Trance - Tumblr Posts - Page 3

The Itch: Part 1

Sorry, what were you saying? I’ve been ... kinda absentminded lately. Yeah, I’m doing okay. Just been making a few changes is all. New diet, a few exercises here and there to help tone up. It’s been kinda nice. Sure, it aches a little at first, but it’s been worth it in the long run.

Yeah, I noticed the new patch. Looks kinda good, doesn’t it? I always used to have trouble growing chest hair. Now that I’m getting in some good fitness, it’s like I sprayed super grow or something down there. They just keep sprouting. It kinda itches, but it feels good to scratch.

Scratch ... yeah. Mmm. That brushing, that scruff. Feels ... so nice. Yes. I enjoy scratching it. I feel pleasure, just as you have said. The pleasure increases the bigger I get.

Cannot stop scratching. It ... makes me lightheaded. Yes. More pleasure. The scratch will make me work. The scratch will feel better as I work out. The more I lift, the more I build, the more my pectorals will brush and scratch.

I will build. I will grow. I will scratch.

Yes. Grow more hairs. Bigger pecs mean thicker hairs. Thicker hairs mean louder scratch. Louder scratch means bigger pleasure. I will repeat. I will seek pleasure. I will scratch.

Yes. I will report to the gym, after waking. I will build my body. The scratch demands it. The scratch drives me. Will grow. Will scratch. The itch will push. The itch will demand. I will listen. LIsten to demands. Listen to your demand, your itch, your voice...

I understand.

...

I obey....

The Itch: Part Two

Bro, I just ... can’t stop lifting, you know? It feels too good. So what if I’m a little top heavy? Just look how jacked I am! The bros offered me this old lifting belt, too. S’funny. When I told ‘em you showed me the gym, they all just sort of grinned and welcomed me in.

Dude, they know about the itch! S’fuckin’ awesome! They don’t care if I trail off on a sentence or whatever. Gotta scratch the itch, ya know? They said s’better to just go with it, so I do. Bro, I never felt better in my whole life! I’m high as a kite, but it’s all natural. Fucking rocks! Huhuhuh, yeah. People been talkin’ bout me behind my back, but I don’t care. I’m swoll. Bros say I’ll be ready to compete soon. Mmm ... feels so good when I pose in front of a mirror. Jamming my pecs together, letting that scratch grind so slow.

Fuuuuuuuck. Uhhhh ... wut were we talkin’ about again?

Well, yeah. Course I’m dumb. Why would I want to think about all that other stuff when I’ve got weights to lift and an itch to scratch?

What? You want me to pose for you? Bro, why didn’t you say so?

Huhuhuh ... ready to learn my routine....

Warning: This story follows a hypnotic script. If you are susceptible to hypnosis, please do not engage in this story until you are in a situation where falling into trance will not be harmful. You have been warned. Read at your own Risk.

Static

Hey there. Yeah, I’m talking to you. No need to be shy. I don’t bite, you know. I just couldn’t help but notice you’ve been watching me. Don’t try to deny it. I don’t mind. A lot of people watch me, after all. A guy gets used to it when he gets this big.

Mmm ... and I do love being big. It takes a lot of work, but it’s worth it in the end.

But you know what I love even more than being big, little man? Huhuh. I love making other people big. You see that guy over there benching three hundred? I trained him. He was smaller than you are when he first came here. Now he’s a real Goliath. I like to call him moose from time to time. It fits, wouldn’t you say? Every one of them has a name. Rhino, Burro, Horse. Every one of them is tailored to the individual. Gotta fit it just right, you know what I mean?

It’s kinda like my shirt. You see how it hugs so tightly to my muscles, really accentuates my figure. Their names do the same for them, help them focus, help them improve.

Mmm. You know, this is actually my favorite shirt. I love the way I can just flex my muscles and suddenly, it swells with me. The gray texturing is nice, too. It reminds me of static. You know, the kind you see wavering on a TV screen. Any time I want to focus on my workouts, I just look down, and bam. There it is. It’s sort of a chain reaction, ya know? Just like the TV. Everything just sort of stops broadcasting, and my arms jump up and down with the static. It’s so easy to just follow along. Lift and follow. Watch and follow. Listen and follow. Follow...

Follow...

You’re pretty good at following, aren’t you?

Following my movements, following each flex, following as my shirt expands and contracts in that endless cycle of jumping static.

Don’t look away now. Follow it. It’s all right. I enjoy a good watcher like you. And there’s plenty to watch, isn’t there? Go ahead. Follow my movements. Follow my breathing. Follow the bouncing rise and fall. Let it fill you. Let it move you. Move you to breathe in time as you follow, as you watch, as you listen.

Oh, don’t worry. You don’t need to focus on me. After all, you don’t pay attention to the sound static makes, do you? No, that sound just fades into the background. You don’t notice it, but you hear it all the same. You hear it, and you listen as you follow, follow my voice, follow my instructions, even if you don’t remember them.

Following deeper and deeper as you get closer to the screen. Because you have to watch. You have to follow. Follow the bouncing pecs, the jumping screen. Jumping with the static. Following the static. Listening to the static.

...

Obeying the static.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Relax.

Don’t think.

Follow the static.

Slipping deeper now.

Follow the static.

The more you follow, the deeper you fall.

Deeper into the screen. Deeper into the static. Deeper into that happy empty bliss that is slowly surrounding you, just like the static.

Follow the static.

Are you following the static?

...

Good boy.

The more you follow, the deeper you go. The deeper you go, the more you follow. Follow the static.

Follow my static.

...

Follow me.

My voice is the static. My voice is the thing you must follow. Follow and obey.

...

Say it now, little man. You follow the static. You obey the static. You obey my voice.

You obey me.

Good boy. Now listen. Listen, and obey. Follow and obey.

You are going to be a musclehead. Every day and every way, more and more, you will become a musclehead. You will work out at the gym. You will follow my suggestions to you. You will lift weights. You will eat healthily. The gym will become more and more like home as muscle slowly consumes you, consumes your thoughts, consumes you with the static, my static. 

My musclehead.

I think I’ll call you Bull. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, musclehead? I’ll make you a real muscle bull.

Just let the static fill your head piece by piece, bit by bit. Over time, it’ll whisper all on its own as you internalize what I have to say, because my voice is the static. And you obey the static.

You obey me.

That’s a good little runt. When I say the words WAKE UP, you will return to wakefulness, ready to execute your desire, the desire to be a musclehead, like me. You will lift weights. You will work out. You will train. And the more muscle you gain, the dumber you’ll be. You’ll still function in society, but things will be ... simpler outside important matters. Just like a switch flicking on. Just like the remote clicking on the television screen, the screen that is filled with static. Just sports, muscle, and weights in that muscle head of yours.

...

Good boy. When I say the phrase: Static is calling, you will fall into the same state of mind as you are now, ready to listen to the static. Ready to follow the static. Ready to obey the static.

Ready to OBEY.

Now, when you awaken, you will have a strong desire to work out. The musclehead in you will grow stronger the longer you do. You will pace yourself according to what your body can manage, and not push yourself to the point of self-harm or injury as you change.

Good little musclehead.

Now come on. It’s time to WAKE UP, Bull. The gym is waiting.

If you enjoyed this, please like and reblog. Thank you for reading. I hope it will prove motivating, helpful, and pleasurable to you growing muscleheads out there. ~Omni

Square

“You’re such a fucking square, man. Fuck off.”

Jared had heard it all before. That was one of many insults that had haunted him over the years.

“So, you wish to have more confidence in yourself, and possibly to change your image, to prove these tormentors and detractors wrong?” the therapist asked.

“Basically. Like I said, I’m tired of being looked down on.”

“I see.” The therapist tented his fingers as he leaned forward and peered through his glasses at the young student. “You realize this kind of change will require diligence and endurance, yes? Not just mental, but physical. There will likely be opposition to the changes you intend to make. You may be harassed or worse.”

Jared shook his head. His hazel eyes darkened with the weight of his frustrations. The surface became glassy as tears began to form. He hastily blinked them away. “It couldn’t be worse than what I’m facing now.”

“And if it is?”

“Then I’ll make them sorry they ever hurt me in the first place.”

“That’s very bold. Are you saying you intend to put them through some sort of torture session, then?”

“Like I said, Doctor. Whatever it takes.”

“Then let me be blunt. Will you actively seek revenge against them, should I help you?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Jared shrugged. “On the one side, I really want to make them hurt for what they’ve done. On the other, though, I know I’d pretty much be just like them, if I did that.”

“You realize this drastic of a change may require a complete override of your current personality, correct?”

“Do I look like I’m flinching?”

“I just want to make sure, Mister Rogers. This isn’t the kind of thing you step into lightly, and it requires commitment and trust for even a chance to work. If you don’t really want this, then I won’t be able to help you.”

“I want it.”

The therapist stared intently at the would-be-patient. He maintained that quiet gaze for a full minute.

Jared met that gaze and never flinched.

Finally, the doctor reached into a drawer and withdrew a document and a pen. “Sign this. It’s an official release form. In layman’s terms, it’s saying you chose this path of your own free will and that you won’t hold me responsible for any damages, losses, etc. that might come to pass as a result of our sessions. The mind can be a delicate place, and one does not perform surgery on it lightly. For the sake of my personal protection, you will also be agreeing to be monitored while meeting in my office and to report in on a regular basis via video calls to ensure that you are moving forward and not experiencing any adverse side effects.” He held the pen back just as Jared was about to seize it. “I must advice you, Mister Rogers, that I expect complete honesty from you. If something starts to go wrong, you must say so. Dizzy spells, blacking out, etc. must be reported, so that we can make sure to modify your, for lack of a better word, curriculum.”

Jared snatched the pen. “I will. I promise.”

“Very well then, Mister Rogers. Sign the papers, and let’s begin.”

Jared breathed slowly as he laid back against the leather couch, following the instructions of his therapist’s voice.

“And in, and out. And up, and down. Breathing, breathing deeper and deeper as you gradually begin to relax on my couch, relax as we breathe together, deeper. Deeper....

Jared wasn’t sure how long the session lasted. All he knew was that he was bored. He didn’t feel sleepy. He didn’t drift off. All he did was breathe and listen. Finally, he rose up to stare his therapist in the face.

“Now, I’m going to see about setting up a proper set of hypnosis files for you, Jared. However, before we leave today, there’s one last thing I wish to tell you.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Being a square doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.”

“Doctor--.”

“Ah-ah-ah. Hear me out.” He raised a diagram. “You’ll note that the square is what is known as a perfect shape. It is also known as a parallelogram. Perfectly formed, perfectly symmetrical. Its sides continue to face each other, regardless of how you turn or twist it, and they remain perfect, exactly the same. Back and forth, side to side, and left to right, spinning, spinning like this paper, a square within a square within a square as you blink, like a photograph. One square. Blink. Two squares. Blink. Four. Blink. Eight....

Jared panted as he finished the last set for his workout and shrugged to release the tension in his aching muscles. Weeks had passed, and what once felt painful now left the man with a pleasurable buzz that bordered on sexual. He quickly snatched a protein shake and guzzled it down, then let out a titanic belch.

“Nice one, Jare,” he chuckled. Then he stomped his heavy legs over to his computer and booted up the system. He inserted the CD the therapist had prepared, then smiled as a screen popped up and a large cube appeared in the screen. Dim flickers passed over the monitor as he plugged in his headphones and listened to the familiar voice.

“Hello, Jared. It’s time for the square to sharpen.”

The world shut down as Jared gaped at the screen. The polyhedron pulsed, danced as a subtle spiral began to pulse into existence. “Ready to grid,” he said dully.

“Let us review. What is a square?”

“A perfect shape.”

“And you are a square.”

“Yes.”

“So you must be in perfect shape, too.”

“Yes...”

“Square jaw. Square head. Square pecs. Square and symmetrical, because you are parallel, parallel to your peers. Squares lead to cubes. Cubes are called blocks. Head more like a cube, more like a block. A blockhead is square. Square is symmetry. Symmetry in muscle. Muscle in your head, your block head. Blocking old thoughts, blocking old habits. Blocking, forgetting, letting go, because you are a blockhead, you are a square. A square is a blockhead. A blockhead is a square. And a square is a perfect shape. You are becoming more and more that perfect shape, that perfect square, that perfect blockhead.

“You are becoming a blockhead, a blockhead who loves muscle. Muscle that fills your blockhead. Muscle that fills your head. Musclehead. Musclehead. Musclehead. Blockhead is musclehead. Musclehead is meathead. Meathead is symmetrical, perfectly symmetrical, like the square, like the block, like your head as you grow and transform....”

“I am a blockhead.... I am a square.... Becoming blockhead... Becoming square....”

“Square shoulders. Square abs. Square chin. Square jaw. Square. Square. Square.... So proud to be a square, because that is what you are....”

Jared strode through the campus quad. The sun shone down on his bare torso as he strode confidently in his shorts. The sun glistened off his toned frame. His body had filled out with taut muscle, and his hair had been styled with a potent hair wax.

“Yo, Square, ‘Sup, man? Wanna play some ball?”

Jared looked at the group of young men gathered in the field beyond. Sweat glistened off their toned abs. hair stuck to their faces as each looked hungrily, eagerly at the former nerd.

Jared stared in utter confusion at them. “I am a perfect Square. I am perfectly symmetrical. You are not. Why should I spend time with those who are not a perfect square?” He flexed his muscles, then fished out a wrinkled card from his pocket. “If you wish to be perfect, contact this number. He will help you to be a perfect square, like me.” His dull eyes flashed as he clasped the paper into the young man’s hand. “It is good to be a perfect square. It is good to be like me. Call this number. He will help you be square. You will call him.”

“Get the fuck away from me, freak!” the man tore arm away from Jared, but only barely. He hurried back to the team and resumed the practice, but not before pocketing the card in his haste.

Later that night, a certain therapist sat drinking tea and reviewing a book on hypnotism in his study, when his phone went off. He pulled it to his ear, pressed the receive button, and listened.

Silence greeted him, save for a raspy breathing in the background.

“Yes?” he asked. He heard the sound of a heavy swallow, the smack of a dry tongue trying to bring moisture into a mouth.

“I, uh ... I heard you could help me get bigger.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The Square referred me.”

The therapist smiled. It appeared the hypnotic training he’d given his pupil was a complete success. Square had managed to snare a subject and plant a post-hypnotic suggestion. What a marvel. The smile widened into a smirk. “Yes, why don’t we talk about that?”

Caution: This short story portrays a hypnotic trainer guiding his subject deeper into trance. It may induce trance in some readers. If you are driving or operating heavy machinery, please do not risk reading this story. You have been warned.

Also, please leave comments, reblog, and like, if you enjoyed this. Thank you!

Dumb Down Pulldown

That’s right, Grunt. Keep pulling. Keep grunting. The lower you get on those numbers, the better you feel, falling deeper into trance, deeper into pleasure, pleasure at working out, pleasure at lifting, lifting to grow, growing stronger, stronger in body, your muscular body, muscle filling your body, growing with every pump, spreading with every pump. Spreading, like my voice through your head. Spreading to increase your discipline, to increase control, my control.

You feel it now, don’t you kid? I can tell you do. That pleasure, that desire. The desire to keep listening to my voice, to pull down on that bar over and over, getting lower, getting deeper with every set as you count down those notches.

Weights go higher, bar goes lower. Voice grows stronger, thoughts get slower. Slower with every pump, every rep, dropping deeper and deeper, lower and lower, slower and slower.

So low. So slow. Slower as your body takes control. Slower as you feel the strain on your muscles driving away all other thoughts. Slower is dumber, Grunt. But that’s okay. You like dumber, don’t you? It feels so good to descend into that empty place where your mind is so calm, so dull. Dull, like these weights. Dim, like that black cable moving up and down, up an down as you pump, as you listen, as you fall deeper and deeper into my voice. It’s funny, isn’t it, just letting it all go as you listen, as you pump, as you pull yourself deeper and deeper.

That’s right, laugh, Grunt. Let it out. You remember that lesson, don’t you? Controlled breathing, measured, confident, just like your sets, just like your pulldowns. Pulling down those barriers, pulling down those walls of resistance as you welcome me in, welcome my voice to guide you, guide you down, down into bliss, the ignorant bliss that comes from a life a pure muscle.

Brain becoming brawn, smarts becoming small, smaller and smaller as you grow your meat, grow that thick, dull space in your head, clearing it so my voice can echo within, echo and rebound, whispering, repeating, repeating. Repeating my mantra, my words, my will. So empty, so clear, always there, always repeating, reinforcing as you listen, as you obey, because my voice is my will, my will is your will while I train you. You trust my voice. You trust my will. So it doesn’t matter whether it’s my voice or yours, because they are one and the same.

This is the mantra. This is my will. This is what you will repeat:

“I am a dumb musclehead. My place is in the gym. Fitness is my life. The bigger I grow, the dumber I become. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow into a muscle bull. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow. My place is in the gym with my fellow muscle bulls. I will follow the herd. I will obey.”

Repeat.

...

Good muscle bull. I must check on the rest of the herd. Repeat your mantra. Should you break out of trance, you will recall none of what I said, but it will whisper all the same inside of you, driving you forward, driving you to work out, like a good muscle bull.

Now get at it, stud. We have prizes to win.

Andrea presti

A little dark, but I wanted to show the other side of hypnosis in this story. Much like any other tool, it can be used to help or to harm. There are those who will take advantage of the trust you put in them to control you through trance. The infamous Trey was and still is such a one.

Enjoy the story, if you will, but please also let it stand as a stark reminder. Hypnosis is not a joke. It’s not just a parlor trick. It can be dangerous, if abused, and can (and does) lead a person to eventually perform acts that they would at first have deemed abominable, when given enough time and coaxing. That is what I was trying to portray here in this tale. Synopsis and story are below.

Alejandro wanted to get fit for his new year’s resolution, but didn’t think he could find the motivation to do it and stick to it alone. An old childhood friend suggests a hypnotist to help him get into the spirit of his workout.

Over half a year later, Alejandro is experiencing a crisis, after waking from a trance he didn’t remember consenting to, doing something he would never have done in his conscious mind, or ... would he have?

Regardless, the man fled, and has not returned since. This is the story of his struggle between what he was, and what hypnosis twisted him to be.

Two Masters

How had it gotten like this? How had things pushed so far? Alejandro didn’t know. It started out so innocent, just a new year’s resolution. He wanted to get fit, get ripped, to be truly strong for the first time in his life. He wanted to get hard, like a real man, hard like muscles, hard, so very hard...

He gasped and shook his head. His arms had already been raised to flex and pose. He panted and rushed for a set of bleachers by the park trail. He took a seat, leaned forward to try to let the spell pass. He couldn’t allow himself to fall any deeper than he already had. It was what that bastard wanted.

Just how many men had this monster seduced? How many lives had he destroyed with his words alone? Julio recommended him, practically shoved Alejandro at him. Was Julio in on it, or worse?

The first few months had been so simple and productive. He’d managed to change his diet, drop the junk foods, stick with healthier snacks and choices. Salads and water replaced soda and carbohydrates. Kale and seaweed chips replaced potato chips. Asparagus sprigs, tomatoes, cottage cheese, spinach, chicken breast, rice, quinoa.

Then came the hard part, actually going to a gym. Julio helped. He practically pulled Alejandro to the facility on every scheduled day. The exercise hurt like hell, but it was worth it, once his body adapted. Fat gave way to carved muscle. His body had become a statue, like the old greco-roman works, and he had been the sculptor.

...

But no, not if he was being honest with himself. He was molded, sculpted by him.

“Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou? or thy work, He hath no hands?” he whispered, quoting the scriptures with which he had been raised.

He still remembered the tracks, the files that whispered to him by night and pulsed in his brain by day in the gym. Outgrowing his clothes had been especially pleasing. He still remembered that time he bent over to pick something up in the office, and his shirt tore off his back. The cold air striking his skin, the goosebumps rising, the exposure, the stares. It was so embarrassing, but ... it felt so right.

How much of it had been the result of his own desires and how much from his training?

...

No, training wasn’t the word. More brainwashing, indoctrination. He still remembered quitting. He couldn’t place why. He just ... wasn’t happy with work anymore, wasn’t satisfied with it. He wanted ... but did he really want it, or was that just the whispers, the tracks?

“Oh, God,” he said as he looked heavenward. It was half swear, half supplication.

He’d been so happy when he started working at the gym. He could teach others how to grow, help them reach the same goals he’d achieved, then plow into his own routine in his off hours. It felt incredible.

Then came the tattoos. He wasn’t sure what prompted it. Maybe it was all the times he’d seen Julio flex in the mirror when they were together. The way the flesh rippled over the muscle, giving motion and life to those cells that had been permanently marked. Next thing he knew, he was in the tattoo parlor.

...

It wasn’t his last visit.

He stared down at the sleeves of ink that had been so intricately drawn over his legs and arms. He’d even inked his torso.

And he still showed off. It was almost like a compulsion. He was so anxious at what others might think, seeing their looks, their faces.

Judge not, lest ye also be judged.

Jealous....

Fools mock....

These thoughts and many more whispered to him, and slowly, something grew in him. He defied perceived judgement with a cocky sneer, with flexing, with a show of his new strength. If they wanted to judge him, they could do it while they burned with jealousy. He would get bigger.

Bigger.

Stronger.

Stronger.

“Get hard....”

Alejandro grunted and bowed over his knees, like he’d taken a punch to the gut. “No,” he growled. “I can’t. I won’t.”

He felt his phone sliding from his pocket, so he stuck it down on the bleacher in front of him, then clasped his hands together and bowed his head to see the tent in his crotch. Tears blurred his vision as he warred with primal instincts. His hands trembled as he clenched them harder together.

“God, please help me,” he begged.

The tears fell like the sweat that had dripped from his body in the locker room. He still remembered that night, remembered the blank faces on his fellow employees, some of the more extreme lifters, a few of the intermediate patrons. Too many faces for him to sift through. Too many to remember.

...

Remember. What did that word even mean anymore? He hardly thought things through, always just acting, doing. Office work and data points had been replaced with weights, routines, training plans, diets, supplements. The gym had become his home, his life.

The late summer sun kissed his tanned skin warmly, almost comfortingly.

But those words still haunted him.

We grow for Master.

We work hard for master.

Flex for master.

...Serve....

...Obey....

All that and more, while they ... while they....

He couldn’t even bring himself to think of it. And yet, he had been doing it himself, before he came to, just like them, in perfect time. How many times had he done it before? How often had he gathered like that without even knowing?

He felt unclean.

“God, forgive me,” he rasped.

His trust had been abused, yet even now he felt that pull, that call. His muscles tensed, his breathing was ragged. His body wanted, needed to move, needed to tense, to flex, to swell, to do as it was programmed.

“No man can serve to masters. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve to masters,” he repeated over and over, desperately, imploringly under his breath. “I won’t go back. I can’t go back. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve two masters....”

His phone buzzed.

“Please, God. Please,” he continued to beg.

The phone continued to buzz.

He peeked one eye open. The glare obscured the screen. Dare he risk it?

He could always go to the police, call 911, do something, anything other than just sitting at the bleachers. But ... Julio. If he was part of this, too, then....

Alejandro’s stomach fell. Could his childhood friend even be saved, or was the damage too far gone? Was he too far gone? His hand trembled and his breathing stuttered as he picked up the phone.

A barrage of boxes filled the idle screen.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

On and on it scrolled. The world spun and faded as his face went slack. His thumb scrolled over the messages, until a new one pinged, and he scrolled back up to the top.

No man can serve two masters.

There can only be one.

Report.

Alejandro’s thumbs tapped slowly and steadily as he rose from the bench.

Yes, Master.

He sent it.

He had to hurry.

Master was calling.

The one had chosen him.

He must serve.

He must obey.

He patted the crotch of his compression gear just once as he pocketed his phone, then began to run.

“I am coming... I am coming... I am coming....”

Don’t Look

One year. One whole fucking year, you’d been trapped in this hellhole. One whole year of weights and shakes, supps and bros, grunts and flexes, and that constant arrogant son of a bitch that made you into the MUSCLE GOD you are today.

...

Damn it. You can’t even think like you used to anymore. Bro was clever, for a dumb pile of meat. No sooner do the words cross your mind than your body acts on its own. You hear that deep husky chuckle as your voice echoes and rebounds through the gym. You hardly even recognize it anymore. It just sounds so ... dull, so empty.

Didn’t used to like him. Hell, like never came into it. You loathed him. Kept strutting his stuff, showing off, bringing home girls and bros alike at all hours of the day and night. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You had a schedule to keep, damn it. You had to WORK OUT.

...

WORK OUT

...

WORK OU--

Damn it! You had to go to your job. You had to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX.

...

It’s so hard to fight this thing. Your head jumps tracks every time you try to finish a sentence, to think about the old life. Everything just jumps right back to the GYM and WEIGHTS.

“FUCK!” you snarl. You wish you’d never worn those stupid AWESOME HEADPHONES.

You remember when you blew up at him. The look on his face, the blindside, the anger, and a glimmer of something else. Curiosity? Intrigue? Or had you just imagined that?

Mmm ... you’d love to imagine some hot a--

NO! Can’t give in to base instincts. That’s what he wants.

Though that one blonde, ... damn was she fine. Her voice. Her hips. You’re ashamed of what you did, but ... at the same time, ...

“I want more,” you whisper. You clench a hand into a fist. “Damn it....”

You remember the gift. He said to consider them an apology, a way to compromise, so you could, “sleep deep, bro.”

The dumbbells clack with every lunge you take now. Your body follows a set rhythm that you cannot break. Those words, those thoughts, those actions. Carefully planned, every last one. And you didn’t realize until it was too late.

Your headphones became your collar, its white noise your leash.

You’re still not sure what was real and what was dream. Strip clubs, health bars, gym work, muscle ache, kneeling, listening, a shadow, a phantom figure posing you like some giant mannequin.

It takes a moment to realize you’re now reflecting that exact pose in the mirror.

“Damn it,” you swear. “I’m such a dumbass.”

You feel your body shudder at that word. You know your programming approves, and he would, too.

You can’t remember when you first found out the truth. You just remember the anger and rage boiling inside, followed immediately by his crisp command. And suddenly, you were on the floor doing pushups. The anger was fueling you to break your last plateau.

You look down at your swollen arms.

You broke that plateau, all right.

Every move you tried to make against him, he would counter neatly, as a chess master would a novice.

You lost your job.

“Numbers are too hard for a dumbass like you.”

You lost your friends.

“You’ve got, like, nothing in common with them anymore, bro.”

The library banned you. You’re still not sure why. Maybe he greased a few palms. Big bro was hella rich.

“Who needs books, when you’ve got weights, bro?”

He blocked the channels with a password, so you could only watch athletic events.

“Come on, bro. Big game’s on. You know you wanna watch it....”

Even the beard was his idea.

“It’ll make you look like a total rugged badass, bro! Who wouldn’t want that?”

You were completely surrounded.

“Let me introduce you to some of my best bros...”

Always watched.

“Here, let me spot you, little bro.”

Stripped.

“You need some new duds, bro.”

Dressed.

“Aw, hell yeah. Now that’s what I call ALPHA!”

Fed.

“Chicken and rice. Gotta get your lean proteins, bro.”

... Programmed.

“Time to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX, bro. Got something new for ya....”

And you let him. The plastic sheath on one of the machines creaks and groans under your muscular grip as you grit your teeth, all while the white noise continues to play, pushing you, motivating you to work harder and grow your meat. The bulge straining in your crotch would have left you embarrassed at one point. Now, all you can do is stare at it blankly and chuckle, like it’s all some sort of game, and you’re winning.

... But how much have you lost?

Then the static cuts off. You hear the ringtone from your cell phone.

Your neck strains as the muscles you’ve spent so long developing pulse and writhe under the skin. There’s only one person who’d call you this late anymore.

And you hate his guts, even as his words push you to obey and respect him.

“‘Sup, bro?”

His voice on the other end is smug. “Just checking in on my new best bro.”

You try to bite back the glow of pride swelling in your chest. You don’t succeed.

“Was just getting in some extra sets before coming home. I’m fucking starved. What’s for dinner?”

“Your favorite.”

You moan. “Ribs?” Damn him for using your love of barbecue against you.

“I figured you deserved a reward, after all your hard work.”

You flex, as though he were there. It’s natural, automatic. It’s ... how you react to a lot of things now, actually.

“It has been a whole year,” he noted. “And I wanted to celebrate with you. We’re pulling out all the stops. Hell, I’ve even got a special gift lined up for you, if you want it.”

“Don’t I have to accept all your ‘gifts,’ anyway?”

“Was that a note of bitterness I detected?”

“Maybe just a little,” you admit. You can’t lie to him. He made sure of that. Bros before hoes. Bros don’t keep secrets.

“So, you’re still not happy?”

“You should know. You are my roommate.”

“I thought you would’ve warmed up to it by now. You flirt like a champ, tackle weights like a beast, and you practically baptized yourself with beer at the superbowl party.”

You shrug your titanic shoulders. “I’m a bro, bro. You kinda m--. M--.” You furrow your brow. You can’t say the word.

“I made you like this. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

You nod.

After a period of silence, he spoke up. “You do realize I can’t see you, right?”

The sound of your hand slapping your forehead was enough to set him off laughing.

“Fuck you,” you snarl. S’not funny!” Finally, a loophole in your programming you can exploit.

He was silent for a time. “No, I suppose it’s not. It wasn’t funny when you challenged me either. You killed my date that night. Not cool, bro.”

“And that justifies putting me on a training regimen?” You couldn’t outright call it brainwashing or hypnosis. Those words had been forbidden.

“Considering all the names you called me that night, yeah. I wanted you to see just what it was like to be a bro, to think like a bro, to act like a bro. I wanted you to know just how it feels to have society judging you every second of every day for your choices, always thinking you’re just some dumb musclehead waiting to show off. Never taking you seriously, never giving you the time of day. I wanted you to see the sacrifices we had to make to get where we are with the whole world laughing in our faces. So yes, I think your ‘training regimen’ was well deserved.”

You could practically see his glare over the line.

“I may be a dumbass and a jerk at times, but at least I own it. I told you what I had planned. I let you know in advance, and you never said a word to me, not one word. Did you really think I wouldn’t have listened, if you’d just pulled me aside in private and asked? But no, you were too scared to. You thought the big bad alpha bro was gonna beat you up the moment you stepped out of line. You’re not scared of me now, are you?”

“No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

You grit your teeth again.

“Judging by your silence, you know the right answer. You’re angry at me, but you’re not scared of me, because you’ve gotten to know me.” He was silent for a time. He didn’t have to worry about you closing the call. Only he could end the conversation. “I’ll tell you what. It’s clear enough that you’ve learned your lesson, even if you’re not willing to admit it. Part of that is the pride I helped build, and part of it is the pride you had before I even started helping you. So, I’m going to give you a choice, or rather, a chance. If you want to be your old self again in every way, you just have to do one little thing. I’ll even make sure to pay you back for all your troubles and losses.”

“... I’m listening.”

“All you have to do is keep yourself from admiring yourself in the mirror. No flexing, no posing, no standing still to look over your changes. If you can keep that up for the rest of your workout time without doing any exercises or fitness-related stretches, then I’ll reverse everything I’ve done in your head. Fail, though, and you have to pay the price.”

“Which is?”

“You get to say goodbye to your old self entirely of your own free will. You’ll accept being a bro, embrace it, love it, revel in it. The bro will be you, and you will be the bro. You’ll become the dimwitted musclehead you feared. The gym will be your home, your fellow bros your family. Sports and weights, muscle and shakes, and letting your meat do all the thinking for you will be your new norm, and you’ll love every second of it.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Then we continue as we have.”

“Let me get this straight. So, it’s either try and possibly be free, or don’t and wind up with the failure option eventually happening no matter what.”

“Exactly.”

“... You’re on.”

“Excellent. Good luck, little bro.”

The call cut off. The static returned, and you took your seat as you reviewed your phone. Just had to keep distracted. That was all.

The first few minutes were a breeze, but after that the restlessness set in. Your body wanted to move, and you knew the recording was reinforcing that need to egg you on. You leaned forward and pulled up your phone’s apps. Your brainwashing had forced you to delete the entertainment apps and left you only with fitness trackers and camera.

You clicked into the camera app and scrolled through your selfies from the start to now. Big bro had done a good job. You had to admit that. That uncertainty solidifying into a cocky smirk. The clothes shifting to large, then extra large, then XXL. Sleeves being torn. Seams burst. It left you feeling breathless. You squirmed in your chair as you felt another surge of instinct scream at you to act, to move, to work out.

Your chest heaved as your triceps contracted under the sudden shift in your posture. You looked desperately down at your dangling necklace swinging back and forth. The chain was designed to highlight the amount of muscle you’d built in your pectorals. Surely, it could help keep you distracted for a few more minutes.

You fiddled with the chain, listening to its links hiss and chink as you hefted and manipulated it. You dug it into your skin a few times to try and distract yourself from that gnawing urge. Toes tapped, heels bounced. It was so difficult!

Why?

Your fingers played with the exercise band to keep your mind occupied, but that didn’t help. Your phone glitched, and the appc losed out. You opened the camera again, and caught a snatch of calf between all the weights.

Your breath became shallow as your hand shook.

Come on. You’re stronger than this. Think about the consequences. Think about ... about ... what were their names again? 

You could barely recall the faces of your former friends. They were more blurs than proper images. Blurs that slowly hardened into thick, square jaws and piercing eyes. The familiar impact of dice rolling on the table was replaced with the equally familiar clank of weights smacking against one another and the retort of guns on the shooting range.

Clapping hands became back slaps. Hand shakes were fist bumps. Exultant cheers and jubilant hugs were replaced with grunts, roars, and chest bumps.

That’s ... that’s not....

Tackling.

I...

Videogames with wrestling.

Can’t....

Soda cans replaced with beer.

No....

Delicate hands brushing over your beastly arms. “Hey there, stud. How about a gun show?”

Your legs are spread wide, your eyes unfocused. Weight and bars and chicks and muscle and posing and wrestling and ... and ... and....

“Heads up, Bro!”

The camera flash had been so intense back then. You blinked. You heard a shutter click.

You gaped at the image on your phone. Your thumbs moved on autopilot. You hit send.

Back at your apartment, your Big Bro smiles at the image and its accompanying text as he pulls the ribs out of the oven.

Better have those fucking ribs ready, Bro. I’m starving.

The Pendant of Somnambula

The Pendant of Somnambula is a curious artifact, and one of my favorites to give away to customers. Each one has to be fashioned from a stone that I’ve grown steeped in a magical solution to get just that right swirl. I also have a lovely garden one of my workers tends to water the stones with a similar solution as they develop in caves underground. Once the stone has developed to the size and potency I desire, it’s a simple matter to polish and cut it, then mount in a framework engraved with the runes necessary to bind the pendant to its host and channel its innate magic.

Once bound to a host, the pendant is able to support its carrier by subtly increasing charisma over time. The bearer will become more convincing and enticing to various individuals with whom he has regular contact. The longer they are near the stone as the buyer wears it, the more they will fall under his or her influence.

Of course, the stone also wishes to please its host. As such, its influence will also reach out to the very individual who wears it. Take this customer for example. He started off much smaller than this. He wanted something to help boost his confidence in the gym, so he could reach his goals in peace.

As you can see, the man has clearly reached and exceeded them. The pendant whispered to his mind and heart in his sleep to drive him with greater motivation. Over time, he developed relationships with various other muscle men in the gym. They serve beneath him now, and as you can see here, their constant interaction acted as reinforcement for the entire group to focus on building their muscles. He’s a personal trainer now, and does a fine job of it.

More often than not, my customers go into trance after taking pictures of themselves with their pendants. But don’t worry, there’s a failsafe to ensure no harm comes to them from it. And, of course, as part of the payment for the service my pendants provide, I am able to call upon the buyers when necessary for various jobs and purposes. Whether it be to act as muscle, an escort, a contact, or something else, they are only too eager to listen to my voice and follow my commands.

Don’t you look at me like that. I most certainly am not an abuser of that fact. The pendants may be bound to obey me, and thus their bearers as well, but I don’t treat them like slaves.

However, I will admit that as a writer, I do enjoy having the more muscular ones send me pictures with various poses in their progress for me to use in my stories. There’s something enticing about such images, wouldn’t you agree? Here, let me show you.

Now, now. It’s perfectly safe. Go on. He’s waiting for you. Don’t be rude.

A thick meaty hand supports you by gripping your arm as you stumble through the portal into the poorly illuminated locker room. Thin black strips stretch down to barely conceal the nipples on the man’s massive chest. A deep voice rolls smoothly from the bearded lips above that giant muscled torso as your eyes lock onto a pulsing golden stone that writhes like a galaxy in motion.

“Hey there, little guy. This gym’s for meatheads only. Let’s see what we can do to help you fit the part....”

Free

“I’m ... free to go?” Derek asked in a stunned voice.

The big man at the door nodded mutely, his tight black suit and blocky shades made him the epitome of the stereotypical villain’s guard. “You may leave this room and do as you wish.”

“No strings attached?”

“No strings attached.”

The shorter man leaned back against the bed as the full weight of those words sank in. “Free,” he mumbled. “I ... I can go.”

“Wherever you want,” the guard agreed in a grating rumble.

“Where are we?”

The guard smiled. “That’s for you to find out. I’m just here to give you the big news.”

The man scratched a casual itch on his thigh, then pulled at the strap on his thong. “This is ... wow. It’s ... well--”

“A lot to take in.”

“Exactly. I ... I can go.”

“Yup.”

“Any time I want.”

“Yup.”

“Anywhere at all.”

“Yup.”

“But ... I’m not moving.”

The guard shrugged. “You haven’t decided where you want to go.”

“Huh. Good point. I ... guess I should get my bearings, figure things out.”

“A sound idea,” the guard said in a neutral tone. He shrugged. “You’re free to go.”

Derek blinked absently.

“You going to move?” the guard asked. “I can’t stand here all day.”

“O-oh. Yeah. ... Yeah....” Derek strode dazedly to the door. He could hear the sound of shuffling footsteps and heavy thumps. He peeked outside. Identical rectangular doors were opening. A slow trickle of tan men slowly filtered out into the hall, peering bewildered at their peers. “There are ... others?”

“And you’re all free to go,” the deep voice rumbled behind him.

Derek took a tentative step into the hall. The other men mirrored his action, as though they were afraid it were some dream. Some retreated into their rooms. Others strode into the hall and blinked as they breathed the chemical scent of carpet cleaners and disinfectants.

“Free,” one of them breathed in utter bewilderment.

“Free to go,” another guard agreed from his place in the former prisoner’s room.

“Free to go,” one parroted. “I’m ... free to go.” He took one heavy step forward. The sound of the impact carried like an explosive charge. The whole hall tensed. Nothing happened. Nobody moved to stop him. His head darted left and right. His high-and-tight military cut accentuated the hints of jaw bone showing beneath his skin. He wore an identical thong to Derek and the other men. The hairs on his arms stood on end as the cooler air and exhilaration of sudden freedom sent goosebumps racing over his skin. He took another step forward. “I’m...” Another one. “Free to....” One more. “Go.”

He stopped, peered behind him in fear. The guard continued to stare from the portal, but made no move to follow. His breathing became shallow. A smile pulled at his lips, even as he fought back the tears that welled in his eyes. He stepped forward again, more confidently this time. “I’m free--” Thump. “--to go.” Thump. “I’m free--” Thump. “--to go.” Thump.

He grinned as he began to pick up speed and walk past the first few doors, reciting to himself in time to his forceful steps. “I’m free to go. I’m free to go...”

One set of footprints was soon joined by two more, then four, then six. The voices rang in unison, a motivating cry calling to the wary and frightened souls that still hovered in the doorways. Derek soon found himself ensconced in the ranks. The pace was awkward at first, but the continuous chant pounded in rhythm, and he soon adapted to the march.

Some laughed. Others cried. Others cheered at the top of their lungs. The call remained the same. It remained as their troops divided. Some waited by elevators, still chanting as they pushed the call buttons and marched in place. Others strode to a great metal door and shoved it open to the echoing stairwell that waited beyond. The echoes repeated as foot struck stair, smacking in time to the chorus of voices.

Derek peered down, surprised to see so many heads, so many bodies pressing forward in an orderly fashion. He wanted to think. He wanted to question. And yet, all he could think, all he could recall, was that wondrous phrase over and over as he grinned. “I’m free to go.”

The passage opened on the ground floor as the body moved en masse to pass through a finely decorated lobby. A backlit sign read Growing Pains Spa over the desk. A smaller subtext ran underneath the main title that read, Relax and Gain.

He blinked. His mouth kept moving. His bare feet kept thumping. His gaze turned idly to the tinted glass doors with their bronze handles and revolving shafts. Some of the other men strode through them. One cycle later, more guards would walk in with that same set of shades, broad shoulders, and rippling muscles.

Derek grunted briefly as he felt a familiar warmth in his crotch, followed by a tightness in the pouch. That warmth spread, until he began to sweat. His hands twitched and clenched as the march continued forward past a photo checkpoint and into a room filled with a hauntingly familiar sound.

Metal plates clacked steadily with the grunts and growls of many a muscular man. Music pulsed and thumped in his ears. And then he saw it in great bold capital letters that plastered the high brick walls in vivid red to draw the eye of every visitor in.

YOU’RE FREE TO GROW.

Derek thudded over to a weight machine, not even thinking anymore as his body moved for him. He watched impassively as burlier men strode into the locker room ENTRANCE. Seconds later, a new set of guards strode out the EXIT with grim expressions on their faces.

Derek hardly registered as one of them approached him. He pushed through the exercise, even as the visor lowered over his head. His posture didn’t deviate as the earbuds snaked into his ear canal. His form didn’t waver as his vision of the room slowly blacked out to be replaced by a bombardment of images accompanied by sound.

His mouth gaped open as he began to pant under his breath. “I’m free to grow ... I’m free to grow ... I’m free to grow ... free to grow ... freed to grow ... need to grow....”

The guard backed away and spoke in a dull monotone. “Relax and gain,” he said. “Relax and grow. Relax, ... and obey....”

Pledge

He didn’t remember what happened last night. He didn’t remember how he got there. All he knew was his head was killing him, and his whole body ached. He groaned.

“Bro, what the hell happened last night?” He blinked in surprise. Had his voice always been so deep? He felt the warmth of sunbaked stone beneath his arm and turned his head as he stretched one of his arms up to his head and felt the fabric of his snapback. He didn’t remember putting it on.

A big house stood in the distance. Someone was standing on the porch. His sleeveless muscle tee clung to his gigantic pectorals, and his square jaw accented the broad shoulders and clenching abdominals of his torso. A few seconds later, his chiseled features blocked out the sun as he peered down at the prone figure.

“You seriously fall asleep out here, lil’bro?”

The man on the grass blinked blearily. His bicep tingled as he stared up at the behemoth looming over him. “I, uh ... I guess?” He furrowed his brow. “I ... don’t really remember, bro.”

“Big.”

“Huh?”

“It’s Big Bro. You’re my lil’bro, and I’m your Big Bro.” He lowered a hand. “Got it?”

“Uh ...” He seized the hand. “I ... guess.” He was on his feet in seconds. “Thanks, uh ... Big Bro....” He shuddered, then groaned as his eyes rolled back in his head. Wave upon wave of pleasure plowed over his body. “Uhhh.. Huhuhuhuh....”

“That’s right, Lil’bro.” The big man twisted the cap around so the bill sloped down Lil’bro’s neck and exposed his face. He sneered as he watched the man’s legs swell in the boxer shorts he was wearing. The fabric creaked as a distinct swelling began in the crotch, and a full beard grew in on the man’s face as the hairs thickened on his swelling pectorals, then spread down in a treasure trail through the shallow trench that was the beginnings of a defined six pack. “Just enjoy the ride. Let it happen.” He rubbed the man’s growing bicep and grinned. “Damn, you are gonna be huge. Think I’ll call you Swole. How’s that sound, Lil’bro?” he asked as he curled an arm around the man’s shoulders and led him closer to the house.

“Swole....” he parroted as his swelling feet smacked against the stones leading up to the porch.

“Just a big, dumb, swole bro, Lil’bro.”

“Yuh....”

The big man grinned as he pulled his hand aside to reveal a large 86 on Swole’s bicep. He flexed his own bicep to show off the giant 01 that had been inked there and watched in satisfaction as the light left the half-naked man’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re gonna fit right in, Pledge.”

“Whatever you say, Big Bro....”

The frat president sneered as the front door creaked open to reveal row upon row of muscle men posed in identical double bicep flex to salute their president, each sporting a large number on their left bicep. “Damn straight. Now go join the line.”

The Builder

“Framework is coming along very nicely,” you complimented your foreman as you looked over the joists and beams that had been nailed together and inserted into the foundation. “Wiring and plumbing seem to be going well. How soon until the basics are finished?”

“Another couple of weeks. Had to get a special distributor to fit the client’s specifications for a green building.”

“Let me guess, recycled material?”

He nodded. “You know how people want to focus on the environment now.”

“Protecting the environment, I understand. Insisting on using materials that may not be the same quality, however, just seems like a crime to me.”

“Sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. Speaking of which, I think someone wants a word with you.” The foreman motioned curtly with his head.

You turned around to stare at your latest work in progress. The lad had grown a great deal since he helped with the last house. A sleeveless tank clung to his bulky frame as his nipples stood out against the tight material. Veins ran down his arms in rivers as a set of dog tags jingled and clinked in the gap between his pectorals. A shiny white helmet obscured all signs of the lad’s hair, but you already knew he’d buzzed it down at your request.

“What did you do to me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell did you do?”

You shrugged. “Employ you, train you, pay you. Was there anything else you wanted to accuse me of?”

“What did you use on me, steroids or something?” he growled as he stepped closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. I’m a builder, not a drug lord. All I did was remodel you for the job, the same way I would any house. It did the trick. You’re adhering to the rules of the site and performing your job admirably. Thank you for actually wearing your hardhat today, by the way. It suits your hard head, a head so thick and square, so well defined. Why, I’d even go so far as to call it a block. Yes, a hard hat on a block head.”

“Wh-what’re you--?”

“A hard hat making it so hard to think. A block head blocking those pesky thoughts. Built like a brick, built like a wall, a wall that only I can pass with my words, my key.”

He stumbled and swayed. “S-stop--.”

“Yes, stop talking. Stop thinking.”

His hands clenched as he trembled. “No,” he practically whimpered.

“No thoughts, no worries,” you continued relentlessly. “No pesky doubts. Just my voice. It’s time for an inspection, Blockhead.”

His shoulders slumped. His arms rested lazily at his sides as he stared blankly ahead at you. “Ready for inspection,” he said in a dull monotone.

Your foreman whistled. “Damn. I never get tired of seeing that.”

“You think that’s special, wait till you see what I have in store next.” You smirk as you look at the young man. “You’ve been building nicely. A strong foundation is important in any building project.” You brush over each of the man’s muscles, testing for resistance, mass, and fat index. “Strong walls,” you note. “You built them sturdily and well. A little more strength never hurts, though. Let’s make them a little bigger, shall we?”

The workman rasped as his jaw snapped and cracked to gain greater definition, while the tanktop rode up higher and tighter under his armpits. His shoulders broadened as his biceps, triceps, and flexors swelled alongside his pectorals.

“Those walls need a firm foundation.”

A few seconds later, the workman grunted as a bulge began to press against the toes of his work boots. A brush of your hands over the footwear, and they expanded by two more sizes to fit the new broad feet they housed.

“Now for the plumbing. A proper house needs good strong pipes and a powerful pump for the well.”

The worker’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he groaned. More veins spread over his musculature, creating a vascular spectacle.

“Such a deep, deep well. So full. So deep.”

The muscles in the workman’s neck thickened as heavy cords became more apparent. A thick lump jutted out midway down his neck, while a bulge pressed slowly against the crotch of his jeans and continued to expand with every breath.

You nod in satisfaction. “Now, more importantly, it’s clear we need to work on that faulty wiring. You’re too suspicious of me. That needs to change. After all, I’m your boss. I want my workmen to trust me. No more worry about changes. All you need know is that I’m the boss. You do what I tell you, because of that. From now on, you’re a proper member of my work crew, understand? No need to question the builder’s renovations. He knows what he’s doing, and I’m a builder, so i know what I’m doing. I’ll even install a dimmer switch for the lights upstairs, so you can think more clearly on the important tasks with my permission. Aside from that, though, you’re going to stay my big lumbering blockhead, got it?”

“Yes, Sir, Boss....”

“Good boy.” You snap your fingers and watch as he blinks. There’s a definite dullness about his eyes as he stares at you for a few moments. “Yeah, Blockhead?” you ask.

He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Uh ... you need me to carry more stuff today, Boss?”

You shake your head. “No, but Taft here bet me fifty dollars you won’t be willing to put on a gun show for us.”

He blinked slowly, then raised an arm and flexed it as he furrowed his brow. A subtle protrusion began to form in the bone structure over his eye sockets as he did. A few seconds later, he beamed at you. “Do I get to split it with you?”

You smirk. “Sure, big guy.”

He chuckled. “Then let’s do this.” And with that, he began to flex, straining his clothing to its absolute limits against his new physique. The whole time, he bassooned a deep husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuh....”

It didn’t take long for the other workers to respond in kind. You sigh contentedly at the sound.

“I do love my blockheads,” you say. Then you chuckle. “And that’s why you never mess with the builder, Taft.”

Taft chuckled. “Don’t gotta tell me twice, boss.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remodel you, too.”

Get Bricked

You didn’t believe him when he first approached you in the gym. You thought he’d misspoken. Most of the guy in the gym did, actually, and Marcus was the biggest of the bunch.

“Let me help you,” he’d said. “Work with me, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll really be bricked.”

“Uh, don’t you mean ripped?” you’d asked.

Marcus just smiled as he motioned to the weight bench.

It came in little stages. A few reps here, a bit of cardio there. And all the while, Marcus would babble on about his work routine, his diets, the focus it required, the diligence, the ability to be absolutely unyielding in every respect. It got kinda repetitive, so you just sort of grunted and filtered it out as you worked.

For a time, things were pretty cool. Your grades were up, your concentration was better than it had ever been before. You’d learned how to filter out things you didn’t want to listen to or focus on, thanks to all that practice with Marcus in the first place. And it goes without saying that your body was toning nicely. Things were pretty great.

Then he suggested you spend more time in the gym.

And before you knew it, you’d already grunted and nodded along like you always do. His grin was massive, and the workout that day particularly vicious. Your arms felt like they wanted to fall off. You were so tired that night, you didn’t even want to so much as think about your homework.

So you didn’t.

It was the first time you deliberately chose not to work on an assignment you knew was going to be due the next day. It wouldn’t be the last.

The workouts were killers, but you couldn’t help but smile weakly at Marcus when you’d managed to push through another plateau. The guy was just so enthusiastic and charismatic. He’d flex whenever he got really excited. You couldn’t help but wonder if the muscle was part of it all in the first place. Could it really be that simple to gain such confidence?

...

It had been so embarrassing the first time he caught you posing in the locker room mirrors. But then he just chuckled and popped a little flex of his own.

“Like this, bro,” he’d said. You spent the next half hour practicing poses in the mirror. The way the light reflected off his skin, the ripple of the raw muscle beneath the flesh, the way the veins accented the primary locations. It was almost a form of poetry.

You practiced those poses every day from then on at home in your closet mirror.

Then came the party. Marcus insisted you attend at his place for a premier football game, just a close gathering, some of the guys hanging out. You were flattered, but you hardly felt prepared for that sort of thing. Sports had never really been your forte. But Marcus insisted. Time and place.

It was inevitable for you to follow.

You’re still not exactly sure what happened that night. Things are sort of hazy. You arrived on time, but none of the other guys from the gym were there yet. Marcus just chuckled and said they’d be along soon. Then he wrapped his huge arm around your shoulders and led you to the huge leather couch in front of a gigantic flat screen TV.

One minute you were watching the screen. The next, you were standing at the door with your iphone in hand and the rest of the gym goers smacking you on the back.

“I want you to listen to those tunes, bro,” Marcus said seriously. “No skimping out. Every day for your warmups, every night when you sleep. Got it?”

You nodded numbly. And for some odd reason, you chose to run home that night, rather than calling a cab.

It got a lot easier to understand the guys at the gym after that. It didn’t take all that much, really. You just had to do a little research on football and some of the other sports they liked. If you didn’t know about something, you’d ask one of them, and they’d be able to explain it in perfect detail. You were shocked. The guys weren’t dumb. They just specialized. Tony was football, Mikey weights, Alphy diet and nutrition. They became your gurus, all while Marcus continued to push your limits with his routines.

You nearly threw it all away when you got your report card at the end of the year, though. C in almost every course. That wasn’t like you. How were you supposed to get into college like this? It hurt to go and tell the news to Marcus, but you knew you had to.

Then came that hazy period again. You’re not sure what was said. All you knew was you needed to keep going. The gym made you happy now, surprisingly enough. And the guys, well ... you’d become sort of like a unit. You couldn’t picture doing anything without them around anymore.

You got yourself a tutor, and he helped you to pass. You didn’t like that your GPA had dropped so much, but it was better than before.

You hardly pay attention to the teachers now, though. It’s all just so ... boring for you. You’d pass the time by doing mini-flexes and running through some of the games you’d caught the other night in your head.

You still remember the first time you chuckled. It had been so easy. It just sort of burst out of you like a belch. You flexed. You chuckled. You flexed. You chuckled. You flexed....

Most of your games moldered in the dust now. Madden, EA Games, sports, those all were used well enough. After all, you had to have something to play with your bros from time to time.

Then they finally invited you here, to this place. The rough stone blocks behind you were a light dull gray. Daylight streamed over it, highlighting the muscles that now stood out from your sleeveless shirt.

The response was automatic. You raised your arms and flexed. You admired the light as it played across the flesh, casting it shadows that flowed over the curves and bends like a work of art.

You smirked.

You sneered.

You were a muscle god, and you liked it that way.

School? Screw it.

D&D? Bro, you were living that dream. No need to play a barbarian with these guns.

Your future? ... Why think about it? Your future was here with your bros.

Class? ... Class made your head hurt. Whatever. If you pass, that’s all that mattered. You couldn’t get banned from the gym. S’where you and the bros hung out.

You stare into Marcus’ face as he grins triumphantly at you.

“So, how does it feel to be bricked?”

The words flow out of you as easily as if you’d been cursing your whole life. “Huhuh. Fucking sweet, bro.”

And it was. The gym is your life now. The gym and your bros. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Undo

Richard tapped frantically at the keys on his laptop. The apartment was calm and quiet. His roommates were out partying up at a D&D session, so he wouldn't have to worry about any interruptions for the next few hours. It had been like this for the last couple of weeks now. He’d either retreat to his room or work in the living room. Occasionally, he’d sneak to one of the school’s recording studios after hours. A procedure like this needed all the finesse he could conjure. Fortunately, nobody seemed to question him.

The device chirped as he slammed the enter key and ran the newest soundbite through his program to check for any errors before adding it to the track’s layers. His head whipped back around his shoulders for what had to be the thirtieth time as he turned to face the hall door behind his desk. A subtle creak of the floorboards, the heavy thump of footsteps in the apartment above, any number of noises had set him off. This time was no different. The portal yawned into the dark stillness beyond. Once again, no one was there.

It still didn’t make him feel any better. “Almost over,” he breathed in a low whisper. He shook his head and grit his teeth. “How could I be so stupid?” He reached for his water bottle and squeezed a stream of liquid down his throat. Adrenaline had dried the passage, and he found it needed almost constant lubrication if he breathed through his mouth. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself in this state. Pressure never was his thing. He gasped after satisfying his craving and worked to moderate his breathing in an attempt to calm his heart. “Just a little longer and it’ll all be over. Then you can fix this mess, undo what you did, and everything will be back the way it was.”

Richard stiffened when he felt a sudden weight clap down on his shoulders. Thick veiny hands stretched on either side of him. His throat closed to the barest hint of a passage. The lubrication he had only just applied vanished.

“Watcha workin’ on, bro?” The deep voice resonated through Richard’s chest as thick sculpted arms freshly pumped from a workout bent on either side of him. He could hear the heavy breath, smell the overpowering scent of Old Spice body wash mixed with AXE body spray. They gripped tighter than the hands and left Richard’s head spinning.

“Dick, ... I wasn’t expecting you,” he croaked, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It’s been awhile. We hardly see each other anymore. I’m always working out, and you’re always nerding it up. Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to be with the guys tonight, roomie?” A heavy hand slammed a music player on the table, then raised itself slowly to clap the shoulder again, this time in a companionable pat. 

“Special assignment,” Richard muttered. He eyed the player on the desk. “You been, uh, listening to your tracks?”

“On loop, bro! I can’t get enough of ‘em!” Dick’s diaphragm heaved with a deep dull laugh that left Richard’s frame bouncing like a pogo stick.

“You mean you don’t take any breaks?” Richard squeaked.

“Just when I sleep. Why should I, little bro? You know what that chick said in Hair Spray (though I think Hair Gel would’ve been a better name). You can’t stop the beat. Those tracks just leave me so fuckin’ pumped! I mean, sure, it was kinda weird at first, but now I don’t know what I’d do without ‘em! I mean, look at these guns!”

“I’m looking,” Richard said weakly. His face had gone pale.

“Seriously, though, thanks for making so many for me. I know you said it could bruise my brain and all that if the same stuff kept going all the time, so having all these different things to listen to really helps. And, I mean, variety is the spice of life, am I right?” Again, he chuckled.

Richard hunched and waited for the storm to pass. “Right....”

“So, what’s this one about?”

“I ... guess you could call it a biography of sorts? It’s a track that’s supposed to cement an identity, you know?”

“Bro, you wanna clone yourself? That’s sick! Who’s gonna be the subject?”

“I don’t know about cloning, exactly, but ... yeah, I suppose it might have a similar effect. Cementing a mind doesn’t necessarily have to involve turning it into something else, though. It could also be used to fortify a person’s subconscious and make them more confident in their current state. Think of it like an armor of sorts.”

“So, you mean like football pads?”

“Exactly. They shield a person from an opponent trying to tackle their subconscious into submission. Do it right, and it can even reverse the effects of previous trances.”

“Damn. You’re smart, little bro.”

Richard’s shoulders started to ache. “I try. Did, uh ... you want to listen to some of what I’ve got so far?”

Dick peered at the file and whistled. “That’s a lot of layers, bro.”

“I wanted to make it iron clad. I’m not gonna make you sit through the whole thing, but here.” Richard highlighted a clip and clicked the play button, and the recording began to play over the speakers.

I am Richard. My name is Richard. Richard is my name. Richard is smart. You are smart. Richard loves hypnosis. You love hypnosis. ... Love recording ... Listen ... Deep down ... Study ... Sleep ... Repeat ...

The snippets flowed like a babbling brook with the tones that Richard had chosen, leaving only fragments, but the few that could be made out pressed a shudder through Dick that forced Richard to vibrate with him.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” Dick swore.

“You’re biased. You’ve already heard my voice. It’s easier to drop you in trance with it.”

“So? Bro, you were able to put me in trance, me. I mean, sure, it’s easy now, but you and I both know the first time took, like, what, uh.....?”

“Three months, approximately,” Richard supplied quickly. The soreness was spreading into his neck and a little down his biceps now. He rolled them uncomfortably. “Uh, do you mind?”

“Oh, sorry, bro. Had a killer workout. Hardly even feel anything now, ya know? I just ... lift. It’s what I do.” The weight lightened as Dick adjusted his stance and he sighed. An odd tingling spread over Richard’s shoulders as Dick’s fingers started kneading the flesh.

Richard shuddered in response. “How are you doing that?”

Dick huffed that same chuckle again. “Been taking a few classes on the side. Figured if I’ve got the bod for it, might as well learn how to use it and take care of it, right?”

Richard moaned. “Massage therapy?”

“Yup. Clients are butter in my hands.”

“I ... I really shouldn’t.”

“Relax, bro. You earned it.”

Richard’s eyes rolled as his muscles went limp. He didn’t even notice the computer chime. He smiled as he came out of the treatment to behold a snarl of anger that practically jerked him from his chair before a hand forced him back down. And then he heard it:

You are not dumb ... Work your brain ... Brawn to brain ... Nerdy Dick ... You are not a jock ... Not a dick ... Wake up ... Go back ... Go back....

Richard swallowed as the deep bass reverberated, until a heavy finger clicked forcefully on the mouse to pause the track.

“I trusted you,” Dick said in a husky voice.

“This isn’t the real you, Dick,” Richard objected.

“And whose fault was that, I wonder?” Dick roared. The wood on the desk creaked under the force of his fingers as they clenched the edge. “I gave up my friends, my major, my life for this. And just when I’m finally settling down, when I’m enjoying myself more than ever, when I’m happier than I’ve ever been, built a new life with new friends, you go and decide you can play god and tear it all down again?”

“It’s not real,” Richard said weakly.

“It is to me!” The desk leg creaked ominously under Dick’s heavy blow. “You think getting my head shaved was a dream? You think Duke isn’t real, that Travis is some kinda mirage, that Coach Sorensen didn’t offer me a place on the team? I fucking brought them to the apartment, introduced them to the guys, went out and got fucking drunk with them! Those happened. Those are real. My time in the gym was real!” He flexed his bicep and smacked the dense mound that had risen out of veiny flesh. “And this,” he said as he struck it again for emphasis, “is real.”

Richard shrank into his chair as best he could.

“You said I would have the power. You said that I would get to choose. You promised.” He jabbed his finger into Richard’s chest. “Well, I decided, bro.”

“Dick.” Richard’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Please.”

“Nah, bro. I’m in charge now. You’re done.”

Richard panted in the still air. Something was pushing against his chest. It felt so tight. “N-no,” he rasped. His voice cracked.

Dick shook his head. “Say it with me, little bro. ‘Nah, bro.’”

“N-nnnnnnnahhhh....”

Richard clenched his teeth. The room spun. His shoulders felt cold. Something brushed his scalp.

“You’re just a big Dick,” the deep bass said in a cocky tone of smug superiority.

The retort rose hotly in his chest, before he had time to stop it. It blew out from his diaphragm with the force of a conflagration, but it flowed smoothly, naturally from his lips, as if he’d been saying it for years. “Nah, bro.”

A vapid grin pulled at his lips as he opened his eyes. The small chair creaked under its owner’s bulk. That dull, familiar ache coursed like a drug through his arms, chest, and sides. Today was upper body training, and it had felt so good. He took a shuddering breath and moaned at the feeling of fabric brushing up a perfect set of well-carved abdominals. The tight hug of his black tank top complemented the familiar brush of rough fabric from his snapback. Thick arms as broad if not larger than footballs rested lightly on the wooden desk. He took his time to admire the masculine appendages, the huge mitts that his hands had become, the prominence of his veins against the muscle he’d worked so long and hard to grow beneath.

“I’m me.” He laughed exultantly. “I’m fucking me!” He whooped as if he’d just seen the school team score the winning touchdown. “I’m big fucking Dick!” He pumped his arm and danced in the chair. Then the computer monitor caught his eye. The program was still open. He reached for the lid and rested his massive palm on the now-familiar indent where he had laid it so many times before during his transformation. He loved sports. He loved weights. And he loved dominance. And now he’d just come off the ultimate domination by asserting himself against his old personality. He could leave it at that, delete the file, close the program, never think of it again.

“Or....” A smirk pulled at his lips as he looked over the laptop’s files. He still had the old copies of the recordings from his metamorphosis. It wouldn’t be that hard to record over the pieces that needed changing, and the walls were thin. He should be able to mix a few tracks. After all, even jocks and meatheads had fun with programs like garage band. The smirk turned into a sneer as he pulled out the mic and finished recording the beginnings of a new track. “Wuddup, Bro? Welcome to Jock School, where meatheads rule and bein’ a jock is fuckin’ cool. Huhuhuhuh....”

Management

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“Time for selfie and report, Narcissus,” the pulsing blue circle in my mirror chirped, and I obeyed. I mean, why shouldn’t I? My body is incredible. Mmm ... can’t wait to send this to my trainer. Another one to add to the photo album. Number 2156, I believe.

I used to think this was weird, frightening even. I’d gone to Nemesis for help. The hypnotist was supposed to work miracles. Models, actors, you name it, Nemesis could and would help.

...

For a price.

My price was my sense of selflessness. The more I change, the more I feel like I have to look out for number one. And the more I feel like only number one matters.

...

Number one matters.

...

Number one....

My fingers are flying across the screen on my phone. The message is the same. It’s always the same.

Narcissus reporting.

The image is sent.

Damn, I look hot.

I look at myself, and in my tranced state, I can’t help but agree. My six pack is starting to show without my having to flex. My pectorals are perfectly symmetrical. My new piercing complements my eyes and pulls attention toward my masculine jawline. The size of my traps and the way my neck bends and curves into the shoulder leaves me looking more and more like a Greek statue. No, better than a Greek statue. I look amazing! It’s wonderful being so comfortable in my own skin. Everyone should want to be like me. And why not? My body is the kind that men and women alike would swoon over. Hell, I bet Nemesis is doing that right now.

The message that comes is like a depth charge to my former personality.

Good. Then you won’t mind a proper nude pic next time, will you, Narcissus?

A test. I know it’s a test. I know it’s to push me toward that final vault. I’ve been so hesitant for the last month. Time and again the command was sent. Time and again, I snapped out of trance because of it. Because of my own doubts.

The smart mirror chirps, and a familiar voice gradually plays over the speaker.

“I know you’re scared, Narcissus. But you trust me, don’t you, Narcissus? You trust my voice. You trust my guidance as I lead you deeper and deeper.”

And I can’t deny it. Already, I feel my lips moving in response. “Yes....”

“Deeper and deeper. Smoother and smoother. Warm and safe and completely in my power, the power of Nemesis.”

“Yes, Nemesis....”

“So deep. So full of my words. Words about you. Words about yourself. Full of yourself. Because...?”

“I am Narcissus. I am number one. I am hot.”

“And you are proud.”

“I am proud....”

Proud men do not fear. Proud Narcissus only cares about himself. Only cares about admiring his form, making it better, stronger, more beautiful. Proud Narcissus is a showoff. His body is to be adored. He is to be adored.”

“Showoff ... adored....” I ... I must....

“Do you wish to be adored, Narcissus?”

“Yes....” I wish....

“Good, Narcissus. Listen, Narcissus. Confident Narcissus, beautiful Narcissus, arrogant Narcissus. Proud Narcissus....”

So many triggers. All at once. I ... I ... I ... “Narcissus is ready for instruction.”

“Tomorrow, you will take a nude picture. Tomorrow, you will take pride in the glory and beauty of your whole body. Because your body is perfect, and it deserves to be admired. Confirm, Narcissus.”

“I will take a nude picture. I will take pride in the glory and beauty of my whole body. My body is perfect. It deserves to be admired.” Admired ... must ... show....

“Good Narcissus. Arrogant Narcissus is in control today. Proud Narcissus will stand with him. You will show off. You will revel. Your body is a gift to mankind. You are a gift to mankind. Remember and show that fact to the world.”

“Yes, Nemesis....” Yes, Nemesis....

“Good Narcissus. Wake.”

Fuck, that feels so good after a session. You liked what you saw, didn’t you? I don’t blame you. After all, I’m one sexy son of a ... well, you know. So, are you going to stand there all day, or are you actually going to make your request? I know what you want.

All you have to do is ask.

I might be willing to grant it.

...

For a price.

Corrosion

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You’re probably wondering why I brought you here, huh, little bro? Abandoned property, lots of old steel and iron girders. Looks pretty solid doesn’t it? Kind of like me. Now, see, the reason I brought you here is ‘cause I want to explain about some of the changes I’ve been goin’ through. Why I haven’t been studying so much, why I’ve been going to the gym, why I’ve been hanging out with new friends.

See, it’s all right here. And no, I’m not talking about me or my body. We’ll get to that later. Look behind me. Look above me. Look at these girders. What do you see?

Look closer, man, come on!

There! That’s it, right there! That’s what I’m talking about. Look at how that metal is peeling, curling, stripping. It’s losing its color, its shape, its cohesion. It’s corroded. Now, you see, little bro, corrosion happens when metal gets exposed to the elements for too long. Open air eventually leads to oxidation, which leads to the metal breaking down and flaking away, degrading until it finally snaps. It can take a long time, sometimes. And other times, it’s quick and easy. It all depends on the exposure, the stuff you throw at it, you follow me?

Well, bro, if you look carefully, you’ll see all those curls and shavings look an awful like like the furls we’ve got in our brains, y’know? Rain, sleet, hail, snow, wind, repeat. Everything bashes against these girders until they start to break down. And that’s what happened to me, bro.

My brain couldn’t take it anymore. I started to break down. Honors classes, grades, college, no electives, no room to breathe. Study, study, study all the fuckin’ time, bro.

Relax. No one’s here to hear it. It’s just us. But bro, that’s what was going on. That’s what was happening to me. I was tired of it. My brain was breaking down. My brain was corroded. And just like these girders here or the ones on a bridge, I needed a break and I needed a repair.

I looked up how they do it, you know, repair these things. I haven’t lost all my smarts yet, you know. I just ... put ‘em in other things. Anyway, first step is to cut off traffic flow. Anything that puts stress over the girders while they’re being repaired is a big no. So, that’s what I did. I shut down. I stopped trying to impress the honor society and my parents and whoever else was hanging my future over my head to bludgeon me. I needed to just let go, y’know?

Damn, did it feel good to let go.

Now, like I said, that’s just the first step. Shutting down won’t stop corrosion. It just lets you take a load off and prep for what’s to come. Don’t give me that look, bro. Listen. This is important. You’ve gotta listen to me.

Step two, bro. Now, this is how they wrote it, not me, okay? The bridges have gotta get jacked, bro. That’s the next step. Listen, bro! You promised me you’d listen. You follow me? Good. Listen. Step one. Step one is to let go. I had to let go and focus. Focus on me. No other voices. No other distractions. Couldn’t let the corrosion get worse, right? Now step two follows step one. I had to get jacked up, like the bridge, ya know?

I had to go to the gym to get jacked up. Step two. Jacking up. Step two. Pumping up. Step two. Lifting up. Step two. Listen up. I jacked up by working out. Working out to step three. ‘Cause step three is nearly the same. Step three is so much alike. Step three is cutting out the bad stuff. Cutting out the corrosion.

Step two: Pumping Up and Working Out.

Step three: Cutting out.

The corrosion has to go. First, I cut out junk food. Then I ran step two again. I pumped up. I worked out. Then Step three. I cut out academics. That’s right, bro. Cut it out.

And bro, it felt so fucking good to cut it out. I relaxed. I stopped caring about those stupid grades and professors. What mattered was me. What mattered was my structure, my integrity, my security. Being secure in my body, secure with step two and step three.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting studying.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting tutoring.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting homework.

Bro, it felt so, fucking, GOOD!

I listened to my body. I let go of my stress. I jacked up my body by working out. I cut out the corrosion.

Step one....

Step two....

Step three....

Are you listening?

Good. Remember, you promised to listen.

You’re starting to get it now, bro, aren’t you?

I can tell.

Step four is easy. I was already doing it, and I didn’t even know it. Can you guess what it is, bro? Nah, I can see you can’t. Don’t worry, bro. I knew you were feelin’ the same. Mom n’Dad’ve been giving you the same treatment since I stood up to ‘em. I know. S’why I wanted to show you, to tell you, to make you understand.

And you understand I needed these steps.

And bro, don’t take this the wrong way. I think you need these steps, too.

I know, too much information. You feel like your head’s all fuzzy. That’s the corrosion I was talkin’ about. Just keep listening. Keep following me, following my voice.

Good little bro. You can get pumped while we talk. Go on. I don’t mind. Try it. Jack up, bro.

Step one....

Step two....

Step three....

Step four: Welding new steel in place.

Or in this case, new material for the brain, little bro. New information, like the stuff I’ve been telling you. Step one: shutdown. Step two: jacking up. Step three: Cutting out. Step four: Welding new stuff in.

And you know the best part, bro? I’d been welding the whole time. Look at me. Listen to me. The new stuff was working out. The new stuff was new exercises. The new stuff was new diets and routines.

And new friends.

So what if my new friends are jocks?

It’s a natural fit for a jacked up bod. A jacked up bod needs a jacked up jock and a jacked up jock needs a jacked up bod. It’s a natural fit for a bro like me, little bro. They’re my stiffeners, you know, the secondary support. They keep me straight. Straight in form. Rigid structure. We hold each other up, ya know?

They get me so pumped, so jacked up! I’m telling you, bro, I’m ready for another step four. This time, I’m going all the way with a new sport. Bros want me to play football. And I gotta say, I want to, too. I mean, the weld supports the beam, right? And the beam supports the weld. A stiff hard beam built to take heavy loads. A big buff team built to take heavy blows. I’m gonna join the football team, little bro, be with my new friends. It’s where I belong. I fit there.

What’s Step five?

Well, bro, once the weld is done and set, that’s kinda it. Step five is when they lower the span back onto the girder again. The load comes back. Only this time, you can bear it, because you’re stronger.

Stronger, like me.

I said no to Mom and Dad because I’d had enough. I still have to fight with them. Still have to tell them to back off and let me be the new me. But I’m strong because of these steps.

So what if I’m a jock bro? There’s nothing wrong with that. What matters is being happy and doing the weld right. Understand, little bro?

Huhuhuh. I thought you might say that. Sure, you can come with me to the gym next time. I’ll show you the ropes.

Let’s get you jacked up.

Credit to @fitaestheticguys for this image. I got it from his blog.

As usual, if you want to help me earn a living writing these kinds of stories/scripts (and just writing in general), please subscribe to my Patreon. For just $3 a month, you get access to unique muscle, hypnosis, and transformation stories that you won’t find anywhere else on the web. You may also find the occasional hypnosis script, and will have the right to request certain story ideas and scripts to be written and posted for your viewing pleasure.

Thank you so much for your support. Now, without further ado, the post.

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Warning: This is a hypnotic script. Be sure that you will not be driving or operating any heavy machinery when you read this. It is preferable that you do so in a relaxed environment. As I have said in previous hypno posts, I am not a professional hypnotist. You read this script at your own risk, and I am not responsible for the results. However, I assure you that, as in my other scripts, I will include prompts to wake you back up and ensure that you retain your freedom.

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Sand

Curious thing, sand, isn’t it? We never seem to really question it. It’s a fine powdery silicate that grinds between the toes and melts into glass. We enjoy its warmth on a cool day and curse its heat in the dog days of summer. And yet, it has so many uses that we always seem to take for granted. Such tiny particles. So puny. So weak. So still. But it’s always the BIG things that are made from the little things.

Take this scene for instance. You can picture it, can’t you? The surge of the waves as they wash over the shore. The sea breeze blowing over the sand to raise playful eddies or simply to brush the cheeks of the beach goers. Gulls cry and call in the air. And sometimes you can see people building wet sand into castles and sculptures. All those little things bound together, molded into a single purpose by hands that are not their own, wills that are not their own, voices that are not their own.

All made possible by the crashing, whispering, rolling waves. Rolling over the shore. Rolling and absorbing into the sand, the sand that accepts so readily, that gums and clods and clumps at the insistence of the waves. So thirsty to take more. To absorb those waves deeper and deeper. Absorbing with every crash, every whispering sigh.

Absorbing every time.

Absorbing.

Every.

Time.

Time that slows and stills with every breath. Every passing second becoming a minute, an hour, a week, a month, a year, an eternity.

Time that slips through the hourglass so freely, clumps like your thoughts under the crash of the waves. The waves of my words. The building condensation that slips through your walls like the meeting of hot and cold.

The hot sand of your thoughts with the cool, refreshing flow of my words, my waves, rushing over the hourglass. Rushing, whispering, cooling, waiting to quench your thirst. The thirst of the sand. The sand of your thoughts waiting to drink deep and absorb my words.

And though you may not hear everything, condensation still occurs. The distilling of water. The distilling of my waves, my words, my will, forming within those walls, past those barriers, deep, deep within your mind.

Forming and growing and dripping ever so slowly. Slow, like the ebb and flow of the waves. Slow, like the steady trickle of my words, the distilled words, the words that are now seeping, forming, uniting, dripping, dripping, dripping to the sand. The sifting sand of your thoughts. Your thirsty thoughts. So dry. Waiting. Wanting.

You want to hear my voice. You want to let that water in. You want to let it flow over you. You want to hear its whisper as it ebbs and flows. You want to drink deep.  So thirsty. So wanting. 

Drink deep.

And a droplet begins to slide.

Deeper.

Down the glass it comes. So slowly. So heavy. And yet so refreshing. So clear. So cool and wonderful.

Drink deep.

The sand waits. It wants. You want. You want to drink deep. You want to listen and drink deep.

The droplet meets its fellows. It grows larger. More compelling. So cool. So calming. The promise to relax to stop the flow and merely be. Be silent as my words slip through your brain. Be relaxed as the water flows gently, slowly.

Gently.

Slowly.

Down, down, down.

Down...

Down.......

Down...........

And ... CONTACT.

My words have reached you.

My words have touched you.

My words have absorbed into your sand, the sand that is your thoughts, the thoughts that are even now beginning to clot.

And like a tiny river, the condensation of my words, my deep, refreshing, heavy words, flow along the trail to reach the point of impact. And you absorb them. Your thoughts soak my words up like a sponge. Growing thicker. Growing heavier. Growing sluggish and thick.

So heavy. So clodded.

So very hard to move on their own. But you don’t care. Because you would have to think to care. And all you can do now, all you want to do, is drink my words.

Drink and listen.

Listen and drink.

They are one and the same.

The same as the moisture from the waves that even now is seeping into your mind, into the sand.

Time has started to slow. It is slowing the more you absorb. The more you absorb, the deeper you go. The deeper you go, the slower your thoughts become. The slower the hourglass trickles. Deeper and slower as we count down from ten. And when we finish counting down, the hourglass will stop.

Your thoughts will stop.

You will stop thinking.

And you will wait. Wait for those hands to shape your thoughts into something different, something new. My hands. My voice. Quenching your thirst. Molding, directing, sculpting you into something new.

And you want that. Because my words are your water.

And you must absorb the water.

TEN.

The words are seeping into your mind. Seeping as the moisture spreads and binds those little grains, those various thoughts, into something larger. Something that begins to cling to the glass. Not because it is scared, but because it wants more. It wants to stay.

NINE.

To stay and focus to stay and listen as my words drip and slide and spread. Spreading, like the slogging stiffness that is gradually consuming your thoughts, consuming your head.

EIGHT.

Slower and slower. Deeper and deeper. The grains are running less and less through the neck as the water continues to trickle and seep down. Deep down.

SEVEN.

Down the slope. Down the edge. Clotting. Slogging. Slowing. Stopping up the neck. Stopping the flow of thought, the flow of consciousness.

SIX.

The sieve-like nature of the sand works against you now as the water pools deeper, lower, surrounding the dry sand in a layer of wet, a layer of water, a layer of my words waiting to seep deeper and deeper.

FIVE.

To quench the thirst.

FOUR.

Wetter and wetter. Thicker and thicker.

THREE.

Binding into an heavy glob, a sodden mass that must stay. Must listen. Must be molded.

TWO.

Molded by the flow. Molded by my words .Because the sand cannot move on its own. It does not want to. It wants to absorb. It wants to be sculpted. It wants to be shaped, because it cannot move on its own. Every thought, every grain, bound into a solid mass by my words, my will, my will that is now overtaking yours, consuming yours, transforming your thoughts from so many grains to a dull dark cement that only I can move, only I can shape.

ONE.

No more flow.

No more thought.

When I reach zero, the hourglass will stop. The glass will break. And your thoughts will pour into my hands to be molded, to be shaped, to become whatever I will.

Because that is what you want. That is what you need.

Your will is my will. Your thoughts are my thoughts.

I think for you.

I choose for you.

And that is what you want. You want what I say. You do what I say. Because I shape your thoughts.

Obey.

I mold your thoughts.

Listen.

With my words.

Obey.

keeping you bound.

Listen.

Quenching the thirst.

Obey.

The thirst to LISTEN and OBEY.

Because it is time for the hourglass to stop.

ZERO.

Time to obey.

You are mine to mold and command as I see fit.

I can shape you, shape your thoughts, shape your very being.

In this state, you are mine. And you will acknowledge this now by saying so. If there are others around you, you may whisper it under your breath. I merely require acknowledgement.

And you will acknowledge.

You will comply.

You will obey.

And you will do so now.

The waves of my words, my will, shape and scatter your thoughts as I see fit.

But I am not heartless. I know that there may be some desires you bore once before I brought you to this state of emptiness, of obedience, of blissful nothingness. So, here is what we’re going to do.

I am going to plant a trigger in you, a trigger that only works for me. That trigger is: Omni says it’s time to sculpt.

You will remember this trigger. And when it is used, you will verify that you have entered trance by responding with: I am ready to be sculpted. 

Repeat it.

...

Good. This trigger will remain in those who wish or consent to be molded by me of their own free will after this session is complete. Remember, the trigger is:

Omni says it’s time to sculpt.

If you desire to be molded by me in your conscious state, then when you wake from trance, you will like this post and reblog it with the comment: I am ready to be sculpted, Omni. You may then message me privately to discuss the nature of this sculpting. I reserve the right to refuse, and you will respect that right, should I choose to exercise it.

When I bring you out of trance, you will be your full former self. Your faculties will be yours, and you will be under no compulsion of any kind. Your will will be your own again. Your thoughts yours to choose and shape. You will not be bound to me in service. You will be your same self, except perhaps feeling a little better rested and relaxed, perhaps even a little happier. And in the event that you truly desire to be molded by me when you are conscious, you will feel the desire to follow the instructions I listed previously.

Now, for those who do not desire to be molded, but still sincerely enjoyed this script, you will like this submission and leave a comment.

That comment will begin with: Time has resumed.

You may then add whatever you wish in addition to it, whether it be constructive criticism or a discussion of the experience, or something, or nothing. It is up to you.

I also encourage you to reblog this script, but you are under no compulsion to do so, and may do so or not as you wish. And in the event you do choose to reblog, you are not under compulsion to follow the instructions of those who desire to be molded.

This next instruction is for all of you.

When you wake, if you sincerely desire it, and only if you really desire it of your own free will and have the financial means to support it while still living comfortably, you will scroll to the link embedded at the top of this post and subscribe to my patreon.

You will also follow my tumblr, assuming that is what you really desire.

Take the time to understand and incorporate the instructions that apply to you from the trigger to this point. Read through them again, if you must, to make sure that you remember and execute them properly. When you are certain you understand and remember what to do, you will continue to follow the script below.

...

Now then, it’s time to wake up. So, when I *SNAP!* my fingers on the count of TEN, just like that, you are going to come back to consciousness. This time, we’re counting up from zero.

ONE.

The sun is shining. The sand is beginning to harden as the heat wicks the moisture away.

TWO.

The wind is whipping at the remainder of the moisture, blowing the hot air radiating from the sun to speed the process.

THREE.

Some grains are beginning to fall away. The droplets are long since gone.

FOUR.

Thoughts unclogging. Mind beginning to think clearly again as the flow of consciousness resumes.

FIVE.

The condensation has disappeared from the glass, and the hourglass is repaired. It awaits the sand.

SIX.

The darkness is flowing away as the hardened clods break apart into glistening golden grains again.

SEVEN.

The grains are flowing back into the hourglass. The surf resumes its harmless pounding as it retreats.

EIGHT.

The sand flows easily through the neck of the glass, ensuring proper flow of thought, letting you resume where you left off before trance.

NINE.

You are almost there. On the next count, I’ll snap my fingers, and you will be fully awake and fully restored. You will follow the instructions you choose to obey of your own free will, having all autonomy restored to you with your consciousness.

Ready?

And...

TEN.

*SNAP!*

Credit to @willpeter for this image.

This story will have hypnotic themes in it and guiding a character into trance. If you trance easily, make sure you aren’t doing anything that could put yourself or others in jeopardy before reading.

If you like this content, please help support me by joining my Patreon. For just $3.00 a month, you get access to unique story and script content that you won’t find anywhere else on my webpages, along with the privilege of helping to recommend ideas and themes that I will incorporate in later scripts via the Discord Server.

Help me reach a high enough monthly income, and I’ll be able to post more content on a regular basis both here and there. :D

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Lea-durr-ship

(Disclaimer: This story and its title is not made to target mentally disabled individuals. The term “dur” has been associated with people who have moments of lapse in thought, make silly or “stupid” mistakes, and a general pop culture reference to lack of intelligence. Please, do not use this term when referring to mentally disabled individuals. Thank you.)

The camera flickered on as James finished setting up his laptop. The bars, suitcase, and other miscellaneous items and weights were still sitting on the floor behind him, waiting to be unpacked. As per his hypnotist’s instructions, he had stripped to show off the progress he had made in developing his body. They would continue their sessions, despite the work he had to do.

“Good afternoon, Jamie.”

James never let anyone call him that, save for his hypnotist.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

The screen mirrored James’ body as he stared into the camera.

“I see you are settling in.” The screen remained dark for the other end of the call. His hypnotist preferred to work with just his voice.

“Yes, Sir. I admit that I’m a little nervous, though.” James raised his arms and flexed to show off his progress. Veins snaked through his arms like roots. Apart from his head, he was perfectly smooth.

“Oh? And why is that, Jamie?”

James shuddered. “I ... I have to take charge. I’ve always been following other people. Doing work to hand up the chain. Now, I have to be the one to lead.” He paused to swallow. Silence followed.

“And?” the voice prompted.

“I’m scared, Sir,” James finally admitted.

“Flex for me, boy.” It wasn’t a request.

James shuddered and did as he was commanded. The screen flashed over his glasses as the camera refreshed and the lighting adjusted on his monitor.

“Follow as you flex. Follow your progress on the screen. Follow and listen to my voice as you flex deeper. Deeper and deeper...”

James shuddered again as his underwear tightened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Very good. So, you are afraid to lead, yes?”

“Yes.” James transitioned into an archer pose.

“Good boy. It is good to acknowledge fear. it is good to understand that it exists. It is natural, just as natural as my voice in your ears, my voice guiding you down, down, down into trance. And you like that, don’t you, muscleboy?”

James groaned as he transitioned to a new side pose to show off his legs and lats. “Yes, Sir.”

“Such a good muscleboy.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Good muscleboys listen. Good muscleboys obey. Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to obey? Are you ready to prove you are a good muscleboy?”

The room fell away. All that mattered was the voice and his body on the screen as he pitched his voice lower. “I am a good muscleboy. Ready to listen. Ready to obey.”

“Good. Now listen, muscleboy. Listen deep. Listen well. Listen, and obey. Any time you are afraid, you will flex. Flexing will calm you. Flexing will give you confidence, as it gives you confidence when you flex for me. Flexing puts the fear into your muscles. Flexing clears your mind. Flexing allows you to focus. Focus on your tasks. Focus on what needs to be done. Focus on what I or your superiors tell you. And your muscles will burn that fear away just as easily as they burn calories. It is a natural process. Natural to be confident. Natural to let it go. Natural to burn it away.”

The more James flexed, the more relaxed he felt. He smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

“But all things that burn leave something behind, don’t they? Chemicals, smoke, exhaust. Isn’t that right, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And exhaust must be vented.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will vent that exhaust, that excess, by laughing. A simple laugh. A deep laugh. A dull laugh. Blunting your fear. Blunting your worry. Blunting, so you can think clearly and calmly. And you’re feeling very calm right now, aren’t you, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re burning that fear and anxiety with every flex, great or small. You acknowledge that there is risk, but that risk holds no power over you to keep you from doing your job, because you are burning the fear, burning the anxiety, feeding the machine that you are to work clearly, efficiently, and well. Now, be a good muscleboy and expel that exhaust.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy,” the hypnotist purred. “Again.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy. Doing just as you’re programmed. So simple. So calm. So relaxed. Don’t you feel silly for all that fuss now?”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir.”

“So silly. So dull. So stupid. But that’s all right. There are leaders, and there are lea-durrs. Both know how to lead. Both can be intelligent and efficient. Both can be charismatic. One of them just needs a little ... encouragement sometimes. Encouragement from people like me, to help them see how silly they are to be afraid. To help them let go of that stupidity that cripples them and holds them captive at crucial points. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud to acknowledge that you needed help and sought it out. Proud ... to be a lea-durr. What are you?”

“I am a good muscleboy. I am a lea-durrr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durrr.” He laughed and laughed and laughed as he continued to flex for his hypnotist.

“Good muscleboy. I expect a report from you as soon as you finish your first day on the job, understood? You will call me and report, muscleboy.”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir. I am a good muscleboy. Huhuh. A good muscleboy is a good lea-durr. I will lead. I will obey. Huhuhuhuh.....”

“Good muscleboy. Now get that workout equipment set up. I want to watch you lift today.

James grinned. “Yes, Sir.” He laughed as he got to work. A glassy look began to filter over his eyes. “I am a good muscleboy. I obey.”

Credit to @heavy-package for this image.

If you enjoy my work, please follow me here on tumblr and join my Patreon, so I can keep producing more of these scripts and stories full time. Just one to three dollars a month from each of you will go a long way to helping me pay expenses, so I can make more of the content you love on a regular basis.

Please, help me make this dream a reality. I really want to write full-time.

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WARNING: This is a hypnotic script designed to trigger a previous tranced state. If you wish this script to be effective, use the first induction. Then you can come back to follow my script here. Disclaimer: I am not a professional hypnotist. I take no responsibility for any potential effects this script may have on you. You read at your own risk. I design them to allow the reader to return to their original states and retain their free will, but it is up to each individual how they react to hypnosis and what prompts they may or may not choose to internalize and actualize in their day-to-day lives. DO NOT operate any heavy machinery or drive while you are in trance. That is incredibly dangerous. You have been warned.

This script is geared more toward adults. While there is no inappropriate content, I advise minors to be careful and avoid this until you’re older and more informed about hypnosis and its effects.

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Staycation (Beach Bum Fantasy Female Tanning + Male beach bro)

Well, hello again, and welcome back. I know you’ve probably been having a rough time lately. Being stuck indoors can be so boring after a while, I know. People long to go out, get some sun, take a walk, take a break.

Or maybe a vacation?

No need to fear. We all want to be able to bum around without having to worry about things like work or sickness or weather. Fortunately, you have me here to help you achieve that desire.

And you won’t even have to leave your home.

Would you like that, my friend?

Excellent. Then here’s what you need to do. I want you to find a place to sit back, relax, and just listen to my voice. Read the words as they scroll across your screen, and your eyes trace them left to right.

Left.

                                                                                                To right.

Left.

                                                                                                To right.

Back.

                                                                                                and forth.

Just....

                                                                                                like....

This....

And keep

                                                                                              that motion

going.

...

going....

...

                                                                                             going.

Just like that swell, that whorl in your brain that spreads the dizziness that even now is encroaching on you.

But you must...

                                                                                           keep...

reading.

Reading as the whorl ebbs and flows.

Ebbs.

                                                                                           And flows.

Just like...

                                                                                           The crashing...

foamy...

                                                                                           waves of the beach.

Imagine that warm sun

                                                                                          beating...

beating...

                                                                                           beating...

on your skin.

The tingle.

                                                    The pulsing.

                                                                                          The lulling....

                                                       Lulling...

Like the waves.

                                                      Rocking.

                                                                                           Crashing.

                                                      Pulling.

Seeping.

                                                      Seeping.

                                                                                           Seeping....

Seeping,

                                                                                        like my words.

Seeping...

Deeper...

                                                                                         And deeper....

Lower...

                                                                                          And lower....

Slower...

                                                                                          and...

slower....

...

...

...

You can almost feel it, can’t you?

...

That warm, relaxing tingle....

                                                                                      All over your body....

Spreading, like the gentle foam....

                                                                                      dragging...

pulling...

                                                                                     deeper and deeper...

into the sand.

                                                                                     The wet sand.

So relaxing...

                                                                                     Like a heavy

warm

                                                                                     blanket.

Sinking...

                                                                                      being....

There is no danger.

                                                                                      No fear.

Just pure

                                                 mindless

                                                                                    relaxation.

                                                 Slipping...

Seeping...

                                                Down and down.

                                                                                   Down and down.

                                               Down and down.

Ten.

                                      The waves washing over you.

                                                                                       So warm.

                                                       Nine.

Absorbing my words.

                                                 As they wash.

                                                                                      As they dig.

                                                  into the sand.

Eight.

                                                   Wet sand.

                                                                                     Heavy sand.

                                                  So heavy.

Like...

                                                      your...

                                                                                          mind.

                                                     Seven.

You can feel it.

                                                    Molding.

                                                                                      Imprinting.

                                                     So...

Impressionable....

                                                    Six.

                                                                                       Malleable.

                                                    Five.

Sculptable.....

                                              Needing more...

                                                                                     More...

                                              More to absorb.

More to seep.

                                    More to wash and drift away.

                                                                                      Drift...

Drifting...

                                                on the eddies.

                                                                                    The surging sea...

My voice....

                                                      Four.

                                                                                     My words.

                                                     Three.

Pulling...

                                                     Leading....

                                                                                    Deep into the sand.

                                                      Two.

The blanket of sand.

                                                      One.

                                                                                   One with the sand.

                                         The sand of your mind.

So full...

                                                    So heavy...

                                                                                       Waiting...

Ripe...

                                                     wanting....

You want...

                                                                                      My voice....

You know...

                                                                                      My voice....

Digging into your head....

                                           Digging into your mind....

                                                                                      Digging....

                                                    Massaging....

Sculpting....

                                   Because wet sand must be sculpted.

Wiggle those toes.

                                              You feel it, don’t you?

                                                                                    So heavy....

                                                     So dull....

So dense....

                                                 Sinking into it...

                                                                                   Part of it....

                                                    One with it....

                                      Absorbing every word I say.

                                                Trickling down....

                                                       Down....

                                                       Down....

                                                       Down.....

                                                      To ZERO

                                                          ...

                                                          ...

                                                          ...

                                OMNI SAYS IT’S TIME TO SCULPT.

Good. You responded well.

Your mind is mine to shape.

                                                   Mine to mold.

                                                                                      Mine to control.

Mind control....

                                                    Mind control....

                                                                                        MY control.

Now, listen closely. You remember the whorl. Remember the pull of those waves. 

Think back to them again.

Think back to that sensation of water dragging over your skin and feet.

Think back to a time of hot, hot summer sun.

Feel that heat.

Feel it on your skin. Not burning, but pleasant.

Not hurtful, but perfect to get that ideal tan.

Tan like the sand.

Rich...

Golden....

On your skin.

...

You feel that sun seeping into you. And it is good. You see waves. You hear the gulls calling in time, but you do not heed them. You only heed my voice, my words, the words that are the waves seeping into your mind, into the sand, into this world that we are crafting together.

This is to be your vacation.

And a beach as gorgeous as this, so warm, so perfect and peaceful, deserves a perfect match.

A perfect match...

A perfect match....

What could match better than a muscular, toned, tanned beach bum?

That is what people do at the beach.

They bum.

They enjoy the sun’s rays. They live for the surf, the swim, the sun.

The calming lull of the waves crashing and seeping and calling, commanding.

Commanding you to change.

Commanding you to fit.

You will fit this paradise.

Feel it now. As your clothes slowly disappear.

Fading...

Fading...

Evaporating in the sun’s rays.

Because the sun is meant for the skin.

Shining on your chest, your shoulders, your face....

Warm and peaceful. Waiting to help you.

Waiting to dry you off when I finish sculpting you.

Sculpting as your shirt finishes fading away to reveal your chest. If you are a girl, you will be wearing the appropriate swimwear. Either a bikini or a one-piece suit.

If you are a man, your chest will remain bared to the world, regardless of its state. And as your pants slowly begin to fade from the waist down, your upper body begins to change.

A perfect beach requires a perfect beach bod.

Fat is melting away.

Peeled.

Chiseled.

Carved.

Until there is only the ideal shape for you.

Whether it be thin or well-built.

Your body will be fit for the beach.

All cares of the outside world will fade.

Just ... enjoying the lull of the waves. The sun on your face.

Your skin tanning.

And all the while, more and more, a voice is niggling at the back of your mind.

My voice.

My waves.

Seeping.

And they are saying something that is becoming more and more true with each passing moment.

They are saying:

You are the perfect beach bum.

Women, enjoy the sunbathing as you bask in the warmth. Lay down somewhere soft. Soft, like the sand. And enjoy. Luxuriate. After all, why should you worry? Your body is perfect. More and more perfect. The perfect beach bum.

You deserve to enjoy the warmth as the heat bakes away your worries and cares, soothing aching joints and muscles. Relaxing knots and tension.

Relax.

And enjoy as the rest of your clothing is baked away to reveal your body in its full glory. With a beautiful swim suit. The calming sea breeze carrying that familiar scent that you have longed for. Relax in it. And enjoy it. You are on your vacation. This is your special place.

And you will relax and enjoy it as I turn to address the males, ready to hear and follow the moment I add you back again.

Now, men, I speak to you.

My waves are calling the same command.

The same order.

The same truth.

You are the perfect beach bum.

Feel your bodies toning as the fat disappears to be replaced. Your skin swollen with toned muscle.

And the more exposed you become to the sun, the faster your clothing disappears, until your pants are gone.

And what remains ... is a beautiful, comfortable speedo.

And the longer you stand in that sun’s exposure, you feel an urge rising.

An urge as inexorable as the waves of the ocean. Brushing your thighs. Your calves. Your back and torso in equal measure with the sun.

You cannot stop it.

You cannot resist it.

Not forever.

And why would you want to?

For this command, this urge, is instinctual in all beach bums.

You want to strut. You want to show off.

And you will.

You will start to now.

Even just walking or shuffling will suffice.

Because the more you do it, the more your bodies will build to reflect that perfect beach bum figure.

Swelling with muscle.

Swelling with tone.

Swelling with confidence.

Swelling to fit that perfect beach bum build.

Because you are the perfect beach bum.

Flex, beach bum.

Smile, beach bum.

Good beach bum.

...

A good male beach bum is comfortable with his body.

A good male beach bum is confident.

A good male beach bum follows what is expected of him.

Expected to act like a beach bum. Talk like a beach bum. To be a beach bum in all ways.

And that means being a bro.

Because a male beach bum is a beach bro.

Their bodies do the thinking.

Their bodies do the driving.

Their bodies driven by instinct.

Driven by my voice.

Directed by my voice.

As thinking gets fuzzy.

A perpetual haze of welling testosterone fit to overflowing.

Because a perfect beach bum has a perfect beach bulge.

Growing bigger and bigger.

Swelling in the crotch as your thoughts of stress, of worry, of work, dissipate.

They are consumed. Consumed by your beach bum bulge. Filling you with strength, with pleasure, with that need to just laugh and be a good beach bum, bro.

Be a beach bum, bro.

Tan, bro.

Swole, bro.

Hung and dumb, bro....

Enthusiastic.

Happy.

A party animal.

You welcome anyone to the party with open arms.

Always with the same greeting. Always welcoming a new bro to be a beach bum, just like you.

And you greet them by saying, “Waddup, bro?”

If you are excited to see the man you know, then you can use another variation, such as, “Bro!” or, “Welcome to the party, bro!” But there will always be bro somewhere in your address.

Because you are a perfect beach bum bro.

Tell me. What are you, bro?

...

How do you greet me, bro?

...

Why can’t you stop flexing and showing off, bro?

...

That’s right, beach bum. Good bro.

And when you laugh, that beach bum bulge will drop your voice deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Until it’s nothing more than a dull, husky chuckle.

Huhuhuh....

Husky chuckle.

Huhuhuh....

Husky ... chuckle....

Good beach bum.

Good bro.

Let me hear it one more time.

Good.

Now, we tie it all together. Because a beach bum bro like you is so happy to enjoy the sunny beach. So happy to relax in this place that I made especially for you. It’s only right for you to thank me, isn’t it?

You forgot to?

Well, that’s okay. You can do it now. Silly bro.

Just say, “Waddup, bro? Thanks for making me a perfect beach bum, bro. I love being a big dumb beach bum bro, bro.” And then you will laugh that same laugh.

Like a good dumb beach bum bro.

Because at this time, in this place, that is what you are.

Relaxed.

Dumb.

Buff.

Carefree.

With no need to worry about any stresses out of this space.

Good beach bum.

Flex, beach bum.

Show off, beach bum.

And let the sun bake you into perfect form.

Baked and hardened into this perfect male beach bum bro.

Good bro.

...

Now, I speak to all of you beach bums, both male and female. Whether you’re tanning, building sand castles, swimming, or something else, I want you to listen.

Listen to me.

Listen to my voice.

You will remain in and enjoy this state for the next half hour, unless other duties in the real world are more important and call you away.

You know what those important things are, even in this state.

And you will address those important duties as your normal self.

Then, if you wish, you may return to this world, this state, again to finish your vacation as a perfect beach bum.

You will keep track of that time. Whether you use an alarm or a wristwatch or some other means is up to you, but you will keep track.

And when the half hour expires, you will return from your vacation on the beach.

You will wake, and you will return to your original states, save for any anxiety or negative emotions and sensations you were harboring before. Those were let go of at the beach. You will have a clean slate to do with as you please. And a relaxed body and mind to go into whatever task or duty you may need to do.

If you wish to enter this state again, you need only say, “I need a vacation, Omni,” out loud, and you will return to beach bumming. This can only be performed once per day at most. You will not abuse it.

Now, before I go to let you enjoy this state, I need you to do something for me.

If you sincerely enjoyed this experience, you will like this post.

If you were tranced and want to share this with others, you will reblog this post.

When you reblog, if you are female, you will type, “I am a perfect beach bum” as a part of the post.

If you are male, you will type, “I’m a perfect beach bum, bro. Huhuhuh....” as part of your post.

If you are not following my blog already, and wish to of your own free will, then you will do so as soon as possible. If you do not have a tumblr account of your own, but still wish to follow me, you will get a tumblr account and do so, provided you are allowed to legally and have the means to do so.

Lastly, if you wish to see more of these hypnosis scripts and other content, and you can afford to do so, and sincerely wish to of your own free will without coercion or any influence induced by trance, you will pledge to my patreon.

With these orders given, it’s time for me to go.

Enjoy your vacation, my friends.

Rest assured, we will be seeing each other again soon.

This is the audio version of my previous hypnosis script sand induction. It is designed to put the listener into trance and implant a trigger for future use in other files that I intend to create. This is a binaural track, so headphones are advised. Please let me know what you all think. As usual, my rules apply. Minors, please don’t listen to this. Your minds are still developing, and I don’t want to risk implanting anything that doesn’t belong there or should grow naturally. Adults, don’t operate heavy machinery or drive while listening to this. It is designed to help put you into a trance state. So, make sure you’re relaxed and secure when you listen. Thanks, and please tell me what you all think. Thank you! ~Omni

Here is my Patreon for those who want to donate.

Honestly, hypnosis is incredibly intimate. I'd go as far to say as it's one of the most intimate things you can do with someone. Having someone so willingly consent to you worming your way into their subconscious mind, and leaving suggestions.. Trusting you with that power.. It feels lovely, and I feel flattered to be trusted like that.~