but your gaze wandered. His pants were stretched tight across his massive thighs and even tighter across the massive bulge straining his crotch. Big. Everywhere.

“These?” he said, rolling his boot side to side for you. “Hoffman Powerlines.”

He was watching you, seeing how your tongue flicked across your bottom lip without you even realizing it. That hard, knowing smile was back.

He lowered his foot with a heavy stomp and took a step toward you. You looked up into his face, the coldest, hardest stare you had ever seen. Those ice-blue eyes bored straight through you.

“Been a while since I had them cleaned up," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Gonna have to find someone to take care of them for me.”

With a final smirk, he turned and walked out.

The door thudded closed, and just before it latched shut, you heard him mutter over his shoulder:

“See you next time.”

So, do you guys want a next time? Let me know in the comments.