I’m the first to admit that I don’t follow competitive cycling. I have no idea if thighs that would make a juiced pro bodybuilder weep with envy necessarily translate into gold medal track cycling. But I do know one thing: a homoerotic wrestling competition starring these monster quads would pack the stands with the likes of you and me!

Sir “Golden Thighs” Chris Hoy – 6’1″, 200 lbs., 36 years old, 27″ inch thighs!

Once the IOC awards their medals, let’s get the vanilla crowd out of the velodrome, set-up the pro wrestling ring in the middle, and line up the boys of spandex for a no-holds-barred round robin for national pride, personal glory, and bragging rights.  For the first semi-final, former Olympic champion and legendary monster quad king, Sir Christopher Andrew Hoy (MBE), jogs to the ring in mid-thigh length spandex bike shorts with the Scottish flag emblazoned across his massive muscled glutes. Dubbed by the British press as Sir “Golden Thighs” (I kid you not), the powerhouse Scot has been bringing the competition to its knees on the track. Now it’s time to see how he does in the ring!

Teun Mulder – 6′, 198 lbs., 31 years old

Approaching the ring to face Sir Christopher is the Dutch phenom, Teun Mulder, dressed in mid-thigh orange spandex biker shorts. He pumps his fists into the air as he stands at ringside, staring defiantly up at his heavily favored opponent. Sir Chris grins back, points at his golden thighs, and flexes them, giving the Dutch underdog a wink.

The initial couple of minutes are a game of cat and mouse. The supremely cocky Scot stalks the Dutchman with that cold, steely grin, as Teun dances around the perimeter of the ring, delaying the inevitable lock up. Diving to one knee, he takes a surprise single leg that drops Sir Christopher to his mouthwatering ass. A couple of lightening fast heel strikes to Chris’ hamstrings reveals Teun’s strategy for coming out on top: incapacitate the golden thighs! Sir Christopher didn’t get inducted into the Order of the British Empire for his winning smile, though. As Teun repeatedly focuses on picking away at his powerhouse upper legs, Chris muscles his way out of each predicament before the Dutchman can mount a sustained offense. Teun goes for a single leg once too often, landing him flat on his stomach with the pride of Great Britain riding his muscled ass and cinching on a cross face chicken wing. Teun quickly becomes Chris’ plaything. He’s repeatedly dragged up by the hair and then dropped to his knees with a gut busting battering ram of a knee lift.  “You like being on your knees?” The Scot chuckles. Shoulder blocks and knee lifts in the corner leave the Dutchman breathless and quickly approaching helpless.  Chris drags him back to the center of the ring by his hair, Teun crawling on his hands and knees, before snapping his golden thighs around the Dutchman’s ears and prying his arms straight upward, behind his back, until the back of Teun’s hands press together. The pride of Netherland wails, muffled and humiliated between the big Brits quads, but he doesn’t submit. The Scotsman finally drops Teun’s arms and wipes the sweat from his brow before flashing a double-bicep to the roaring crowd of homoerotic wrestling fanatics filling the velodrome. He lets the Dutchman’s head go free, but seconds later Teun is screaming on the mat, Chris’ golden thighs squeezing his ribs as Sir Hoy laces his ankles together and leans back on one elbow, admiring his world class physique. He flexes a bicep, ignoring the Dutchman’s screams of submission. Teun screams his submission. It’s over, but Sir Christopher doesn’t give a royal fuck. “Say you submit, ‘Sir Christopher!'” he barks at the Dutchman. “Say it!” he snaps when Teun doesn’t immediately respond. “I… submit, Sir Christopher…” Teun gasps.  You’d think that was enough humiliation, but no.  The next 5 minutes are a loudspeaker message delivered to his future competitors. Sir Chris can squeeze those tree trunks long and brutally hard. Teun’s limbs flop in agonized desperation as he wails and weeps, even as Sir Chris shoves his hand down his own shorts, grabs his Scottish beef, and wrestles it to a raging erection stretching long and thick toward his hip. The 3 ribs that crack in the Dutchman have him screeching like a wounded animal for only a minute before he passes out from the pain. Then, and only then, Sir Chris relents, rises to his feet, pumping his fists overhead, and giving the Dutchman a contemptuous kick in his damaged rib cage.

Sir Golden Thighs advances to the gold medal match

The crowd roars frightfully as Sir Christopher Hoy flexes for their enjoyment. When he places his hands on the top of his striated, mammoth muscled glutes and flexes them, the stomping in the stands shakes the entire building. Even after Sir Chris retires to the locker room and the medics scoop up the broken Dutchman, the crowd continues to roar insatiably.

Robert Forstemann – 5’8″, 198 lbs., 26 years old, 32″ thighs!

When the German phenom, Robert Forstemann comes padding slowly toward the ring, they are hushed almost in an instant. Walking up to ringside, fans can’t restrain themselves from reaching out and touching his beasts.

Thrill of a lifetime, as a fan gets up close and personal with Forstemann’s thighs

One worshipper is on his knees, begging the German to let him measure them. Robert looks down at him with a sneer, puts his hands on his hips, and then nods. The fan gasps. His eyes flutter. He leans in, his lips pressing against the bulging quads. Robert plants the palm of his left hand across the worshippers face and shoves him away, continuing his trek to the ring. He’s peels off his skin tight lyrca top once in the ring, leaving him wearing only black and yellow square cuts straining to stretch the circumference of his thighs.

Robert’s upper body is nothing to scoff at, either!

The sight of Robert’s naked torso makes the crowd gasp.  Quadzilla is packing beef above the waist, as well!

Big Dawk – 6’1″, 216 lbs., 21 years old

The lucky bastard who clearly has the cards stacked against him in this draw is New Zealand’s own Eddie Dawkins, or, as he insists on being called, Big Dawk.  When Big Dawk climbs into the ring, he stares down at the German phenom from a 5 inch height advantage. Somehow, the term “advantage” seems inappropriate to describe the Kiwi’s position as the match begins. A collar and elbow tie up results in Big Dawk lifted off his feet and thrown backward into the corner turnbuckle several feet away. He charges at a roaring sprint back toward his superhuman opponent, only to be caught low around the waist, lifted off his feet, twisted in mid-air and pounded crashing to his back with the German crouching overtop of him. Dawk momentarily has no oxygen in his lungs as his mouth gapes open. Robert kneels on one knee, straddling his opponent’s neck, and yanks the Kiwi’s head off the mat by his hair, shoving Dawk’s gasping mouth against the German’s crotch.  The crowd is enraptured with the German’s dominance. A scoop up followed by a ring-shaking body slam back to the mat results in Dawk’s lower back arched high off the mat in agony and the crowd clapping.  A whip into the ropes, Dawk sprinting out of control back toward his opponent, and a vicious elbow to the throat leaves the Kiwi flailing on his back, clutching his throat, choking for air, and the crowd clapping even louder.  Robert once again scoops his opponent up in his arms, cleans Big Dawk up to his collarbone, and then  jerks his human barbell straight-armed over head, parading in a slow circuit around the ring to treat the entire Velodrome to the stunning sight of his power. The clapping rises, punctuated by stomps and whistles, then suddenly silences when Robert slams his opponent back to the mat. The crowd is hushed as the big German strolls hands-on-hips leisurely around his opponent, who’s rolled into the fetal position in the center of the ring, completely at his mercy. Fans scream their requests. “Head scissors!!!” “Pile driver!!!”  But the German acknowledges no one but the groaning mass of battered muscle at his feet. He drags the wasted Kiwi up off the mat by his hair, grinding Big Dawk’s handsome face in his swelling, sweaty crotch once again with the Kiwi on his knees. Then up by his ears, Robert muscles the knee-buckling Kiwi to his unsteady feet. He releases Dawk’s ears, and instantly the Kiwi starts to sag back to his knees, but Robert catches him around the waist, locking his bulging arms around Dawk’s waist and lacing his fingers together in the small of the Kiwi’s lower back. Dawk’s height advantage makes the hold look unlikely at first, but the German has done an expert job of quickly softening up his back, and although his legs are clearly his strongest weapon, Robert’s bulging shoulders and biceps are no less world class than the rest of him. He leans back slightly, squeezing the bearhug tightly and rolling Big Dawk up to the balls of his feet. Dawk groans, his head rolling backward. Robert leans back farther, eliciting a shout of agony from his opponent, whose knees instinctively rise to Robert’s hips and squeeze, trying to lift him out of the most painful position and lessen the backbreaking agony. Robert squeezes harder, his face buried in the big man’s sweaty chest, and Dawk wails. Suddenly he swings left and right, over and over, and the Kiwi’s arms flail limply at his sides like a rag doll. The Kiwi lasts another half a minute of torture with the crowd screaming and roaring their encouragement to the German, and then Big Dawk screams, “I give!,” patting frantically at the German’s mountainous shoulder. Robert flings him to the mat and flexes a double bicep to the insane roar of the crowd. Holy fuck! He didn’t even bother really using his monster quads to completely squash Big Dawk!

Robert looks toward the locker room to see what all the commotion is about.

There’s a sudden change in the tenor of the roaring crowd. From the aisle leading to the locker room, there’s almost a desperate pitch that rises from the stands. Robert drops his arms and looks in the direction of the fevered pitch. Sir Christopher Alexander Hoy is jogging slowly down the aisle toward the ring, looking like he’s ready to eat the German phenom for lunch.

Sir Golden Thighs doesn’t wait for the gold medal match to start.

Sir Chris is pumped and ready.

Robert isn’t about to back down from a challenge!

This battle has been brewing for years. In track cycling competition, these competing quadzillas have been clean as a whistle, but it’s been no secret behind the scenes that there’s no love lost between them. Recently when asked about Sir Chris’ popular title as Sir Golden Thighs, Robert laughed, peeled off his pants, flexed his monsters, and sneered, “Then these must be platinum!”  When told about the slight, the Scot promised to “melt that bitch down and sell him for scrap, then!” As they begin to slowly circle the ring, warily keeping their distance at first, the lust pulsing from the stands is palpable. Robert is breathing heavily, his semi-final match just moments behind him. Sir Chris bounces on the balls of his feet, looking decidedly fresher. A quick collar and elbow tie up and Robert is uncharacteristically backed slowly into the corner by the bigger man. Sir Chris sneers down at him, releasing his hold and slapping his face humiliatingly before backing away. Enraged, Robert charges like a bull out of the corner, catching the Scot with his shoulder, lifting him off his feet, and driving him all the way to the opposite corner. The German spears him against the turnbuckle, folding the Scot in half. Grabbing the ropes, he launches his power packed body like a battering ram, using his leg strength to pummel Sir Chris’ lower abdomen with a dozen shoulder blocks as the crowd picks up the count excitedly. When he finally backs cautiously away, Sir Chris falls to his knees, clutching bright red gut. Robert clenches his fists and roars, quickly echoed by the roaring crowd of fans in the stands. When he approaches to continue the offense, the kneeling Brit slams his fist into his balls. Robert’s jaw drops open dumbly. He crumbles to his knees, clutching his testicles. Sir Chris rises to his feet, smiling and nodding to the screaming fans. Spreading his golden thighs in a wide stance, he grabs the back of the young German’s head and crushes Robert’s face into his crotch. The Scot’s cock begins to swell as he pumps his hips, grinding his crotch into the German’s stunned face.  The crowd seems to be turning, beginning to chant, “Sir Chris, Sir Chris!” He nods his acknowledgement to them, but quiets them with one hand signaling for silence. The din almost instantly disappears in anticipation. Shoving the back of Robert’s head downward, he slides the German’s head between his golden thighs and clamps on his gold medal vice around the kid’s ears. No one escapes from those thighs! The roof of the velodrome is nearly blown off as the crowd reacts. Sir Chris flexes his double biceps in answer to the worshiping din of the nearly apoplectic crowd. The German phenom kneels clutching at the Scot’s crushing muscles clamped to the side of his head. Sir Chris milks the moment for several minutes, playing with the crowd, flexing, smiling, winking. Finally, he lifts his forefinger to his lips, signaling for silence, which the obedient crowd responds to in an instant. “Ready to submit?!” Sir Chris shouts at the broad, muscled back kneeling before him. There’s no reply. “I said, ready to submit, you fucking shit!?” Placing the palms of his hands along the outside of his quads, he squeezes that much harder. Robert’s body shakes. His knees rise off the mat and then fall back down as his hands reach around to the back of the thighs capturing him, trying to pry his head free. “Say you submit, ‘Sir Christopher!'” the Scot demands. “Say you submit, Sir Chri…” His words are choked off as the German suddenly pulls his feet beneath him and squats low. With a grunt, Robert presses upward, lifting Sir Chris off his feet, his golden thighs still wrapped like a vice around Robert’s head. The sheer power and pluck of the determined German seems to turn the majority of the crowd back to his side. They cheer for him, pleading with him not to submit. He squats low, his opponent draped across his back, but slowly presses up to stand fully erect. Sir Chris hangs upside down from his opponent’s back, his legs squeezing as hard as they can, but losing position as he slides slowly down his sweaty opponent. Prying at the slick hamstrings clutching at his temples, Robert suddenly pops his head free, and Sir Chris drops in a heap behind him.  Robert is dizzy, still dazed from the brain crushing leg scissors, but Sir Chris is clearly demoralized. No one has ever failed to submit to his leg scissors before! When he climbs back to his knees, he pleads for mercy from the German, whose fierce, fixed gaze makes the Scot’s blood turn to ice. Robert unleashes a brutal attack. He sends Sir Chris corner to corner, splashing down on top of him each time. A whip off the ropes and a knee to the crotch evens the score for the raging German, as Sir Chris flips over entirely in mid-air, crashing to his back and clutching his throbbing crown jewels. As Sir Chris is already nearly out of it, Robert rips the Scottish flag spandex shorts off his body by the seams and throws them into the crowd, causing a near riot at ringside. Dragging the Brit to his knees, he steps his monster quads around Sir Chris’s head and flexes, a tit-for-tat standing head scissors. Sir Chris flails, his screams muffled deep between the mass of muscle locked onto his head. Robert rewards the fan following with an upper body muscle show, flexing his biceps, displaying a massively thick lat spread, pumping out a most muscular. Finally he drops his arms and the crowd again grows hushed in anticipation. The German bends forward, locks his arms around his opponent’s waist, and hoists the former champion to hang upside down, vertically, Sir Chris’ head still locked immovably between the monster quads. Gracefully, the German drops to his knees, spreading his legs and driving the top of his opponent’s head into the mat. Sir Chris bounces and then crumples in a heap, not moving. Robert rolls him to his back, pins his face beneath his crotch, and hooks the Scot’s right knee, folding the big man up and pinning his shoulders to the mat. With his free hand, Robert slaps his palm down as the crowd slowly counts to 3. Robert continues to slap, and the crowd quickly picks up the count to 10. The German continues slapping, and the excitement in the crowd continues to rise as the count reaches 20.  He kneels, his opponent’s face between his legs, and pumps his fist in victory.

Muscles from head to toe!

The German team in the locker room celebrates Robert’s victory by stripping his rock hard ripped torso, led by tag team partner Stefan Nimke (r)!

Team GB is ready for some satisfaction.