Desserts

Desserts

Hey, guys. This here is a quick story I came up with on the fly for a story exchange between a user named Casualpatrolperfection and myself. I refined the content a little from the initial draft that I wrote in our chat room and am now ready to transfer it on to here for others to read. I hope you all enjoy it!

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. One minute, you were cringing back from some douchebag bullies. The next, Devon Capernick, Cap for short, was sitting next to you at the principal's office, while the bullies were being treated at the nurse's office. The Senior towered over you as he smiled reassuringly. The chair creaked under his weight, and you could practically hear the thick wooden arms splintering against his broad frame. 

"It's all good," he assured you. "Everything'll be fine." His face darkened. "And if they come after you again...." You could practically hear the splinters crying in pain as he clenched the edges. "I hate bullies."

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. You're sitting at the jocks' table, surrounded by behemoths of muscle chowing and joking with each other, even wrestling from time to time. Nothing serious enough to get in trouble with the aides, but enough for them to get their messages across. You note how they all keep smirking or grinning, despite the pain or humiliation that might be involved.

 Devon is smiling down at you as he watches his friends and cheers them on. He takes the time to introduce you to everyone on the team, tells them you'll be hanging with them for lunch from now on. You half expected them to want to pummel you. Instead, they grin and welcome you with hearty smacks to the back that almost burst your chest.

 You want to object to the treatment, say you're not worth it. Devon won't hear of it. He won't even let you address him formally.

 "It's Cap, bro." He huffed a deep guffaw of a chuckle. "Just think like you're calling me your captain, all right?"

 It wasn't like you could argue with him, so you did.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your gym teacher stared across at you from his desk. Cap is grinning as he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder from his place next to you.

 "You're sure about this, Devon?"

 "You bet, Coach. Lil'bro's got spark, and he's super smart."

 "I'll have to set it up with the rest of the school, but I don't see why he can't tutor you boys, if you need it." He smiled. "And maybe you can teach him a thing or two, while you're at it."

 "That's the plan." He laughed again.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Hard music thumped over the speakers of the weight room. While the rest of the football team worked on their exercises, you worked with each of them on the bits of homework they didn't understand on shifts.

 Breakthroughs were heralded with, "Oh, now I get it," or, "Dude, that's so fuckin' simple. Why didn't I see that?"

 Their enthusiastic thanks and effusive praises left you feeling warm and happy. Sure, they had a few problems with school work, but they weren't the jerks the stereotype made them out to be. They were almost like a family. It was ... nice, to be able to see that, and experience maybe just a little part of it.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Sweat beaded your brow, and your lungs felt like they were ready to explode. Everything felt so heavy and swollen. Your arms trembled as you struggled to hold them in place. Cap beamed encouragingly at you from above.

 "C'mon, lil'bro. You can do it." His strong hands grasped the bar that hovered dangerously over your chest. Together, you lifted it. He didn't make it easy, but he made it bearable. Cap, ... really was a great guy.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Practice was over, like usual. Since the team had to perform outdoor exercises, you cycled through teammates as they finished a certain number of practice runs. On scrimmages, you watched them scramble and play against each other, hard walls of muscle colliding like savage beasts.

 Now you found yourself surrounded by your friends as Cap wrapped a sweaty arm around your shoulders. You enter the locker room and pass the lockers in favor of the door marked STRATEGY.

 The chairs are soft and form-fitting. You try to decline, but Cap pushes you down into the chair.

 "You helped us with school, so I figure you can help us here, too."

 You couldn't resist his grin, even if you could break out of his grip. Still, the room struck you as oddly equipped for a strategy debriefing. Why make it so comfortable? Why the soundproofing boards? Why stack the chairs with adjustable controls to ensure everyone could see the front?

 Coach gave his usual spiel of the need to pay attention and focus on the video. Then he stepped aside and a familiar whirring sounded. Someone must have been adjusting their chair.

 Images flashed over the screen. The whirring became more pronounced. You felt a little dizzy, sort of like the room was moving. But ... no, not the room. You were. Up and down and side to side and spinning and SIDESTEP! DASH! CATCH! RECEIVE! RUN! TOUCHDOWN!

 "Fuck yeah!" the room screams. You're panting in the rollercoaster, the heady excitement of it all. What … what just...?

 And then you feel a familiar hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. "Just watch, lil'bro." He grins. That same grin. And then that chuckle. The whole room is filled with it.

 And suddenly, you're laughing, too. And it feels ... good. Words like BIG, BUFF, MUSCLE, SWOLE, and GROW, echo over the whirling sea. The churning increases, and you find it harder to focus.

 "Just a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK. Want to be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach. Gonna be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach."

 The words are like a mantra. You hear the familiar husky chuckle, and something inside just ... sort of snaps. Your mouth widens into a grin. Your teeth are bared. You laugh as everything fades into the darkness, and Cap is laughing right beside you. And it's RIGHT.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. The crowd roared around you as you hunched down and called out the secret code every quarterback seemed to know for their teammates to notify the play and run down the clock at the same time. Besides, sometimes, the lugs had to be reminded.

 You take the snap. You spot the opening. The receiver is open! You crank your arm back and throw for all it's worth. The ball hurls like a bullet. You know immediately that he's caught it. He's running. Nobody can touch him. Dodge. Sidestep. Lunge. Dash. TOUCHDOWN!

 You roar with your fellow teammates, and rush up to join your bros at the end zone. You all just scored the game-winning touchdown. Chestbumps, shoulder smacks, dances, everything breaks out in the pandemonium that follows. You turn and see Cap's familiar grin through the face guard of your helmet. He's standing on the sidelines next to coach, cheering you on. Sucked you couldn't play with him in his last season, but at least he came to cheer his lil'bro on. That's what mattered.

 Yeah....

 And you were a good lil'bro.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your thick muscular frame towers as you pose in front of the mirror. Your slab-like pecs glisten with the sweat from your hard-earned victory. You gape at it, almost in awe, but ... that's not quite the right word.

 ...

 Whatever. S'not important. Your compression pants hug tightly to the thick pistons that your legs have become through had work and intense sessions with your teammates. Big bro helped a lot with that. Then your eyes rest on the bulge at your crotch, and your gaping turns to a cocky sneer. Big bro had nothin' to do with that, though.

 You turn to the side and flex one of your pythons. You watch the bicep swell into a thick, powerful globe of solid muscle. You whisper a dull, "Fuck, yeah," at the rush of endorphins and adrenaline from the victory. A low echo reverberates through the locker room as your teammates follow the ritual in front of their own mirrors. Doesn't matter if it's creepy. You're a team. Teammates act as one unit. 'Course you're gonna do the same stuff. Your bleached hair shines in the dim lights. Your new short style helps to accent the edges of your masculine square jaw as glassy eyes stare dully back at you.

They are empty, unthinking. Just as they should be.

 “Just a big, dumb meathead,” you mutter to yourself. You chuckle and flex again. “And proud of it.”

 You grin and turn to the scrawny form of the new freshman water boy. You wrap your arm around him the same way your big bro did for you. "C'mon, lil'bro. Time to listen to Coach." The numbness in your head increases as the room starts to spin and you swagger along to compensate, like a good DUMB JOCK. Because that is what you are now. You weren't sure what you did to deserve this, but as you settle into Cap’s old chair and the STRATEGY room starts to dim, a last thought plays over your head. You’re a BIG DUMB JOCK BRO now. And even if you could, you wouldn't change a thing.

Conversion

“Live the dream. Join the conversion.” Randolph scoffed at the advertisement as a thick muscle man panned out from his shot at the gym. Sweat dripped off his chin as he stared into the camera after finishing a set. Of course, Randolph knew better. It was all staged. How anyone was supposed to actually fall for this obvious ploy was beyond him. Converse in the gym? Really? Those shoes had hardly any arch support. No gym goer in their right mind would actually choose to wear those things willingly to a workout, no matter how well they sold it with a bodybuilder model. He was soon disproven. Within the week, Twitter was aflame with the hashtag, #I_Joined_The_Conversion. Before and after images soon followed within the next month, showing the progress the buyers had made in their fitness. The news was alive with the phenomenon, reporting on just how successful this overnight competitor had become compared to other major brands like Nike, Adidas, and New Balance. When asked their secret, the owners simply said it laid in the quality of the wear. People try the shoes, and they never want to look back. Again, Randolph scoffed. Others might give into the hype. He would not.

Some months later, he sat among his friends at the cafe, drinking some cocoa and reading a new novel. Their little book club’s membership had dwindled over the last half a year. The mysterious movement known as The Conversion had spread far and wide. Even the barista had taken to the movement, investing in a sports counter specifically designed for protein shakes and other health-related beverages, like smoothies. The counter was decorated with bright red letters that boldly proclaimed, I Joined The Conversion. The store’s owner Salvatore seemed to bounce back and forth between the counters. His muscles had swollen to an immense size, and while he still conversed with his less fit customers, he took greater pleasure in conversing with the gym goers that had come for his shakes and smoothies. Even his employees had fallen to the dark side as the numbers of new hires and current employees gradually shifted over to the vascular end. Old friends who used to hold conversations regularly now stared unseeingly when conversation waxed philosophical. Sometimes pecs would bounce. Other times, an arm would flex, accompanied by encouraging hoots and hollers from the changing customer base. Dumbbell napkin holders and other gym-themed decorations had gradually replaced the traditional Italian pieces that once dignified the store. Sal had even gone so far as to invest in televisions to broadcast the most recent events in sports. Randolph rolled his eyes as one of the brutes he had watched pass through the joint so often now planted himself on one of the chairs at his table. “Excuse me. I think you have the wrong table,” he said. A familiar book landed on the surface with a heavy smack. “Pretty sure I’m in the right place. Sorry it’s been so long, guys. I’ve been busy.” The man’s chiseled jaw bulged with his neck. His broad shoulders barely fit into the tank top he wore. Titanic arms rippled and shifted with the slightest twitch. Heavily tanned skin shone under the light as a platinum-blond haircut jutted up from his head in a high-and-tight flat top that further accentuated the angularity of his jaw and chin. His calves and thighs were barely contained by the grey sweat pants that clung to his waist and legs. Randolph furrowed his brow. “Shawn?” he asked. The big man grinned. “The one and only,” he said in a voice that was far deeper than Randolph remembered. “You miss me, boys?” “What the hell happened to you?” one of the others demanded. Shawn shrugged and pointed to his shoes. “I joined the conversion,” he said simply. His shoulders rippled just as his arms had. The same red converse from the commercials now covered the man’s feet, which had clearly gone up a size or two. “And let me tell you, it’s one of the best fucking decisions I ever made.” “Shawn,” Randolph grated warningly. “Oh, lighten up, Randy. You always were a stick in the mud, even before I got big.” He flexed a bicep, then flipped his book open. “Now where are we? I got pretty far in, but I can flip back a few chapters, if you need.” “You read this?” Randolph asked incredulously. “Uh, ... yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a book about a barbarian. Warriors, fighting, showing off that combination of strength and skill in combat; it’s all amazing.” A far-off look came into his eyes as he raised an arm and flexed it absently. “Anything else?” Randolph pressed. “Well, I was fascinated by the unique love triangle. Having to choose between a homosexual relationship or one that would guarantee his line of succession after conquering his clans to achieve proper leadership was a bold choice for the author to include. Depending on the culture, he could have lost everything, if he chose the former and his chiefs found out.” Randolph raised a brow in surprise. “The way things have been changing on your media profiles, I thought you’d just turned into another muscle zombie, like the rest over there. Shawn scowled. “Hey, they’re not zombies. They’re just really focused on their personal fitness.” He jabbed toward the hint of a belly that pushed subtly at Rudolph’s polo with a finger. “You could use a little focus there, yourself.” “Not at the expense of becoming a meathead,” he countered. “At least half the patrons here used to be average Joes. Then they got those stupid shoes, and suddenly it’s goodbye intellectualism and hello brutation.” “Brutation?” Shawn inquired with a half growl. “A brutish mutation,” Randolph clarified. “It’s been spreading like a plague.” Shawn rose slowly to his feet. “Then I guess I should go,” he said coolly. Wouldn’t want to risk giving you my contagion.” He turned deliberately to the counter. “Thanks for the great reception, Randy. You enjoy your session.” He strode to where Sal sat waiting. The man had already whipped up a huge metal cup and passed it to Shawn with a consoling smile. He patted him on the shoulder a few times. Shawn melted into the crowd of overwhelming muscle soon after, chugging his shake as he went. The group didn’t contribute much to the discussion. The others were too distracted staring at the book Shawn had left behind.

Randolph growled as he glared at his computer screen. Message upon message, be it email, PM, instant, or any other blared brazenly in bold flashing letters. You’ve been referred to JOIN THE CONVERSION. Access this link for a special deal. The contents of the accompanying messages ranged from Dude, you’ve got to try this! to Bro, it’s time to convert. Randolph snarled in disgust. Everywhere he looked, this conversion movement had spread. Ads flashed in his eyes whenever he passed over a site. Videos and testimonial clips now appeared on youtube in reviews and spliced between portions of the original ad he’d seen on television. “Just thought I’d try it, you know?” “I guess they’re comfortable?” “I’m pretty much trying these for the money and free shoes.” The camera panned onto the original muscle man. Then it faded to black with a white Six Months Later to indicate the transition. “Best fucking decision I ever made.” Randolph hardly recognized the man talking now. His voice had deepened. His hair had shortened. And hard muscle bulged and rippled with hints of veins showing under the skin. “I’ll never wear another brand again,” the second said effusively. He flexed a burgeoning bicep and grinned. The third one smiled sheepishly at the camera. “I feel pretty stupid for how I was before. I ... guess you could say I’ve seen the light.” He let out a bassoon of a guffaw as his tight pectorals clenched with his chiseled core. “My name is Michael Ortiz--” “Jared Carmel--” “--Aaron Parnell.” “And I’ve been converted,” their voices rang together. The camera transitioned to show all three men working out with the man from the first commercial. Then the screen faded to black with the simple words, JOIN THE CONVERSION. “Join the conversion,” Randolph scoffed. He rolled his eyes and logged off, flicking the middle finger at the screen to vent his frustrations as he got ready for bed.

A heavy clanking in his ears roused Randolph from his slumber. He blinked owlishly. Everything was a blur. The rhythmic clanking continued as his chest rose and fell. A pair of straps brushed gently against the crook between his shoulders and chest. Something was massaging his chest. His eyes rolled in pleasure at the gentle ministration. The brush would ease. His body would tense. The clank would sound. His body would relax under the gentle brush. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He didn’t know what was going on. He just knew he felt good. Too good to care. Too good to wonder. Too good to-- Tense. Clank. Relax. Brush. Too good to think. Suddenly he was lumbering through the indistinct shapes. He could feel the figures brushing against him as he passed, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d just shoulder them aside. A big silver cup was waiting for him on a counter. An indistinct face stared back. He knocked back the cup and licked his lips. He turned. He lumbered back. A hand pulled him aside to stare at a mirror. Dull gray eyes stared back. A thick chiseled jaw slackened at the sight of the dark green tank top clinging to his torso. A pair birch-pattern shorts clung to his glutes and thighs. He eyed the veins in astonishment and raised his arms slowly into a flex as he watched them wriggle under the skin. A dark beard covered his cheeks, jaw, and lips. It had been carefully groomed for a rugged hard-cut look. Last, but not least, a black snapback cap had been turned around on his head, allowing just a hint of his hair to puff through the gap that now sat in front. He stared at the mirror a few seconds longer, then looked down to see a familiar pair of dark red converse shoes. It was small at first, a little chuff of air; just enough to cause the shirt to brush ever so gently against his shoulders and pectorals. Then the chuff became a puff, the puff a pant, the pant a guffaw, and the guffaw a full-throated laugh. His core tightened as the air rang with the deep, dull staccato. “Huhuhuhuhuh....”

Randolph started awake in a cold sweat. His shirt clung to his skin and pulled uncomfortably as he stared at the screen that had been logged off. “The hell was that...?” he murmured to himself. He rubbed his eyes and peered back at the screen. He didn’t recall falling asleep at the monitor, but ... maybe he had? ... Why was he staring at a bunch of muscle men? The word AFTER stood out boldly at the top of the screen. “What the...?” He tried another tab. Facebook stared at him. His latest status update left him feeling cold. I joined the conversion. He popped into twitter. The same haunting words stared back at him, hashtags and all. Telegram, Discord, Skype, Steam. Everywhere, the haunting sentence blared back at him. “But ... but I....” And then he became aware of the pressure on his feet. Something was pushing tightly against his socks, clinging to the top of the arch in his feet, where the tarsal bones resided. He rose quickly, toppling the rolling chair in his haste to look down and behold.... “No,” he rasped. His heart rate quickened. His breathing became heavy. There were the shoes. He suddenly felt lightheaded. The room began to spin. The only saving grace came in the form of his phone buzzing in the background. A text appeared under the image of a familiar smirking form flexing his bicep for Randolph to see. Shawn, he thought. Heat flushed his cheeks as he felt a tingling first in his feet, then his crotch as his mouth went dry. Welcome to the Conversion, Randy. Can’t wait to see you at the gym, bro. The phone dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk, saved only by the protective casing Randolph had bothered to install. He strode to the middle of the room, dropped to his knees, and immediately began to perform a series of pushups. His eyes stared blankly ahead as a sheen of sweat began to form on his brow. “Time to convert,” he said in a dull monotone.

You’ve heard of the magic red boots that forced their wearer to dance. Well, bro, these here are magic sneaks that force a bro to LIFT! Think you’re progressing now? Just wait till that curse settles in. You won’t be able to think of anything else. ... But bro, seriously, why would you want to? Welcome to your new home, bro.

Losing Self

Look at the watch, the watch that is ticking, ticking down, down into the ages, down the corridors of time. Down. Down. Counting down.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The voice plays over the speakers as I lay on my bed, staring up at the massive mirror mounted to the ceiling overhead. It is a familiar voice, albeit a little higher range than I remember.

Deeper and deeper.

I’m clutching my shirt, keeping my watch in plain sight. My pupils are shrinking. I can see them as I watch the watch. That means it won’t be long now. Maybe a few seconds, maybe a few minutes. They’ll expand soon enough.

Tick ... Tock ....

The subtle click of my own watch’s hands seem magnified as I listen. Of course, it’s just the recording, but my unconscious mind doesn’t know that. I even went so far as to magnify the sound of the watch hand to ensure it was exactly the same.

Counting down the seconds. Counting down the moments. Counting down to that deep, deep sleep.

Tick ... Tock ... Tick ... Tock....

Whoa. That was a rush. Forgot how good this felt. I can see my lips twitching into a hint of a smile.

The sleep that lets you change. The sleep that lets you listen to my voice, listen as it whispers and fixes and repairs. You remember, don’t you? You remember what we talked about last time.

Oh, yes....

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. That little click sounds so much like a hammer, doesn’t it? The hammer of my voice, striking the chisel, the chisel that chips the stone, the stone that gives way so effortlessly under the hands of a master crafter....

Master ... crafter....

You are that stone.

I am the stone.

I am the master crafter.

Yes....

Time to sculpt, my little blockhead.

I am ready to be sculpted, Master Crafter....

Last time, we agreed you would look better with some stubble, and would maybe grow a proper beard to complement your features. Have you done this?

Yes, Master Crafter....

Good. That is good. You have modified your diet. You have changed the clothing you wear. Now is the time to focus, to focus on my voice, to focus on the instructions I am to give you next.

Focus....

It is time to move on to the next phase. Remember, you asked for this. You wished me to change you, to mold you, to remake you. That is my purpose as the master crafter. It is your purpose to accept my changes.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Now that you are trim, it is time to get fit. You will go the gym and work out three days a week to start. You will seek assistance from a trainer if the need arises. You will push to grow stronger, grow bigger, grow buffer.

Yes.

And the more progress you make, the more you will become entranced by the gym. You will want to spend more time there. You will want to continue to make progress, continue to grow. And the more you grow, the more time you spend there, the slower your thinking will become. Slower and slower, dimmer and dimmer, dumber and dumber....

Dumber....

The only exceptions to this part of your change will apply to the gym, fitness, anatomy, and other masculine things of the musclehead stereotype, including exercises, diet, plans, sports, weights, manual labor, and other affiliated items.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Your body will react positively. Your muscles will expand quickly with mass and strength. Your manhood will increase in size with the rest of you. Your voice will continue to deepen, because of the growth you will experience. And it will all feel so very good, so good to let these things happen, to make them happen, because you are being molded, sculpted by my voice, by my hammer, by me, your master crafter.

Yes.

Sculpted into a true meathead in every sense of the word.

Yes!

Good blockhead. You will not remember our conversation, only that we had success in this session. You will follow the instructions I have given you, despite not remembering them. And as always, you will have found great pleasure in our sessions. You will become a musclehead. You will become a meathead. You will become.

I will become....

Good boy. Now, it’s time to wake up. Remember, blockhead. The clock is ticking. Time to get to work.

...

...

...

Wake up, blockhead.

...

Whoa. That was ... wow. I ... I really outdid myself, didn’t I? I really don’t remember it. Haha!

Yes!

 Complete success! Can’t wait to upload this one online! ... Hmm. And maybe start searching for a gym, while I’m at it....

Brad sighed as he drank from his cup and approached the mirror in his hotel room. The summer fitness program had promised results. And he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth. He hardly even recognized himself anymore. That green tea really did wonders. The pounds melted away, yielding solid, hard muscle that practically exploded under the carefully controlled diet and exercise regimen his coach had provided for himself and his fellow classmates. He could actually see his cheekbones. His traps formed small hills that rolled up off his shoulders and merged into his neck. A well-developed six pack had taken shape over his abdominals as his muscles grew to become chiseled and well-defined. The barest foundation for two more had begun to show just below his navel. His briefs clung in all the right places now, and he felt comfortable standing practically naked. “Lookin’ good, bro,” his reflection complimented as he took another sip of the drink. Brad smiled. The reflection smiled with him. “Thanks.” It had taken a while to get used to the idea of using hypnosis as part of his regimen, and even longer to get used to having regular conversations with himself afterwards. He couldn’t even remember going under the first time. It was weird talking with himself in the mirror next to everyone else. Just a bunch of one-sided conversations. One plus side, though: No need to worry about rude social circles trying to kick you out. Everyone just knew to sort of respect each other’s boundaries. If they wanted to share their talks, they would. Otherwise, it was just cool to relax and listen to the tips and compliments coach and the reflection provided. It was ... kinda nice, actually. Sure, the persona his reflection had taken didn’t exactly reflect its owner, no pun intended, but he wasn’t rude or anything. Honestly, the way things had progressed, Brad’s other self had become a valued companion. A lot of his classmates had gone sort of quiet. They’d exchange a few greetings, the basics social ethics required. The rest was mostly grunts and body language. They’d pose and flex in front of the mirrors after getting a good pump on and then chuckle, like they’d just heard some incredible joke. Sometimes they let him join them, but he didn’t really feel part of the group. The flexing was fun, but kind of boring in a sense. “Bro, not cool,” the reflection chided. That’s right, it knew what he was thinking. After all, it was a mental projection from his own head. He sighed. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t like the new shape of my ... our body, I suppose. I just don’t feel so excited about flexing as everyone else does, you know? They all light up at the chance to show off. Me? I don’t feel like that.” “Do you want to?” Brad took another sip. A pleasurable warmth spread out through his chest and stomach as the brew passed through his system. “Honestly? I don’t know. That whole cocky alpha shit is part of the reason I joined this program in the first place. I was tired of dealing with people looking down on me. You know that.” The reflection nodded. “At the same time, I can understand a little about their thought processes now, why they execute some of their behaviors. I mean, look at us!” He raised his free arm and clenched his hand into a fist to rouse the sleeping bicep. “Every time I flex, I feel ... I don’t know, awed? Happy? I can’t really put it into words. It’s just ... different.” He shrugged his shoulders and watched his trapezius muscles roll. “And I can’t take my eyes off of me. At least, not without a little regret.” “You’re overthinking it, bro. You’re turning into a sexy masculine beast. Nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.” He smirked. “Maybe....” “No maybes about it, bro. Remember how you feel when you’re pumping those weights at the gym?” Brad fought hard to suppress the reflexive shudder as a tingle of pleasure washed over him and goosebumps raised on his skin. “See? There’s your problem. You’re not willing to let go. You don’t want to let yourself enjoy this. All the others, they are. So what’s going on? What are you so ashamed of? It’s just us, bro. Just the two of us. Tell me.” “... You already know.” “No shit, Sherlock. But I want you to say it. Gotta confront the problem, if you wanna beat it. S’what you did when you came here, wasn’t it? You put in the work, followed the program, and look at you! Now you’re stuck on a plateau. Only way you’re gonna break through it is if you pull a Nike and just do it. Now tell me.” Brad sighed. “I don’t want to lose who I am,” he finally admitted. “Things have been ... changing for me. It’s been subtle, but I’ve noticed. I think more about diets and exercise plans than I do about the news. I flip on the TV before bed and instead of Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, I want to check out ESPN or Ninja Warrior.” This time, he didn’t suppress the shudder. “I close my eyes and I keep seeing you--me--us flexing. I hear the others, and listening to them talk, their grunts, their growls, I want to sound like that. I want to pitch my voice deeper. I want my voice to be husky and bovid. I want to laugh at how much I’ve accomplished until I don’t even have to think about it. It just ... comes in that stupid guffaw.” He glanced over to the desk, where a heavy duty laptop and noise-cancelling headphones sat next to a pair of wireless earbuds and a digital i-watch knockoff. “And the computer, Coach’s files, the screensaver.” His hand gave an involuntary twitch as he half-reached for them. His body swayed, but then he pulled himself away and stared back at the reflection. “I ... I could spend hours on those things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I ... I like not having to think, just ... just being there in the moment, listening, following through....” “Following Coach’s play,” the reflection said. “Just doing.” Brad looked helplessly at his reflection. “Can’t I just be both?” “You and I both know the answer to that one.” “... Yeah.” “So, you gonna say it?” Brad sighed in defeat. “All right, all right.” He took another deep breath, then let out a low, “Nah, bro.” He shuddered again. “See? It wasn’t that bad.” Brad shook his head. “I don’t want to be an asshole.” “It’s part of the package, bro. But you control when you are. Don’t gotta be one all the time, after all. Just save it for when you’re shittin’ around with your bros. You know what we call that?” Brad nodded. “Being a dumbass,” both intoned together. “That’s the price you pay for all that testosterone swelling you up, bro.” “I am getting kinda hung, aren’t I?” He chuckled and his cheeks flushed. “You know what you wanna say,” his reflection chided playfully. “Just ... just give me a minute, okay?” He downed the rest of his mug in one go to brace himself. “Okay.” He sighed, then put on a smirk. “Damn, bro. I look fucking hot.” A surge of pleasure shot through him. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah, bro,” his reflection said approvingly. “Fuck yeah....” “Feelin’ better now, bro?” Brad let out a low moan. His eyes glazed over as he looked into his reflection. “Y-yeah. “Think you’re ready to lift with your bros?” “Uh, ... yeah.” He flexed a bicep and grinned. “Yeah, I think so.” “Good. Now I’ve got one more suggestion for you before you go.” “Lay it on me, bro.” “Lose the glasses.” Brad blinked in surprise and stared for a good minute or so in befuddled silence. “The fuck’m I wearing those for?” He grunted as he pulled them off his face and looked back at his reflection again. Everything in the room was crisp and clear. “Much better,” they intoned together. “You look like a real musclehead now.” “Huhuhuh. Shut up. M’not a musclehead yet.” He turned from the mirror to the dresser, where his new gym uniform sat waiting to be worn. Somewhere behind the raucus guffaw that was his other self’s response, a tiny voice whispered, “But you will be....”

Nerd turned Jock

“Don’t look me in the eyes! Please. I don’t ... I don’t want to ... want ... I ... have to ... no....” “Are you okay?” You approach the man as he stumbles back. His hands are resting easily behind his back, his powerful frame tensing with his titanic exertion. His torso is thick and well carved with powerful muscle. A chiseled six pack sits under two slab-like pectorals. The moment you touch his arm in concern, he strikes. Suddenly, your wrist is seized in an iron grip and you feel yourself being pulled against that torso to be held in a crushing embrace as he stares down at you with ... what the...? You see no pupils, only two sets of spirals, constantly spinning deeper and deeper. “Unclaimed target identified. Initiating recruitment protocols.” You’re suddenly starting to feel very warm as the spirals continue to swirl. You pant as sweat begins to form on your brow, chest and stomach. The man’s torso burns hotter and hotter against you as he continues to glare you down. “This gym is for muscleheads only, by order of Coach. You will comply to Coach’s will. It is good to comply with Coach’s will. It is good to conform to Coach’s will. Conforming is complying. Complying is obeying. Obeying is pleasure.” The spirals continued to spin and the behemoth of a man narrates in a low, dull monotone that gradually lulls you as he runs through his script and you watch on helplessly. By now, your shirt is thoroughly coated in sweat and it clings to your body like a second skin. You feel the tension of his biceps pressing against your triceps to pin you against his torso. His muscular torso. Such ... beautiful ... muscles.... “You cannot look away. But that is all right. There is no need to look away. Because muscle is good. Coach is good. Coach helps us grow muscle. We must obey to grow muscle. We must conform to grow muscle. Muscle must think for us. Muscle must act for us. Muscleheads do not think. You will not think.” But ,... you.... “Thoughts are slowing now. Slowing as you go deeper, deeper into my eyes. Deeper into the spirals. Deeper into trance. Deeper and slower. Deeper and slower... Slower and dumber....” That’s ... that’s not... uh.... that’s....  You blink, and suddenly he’s jumped tracks. How long has it been? Does it ... matter? You ... you should listen. Yes. Listen. “Muscle is meat. Your meat must grow. Your muscles must grow. Grow to conform. Grow to obey. Grow to be a musclehead, because Muscleheads obey Coach, and Muscleheads are dumb. And you are dumb, because you cannot think. So slow, so dull, so deep in trance as all your thoughts drain into the spiral, into your muscles, into your meat.” MEAT. You groan as you feel the heat build yet again. Your shirt grows tighter still and your legs part as you feel a greater mass and heft swelling between them. You heave deep breaths as your pectorals and shoulders take on more definition. Your jaw thickens as the fat recedes to reveal a powerful masculine square. A loud rip sounds as you continue to follow those eyes. You don’t even notice the fact you are nearly level with them now. You cannot marvel at the sudden surge of growth or the cool air that dances over your sweaty torso, carving new furlows that rapidly develop into well defined valleys along your abdominals. “Our goal, our life, our purpose is to be mindless muscleheads for Coach. You will be a mindless musclehead for coach.” The grip around you feels so tight now. It’s like he’s straining to contain you. But ... that’s not right ... is it? You breathe heavily as a dull tingle spreads down your thighs and through your arms, causing them to inflate and swell to match your captor. ... No, not captor. Trainer. He is your trainer and recruiter. You blink again. Cold air brushes over your recently trimmed hair. You feel new baggy sweatpants that you ... had you been wearing them before? ... Coach says wear them. You must wear them. It is not for you to question when or how. Chest brushes chest. Torso touches torso. Bulge presses bulge. Your voice has deepened with your thickening neck. It matches your trainer. You feel your mouth moving in time with his. You hear your twin stereo urging to Listen, grow, obey. And then he stops. He releases you. He backs away. You blink. You turn. You stare with your legs parted and your vascular arms behind in a parade rest. Your body is massive, each curve and ridge a testament to bodybuilding, to muscle, to your meat. “To coach....” you whisper. “What is your purpose?” your trainer asks. You don’t miss a beat. “To be a perfect obedient musclehead for Coach. I am a good musclehead. I obey.” You shudder as you peer into your own new and improved swirling eyes. You have inherited the spiral, the constant drain designed to ensure you never think too much again. Every time you look in a mirror, every time you pass a reflective surface, those eyes will pull you back. those eyes will keep you a proper mindless musclehead. You feel a heavy hand on your shoulder as your new musclehead brother turns you around. “Come on. Coach says it’s time to work out.” You are a musclehead. You obey. Time to grow some meat.