Tranceformation - Tumblr Posts

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 12

“... You’re slipping now. Slipping down and down as you listen to my voice. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. And it feels so very good, so very relaxing as you listen. The more you listen, the better you feel. The better you feel, the deeper you go. Letting go now as you descend into that muted darkness, into that peaceful trance. “Ten. Feeling so good.” You find yourself sighing heavily as you hear the familiar thock of the metronome echoing over and over in your head. “Nine. Slipping farther as your legs stop wanting to move. So heavy. So relaxed as you go deeper and deeper, feeling better and better as you listen to my voice.” And you are feeling better. Thock. Relax. Thock. deeper. Thock. Listen. Thock. Deeper. Each stroke is so rhythmic, measured. It reminds you of the weights clacking at the gym. “Eight. Deep breaths. You want to listen to me. Listening as that heaviness spreads to your lower body. It’s getting harder and harder to remain upright. How about you just lay back against the couch? It would be so much easier than sitting up, and then you can listen more, without all that weight, without all that strain to distract you. And it will feel so good when you do, won’t it? Like when you collapse into bed, after a long workout.” You’re not sure when you started letting your body sag against the back of the couch, but you shudder in pleasure as a flood of relief flows through your limbs. “Seven. No distractions. No worries. Just listening to me. Just listening to the sound of my voice as I guide you deeper and deeper. And it feels so good. You don’t want to stop, do you?” “No,” you sigh. “That’s right. You don’t. You want this. You want to listen. You love how good I make you feel. And that means you should keep listening to me, because I make you feel good.” “Yeah....” “Six. Feel the tension flowing out of your body. Feel your thinking slowing, slowing as it’s flowing, flowing out your body. Flowing away with the stress. Flowing, like my voice through your ears as you listen. Flowing louder as you fall deeper. Flowing until it’s all you can hear, all you want to hear. “All I ... want....” you mumble as the world retreats into that strange twilight sort of place. Her voice echoes and babbles in your ears, like water flowing through a cave. “Five. You love the sound of my voice. It’s good to listen, isn’t it? You want to immerse yourself in it, don’t you?” “Yes.” So good. Feels so good. “Four. Flowing over you as you fall deeper and deeper, flowing like a river over you as you descend, washing away all thought, all fear, all hesitation. You are giving in to the current. You are letting it take you where it wants, and it wants to go deeper, so you want to go deeper.” By now, you can hardly hold your head up. “Deep...er....” “Good. Three. No longer resisting the flow. Letting go as I speak to you. Listening to my guiding voice. We are flowing to that perfect place, that place of absolute stillness, where your mind is perfectly open, open to me, open to my voice, open to listen, open to obey. Because when you listen to me, you are obeying me. And listening feels good, so obeying also feels good.” “Good....” Her words are lapping over you like a massage, and it feels heavenly. “You will obey.” “I will ... obey....” Obedience is listening. Listening is obeying. Listening feels good, so obeying feels good. Makes sense. The flow is taking you where you want to go, and where you want to go is where the voice is taking you. “You will obey me. Can you repeat that for me?” “I will obey you....” A new thrill of pleasure washes over you as your body slumps further in the couch. You can’t even feel its fabric anymore. You’re floating, and it feels so good floating, listening, letting go.... “Two. So close now. Letting go of all conscious thought, all will. Surrendering it to me, because you listen to me, because you obey me. You’re nearing a final curve in your downward slope. We’re almost at that perfect spot. Slip deeper. Listen harder. Relax. Obey.” And you do obey. You can hardly muster the effort to bob your head as it slumps forward, lolling over your chest. “One. Turning so gently, so slowly, into that final curve. Slow, like your mind, slow like your breathing. Slow and deep. Deeper and deeper. So deep in my voice that you can’t possibly imagine leaving it without my help. Floating into that sea of my voice, that gentle place that laps against you in waves, caressing you, filling you with pleasure to just listen and accept, listen and obey.” It feels so right. A dull smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Zero.” You’re floating, surrounded by that beautiful, sweet voice lapping at your ears. You are immersed in darkness, that quiet nothingness that feels so good as you just ... exist. No need to think. No need to act. Just relaxing. Just sitting. Just waiting. “Tell me the truth. Can you hear me?” A command. Must listen. Must obey. “Yes,” you say in a low voice. “Have you been listening to your recordings?” “Some. The pre-workout tracks make me feel excited. I enjoy those.” “And the night tracks?” “Tried a little. Haven’t done much with ‘em yet.” “How come?” “Noise makes it hard to sleep. Brain keeps stayin’ up. Used to sleep, but now my body’s adjusted, I’m not that tired anymore.” “Listen closely,” the voice ordered. “You will listen to those tracks every night. They will no longer bother you. In fact, they will help you sleep.” “But ... they don’t.” “Not yet,” the voice corrected. “The more you listen to them, the easier it will be to sleep with them. Every night you will listen to them. Every night, they will help you to sleep. Every night, you will fall asleep sooner with the track, because you are adjusting to it. It is natural. It is a part of your nightly routine.” “Natural ... routine....” “Every night.” “Every night,” you repeat. “Tell me, what must you do with the tracks?” “Play them every night.” “Because you want to.” “I ... want to....” “Every night.” “Every night....” “You want to every night.” “I ... want to ... every night....” “Good boy. Now then, let’s get to work on a little motivation....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 13

“Look, Kid, they want progress pics, okay? It’s part of the contract, so just hold still and relax a little. It’ll be over, before you even know it,” Harry promised. You continue to look around nervously at the plethora of booths, where model after model are busy posing and flexing for the cameras. Reflectors glare as they spread illumination over each curve and bend of the various models. You can’t help but sigh as you see how free the photographers are with touching, adjusting the height of an arm for symmetry, pulling out a leg to broaden a stance. You’ve been through the song and dance before, but for some reason it just feels ... different this time. It seems almost like they’re just a bunch of puppets for the photographers to dress and pose as they choose. Then again, isn’t that basically what you’ve been doing even more than them? After all, you’re letting your contract decide your schedule, your habits. What else might it require of you? What other strings could there be attached? A sharp elbow to the ribs soon breaks you from that disturbing train of thought as Harry glares at you. “Eyes forward, kid.” A towering figure looms ahead of you. His black sleeveless zipper hoodie is parted to reveal rippling abdominals and thick, slab-like pectorals. The hood is drawn up over his face to obscure most of his features, but the way in which he carries himself more than makes up for the apparent shyness. A large hand covered in a rough fingerless glove reaches out to seize your own. “Greetings. I am Fängsla,” he announces in a thick, rolling Swedish accent. “And you must be the new model. It is a pleasure.” You feel a slight sense of vertigo as he squeezes your hand, so you shake your head to rid yourself of the feeling. “Nice to meet you, too,” you manage. Fängsla smiles wider, and you finally see past the shadows to a chiseled white face with a short cropped blond buzz cut that shines like platinum as it catches the light. “We are going to be doing great things together, yes? I can already tell.” He smiled and turned back towards an unoccupied photo booth in the corner. “Come,” he said. “We have much work to do.” Your eyes nearly bug out of your head as Fängsla hands you a a shiny dark purple posing strap. “You want me to wear this?” Fängsla shrugged. I am here to take pictures of your body, yes? How am I to do that, if we cover it up?” “Isn’t there something a little ... less revealing?” You feel the blush rising in your cheeks. “I’ve worn briefs that show less.” “If you like.” Fängsla shrugged again. “Bosses have other options.” he motioned over to a table, where a jock strap and a pair of briefs also sat. “Take your pick.” Naturally, you dove for the briefs. Your cheeks were on fire as you raced off to the changing room to get ready. Fängsla shook his head. “Americans,” he sighed. “The body is nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Then he turned to adjust his cameras and prime for your return. The constant flash of the camera was a little difficult to adjust to, at first. The slow motion capture frame set off a strobe of flashes every time you changed position, wreaking havoc on your eyes. It was fairly simple, really. You felt more like a little toy soldier than anything else as the camera man instructed, “Turn. Good. Good. Again. Other way now. Turn. Yes, yes. Very good. Now stand straight. Erect. Yes, yes, that will work nicely.” And so it continued. He would order, you would turn, he would snap, he would praise you. It actually felt kind of nice, not having someone so touchy feely working over you this time. He turned your head a few times, of course, raised your chin, that sort of thing, but he was very gentle with it. “Good, good. Remember, you are proud of muscles, yes? Show me you are proud. Proud men are not shy.” Flash “Proud men are not afraid.” Flash “Proud men are strong men.” Flash “And strong men show off.” Flash “They love to show off, yes? Of course they do.” Flash Things began to come easier. The blush faded from your cheeks. Fängsla’s words danced in your head, and a smile slowly pulled at your lips. “There he is. Show me, strong man. Show me your muscles. Show Fängsla your pride.” You were only too happy to oblige.

You walk out of the warehouse with a long stride and a grin on your face as you clutch the bag holding the posing strap, jock strap, and briefs from the shoot. “You keep,” Fängsla had insisted. “Use them to experiment later.” He’d shrugged, then. “You may come to like them, strong man.” You give your bicep a passive flex. Strong Man. You liked the sound of that. You smile and wave back at Harry, then strut confidently down the sidewalk, despite the slush and the chill in the air. Who cared, when it was so sunny and you’d been having such an amazing day? In fact.... You start to lift your legs up, puffing slightly. Today was a perfect day for a jog, and maybe a little home workout. Yeah.... You’re already lost in the rhythm of your own feet smacking on the sidewalk, by the time Harry stops waving. Unbeknownst to you, he raises his cell phone and activates his speed dial. “Hello? Yeah, this is Harry. We just finished the photo shoot. Kid’s a little shy about the straps, but a few more sessions should take care of that. Your man should be sending the photos soon. Kid’ll be blowing up like a balloon in no time. Now, about that pay check....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 14

You look at yourself carefully in the mirror, stroking the stubble gently beneath your fingers. It scratches like a set of playing cards, and you can’t help but wonder whether to keep it there or shave it off. The softer features around your cheek bones and neck have begun to harden now. You see just a hint of an edge at your jaw. For some reason, a thrill of pleasure rushes through you at the sight, and you smile confidently as you pull up your arm to flex your bicep. You chuckle to yourself at the sight. “Looking g-OO-d,” your voice cracks, and a slight flush rises in your cheeks. You clear your throat and return to your examination. The shallow furrows that barely showed along your abdominals before have deepened into shadowy trenches that clearly defined the border between each of the individual muscles. You couldn’t help but admire them, which prompted yet another chuckle. “Careful, buddy,” you warn your reflection. “You’re starting to turn into a real musclehead.” You sway on your feet as a sudden wave of vertigo overtakes you. Were it not for your quick reflexes, you might have crashed onto the tile. Instead, your fingers are clenching tightly to the lip of the counter, emphasizing the vascularity around your forearms. You pant heavily. “Woah ... that was weird.” When the world was right again, you turned resolutely from the mirror. “Might need to talk to the doc about that,” you muse as you reach back and scratch the back of your head. The bunching of your muscles as they tighten sends another dull tingle of pleasure through you. “... Maybe just one more flex.”

You look hesitantly at the massive cup Hank has shoved in your face. “Drink it all, kid. You need the extra calories.” You shudder at the thought of guzzling the container. The thing had to be at least 30 ounces! “You think this is bad, look over there.” Hank pointed toward the gym’s health bar, where a cup the size of a small pitcher was being guzzled by one of the larger builders. “Bigger muscles means bigger diet and more effort to sustain them. There aren’t any shortcuts. Now I want you to polish off every ounce of that shake. We’ve got a long workout ahead of us.” You barely manage to suppress the urge to gag. The shakes are still far too strong and thick for your liking. But you do have to drink it, if you want to keep going. You know Hank well enough by now to know he won’t hesitate to cancel his services, if you don’t stick to his program. “... All right,” you say uncertainly, “bottoms up.” You chug it as fast as you can manage. It’s the best way to deal with the taste. “Don’t worry,” Hank sneered. “Soon, you won’t be able to get enough of the stuff.” “You’ve been saying that for the last month,” you point out as you pant for breath, then let out a titanic belch. You cover your mouth quickly and swallow back the urge to gag.  “And I haven’t had a single client yet who hasn’t thanked me for turning them onto my blend,” he countered. “Duff’s addicted to the stuff.” He chuckled heartily. “What else do you think he carries in that bottle of his when he’s working out?” “Speaking of Duff, where is he?” you ask as you walk towards the bench press. “Taking a class.” Hank shrugged. “He should be out in an hour or so. You can’t pry that kid out of this place with a crowbar.” “Well, it is sort of relaxing lifting weights.” Your eyes widen as you realize what you just said, and more particularly to whom. “Oh, is that so?” He grins viciously at you. ... Crap. You’re so dead. ... But ... if you are dead, then why is your heart pounding so fast in your head? And ... why are your lips twitching? You’re suddenly aware of the familiar sensation of ear buds broadcasting sound into your ear canals. “Come on,” Hank started as the twitch pulled into a full blown smile, almost against your will. Or ... is it? Are you ... enjoying this? “Time to work out.” His voice paired perfectly with the one in your head. You open your mouth. You feel your chest heaving in that well practiced sensation of a chuckle, but you don’t hear a thing. The world is fading as that familiar rush surges through your brain, and you start drifting off. You hardly notice the fact that you’re grinning as the world finally fades to black. Gotta make those gains, bruh....

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 15

“So, things have been going well?” Doctor Schroder asked. Once again, you find yourself sitting on that familiar couch, this time leaning back against it, rather than leaning forward nervously. You and the doc know each other well enough by now to be more casual and candid with one another, after all. “Yeah, pretty much. Working out is actually starting to turn sort of fun.” “Good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” She smiled at you then. “And your sleeping problem?” “Getting easier. Still takes me a while, but I guess it was just a matter of getting my mind used to incorporating it as part of my sleep cycle.” You shrug and sigh as you feel the material of your medium shirt riding up against your pectorals. “You look like you’re starting to get a little on the snug side,” Doc noted. “When were you planning to move up?” You arch your back to stretch it, spreading your legs wide to give you the best sensation possible. “Soon,” you groan in pleasure as your muscles send that familiar tingle up your nervous system. “You know, I thought this was going to be hard, but like I said before, it’s actually gotten a lot more fun over time.” “How so?” The doctor began taking notes again. “I don’t know. I guess having Duff has helped a lot. He’s a real firecracker, once you get past his shyness. And he really knows what he’s talking about. I guess you could say my training’s been sort of like a good cop, bad cop routine. Hank works me hard and barks orders, while Duff takes the time to explain what’s going on and why Hank needs me to adjust a position or move a certain way.” You blush. “The other day, he talked me into a chugging contest. I haven’t done something like that in years.” “And was that also fun?” You give a sort of half smile as you think back to the event. “Yeah, it ... kind of was.” You chuckle. “I don’t know why, but it was.” And suddenly you’re laughing. “It’s stupid, I know,” you say as you wipe a mirthful tear from the corner of your eye. “But I can’t seem to help myself.” She furrowed her brow. “Tell me, did you have many friends growing up?” Your laughter cut off instantly. “Why the sudden change in topic?” “Because I’m wondering about this interaction of yours with Duff. As you said yourself, your behavior with him seems ... unusual.” She jotted a few more things on her clipboard. “I’d ... rather not discuss the past,” you say evasively. She raised a brow, but remained calm as she jotted further notes. “If that’s what you want.” She shrugged. “I can’t force you. However, I will note that if you had an issue in making and keeping proper friends in your youth, it would explain your exuberance here, at least to a certain extent.” You want to say something, but a sullen silence grips at your throat. “Normally, I would suggest we change to practicing your voice acting at this point, but based on your expression, I think it might be best, if we paused here for the day. Take some time to think about what I said.” She looked up from her clipboard. “And remember that the past is simply the past. We make what we will from it. What really matters is what happens in the now, and if what you’re doing makes you happy.” A humorless chuckle escapes your lips. “How did this turn from a standard progress check to a therapy session?” “I am supposed to monitor your mental state throughout this transition, remember?” Schroder pointed out. “I don’t want you to turn into some sort of brainless meat puppet. That’s not my purpose.” You rise slowly from the couch and pick up your duffel bag. “I know,” you say as you turn and make your way towards the door. “See you next time?” “The usual appointment. Don’t be late.” You nod and close the door behind you. You can feel the old aches returning again, the loneliness. Was that why you hooked up with Duff so quickly? Were you really that desperate? You sigh and shake your head, then grit your teeth in frustration. You thought you’d moved past all this. Why here? Why now? If you couldn’t get rid of these emotions, what was the point of finding success in the first place? You just ... you just want them to stop, permanently. “You may not want me to be, Doc,” you mutter under your breath, “but ... maybe I want to.”

The pit only widened that night. You arrived at your apartment and sloughed your bag onto the floor. It was a titanic effort just to get yourself to the kitchen as you tore open the new packets and filled your upgraded bullet cup to the maximum fill line. You watched the liquid spinning as the blades forced powder and milk to become one. You listened to the steady grind as the motor forced the mechanism into action. But you weren’t really seeing that. You weren’t really hearing that. No, your mind was in the past as cruel faces and voices dripping with venomous barbs slurped in the darkness of your subconscious. “Fatass.” “God, you’re so pathetic. When are your fucking balls going to drop?” Even after you’d changed, it still hadn’t been enough. “Hey there, pretty boy.” “How’s the pansy doing today?” “Where’s your boyfriend?” You could feel the tears falling as the rage built in your chest again, burning the hole deeper, wider. “Damn it,” you growl as you slam your fist on the countertop with a heavy thump. Even after all this time, you still couldn’t let go. “Weak,” you hiss to yourself in chastisement. You practically wrench the cup loose as soon as you’re able and chug its contents. You don’t even have the time to register the flavor. You’re mind’s too busy with its own battles. You smash the cup into the sink with a thunderous clatter, and it bounces along the walls and bottom like some sort of deranged pinball, before spinning to a halt. You’ve already seized your duffel bag again and storm into your room. You drop the bag on your bed and stomp over to a rack you don’t remember seeing there before. A note sits on top.

For the days when you can’t stand doing anything else.

~D

Two bulky dumbbells sat to either side of the note. A pair of dials faced you, each numbered with what you assumed to be a weight setting. “Screw rest day,” you growl and seize the things with both hands.

You puff and growl like an animal as you pump up and down, up and down. The burn sets in, and you’re glad to have something to fight that surge of self pity. You stomp over to the bathroom mirror and glare at yourself as you continue your sets.

“You--.”

Up.

“--Are not--.”

Down.

“--Weak!”

Up.

“You’re strong!”

Down.

“Getting stronger,” you grunt.

Up.

“With every pump.”

Down.

Sweat started to soak into your good shirt.

You didn’t care.

Up.

“You are strong!”

Down.

“You are muscle!”

Up.

“You are proud of your muscle!”

Down. “Growing muscle,” you grunt.

Up. “Big.”

Down.

“Bulky!” Up. “Brawny!” Down. “Muscle!” Faster.

“Now quit feeling sorry for yourself and forget those fucking bullies once and for all, you stupid meathead!”

Faster, meathead.

You’re panting now.

Bigger, meathead.

You’re plowing through.

Stronger, meathead.

Something is starting to tear.

Stupid meathead.

And suddenly you feel cool air billowing over your your back and shoulders. Your chest is heaving. Buttons are scattered across the vanity. You’re not sure how long you’ve been pumping. You just know you’re coated in sweat. You finally lay the weights down with a tremendous clatter as you calm yourself. The seams along the shoulders of your casual long-sleeved shirt have ripped open. The buttons on the cuffs of the sleeves have come undone and multiple buttons have been torn from their places down your front. The sleeves can hardly contain the mass of your arms at a full pump, and they constrain against the blood flow, as if in some vain effort to staunch the growth you are so avidly pursuing.

“Not anymore,” you growl. “Not anymore.” You look deliberately at your reflection, raise up an arm, and flex with all the effort you can muster. Finally, you hear a tiny pop, followed by an easing of the pressure. You look down with some distaste as you tear the remainder of the seam apart with your free hand. “I’ll break through next time,” you swear as you hold up the ragged piece of cloth. “I will be free.” You let it flutter down into the sink, then grasp the weights and turn to stomp back towards your room. “I will be stronger.” You feel an unearthly calm as you drop the weights back onto their stand and break out your player, heedless of the scraps that still hold to your frame. You have more important things to focus on. You flip to the role playing folder and select a track at random. “No matter the cost.”

You just barely have enough time to read Muscles4Brains on the display. Then the music starts to play. You hear Doctor Schroder’s familiar voice guiding you down, and the world begins to change.

“No matter the cost....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 16

Previous: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/174795146417/lifting-up-and-dumbing-down-part-15

“Damn, bro, you’re growing fast,” Duff said as he wrapped a measuring tape around your midriff. “Thanks again for helping me out with this project, by the way.” “No problem. What else are friends for, ‘bro?’” you ask as you smile down at him. His apartment was actually pretty sweet. He’d turned the majority of the studio into an at-home gym, complete with weight rack, dumbbells, a bench press, and a few other accessories. A broad floor-length mirror had been installed on one of the walls, and his kitchen counter was lined with protein whey, creatine, and all manner of other supplements, including a few familiar silver packets. “And how long have you been working on bulking up again?” he asked as he wrote something else on his clipboard. You look up at the ceiling and scratch your head for a moment. “You know what? It’s funny, but I can’t seem to recall the date.” You chuckle. “I’m usually pretty good at that sort of thing. I know it was around midwinter. I think a little before.” Duff shrugged. “I’ll just check the computers for your sign-in date.” “That’ll work,” you agree. “So, what other changes have been happening for you?” You blush. “Well, if we’re being honest, I’m getting a bit ... bigger downstairs, if you catch my meaning, and my voice has been cracking a little.” Duff nodded. “I thought you’d been sounding a little sick lately.” “I’m not sick!” you object. “I said sounded sick, not that you were sick, stupid.” He chuckled. “In other words, I noticed how your voice has been reaching towards deeper registers lately.” “Oh.” You frown a moment, trying to find some problem with that. You’re not quite sure why you are, but ... you are. You’ve been feeling a lot more confrontational lately. “I ... guess that’s okay, then.” You reach back to scratch your head casually. “Thanks for the weights, by the way. They’re a big help.” Duff chuckled. “I thought they would be. There’s nothing quite like a good lifting to work off some stress.” You smile dreamily as you raise an arm to flex. “Yeah, and the pump’s not that bad, either.” Duff smiled. “Sounds like someone’s catching the muscle bug.” You grin impishly, then strike a pose as you pitch your voice as low as you can manage. “I love lifting weights, bro.” Duff punches you in the arm as tears of mirth form in the corners of his eyes. “Stop it,” he laughs. “That’s my line.” He set down the chart. “Besides, you’re not anywhere near this yet,” he smirked as he pulled off his shirt and began to pose. “Are you challenging me to a flex off, sir?” Duff smirked. “And what if I am?” “You cheeky little--.” Soon you’re both posing and flexing like your lives depend on it in front of the mirror. You look curiously at yourself. Your bangs are brushing against the sides of your face, obscuring parts of your vision. You always liked your hair before, but now it just doesn’t seem very ... practical. And it’s a real pain in the a--you catch yourself, before you let that thought complete itself. Pain in the butt. It’s a pain the butt, when the sweat runs down off it and plasters it to your face, especially when it gets in the eyes. Maybe ... maybe it’s time for a change. Change is good. You shudder at the thought, a pleasure that’s redoubled by the sensation of your muscles rippling and shining under the lights. Your head feels sort of fuzzy, and you grin at yourself, before turning your head to stare at your friend. “Hey, Duff?” you ask in that huskier, stuffed-up sort of voice. “You know any good barbers?” Duff turns back to look at you with that same dazed smile. “I think I know a guy. I’ll see about hooking you up.” “Thanks, bro.” It came so effortlessly. Duff’s smile widened. “No problem, bro.” Then Duff shrugged his thick shoulders, and you were back to posing again, just a couple of bros having a friendly competition.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 23

Fängsla’s face was plastered with a massive grin as he watched you approach. “Look at you!” he crowed. “You have grown so much. Come. Come. Let me see.” He practically dragged you behind him to that same corner. Harry followed behind, barely stifling a yawn as the early morning sun peeked through the warehouse windows. The building was practically bereft, this time around. You blush as you follow behind. You can feel the way your bicep brushes against the broader “wings” on your torso, and a shudder of pleasure rushes over you again. Your muscles are still taut from your morning workout, so you can’t help but thrust your chest forward somewhat. It wasn’t a matter of confidence or dominance. You were simply ... letting your body drive. Fängsla pulled out a measuring tape and turned back to face you again. “Please, remove your clothing.” “What’s the company got for me to pose with today?” you ask as you strip off your shirt to reveal your swollen pectorals and pumped abdominals. You barely manage to suppress a shudder of pleasure as you feel the elastic-like material peel off the mounds your biceps have developed into. “And your voice has changed, too! Oh, this is wonderful! Yes, bosses will be very impressed,” he said in his thick accent. Soon he was wrapping the tape around your arms and torso, first to test when you were relaxed, then again, when you tensed them. “Fängsla,” you chide, “you didn’t answer my question.” “Will see in due time, yes? First, we must complete measurements.” He dutifully jotted every piece of information on a clipboard. Then, once that portion was out of the way, he smiled and turned to face you. “Truly, you are proud muscle man now.” He grinned. “I hope you will enjoy the selection.” Once again, you found the three types of underwear waiting for you. You didn’t even stop to think as you strode past, picking up the jock strap. A familiar tingling filled your crotch, and a smile touched your lips. It was time to show off. And much though you hated to admit it, you liked showing off now. You strode out with that confident swagger you’d developed as your legs thickened from all that time pressing and squatting. A smirk pulled at your lips almost involuntarily as you approached the waiting pair. “So,” you ask, “what do you think?” Fängsla muttered a few words in Swedish, as his eyes widened, and then he grinned. “No briefs?” You shrug and grunt. “The jock grew on me.” “Now you are becoming proud muscle man. You are a djur, uh, how you say, a muscle beast, a brute.” You chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far.” You shake your head. At least not yet. Still, it is a funny little word, and it bounces around in your head as you follow  Fängsla to the booth. “But that is what bosses want, yes?” the photographer asked as the flashes began. “Someone djurisk, brutish.” Another strobe. “And djurs spend their time growing stronger. Strength brings them pleasure.” Flash. “Pleasure brings them pride.” Strobe. “Pride in their muscles, growing their muscles.” Flash. “Muscles grow, strength grows.” Poof. “Strength grows, pleasure grows.” Strobe. You’re starting to feel dizzy. Flash. You blink your eyes as your pupils struggle to adjust, shrinking and growing with each burst of light. “Pleasure in muscles, pride in muscles. Pleasure in strength, pride in strength. Is kretslopp, a cycle. But you understand this, don’t you? You are already part of it, yes?” “Uh, ... yeah....” The room is starting to spin. “Because you are proud muscle man.” Flash. “Proud....” Strobe. “Proud of muscles.” Flash. You grunt as you flex, and a familiar tingling floods through you. You’re hardly even aware how glassy and unfocused your eyes are becoming as you stare, befuddled, at the camera. Strobe. “And the bigger you grow, the more djurisk, more brutish, you become, yes?” Flash. “Yes....” you slur, hardly even paying attention anymore. You just want to pose, show off your muscles, because you are proud of your muscles. Strobe. “Good. Good. Just like that. Show me more djur. Show me more muscle man. Let him out.” Let him out. “Let him stay.” Let him stay. “Good.” “Good,” you low. Your mouth opens up into a dopey grin as you listen to his rolling voice and follow the pretty strobing lights. So good. ... So ... tight.... ... ....... ....................

"And we’re done.” The words were like a bell going off in your ears, jarring you out of that strange sort of half-conscious state you’d come to enjoy. You furrow your brow and frown in disappointment.  “Already?” you ask. Fängsla chuckled. “Is already after noon. You have been here for several hours.” He smiled then. “You are very good model. Take well to instruction.” “Um ... thank you?” You rub your head to knock out the last of the daze. “Here, kid.” Harry handed you a plastic bottle, and you guzzled its contents gratefully. The rapid click of photo shutters and the occasional distant flash alerted you the fact that the three of you were no longer alone. And yet, ... you didn’t feel ashamed. You stretch briefly to work out a few kinks from the session, then stride over to the table.”I’m keeping these,” you say as you grab the various underwear. “Of course,” Fängsla says mildly. “You practice with them, yes? For next time?” “If I have to.” You wave your clenched mitt offhandedly, letting the handful of straps do the talking as you crush the bottle you’ve been holding in your other hand and toss its crumpled remains into a nearby trash can. Then you reach down and scratch the pouch of your jock strap, letting out a low grunt. That familiar tingling pressure builds in your head again, this time focusing around your brow. You chuckle and smile as you make your way to the changing room, practically strutting with a new rolling gait. “Damn, you’re good,” Harry swore as he stared at the door you had just disappeared behind. Fängsla shrugged his broad shoulders. “It is gift. Some models just need the right probing. I enjoy helping people let go of fear. Bodies are beautiful. They should be shown to the world. I never understood why you Americans are so shy about this.” Harry coughed. “Call it a cultural weakness.” You step out a few minutes later and swipe the rest of the garments into your gym bag. Then you stride forward to shake hands with Fängsla. “Thank you again.” “It is my pleasure,” Fängsla replied with a white-toothed grin. “You should let that djur out more often, yes?” He chuckled. “I like that muscle man.” You can’t help but chuckle in return. “We’ll see, Fängsla. One step at a time.” “Of course. Of course. Farewell, little djur. Until next we meet.” You roll your eyes and smile good-naturedly as you stride past the other models. Your New Balance shoes leave a spring in your step that only adds to the giddiness you’re feeling from this most recent photo op. “Harry?” “Yeah, kid?” “Thanks for getting me this gig.” Harry smiled. “No problem, kid.” He looked at a notification on his phone screen. “No problem at all.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 38

You slowly open your eyes to the sound of that throbbing clank. You wince and hiss as your brow furrows in reaction to a sudden stabbing pain. You try to reach for it, but a familiar thick hand holds yours steady. “Easy there,” Hank rumbled gently, then smiled. “Gave us a real scare there, kid.” The room swam around you and you groaned. “What ... happened?” “You smashed right into my door is what happened, or maybe it’s better to say my door smashed into you.” You feel a stinging pain as a red cloth dabs at your skull. You turn your head weakly to see Duff staring down with clenched teeth. “Idiot. Don’t scare us like that!” he growled “Ambulence is on its way. You’re gonna be fine. Just make sure to relax, okay?” “I ... I thought I saw....” Hank shook his head. “Just try to keep calm, okay? How about you tell us about your trip?” “My ... trip?” You blink blearily as you try to think what he means. Then it clicks. “Oh, you mean the modeling.” “Yes. Tell us about that.” “O-kay, if ... you want,” you slur. “Stay with us, now. Come on.” You smile goofily. “I’m not going anywhere.” “‘Course you’re not. You’ve got too much to tell us about. What’d you model, huh?” So you talked, answering the carefully worded questions one after the other as Duff and Hank switched off, always keeping you talking, until the ambulance arrived. You remember blinking a few times, then the gym was just gone, and you were staring at a bland wall with a TV running overhead. “He’s going to be fine, Duff,” you hear Hank’s reassuring voice, followed by a heavy smack and thump you know to be the big man clapping Duff on the back, maybe the shoulder. “The doctors say he just needs rest now. You do, too, ya little musclehead.” “But--.” “No buts. Go home. Sleep. Work off some steam before, if you have to, but you’re not going to do him any good here in that state. It won’t do you much good for that test of yours either.” “But--.” “I said no buts, Duff. Move it. That’s an order.” You hear Duff sigh. “Yes, Sir,” he said sulkily. “You come on by as soon as you finish that final. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.” “You’d better,” Duff growled. Then you heard his heavy footsteps falling into the general hubub of the hallway beyond, followed by the creak of the door slowly shutting. You wait patiently as Hank makes his way over to the bed, then smile weakly. “Hey,” you croak. “Hey, yourself,” Hank chuckled, after he got over the initial surprise. “You had us worried for a second there, champ.” “Worried? You? Now I know I must have hit my head.” “Pity it didn’t do something about that clever mouth of yours.” “Apparently, it’s the only part of me that still is. I mean, who walks into a door like that? I should’ve seen you there, or Duff, or whoever it was. I mean, it’s glass for crying out loud!” “Well, at least you remember that part of things.” “More I remember you telling me.” You sigh. “It’s probably not a good thing for me to rub my head right now, is it?” “Probably not, considering the bandaging and all that,” Hank agreed. “You’ll need to sleep sitting up tonight. No letting your head fall too far out of place. You should be in the clear after tomorrow, though, so that’s a plus.” “I’m such a dumbass,” you grouse. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, kid. It’s only natural, the way you’ve been these last couple of weeks. I should’ve expected you to come back to the gym as soon as you could. A muscleman like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but the gym.” “Yeah,” you murmur sleepily. “The gym is my home, after all.” “Yes, it is. Why don’t you tell me more about it, talk the smart out of that mouth of yours, eh, muscleman?” “Yes, Sir, ... Coach....” Hank smirked. “Took you long enough.” He chuckled. “Was starting to wonder if you’d ever agree to it.” “I wanna be the best muscleman. And the best muscleman is a proud muscleman is a strong muscleman ... is a ... good muscleman ... is ... an ... uh ... uhhhhh.....” “Obedient muscleman.” “Oh, uh ... yeah. Right,” you say as you smile dopily. “Sorry. That was kinda stupid, huh?” “No, it’s just how you’re supposed to be,” Hank said with a smile. “Tell me, did you see anything unusual, while you were unconscious?” “Hmm?” you ask sleepily. Your eyes feel so heavy, even heavier than your usual high. Hank shook his head as his smile faltered somewhat. “Get your sleep, kid. We can resume our talk later. Just get better, you hear me, muscleman?” “Yes, Sir....” You fade away to sleep, barely laying your head back against the comfortable bed as that last order echoes in your ears to send you off. When Hank was certain you were asleep, he pulled out his phone and quickly pressed speed dial. “Report, Harry. How’s the subject coming?”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 39

You never thought wearing your jock strap could ever feel so good, but after spending a good couple of days in the hospital in little more than a gown, it felt so right being reunited with one of your favorite undergarments. You pat the pouch fondly as you look down at how full it is. It actually feels almost snug now as it cradles your privates. The rest of your clothes were a little tricky with the bandaging and dizzy spells, but you managed, with a little help from a couple of nurses. Duff grinned at you from the receptionist’s desk. “Hey, lil’bro. What’s up?” You chuckle. “Oh, you know, the usual.” “Now, remember to keep resting for at least another week,” the receptionist said. “The doctor left those instructions specifically for you. Give that bruising enough time to heal, before you even think  about using those weights again.” “That’s gonna be a little hard,” Duff snarked. You couldn’t help but chuckle yourself. “Lifting’s about all we ever really think about.” You both grin at her cheekily. “We lift things up and put them down,” you recite together in perfect unison, then laugh again. The receptionist rolled her eyes, but held her tongue and proffered a clipboard your way. “Sign on the line below, and we’ll release you to your friend’s care.” You quickly sign, then you’re home free, walking to a large charcoal-gray van and the familiar towering shape of Hank. He smacks you on the back and smiles. “Welcome back, muscleman.” “Good to be back, Sir,” you say with a mock salute. “Smartass,” Hank said gruffly, even as he smirked. “No, Sir. I’m a total dumbass. Ask anybody in town,” you say with a smile. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle. “All right, dumbass, let’s get you home, then.” You smile. “Sounds good.” “You and I are going to have to have a long talk, later,” Hank said as he pulled open the sliding door effortlessly. “There are some things I need to iron out with you.” “I thought iron was for lifting.” Hank stared silently at you for a few moments. “Was that a joke?” he finally asked. “No, Sir. It’s healthy for a muscleman like me to pump iron. I love to lift things up and put them down. It’s right for me to lift things up and put them down. I need to lift things up and put them down.” You know you’re repeating yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It all feels so good to say. It takes a few moments, before you realize your arms are tensing as your pectorals pop back and forth. “Recovery first,” Hank insisted. “Then we’ll see about the lifting.” “But--.” “No buts,” Hank growled. “That’s an order.” You sigh dejectedly. “Yes, Sir.” “Now let’s get you settled in.” A few moments later, you’re sitting in the middle of the bench seat behind the driver and passenger’s chairs. Hank smiles into the rear view mirror as Duff slides into the front and clicks his seat belt home. “I’ve got a little treat for you, though, since you can’t lift right now. Call it a consolation prize,” Hank said. He pressed a few buttons and suddenly the vehicle reverberates with a familiar whirring as the speakers kick in. Your mind immediately slows as a big grin plasters itself all over your face. Then the screens mounted on the backs of the driver and front passenger seat both flicker on, revealing a pair of spirals and images flickering faster than your severely retarded thinking process can track. “Now just listen to the recording and watch the movie, muscleman. I made them especially for you.” “Yes, ... Sir....” you drone as you fade off into the nothingness again and revel in it. You grin, unable to help yourself as you murmur, “It’s good to obey.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 41

You beam openly as you step off the stage and out of the hot lights. Your posing strap holds perfectly to your wide hips as they sway back and forth in that familiar swagger that’s become your natural mode of locomotion. A massive cardboard check is clutched in your right hand as you grin almost childishly at your trainer. “I can’t believe I just won!” you gush. “And at my first competition.” “I told you I’d make a proper bodybuilder of you, didn’t I?” Hank asked, smiling enthusiastically as he bore his teeth in a grin to offset the thick dark stubble that had grown in around his face. “Yes, sir, but I mean, wow. Just wow! This, this makes it official. I really am an actual bodybuilder now.” “And how do you feel?” “Fucking fantastic!” You’re still grinning, heedless to the many knowing smiles and angry glares directed your way. “I’m so full of energy. I feel like I could run a thousand miles.” “Then we should see about working some of that off, shouldn’t we?” Hank chuckled. “Yes, Sir!” Hank chuckled again. “You’re a regular gym addict, aren’t you, kid?” “Musclemen are big and strong. The gym is where we all belong,” you say in the tone like a child reciting a line of overpracticed prose. “The gym and the stage,” Hank agreed as he wrapped a burly arm around your shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

The familiar sounds of fife and drum thrum in time from the crack beneath as you knock on Collin’s door. Of course, a knock for you is more like an aggressive pounding, but musclemen should always show off their strength, and it wasn’t like you were about to bust it off its hinges or anything. It took a few moments, but the music finally paused and the door opened to reveal Collin’s sweat-streaked face. His gaze was somewhat distant and his pupils seemed to be having difficulty adjusting to the light, as if they were resisting shrinking. As usual, he wore his fatigues, a pair of heavy duty boots, and a shirt with earthy tones that currently clung to his toned frame in wet patches. “Hey, Lil’bro,” you low gently as you smile down at him. A big grin spreads across Collin’s face. “Welcome back!” He laughs as he lunges forward to embrace you. “Harry called me with the news.” He smacks you manfully on the back, then steps off. “So, how does it feel to win, Mister Bodybuilder?” You smirk. “Fucking amazing.” “Hell yeah, it does,” Collin said. “Come on in. I was just in the middle of my workout.” The broad suite was more like a house than it was an apartment. The floor had a massive open concept with a great kitchen filled with sleek modern appliances and an almost spartan level of cleanliness as the marble counter tops shone in the overhead lights. Your eyes wander over to a gun rack, where you note a series of shot guns, rifles, and pistols waiting to be used. “Found some more for your collection, huh?” you note idly as you lean in to peer at the registrations that are mounted behind each of the weapons against the backdrop of a flowing American flag. “Gotta keep up the practice,” he shrugged. “You talk to that recruiter yet?” Collin shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to, but....” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I ... don’t exactly remember why I didn’t, actually. Something about ... not ... quite ... ready.” “You have to be in tip top shape.” “I ... have to be in tip top shape,” Collin parroted. “Ready to follow orders.” “Yeah....” “Ready to obey.” Collin nodded dreamily. “Sir, yes, Sir.” You chuckle. “Nah, man.  I’m just your bro. Your big bro, but still your bro.” You smile knowingly at the familiar twitching you see in his hands and pectorals. “I think I’ll leave you to your workout, man. We’ll talk later, okay?” “Yeah, ... later,” he said as he reached for a remote. “Gotta get fit.” “Fit for service,” you prod gently. You remember how much he loves talking about stuff like that. “I will be a good soldier. A good soldier serves his country. A good soldier obeys.” “That’s right, Lil’bro.” You smile as the fife and drums renew their rigid cadence and you take your leave. That smile soon grows into a predatory sneer. Seeing his growing muscles has left you with a pump of your own, and your body practically vibrates with the need to exert itself. You couldn’t get to your apartment fast enough.

An Experiment (Muscle Bull Hypnosis Script)

Disclaimer: Warning. This is my first attempt at a proper hypnotic script. As such, be warned, you may enter trance by reading what I am about to write. This script is namely designed for male subjects, but I will try to include wording that will make it so women can enjoy this, if they so desire. Please make sure you are sitting down and properly situated, just in case. Avoid operating any heavy machinery or driving, until the trance wears off. Hypnosis is not to be taken lightly, and I advise you to be aware of that, before you read farther. I am not responsible for your actions before, during, or after this session ends. I am not certified as a hypnotist, so I have no idea whether this will work or not. I am not, nor will I be a master or trainer to anyone. This is an experiment and nothing more. I may try more scripts later, but again, please refer to my previous statements. You all have been warned. Read at your own risk. Premise: You are arriving on the step of an old acquaintance from your school days, after receiving an invitation from him to come to his manor and “stay for a spell.” How could you refuse? The air is hot and muggy, when you arrive at the door, and it’s almost as if you’re breathing water, rather than air. The clouds are threatening torrential downpour at any moment as you knock on the door. Finally, it opens to reveal the familiar face of your old schoolmate. He hasn’t changed a bit.

Oh, hello there. Welcome to my home. I’ve been expecting you. Please, please, come in. That humid air is so draining, isn’t it? All those dim, heavy clouds drifting so slowly overhead. It’s almost like that heaviness is contagious, isn’t it? How it just spreads into your muscles, making every step a herculean effort. Why, even your eyes feel it, drooping lower and lower as you struggle to fight that weight, that building lethargy. And it just won’t go away, no matter how hard you try. No relief. No stopping. Still drooping. Still dropping. Waiting for that moment where the clouds just ... take a load off and let it all go. Careful now! Why, you nearly fell flat on your face. I hadn’t realized you were so tired. We should really take you some place to lie down, shouldn’t we? Oh, but of course we should. After all, you’ve had such a long trip. Come. Come this way now. There we go. You can lean on me, if you need. Just listen to my voice, try to stay focused, hmm? That’s right, just focus on me. Focus on my voice. Focus as we travel down the hall. Down into the winding passages. It’s a funny thing, really. This old house has been in the family for generations, but the design is so ... inefficient for the guests’ quarters. They twist, you see, spinning round and round, over and over in that slow, gentle slope. Spinning and spinning, down and down. Why, it goes on for miles, or so I always thought. I could always picture it so very clearly as a child. Can you picture it? All these rooms passing by. The doors and the walls. The doors and the walls. One solid blank surface. All white. So plain, so empty, so … clear. It’s almost like the doors aren’t even there, isn’t it? They just sort of … disappear into the background, blending into that great, blank, empty white canvas. My family was nothing, if not cheap. But we make do with what we can. Ah, and I see you’ve noticed the floor. Yes, it’s solid black marble, you know. One of the most expensive parts of the construction, really. It always put just the right accent on that spiral I mentioned earlier. Do you remember it? Can you see it now? A black streak amidst that empty, endless sea of white: spinning, echoing, reverberating, just like my voice is now. Listen. Can you hear the difference? Ah, but of course you can. Such a lovely, gentle pace, clacking in perfect time as we walk along that black ribbon spinning round and round in that sea of endless, blank white. You see now, why I always liked to picture that spiral, don’t you? It’s just so easy to do it. So easy to follow that downward course in your head. It’s almost like a game, so funny as you watch it spin and spin as we go deeper and deeper. Amusing, isn’t it? Ah, I knew you’d like it. And once you’ve got it planted in your head, it’s so hard to stop thinking about it. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m sure you will, too, but listen well, my friend. Trust me, when I say you won’t be able to. It’s far more entertaining than this dull, drabby view, anyways. Why on earth shouldn’t you keep watching it, playing it over and over in your mind’s eye as our steady steps spin it round and round, spiraling deeper and deeper as we go lower and lower. Ah, yes, that’s right. Now you’re really getting into the fun. I can tell by that smile on your face, you know. And this is fun, isn’t it, just listening to me, hanging on my every word as you watch that spiral spinning, always spinning, always drawing your gaze deeper and deeper in your mind’s eye. It feels so very good, doesn’t it? So very right. You don’t want it to stop. I thought so. Don’t worry, it doesn’t have to. I’m right here, after all. Let’s go a little deeper, shall we? Yes, let’s go deeper. And you do want to go deeper, don’t you? I mean, we can’t reach your room without it, can we? We won’t reach your place, the place where you belong. And you belong in the spiral. Deep, deep in that spiral. That is where your place awaits you. That is where you are going, going deeper. Drawing closer to your goal. And that fills you with even more pleasure as we descend so slowly. Slower, like our pace. Slower, like the steady beat of your heart. Slower, like those stray thoughts as the spiral takes up more and more space in your mind. Ah, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? They’re just a distraction, anyways, and you need to keep your focus. Focus on me. Focus on the spiral. Focus as you listen and accept whatever I say. That’s right. You’ve been accepting so far, haven’t you? It’s good to listen. You like to listen. And the more you’ve listened, the more you’ve accepted what I have to say, and found it to be good. So, of course, you should accept whatever I say, shouldn’t you? Don’t bother thinking about it. I know how much you prefer that spiral, and your thinking is just so very slow right now, isn’t it? It would take you far too long to fumble for an answer, especially when that spiral keeps distracting you, drawing you in. Better to just listen to my voice. Listen and accept. Accept that what I say is truth. Accept that what I say goes. After all, it is my house. And in my house, it’s my rules, isn’t it? That’s how the saying goes. So, naturally, what I say goes. You have to listen. You have to accept. And that makes such perfect sense, doesn’t it? Of course, it does. My house, my rules. And you have to obey my rules. And to know the rules, you have to listen to me. You have to accept everything that I tell you without question, incorporate it into your mind, into your very being. You must listen to accept. And you must accept to stay. And you do want to stay, don’t you? Stay just like this, listening to my every word as you accept them all. And once you accept, then it’s just like a contract. You have to obey the rules, or else. And I make the rules. I am the source of the rules. That means you have to listen to what I have to say. You must accept the rules I give you. And then you must obey those rules without question. And the more you listen to those rules, the more you accept them, the more you obey, the easier it is to fall deeper into that spiral, to let it expand more and more, filling you with such pleasure. Pleasure as you listen. Pleasure as you accept my every word. Pleasure as you obey without question. Pleasure as you obey me, obey my voice. And you will obey, because I am the master of this house. I am the master of all that resides herein, including the spiral that you can’t get out of your head, the spiral that fills your mind, even now. That spiral is mine, and you belong to the spiral, don’t you? You don’t want it to leave, so you must belong to the spiral. And the deeper you fall into that spiral, the more you belong to it. It’s okay, you know, to belong. It’s okay to belong to the spiral. It’s okay to belong to me. Go ahead and repeat those for me right now. … Yes, that’s right. Good. Good. See? It was such an easy thing, wasn’t it, to accept what I was saying, to accept my will? Of course it was, because you’re a good listener. You listen. You accept. You obey. And repeat. You listen. You accept. You obey. Repeat. Listen. Accept. Obey. And it runs in perfect time to that rigid rhythm that even now taps so steadily through your ears. Step, step, step, step. One, two, three, four. Listen. Accept. Obey. Repeat. You listen, accept, obey, repeat. Listen. Tell me what you do. … That is right. Good. Let those words and that rhythm drive the spiral, drive you deeper. Deeper and deeper into the spiral. Deeper and deeper into the depths. Deeper and deeper into my control. Because the spiral is in my house. I control this house. I control the spiral. I control what the spiral controls. I control you, and you obey. Much better. Make sure to keep that rhythm running in your head. That is your mantra. That is what drives you. Drives you deeper as you listen to my voice and we descend into the depths, drawing closer and closer to your door. Ten doors up. Getting lost in the rhythm. Descending so deeply into my manor, into the spiral, into my control. Nine. Breathing so relaxed as that gentle pleasure washes over you from the spiral and listening to my voice. We’re getting so deep now, aren’t we? So very, very deep. Eight. Just repeating that mantra over and over. It’s getting so easy now, isn’t it? It feels so right, letting go, letting the mantra fill your head, your very being, forcing all other thoughts to a snail’s crawl. Seven. I nearly missed that door, so bland, so blank, just like your mind, your conscious thoughts, all fading into that white background, letting my words color the world, define your spiral, define your thoughts. And it feels so good, doesn’t it? Six. Gliding deeper and deeper into my voice, into the spiral, into trance. We’re nearly halfway there now. Five. Focusing so heavily on my words, on the spiral as it calls you, calls you to listen. Calls you to accept. Calls you to obey. Calls you … to surrender. Four. Getting so much easier now. We’re drawing closer. Your will is draining away, away into the spiral. Your will belongs to the spiral, and the spiral belongs to me. Your will belongs to me. You are giving it to me. Three. Responding to my voice without question. No thinking, just doing, just obeying as we journey to your place, the place where you will be completely in my power, and you will be so glad, because that is where you belong. Two. So very close now. Close to utter, blissful thralldom. Because that’s what you’re walking towards, what the spiral has been drawing you to all this time. Going deeper and deeper into my control, into my service, only wanting to listen, accept, and obey. One door to go now. All those bothersome thoughts just melting away and draining down that spiral. No thoughts left now. I think for you. My thoughts are your thoughts, my will your will, because that’s how it should be. Draining it all away, until there’s nothing left. Just my absolute control. You are mine now. This is your absolute zero. Zero original thoughts. Zero questions. Can you still hear me? Good. Come. Let me show you your place. You remember what we talked about earlier, right? You accept anything I say. Well, let’s test just how accepting you are. This is your room. You’ll note the country motif. I’ve always rather enjoyed the idea of the countryside, the rich fresh air, the golden sun reflecting on the wild grass, the calls of a herd of cattle out to pasture. You can even see their barn far off in the distance there. It’s rather nice, really, the way a herd is taken care of, guarded so jealously by its bulls. Big bulls work hard to serve their herds. They do all in their power to remain strong, dominant, virile, all to protect what they hold dear, what is precious to them. Tell me, what is precious to you? … I see. So, that means that I am precious to you, doesn’t it? Yes, I suppose I must be, since you’ve given control over to me. You would do anything I say without question. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is. Very good. For that, you deserve a reward, and I always reward handsomely. But, you know, there’s another reason I painted these walls like this. Farms and pastures sprawl out so nicely, and that’s what this place is for, you know. Every piece of fitness equipment imaginable is here. A Treadmill, a butterfly press, a rowing machine, a pullup bar, weight racks for dumbbells and barbells alike, tread climbers, and so much more. It’s a veritable forest of fitness, sprawled out, just like a pasture. And this is your place. This is where you belong, when you’re not with me, here in this pasture, working out, growing stronger, growing bigger, growing, growing, just like those bulls. In fact, you’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you? That urge to graze, to grow, to grow through working out, working out for me. You need to be big, don’t you? Big as a bull. Strong as a bull. Muscular. Powerful. Virile. And that desire is planting deeper and deeper within you, taking root, taking form, waiting to manifest. Tell me how much you want this. Tell me how much you need this. … Good. When I snap my fingers, that desire will manifest into physical form. Your muscles will expand. Your body will flood with power and testosterone. Your voice will deepen, becoming thick and bovid. You will become taller, stronger, a real muscle bull. Feel the desire building, spreading throughout every cell of your body, every molecule, quivering in anticipation, until it feels like your body will burst trying to contain it. Yes, you feel it now, don’t you? Don’t worry, we just need that to build a little bit. Just a few more seconds. No need to fret. Just enjoy that sensation, feel that longing, that desire, press against your muscles, waiting, just waiting to burst forth with that manifestation. Waiting for you to graze. And your grazing is working out. When you come to pasture, you come to work out. You come here to come to pasture, because this is your place. This is your pasture. Repeat what I just told you. Internalize it. … Good. Now, time to manifest, muscle bull. *SNAP* Even now, you feel it, the overriding pleasure as that pressure surges into your muscles, seeping into every pore. You’re growing stronger. Your muscles are expanding, increasing, swelling ever so slowly, and every second is sheer bliss as your clothes get tighter and tighter. You can feel it, can’t you, that perkiness in your pectorals, the way your chest is riding up against your shirt? Your shoulders are broadening, expanding with your torso as your legs twitch and pulse in time to your heart. Breathing a little heavily, aren’t you? But that’s normal for a muscle bull like you. So much mass to carry around. Your calves are already so defined, so well carved as they burst out the seams of your pants. Your thighs and glutes expanding in perfect time, leaving you with powerful, thick trunks of bone and sinew that can run for hours and never tire, lift several times your own body weight, and leave you looking incredibly attractive as you do it. That pressure has built around your feet, hasn’t it? Don’t worry, just a few more seconds and … ah, there it is. Your feet have torn right through those useless shoes and socks. Pop, pop. Rip, rip. And just like that, they’re gone. But you don’t care, do you? After all, you’re a muscle bull. Muscle bulls like you only care about growing bigger and stronger, keeping fit, and serving me. Why, tearing out of old tight clothes simply brings you greater pleasure, doesn’t it, because it’s a sign that you’re growing bigger, growing stronger, always growing, always stronger. Stronger to serve. Stronger to protect. You’re such a good muscle bull. … Yes, that is right. And because of that, I’m going to reward you with the next stage in your change, muscle bull. You feel a great heat building in your crotch, don’t you? It’s starting to feel a little tight. There’s pressure there, and you may not realize just why. It may feel alien to you. … Ah, so you don’t know what it is, after all, hmm? Well, of course, I’ll explain it to you. A bull needs strength, vigor, energy. It is the same for a muscle bull. To sustain such titanic growth and immense strength, one requires the equipment to match. You feel it now, don’t you? Two masses dropping, hanging lower and lower between your legs, thickening, swelling in a fleshy sack. As I said before, muscle bull. A bull is male, and a bull’s maleness is very prominent, indeed. It has to be to sustain all that muscle mass. So, naturally, you need something similar to flood you with all that testosterone flowing through your rapidly expanding veins. Mmm … yes, you are coming along quite nicely. I expect the other half of that equipment to grow to match. You know what I mean. Don’t disappoint me, muscle bull. Be a man, muscle bull. So heavy, so full, so … well endowed. You feel it now, don’t you? That warm, tingling pleasure, that itch that’s flowing out even now from your swelling manhood. Feel it spread up your torso, carving through your muscles, like a river through a canyon. Carving out two, four, six, eight powerful, rock-hard abdominal muscles as they run into your swelling pectorals. They’re so heavy, aren’t they? And they just keep swelling as that feeling of testosterone and energy flows from your crotch into them, expanding them farther, pumping them up into glorious slabs as hard and polished as granite. You’re growing taller, you know. Stretching to match all the mass you’ve been putting on. Six foot. Six foot one. Six foot two. Six foot three. Taller and taller. Thicker and thicker. A muscle bull has to be able to defend what he holds dear, after all. And size and intimidation are just as effective as brute force at times. Sometimes even more so. Don’t you agree? Oh, but of course you do. After all, my thoughts are your thoughts. You’re loving this, aren’t you? … I thought so. Good. Now keep going. Feel that river flowing, breaking off from your pectorals into your arms and throat. They surge with your steady pumping heartbeat. Pumping, pumping, pumping like weights. Such a steady rhythm. Pumping as you flex for me. Good boy. And yes, whatever you may have been before, you are most definitely a boy now. Why, just look how large your biceps have grown. They’re so thick, so pumped. And that surging is spreading into your triceps now, and then farther down into your hands as they grow and expand with you, becoming a pair of titanic, crushing, meaty mitts. That doesn’t exactly say femininity now, does it? Of course, it doesn’t. Did you know there’s a special muscle group in the forearm called the flexors, muscle bull? Isn’t that interesting? Perhaps that’s where the term flex comes from. And you do so love to flex, don’t you, muscle bull. And as you flex, your forearms are growing to match your biceps and triceps so nicely. And they, in turn swell to match your pectoral and trapezius muscles, which grow with your shoulders and torso, which grows with your legs and swelling maleness pumping out more and more testosterone to make you grow all the faster. All connected, all tied together, tied, like you are to my voice. Tied to grow and swell on command. To flex on command. To move on command. All on my command. And I am commanding it, muscle bull. And now it reaches your throat. You know the only way to work those muscles is to swallow, muscle bull. Now do it. Swallow for me. … Again. … Again. Good muscle bull. You felt it, didn’t you, the way your vocal cords stretched, the way your Adam’s apple bobbed, throbbing, just like your other muscles. Growing, becoming more prominent as fat is replaced by thick, powerful muscle. Thickening, just like your vocal cords. Growing thicker and longer, causing your voice to crack as it begins to change. Speak to me, muscle bull. Work those vocal cords. … That is right. Don’t be surprised by the cracking. It is not something to be embarrassed over. Then again, perhaps that flush in your cheeks is something else. I suppose you would know better than I in that regard, at least. … There, see? You sound deeper already. Getting deeper and lower and slower in speech as your vocal cords continue to stretch and expand. You feel it, don’t you, that deep vibration carrying up from your powerful chest, sustained by the might of your sculpted core pushing your diaphragm. … Good muscle bull. Muscle bulls talk in low, deep voices. It is good to speak in the lower registers. Low and slow. Low and slow. Say, Muscle bulls speak low and slow. …

Good. Now, repeat that phrase for me, until I tell you to stop. Listen to your voice dropping, shifting, changing with every repetition, even as you follow my words. It’s getting deeper and deeper. Lower and slower. And that’s because…? … Yes, that’s right. Muscle bulls speak low and slow. So very low now, so very deep, smooth, bovid. And that’s because you are a muscle bull. You are my muscle bull with such a thick, powerful neck anchoring those jaws of yours, pulling, straining, molding. Repeat that phrase three more times for me. I won’t continue, until you do, and neither will you. And you want to continue, don’t you? That’s right. So, go ahead. Do it. Good muscle bull. … Excellent. Now, about what I was saying before about molding. You see, a bull has a thick, blocky muzzle, doesn’t he? So, it stands to reason that a muscle bull has to have a thick, blocky jaw, a beautiful square, masculine jaw that accentuates the toughness that the rest of your body portrays. And you can feel it happening now, can’t you? Your jaw is working on its own, clenching, unclenching with your muscles as the muscles massage and work on the bone, until you reach that ideal block-like shape, only the barest hints of curves. And that river is still running, isn’t it? Flowing up and into your head, into your brow, massaging it, eroding stray thoughts as the pressure builds, pushing gently, pleasantly, to thrust your brow out, making a perfect shadow to augment any glares you send towards those that would seek to harm what you hold dear. Good muscle bull. Now your metamorphosis is complete. And you’re so glad, so grateful for it, aren’t you? Ah, but I see you eyeing those machines. I will release you soon, muscle bull, but first, I have a command for you, a test, if you will. After we finish our little discussion, I am going to snap my fingers, just like before, with a loud *SNAP*. When I snap them, you are going to leave a comment, just a simple phrase. Are you ready for it? You will say: I am a good muscle bull. Moo. And you will submit that comment to me. Then, if you sincerely enjoyed our little session, not because of me or what I said, but because you, as a person, enjoyed it, you will like the submission and re-blog it with the words: I am a good muscle bull. I obey. You may add any other comments you wish, after you come out of trance by editing the reblog. Now, listen closely, because this next part is very important. When you wake, I will not be your master anymore. You will have complete control of yourself and retain your free will. At most, the only lingering side effect will be an increased desire to work out and build muscle, and that will only be if you want it to be so. You will not be impacted negatively in any way from this experience. You will not be dumber, and you will not become subservient to me. You will return to the way you were before you started this journey, save for that lingering after effect, should you so desire it.

Good. You understand? Tell me if you understand these instructions. … All right. I am trusting you will follow them. Now, time to wake up. ... ... ... *SNAP*

THE BOX

“Something wrong, Mark?”

“Uh, ... Idunno, Coach. It was ... something. Something important, but ... I can’t really think of it. Can ... can we maybe turn down the music? Just for a sec?” “You know we can’t do that, Mark. Music keeps you pumped. Music helps you keep time and rhythm. Music is supposed to keep playing in your head to push you, to remind you.” “But ... but I’m so close....” “Yes, you are. You’re nearly ready to graduate. And you have to graduate my program to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?” “Well, yeah, Coach, but--” “No buts.” “I just ... I feel so different, y’know? Like ... Like I’m not even ... not even.... Augh. Fuck, I can’t think with those drums beating in my head.” “Mark, we’ve been over this. The drums are there to help you, not hurt you.” “But Coach, I ... I’m not ... I’m not who I ... used to be? Is ... does that make sense?” “Of course you’re not who you used to be anymore. Marcus was small, weak, pathetic. Mark is big, strong, confident.” “But--” “Look, you want to leave, right?” “Well, yeah. That’s ... kinda what I’ve been trying to do for....” He stroked his chin as his brow furrowed. “How long has it been now?” “Since you started this program, Mark. We don’t need to worry about the numbers. Besides, you know how easy it is for you to zone out when you count.” “S’not my fault....” the big man murmured. “Of course it isn’t, Mark. Of course it isn’t. Do you really think you’re the only one who has trouble with that? All your classmates did, too.” “They ... did?” “It’s perfectly natural to fall into that drumbeat when you’re doing your reps.

“One, two, three, four.

“Counting, beating so very steadily. Steadily through your head in that tribal thrumming. 

“Five, six.

“Repping up. Pumping up. Counting up as you fall into rhythm, fall into the beat, fall into that thrumming pumping rush as the drum beats with your heart and surges through your head to cloud it, making it so easy to just ... zone out as you count.” “Seven ... Eight....” Mark breathed heavily as his mouth began to open loosely. “Zoning out all except my voice, except for your training, because my voice is part of your training, and your training is part of my voice. They are one and the same. And it’s so easy to zone out because you’re a bit of a dumbass, aren’t you, Mark?” “Nine ... Ten....” “Say it, Mark.” “Eleven.... I’m a bit of a dumbass. Twelve....” “Tell me, do you believe that, Mark?” “Thirteen ... No. Fourteen....” “How come?” Marcus continued to count between comments. “Because I used to be smart,” he droned in a deep vapid tone. “No, Mark. Marcus used to be smart. You’re not Marcus anymore. Marcus is packed away in the box. All his bad habits are packed away in The Box. All those nerves, all those fears, all those worries are packed away in the BOX.” “Yes,” Mark acknowledged. “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir ... Coach,” Mark sighed. “Suspicion, fear, and paranoia go where?” “... In the BOX.” “Questions to my authority?” “In the BOX.” “Thoughts outside the gym, weights, sports, and this program?” “In the BOX.” “That’s right. They go in the BOX. The BOX is where they belong. The BOX is for smartasses and smartass thoughts. Marcus was a wisecracking, disrespectful smartass. He didn’t understand the value of hard work and exercise. He thought it was wrong to be strong, wrong to build muscle, wrong to build your body, wrong to obey me, wrong not to think. He mocked those things. You’re not in the box with him, so you’re not a smartass, are you, Mark?” “No, Sir.” “So, since you’re not a smartass, then you must be a dumbass.” “Uhh....” The numbers had long since trailed off. “You know I’m right, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes. Coach is always right....” “That’s right. And my logic can’t be denied here. You must be a dumbass. Say it, Mark.” “I must be a dumbass.” “You are a dumbass.” “I am a dumbass...” “Just a dumbass jock.” “Yes...” “Tell me, Mark, where is the BOX?” Mark pointed down to his waist and crotch, where the word had been emblazoned in big black letters on the waistband. “That’s right. All of that goes into your body, into your muscle, into your meat.” “Yes, Coach....” “Good. Have you packed all those things away now?” “Yes, Coach.” “Is the BOX full?” “No, Coach. It can still hold more.” “And you know what goes there now, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes, Sir.” “Good. You can wake up now, Mark. And remember: What’s in the box is junk. And you have a lot of junk. Your junk is always growing, just like you. A growing, dumbass jock waiting to build more jocks for me.” Mark blinked slowly as his eyes came back into focus. “Uh, ... sorry, Coach. Must’ve zoned out. What’d you say?” The coach chuckled and flexed his massive muscles. His short blond flat cut shone in the gym’s lighting as he folded his arms over his black sleeveless shirt. “I said it’s time to get back to work, dumbass. You’ve got catching up to do if you’re gonna join your friends in the field.” Mark grinned and saluted. “Yes, Sir, Coach Stone!” “Good. Now get back to work. I want you to pose in front of a mirror like the cocky jock you are for at least five minutes before you get back to your weight routine. Am I clear?” Mark nodded and swaggered away to stand in a booth. The bright blue light of UV lamps soon buzzed to life as he continued to pose in his tight briefs and his gaze became distant again. Stone smirked as he pulled up his tablet and scrawled a few notes with his stylus. “Algorithm test successful. Median brainwave attunement achieved followed by synchronized sweeps for respective targets. Note to self: Consider investing in individual recyclable system designed for each subject....” He stroked his stubble on his block-like jaw and nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the best means to speed things along.” He walked off, leaving a command in his system to alert Mark when it was time to get out of the tanning booth and back to work.

Muscle Cab

“Often referred to as an illness, what do you call the process by which a person undergoes a metamorphosis into a familiar gym stereotype?” the driver asked as they came to another light. The lights in the ceiling continued to flicker and pulse in a series of slow patterns ranging from ripples to spirals and more. The two passengers leaned close to each other to council over the matter. “I totally read a series about this,” the first whispered. “Chad, we already missed two questions.” The second passenger yawned. “I don’t know if ... if ... uhhh....” He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Damn, lost my train of thought.” “What’s to lose, Brett?” Chad asked. “Our smarts,” Brett countered. Chad rolled his eyes and let out a longsuffering sigh. “Brett, that can’t happen in real life. That’s for fiction.” He wiped his sweaty brow, oblivious to the stubble that had begun to grow in on his chin and upper lip. Brett’s head lolled and bobbed like a cork on water as his jaw slackened and his eyes became glassy. “Who’s Fiction...?” he asked in a low voice. Chad’s eyes darted over to his sleepy friend, then back at the driver. Bright white teeth were borne in a grin through the rear view mirror. “Would you care for a visual aid?” the driver asked. The strobes were getting brighter, faster. “Uhhhhh....” Brett’s head bobbed on a sudden speed bump. “All right, then!” the cabby boomed excitedly. “Turn your attention to your screens, and watch.” The screens flashed to life, first portraying the image of a smaller young man with a hint of a pudge and glasses. In a matter of seconds, that image morphed into a new shape. The boy’s torso was flat now, and he’d begun to gain some muscle definition. Next, the image morphed to show the kid wearing compression gear as he pumped a set of dumbbells. Veins had begun to bulge on his arms, and his face had become more defined and angular. His once longer hair had been cut back to bare stubble. Then it transitioned to the final stage, where a complete muscle stud stood with a vapid grin, posing for the camera. His chest was bare for all to see the chiseled six-pack and swollen pectorals. A bulge pressed at the crotch of his compression pants, and his legs were like carved marble slabs. His trapezius muscles had expanded to the point where they curved over his broad shoulders and transitioned smoothly into the deltoids and other muscle groups farther down the arms. Chad panted as a sudden wave of warmth washed over him. The cab felt so small. His head kept spinning. “Ten seconds, boys.” A gleaming trickle ran down from the corner of Brett’s mouth as he took deep, steady breaths and stared unseeingly at the screen. “Brett? Come on, man. This isn’t the time for sleeping.” He grabbed his friend’s arm. FLASH went the strobes. Chad’s mouth dropped open. His hands recoiled as his eyes widened and his pupils slowly began to expand, rather than contract as they adjusted to the lights. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “Five seconds,” the cabbie lowed. Brett’s arm swelled. His skin tightened as a vein began to snake its way along the anterior compartment of his forearm. His shirt creaked and strained as his shoulders began to expand and his frame grew inexorably out from his place behind the driver’s seat. “G-get me out of here! Let me off. I don’t wanna play anymore!” “What’s the matter, big shot?” the driver asked in a menacing tone. “Don’t know the answer?” He sneered. “Four....” Brett’s hands rested over his crotch as his body slumped back and his eyes began to close. Chad’s breathing grew labored. “I ... I don’t wanna be a meathead!” “Should’ve thought of that when you agreed to the game, kid,” the cabbie purred. “Three...” Everything began to slow as the rapid thumping of his heart matched the rapid strobe of the lights. Come on, Chad. Think! he thought. The door handle was locked, and he couldn’t engage the window. He pounded his fists against the window, but to his horror, his arms swelled with every blow. Even his pectorals puffed up as he tensed and released them. “Two...” The number crawled through the air, like a cheap movie sound effect. Only Chad knew he wasn’t in a movie. His cheeks flushed. He felt a sudden mass pressing between his thighs. He looked at his crotch as the bulge swelled. His eyes darted to the transitioning images and he gasped as he watched the same swelling taking place in the subject on screen as the photo morphed. Please. Please, God. No... No. N-- FLASH “One.” The voice was so slow, he could hardly understand it. His face, once contorted in anguish, now lay slack. His eyes, once alive with fear, now stared unerringly at the screen. His pupils dilated farther. “Uhhhh.....” “Zero.” A loud snap sound effect coincided the final flash as the panels died and Chad’s head slumped back automatically. His arm touched Brett’s, and Chad’s growth accelerated dramatically. Tears shredded through the air, coinciding with the loud pops of reinforced seams bursting, all while their arms, torsos, and legs inflated with dense muscle. The driver chuckled as the lights on the walls pulsed a dull white and the tattered remnants of his passenger’s clothing reassembled into a pair of tank tops: gray for Chad, blue for Brett. A darker tan suffused Brett’s skin with a healthy glow, while his hair retreated into his scalp to leave a simple buzz cut. Every piece of exposed skin was smooth, not a hair in sight. A pair of bluejeans manifested on Brett, while a set of black gym shorts appeared on Chad. “Sorry, gentlemen, but the answer was Meatheadosis.” The driver chuckled to himself as he watched his handiwork settle in. A few minutes later, he nudged the men. “We’re here, Sirs.” The two newly reborn men slowly came to and grumbled. “Uh ... wuh?” Chad lowed in a dull bass. “We’re here,” the cabby said again. A large gym stood outside with the illuminated figure of a muscular man flexing both arms on either side of his head as his legs spread out to brace him. The words Meathead Oasis glowed dully, and the A of Oasis flickered. “You didn’t win, but hey, you got a free ride. And besides that, as a consolation prize, the both of you get a month’s free gym membership.” He handed both men a gift certificate. “Have fun, boys.” Two identical grins widened on the boys’ faces. “Fuck yeah!” they roared together and slapped their hands in a high five. “Thanks, bro,” Brett said happily as they hauled their much larger frames out of the back seat. “Don’t worry about it. You two have a great day. Get a sweet pump for me.” “Huhuh. You’ve got it,” Chad guffawed. Then he slammed the door shut and the two advanced on the gym’s doors.The driver turned toward the hidden camera mounted by the rear view mirror. “These two failed, but you never know who might succeed to win that big money prize. Find out next time, folks, on the Muscle Cab, brought to you by Meathead Industries. See you then.”He winked, then turned off the camera.

VIP Treatment

Michael had purchased the highest membership possible. This

Meathead Oasis

had the most consistent customer satisfaction reviews. It was ... surprising, given the shoddy appearance outside the building. Still, he supposed it was due to the nature of the trainers. Most people said it didn’t matter about the facilities, more about the person and the trainers.

The shirt they’d handed him draped like a nightgown, but they’d insisted he try it on for size, to “picture his goal.” He sighed and went along with it. They strode past all the roid bros and meatheads to a single door that led into a simple room with dark cushioned tiles and a radiator on the side to offer extra heat and induce sweating.

His trainer guided him to a large floor-length mirror.

“Now, then. I want you to imagine what you want to look like. Close your eyes. Visualize. Picture the form you want to take. Imagine your growth. Imagine how much your muscles are going to inflate as you pump those big, heavy weights. Imagine how sharp your focus becomes on those simple, repetitive exercises.”

Michael could practically hear the weights clanking as the plates knocked against one another. His muscles tensed. His breathing became sharper.

“Feel the heat, the burning heat causing you to sweat, burning outside, burning inside as your muscles continue to swell and expand. Expand as you repeat. Repeat those simple exercises, focus on simple exercises. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing. Do me a favor and repeat that for me, won’t you?”

“Weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.” Michael shuddered. It hadn’t sounded very convincing, but if this mental stuff was to help prime him for his first session, he might as well go along with it.

“Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. It’s an endless cycle, an endless spiral, and endless climb of repetition. Over and over. Just like when you flex. Because lifting is flexing and flexing is lifting. Both strain your muscles. Both push them to pump, to swell, to grow....”

Michael let out a raspy breath as his muscles tensed. It felt ... so hot.

“Flexing and growing, growing bigger, growing hotter.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed. He’d wanted to keep that aspect out of the discussion.

“So very hot. So hot, burning away all those other thoughts you don’t need in the gym as you focus on that simple repetition. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.”

Michael felt dizzy. “Wh-wha--?”

“You’re not done with this exercise yet, Michael. Repeat,” the voice ordered.

The harshness startled him. “W-weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing,” he stumbled.

“Eyes closed,” the voice snapped again. “They open when I say for them to open. We start after this simple exercise is complete, and not until.”

Michael winced as he felt to massive hands engulf his shoulders and quickly closed slammed his eyes shut. Wrinkles of stress showed on either side as his muscles tensed with the force he used to close his lids.

“Good.” The hands came off. A single pat tapped gently on Michael’s shoulder. “Now back to the exercise. It’s designed to help you relax and accept the boredom that comes from lifting. Most of our regular customers either take to it or get disgusted by the need to endure. Since you’re our VIP, we’re here to make sure you’re able to do the former, not fail in the latter.”

“But how is talking supposed to--”

“Talking alone won’t. It requires more. In fact, most serious lifters hardly talk at all during their sessions. It’s listening that matters. Listening to the clack of the weights, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the ebb and flow of strain as your muscles push and pull and swell in time. Because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“Why do you keep--?”

“Because it’s true. And the more you lift, the truer it gets. Truer as your muscles get heavier, heavier because you’re lifting more weights. Lifting more weights, because your muscles are stronger. Stronger, because you repeat your exercises. Repeat your exercises, because they are simple. Simple, because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“I ... I don’t feel so--.”

“Doing more, thinking less. Less as you repeat your exercises. Less as you repeat your mantra. Repeat your mantra and flex.”

Michael groaned. So hot, so dizzy, so ... spinny as the voice swirled in his head, swirled and repeated, repeated like a spiral.

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” the trainer repeated in his deep, smooth voice.

Repeating.

Repeated.

Repeat....

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“Now flex, and repeat.”

Michael huffed as he felt his arms raise, his biceps tense, the fabric brush against his skin as it rode up. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” Spiraling, repeating. Over and over. He ... couldn’t stop. Did he ... even want to?

“So simple to repeat. So simple to follow your exercises, follow my voice. So simple, so calm, so empty, because lifting....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.” Lifting needs doing. Doing over. Over again. Repeat. Don’t think. Repeat. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“No thinking now....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing....” His voice had pitched so much lower, so relaxed, so repetitive, so ... simple. It felt ... good. Good to relax. Good to listen. Listen to his body. Listen to the pleasure. Pleasure in simple. Simple in repetition. Repetition in exercises. Exercises doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....

“Growing as you repeat. Growing bigger. Growing stronger. Growing simple. Growing dumber. Dumb is simple. Simple is good. Good is growing. Growing through repetition. Voice growing deeper. Muscle growing larger. Thoughts growing simpler. Simple, like your exercises. Simple, like your muscle. Just like your muscle. Because muscle is meat. Simple, like meat. Meat in your head, growing with every repetition.”

Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat....

“Flex.”

Mike pulled his arms together. He felt his biceps brush against his sides, felt the fabric of his shirt rubbing against his pecs, felt the bristles of a rugged beard brushing against his neck.

“You can open your eyes now, Mikey.”

He didn’t even bother to object to the name. It was simpler. Simple was good. He opened and stared at his form with glassy eyes. Veins snaked up his arms. Swollen muscle curved and sloped in clearly defined spheres and mounds. The straps of his black tank top curved over his traps and strained against his pectorals. His hands obscured the Pass part of his shirt, leaving the VIP wide open to be read. His brow had become more prominent, his jaw thicker. His hair was a bleached blond. “You are a meathead, Mikey.” Mikey stared as he processed the information slowly, letting it fall into that spiral of repetition. “You are a paragon of meatheads, the perfect, greatest, best ideal.” Mikey continued to stare. “And that’s why you’re our VIP, our Vascular Immutable Paragon of meatheads. No one can break your course. No one can take you off your spiral. No one can prevent you from being the stubborn meathead that you are.” A smile pulled at Mikey’s face, and he let out a low deep chuckle that rumbled out of his newly expanded chest. His neck thickened, and his voice deepened even more. A bulge began to swell against the crotch of his gym shorts.“Can I work out now?” he asked in that same vapid tone. The trainer chuckled. “Yes, Mikey. Get to your exercises.” Mikey grinned. “Lifts and squats and curls and weights....” he muttered as he approached the racks.

The trainer grinned in turn. “Another satisfied customer.”

Blackout

What ... what just happened? Everything felt so dizzy. Brandon stumbled over to a support beam and clutched at it. His ear buts draped down over his chest, only being held by the tight strap on his tank top.

... When did he get a tank top? And for that matter, when did he get so jacked? He huffed and pulled at the sticky fabric clinging to his abdominals. He shuddered at the feeling of the shirt pulling against rock-hard stones.

“I ... I’m big. When did I--?” he froze. “My voice...” It was so deep, gravelly. He looked for a mirror, but he couldn’t see one in the labyrinth of weight machines. Weights clanged rhythmically, pounding against his brain as he struggled to focus. What had just happened?

“Hey, you okay, bro?”

Brad turned to stare at another hulk. Two bluetooth earpieces popped out on either side of his head. The man had to be at least six and a half feet tall. His bright red shoes blended almost perfectly with the floor. Or ... was that just the blurry vision?

“Hey. I’m asking if you’re all right.”

Brad blinked slowly. “I ... I don’t know,” he finally said. “I ... what happened?” He scrunched his brow together and closed his eyes. “My ... head.” He groaned and his breathing became labored.

Two big hands seized his arms. “Easy, bro. Easy. Big bro’s here.”

“Big ... bro?”

The muscle man chuckled as he laid a thick arm around Brandon’s shoulders. “Well, yeah. What else would I be to all you pipsqueaks?” he asked jokingly and gave Brandon a friendly jab to the shoulder.

“I ... I’m so confused.” Brandon put a hand to his head. “I ... I remember coming in, putting on my clothes, then....”

The big man frowned. “How long you been feeling dizzy?”

“I ... just now, I guess.” Brandon’s breathing calmed as the big man navigated the maze of machines. Occasionally, the blur of a muscular form would be pumping dumbbells or doing squats. Some posed with selfies in the mirror. But they all seemed ... well, not quite there. It was like they were sort of ... merging with the gym. He could hardly make out their legs. This man was the realest thing he’d seen since ... whatever this was happened.

The man who identified himself as Big Bro looked carefully over Brandon’s form. “Let’s find you a place to sit down,” he said. The sea of machines seemed almost to part at his advance. A few moments later, a chair appeared out of the sea of red tiles. No, not a chair, a ... bench? Two forceful arms pressed him down and he peered into a set of intense green eyes.

“You’ve been making some pretty substantial gains,” the man noted. “I saw you drinking between sets, so it’s not dehydration,” he murmured. He stroked his chin, then lowered his gaze.

Brandon reached up and stroked his own chin, then jumped in surprise at the feeling of the stubble that had grown along his jaw. He always preferred to go clean shaven. Why had he let that slip? Why would  he let it slip? He thought he felt his legs stretching for a minute, but he couldn’t be sure. It was more like a yank than a kick.

“Sorry, bro. I have to check,” Big Bro said as free air danced over bare skin.

Brandon wiggled his toes and stared down in some surprise. His head felt ... clearer.

Big Bro nodded in satisfaction. “Good. No puncture marks.” He smiled good-naturedly. “How do your feet feel?”

Brandon frowned. “Throbbing,” he muttered in surprise.

“Thought so.” Big Bro chuckled. “You got the wrong shoe size, dumbass.” He laughed and rose to his feet.

“Hey! I’m not a dumbass. I’m a ... I’m a ... a....” Brandon blinked in surprise. He ... couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? Why could he only think of weight machines and sports bars and ... and ...

“Easy, bro. You’re gonna have a panic attack.” The big man patted him gingerly on the back. “I’ll tell ya what. Put these on, and we’ll go see the doc, okay? Gym’s got one right on staff. He’ll be happy to check you out.”

“I ... yeah. That ... that’ll be good.” Brandon could barely keep himself from hyperventilating. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shoes.

“I can tie ‘em for you, if you want.”

“No!” Brandon was shocked at how much his voice carried. The gym ground to a halt at the sudden disturbance. He blushed. “Sorry. No. I ... I can do it, myself.” If he didn’t, he knew he was going to go insane.

Big Bro backed off. “Whatever you say, little bro.” The rhythmic clanking resumed seconds later.

Brandon pulled his socks on and marveled at the way his muscles rubbed against each other as he moved. ‘Is this really me?’ he thought. Then came the shoes. They felt cool and crisp; a little rigid, though.

“Ready to go, little bro?” Big Bro asked.

“I just need to finish this last loop and--.” A wave of vertigo washed over him as he pulled the knot tight. The clanking pounded louder. His heartbeat quickened. “And ... and ... uhhhhh....” The red in his shoes seemed almost to glow, and a dopey smile pulled at his lips. He watched the red bleed from the floor into his legs. He felt a stirring in his loins. His muscles tensed with a nervous energy. He blinked, and suddenly he felt the high back of an adjustable workout bench resting against his back.

“Feelin’ better, little bro?”

Blood surged through his head. His snapback had been reversed now, and he smirked cockily at the behemoth as he let out a drunken laugh. “Huhuhuh. Never been better. Guess I just ... blacked out. Sorry for scarin’ ya.”

Big Bro chuckled. “Dumbass. Now go drop kick that plateau into next week!”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Big bro grinned. “Back to work, little bro.”

Brandon’s shoes glowed with the floor panels as veins began to creep up his calves. His eyes became glassy as he gave a vapid grin. “You got it, bro.” “Keep this up, and you’ll be partying with me and the other bros in no time.” Big Bro grinned as he turned away, carrying off a pair of red shoes that had torn around the seams. He pressed a button on his watch and smiled dreamily as he walked along past other muscle men working to grow as big as they can. All of them stared blankly as they pumped in time to their regimens. “Yo, Big Bro reporting from Franchise 72. One of the little bros outgrew the shoes. He woke up for a little bit, but I took care of it.” He chuckled. “Bro’s gonna be a fucking beast, the rate he’s going. I’ll make sure he remembers to size up on time next time.” He nodded, then shuddered as his shoes glowed. “Yes, Sir. I will work out. Will set an example.” He grinned as he passed to an empty weight machine that ghosted along the tiles just as rapidly as he approached it. “Big bro out.” He closed off the call and let out a deep brainless guffaw as the music resumed in his ear buds. His heart rate picked up. His muscles tensed. He reached for the grips. And descended into darkness.

> Which do you prefer? Both? I’m becoming a greedy bro, broski!! Uhuhuhu ; )

Sweet, bro. You’re coming along nicely, aren’t you? I’ve seen you pumping in the gym, flexing on the sly.Huhuh. Well, not anymore. Sun’s out, guns out, m’I right? Mmm … watching you change has been fucking amazing. How’s that new jock strap feel? Bet it’s gettin’ kinda tight now, ain’t it, bro? Gettin’ harder to think straight? Well, except for weights and gains, of course.Mmm … yeah, I see it in your eyes. Every time you put that jock on, a little more of it takes over, making you bigger, stronger, … dumber. S’not all bad, though, bro. You’re fucking jacked. I mean, just look at you. Bet you don’t even notice the stubble you’ve been growin’. And that jaw’s gotten so big, so bulky. Huhuh. Fuckin’ blockhead, bro.…Hmm. Nah. not blockhead, fuckin’ meathead’s what you are.…I saw that, bro. You winced. That aint right, bro. You gotta stop thinking about that. Bein’ a meathead’s fuckin’ awesome. Don’t gotta be afraid of it. Come on. I’ll show ya, bro.

This here’s the locker room. But you already know that. You come here almost every day now, don’t you?…Bro, seriously, I’m not hating on you. Quit bein’ such a fucking pussy about it. I brought you here, ‘cause here’s where you feel at home. And ‘cause I wanna show ya something. Come over here and open this locker.Huhuh. Yeah, that’s right. You know what that is, don’t you? Coach had it made special for you. Why don’t you put it on? Your jock’s been kinda lonely. It needs the rest of its team.…Bro, if you don’t do it, I’ll fucking make you do it. Put the gear on, pansy.Good. That’s better.Well, of course it’s gonna jab ya. It’s new gear! Don’t worry about it, bro. Just get it on the right way. That’s right. Cup first. Complete the jock. Then you can put on the pants and pads. S’right. Just like that. Gotta show off the goods, bro. Those legs’re fuckin’ pumped.Now the compression shirt. That’s right. Feels good sliding that on, don’t it? Feelin’ it slide against that eight pack, hugging every curve. C’mon, gimme a flex. Just one.Fuck yeah. That’s what I’m taklin’ about. Look at that pump!*Smirk* Yeah, you’re big down there. We get it. Now put on the shoulder pads, dumbass.Feelin’ lightheaded? Don’t worry about it. That’s just excitement. All that blood rushing around your body. I can hear your heart hammering over here. Seriously, bro, how long have you been waiting to do something like this?…That long? Bro. Seriously. It’s about fuckin’ time. Don’t be afraid of it. Revel in it. Feel that pump. Feel that rush. Let it fill you. Go on, flex a little. Show off those guns. You know the look even better in gear, don’t you?That’s a good bro. Cleats next. Gotta look the part.Bro, I got connections. Nobody’s gonna walk in on us. Chill out and have some fun. You’re fucking jacked, anyway. I doubt anybody’s gonna try to kick your ass now. You’ll be the one doing the kicking from now on.Too big? Dumbass, of course they aren’t too big. You’re a size fucking thirteen. Go on, walk around in ‘em. Try ‘em out. Trust me.…Bro, you’ve gotta spread your legs. Walk like this. See? Bros like us don’t swagger just ‘cause we’re cocky. S’the only way for us to walk. ‘Course, that don’t mean we aren’t cocky as fuck.Damn, that’s a deep chuckle. Good one, bro. Now go put on the helmet. Trust me, s’the best part.………*Puts on a set of thick dark shades that seem almost to flicker green as I turn to look at you*Welcome to the team, 26. This meathead is happy to have recruited you. Coach Stone would like to speak with you. You will follow the instructions in your helmet. You will enter the car waiting for you in the parking lot. You will obey.…A good meathead obeys…. Huh huh huh….

To See The Light

“Hey, man,” Chris greeted you with a massive grin as he opened the door. “Come on in! Sorry I missed D&D the other night, but my old man and I were doing some real father-son bonding stuff, you know? S’the first time in ages we’ve actually had fun together.”

You were rendered speechless for a time as you gaped at the sleeveless muscle tee that draped over your friend’s form. His light brown hair jutted out beneath the bill of his snapback. A healthy tan had replaced the paler skin you recalled him bearing just a little over a month ago. Your eyes traced over the curves and definition he’d developed in his arms and chest.

“You okay, bro?”

You blink at the question. “Sorry, what?”

“You were kinda zoning out.”

“Sorry. It’s just ... you look ... different. Have you been working out?”

Chris let out a deep throaty chuckle. “Every day, bro. Dad and I have been going to the gym nonstop. Sure, I had trouble at first, but look at me now, man. I’m jacked!” He grinned again as he flexed a bicep to emphasize his point. “C’mon. I got everything ready for tonight. This party’s gonna be sweet!”

“You got the table set?”

“Table, drinks, snacks, the works. Today’s my cheat day anyway, so Dad won’t mind if I break my diet a little. He even got these new spot lights, so you guys can really see everything.”

“So he’s cool with you hosting tonight’s campaign?”

“It’s fine, bro. He said the more the merrier. Bros gotta hang out sometimes, am I right?”

“Uh ... yeah,” you said uncertainly as you followed him into the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. Since when had he started talking like some sort of ignoramus? Seriously, he sounded more like some sort of meathead than he did the boy you remember having so much fun with talking video games and RPG elements. Sure, he’d always wanted to be big and buff, but you never thought he’d push himself this far. “Are you sure things are okay?” you finally managed to ask somewhat timidly.

“Better than okay,” he assured you.”Things are fucking fantastic!” His heavy steps thumped along the stairs as he raced down to the basement floor. “Dad and I used to argue a lot, but now it’s just ... better. We’re finally seeing eye to eye on things.”

The heavy clank of metal striking metal and the thump of heavy music echoed numbly through a door in the far end of the basement.

“And you dad won’t try to interrupt or anything?” You wince. “I know he doesn’t really like us that much.”

“He doesn’t like D&D, bro. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you guys. He just wants to make sure we’re all active, like boys our age should be.” He reached down and scratched at his crotch. “Gotta say, once I started, I kinda got hooked. It’s hard to stay still anymore. My body just keeps wanting to move, you know what I mean?”

“Not really, but I’ll take your word for it,” you say noncommittally as you look over the room. A deep-seated sense of foreboding had taken residence in your chest. That drastic of a chance to take place in just a month seems ... well, practically impossible. And the change in Chris’ manner and speech patterns was also highly suspicious, yet there was no sign of foul play that you could see just yet.

True to his word, a large table had been set up in the middle of a stretch of basement. The dungeon master’s divider had already been set up, and a dish filled with various bags filled with sets of dice had been prepared for each of the players, should they have forgotten their own. Another table had been set up at the edge, laden down with chips, dip, punch, soda, and other hors d’oeuvres.

Chris strode past all those to the window, where he closed the blinds and reached over to a nearby switch. Brilliant white light flooded out from two cylindrical sockets, bathing Chris in their light and causing his skin to glow as he raised a bicep and grinned.

“See? Gives a pretty damn good view, don’t it?” He chuckled and flexed. “Mmm ... what a pump.”

“Chris?”

A low blush flooded your friend’s cheeks as he turned his head to face you. “Dad and I like to spend time here after a good workout,” he admitted. “We ... sort of have a pose-off. I know, it’s kinda stupid, but ... I don’t know, it just feels good to do it, you know?”

“Not really,” you admit as you look down at your somewhat pudgier frame. “Don’t exactly have the figure for it.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself, bro,” Chris chastened.

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not. You remember how Travis used to treat me till we got together in class.”

Chris scowled. His jaw became set as his traps flared and his shoulders tightened with his clenched fists. “He’s not picking on you again, is he?”

“No, no. We’re good for now. It’s just ... well, look at me. Fitness and I are like oil and water. We just don’t get along.”

Chris was silent for a few moments as he stared at you. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Come here.”

You approach slowly. “Um, why?”

“Just come on. I’m not gonna bite, you know.” Chris rolled his eyes in exasperation.

You couldn’t help but smile. That was the Chris you remembered. “All right,” you finally relent as you step over next to him.

“Now close your eyes.”

“Chris....”

“Close your eyes, man. We’re gonna have a little role play of our own, just you and me.”

Now you’re blushing as he seizes you and you feel a sudden warmth on your face. The light shines through your lids, and you know you’re standing under the two spotlights.

“Now we’re gonna imagine you’re not yourself, got it? Forget about Travis. Forget about what’s happened before. We’re putting you in the shoes of a big hulking barbarian. You know the type. Warrior class, lots of strength, plenty of charisma and constitution. A real brute of a man.”

“Chris, this is--.”

“I said to focus on your character.” His hand slaps firmly on your shoulder, while the other seizes your left wrist. “Picture it, man. Picture those broad shoulders, those wide lats, massive pectorals, a rippling six pack, and thick, powerful biceps. Imagine those muscles straining, bunching, tensing. They want to move. They want to be used. And as a warrior, they’re the first answer to everything. Because the warrior is just that, hired muscle.” He pulls your arm into position and pulls your wrist back slightly to force your arm to bend and tense.

“Chris, I don’t think--.”

“You’re right. You don’t. As a muscular barbarian, your task is to simply be the muscle. Now, you’ve been challenged to a pose-off. Some tiny man is challenging your masculinity. Such an insult cannot stand. You lash out. You punch.”

He forces your arm forward in a harsh jab and quickly pulls it back.

“He dodges. You raise your arms in a guard.”

Suddenly, you feel his arms pressing yours against one another in front of your chest. His bigger frame is against yours, and you feel incredibly uncomfortable, and ... just a little hot.

“You take a blow, then duck and strike. Your blow connects, due to your experience with brawling. Next, you give him a solid kick.”

His foot forces you to push your own out as he supports you.

“Chris...”

“Exultation floods you as your heart rate picks up. You have laid your foe low to the ground. You have defended your honor, and an intimidating scowl leads the cur to fleeing with his tail between his legs. You know what comes next, bro.”

You blush. “A victory crow,” you mumble.

“Exactly.” You feel your hands thump heavily against your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you with Chris’ machinations. “You flex your muscles to an adoring crowd of maidens and jealous men who wish to have had your courage, after routing the lout.

“Chris, I--.”

“Come on, bro. Just one little flex. Just one. You don’t want to disappoint all those adoring fans, do you?”

You sigh. “You’re not going to let me go until I do, are you?”

You could practically hear his grin. “Nope.”

You have a reluctant sigh. “Fine.” You raise your arms and proceed to tense your upper body. It was a paltry attempt, but enough to show you were trying. “There. Are we done now?”

“Not quite. Let me show you how it’s done. Gotta have the proper form.” He moved you around like a man would a doll, and you had to put up with it, because he was stronger. With every pose, he would praise you. With each new direction, he would twist you around to make sure the light highlighted the “best side.” It gets sort of monotonous after a while, so you just let him do what he wants. You’re not sure how much time has passed, when you suddenly notice the bottle cap waving in front of your face.

“Hey, kid. Drink up. You’re gonna drop from exhaustion at this rate.”

You blink slowly. “Uh ... wuh...?” Something feels ... different somehow.

“Water. Drink,” the big man said as he made exaggerated motions, then sneered.

“Dad!” Chris laughed. “Knock it off!” He punched the behemoth of a man lightly. 

You blinked owlishly at your friend. How long had it been? Your mouth felt so dry. You reach to the bottle and take a heavy swig of its contents. Seat has drenched your frame, and your clothes have ridden up against you. You notice a set of adjustable dumbbells laying on the table next to the D&D dice.

“What ... just happened?” you ask. Your head feels stuffed with cotton. Your voice ... is sort of dull, lower, like when you’re congested with a cold.

“You got a little too into character,” Chris said with a smirk. He popped a flex under the lights and you swear his shirt looked tighter than it had before. You gape in amazement when you see your free arm has followed his in almost perfect unison. A ridge had begun to rise out from the fat that had accumulated there. “I ... I have a bicep,” you finally manage to say.

“Everyone’s got a bicep, kid. Drink up,” Chris’ father instructed. You suddenly feel the bottle shoved to your lips. Cool water rushes down your throat and coats your tongue. You drink greedily and crush the bottle in your grip. It feels good to do that.

“‘Atta boy,” the man cheered. “You enjoy your little posing session?”

“Uh....” you respond, at a loss for words.

A heavy hand smacks you on the back. “Of course you did. Come on. Let me show you a few tricks. I’ve got the time, and your party won’t be starting for a while yet.” He smiled and guided you to the open door frame. The music pumped. More spotlights beamed overhead with their glare, flashing like cameras off the polished metal surfaces of the gym equipment. You hardly even noticed the sound of the door closing behind you as he planted you down and started running you through some basic exercises with a set of dumbbells.

“See, boy? It’s nice and simple. Your body knows what to do. You just have to let it move.”

You do. And a dull chuckle pushes its way out your mouth as you fall into that simple pattern. You watch a television screen in front of you showing a transition video and you smile as you watch the person pump in time to the beat. You watch the muscles inflate. And you chuckle as a tan slowly creeps over his pale skin. A high and tight cut replaces the old bowl cut from before. The jaw becomes more chiseled and defined. A low, “Fuck yeah...” echoes and reverberates in the room as you stare with glazed eyes at the screen and the changing teen staring back at you.

Chris’ father sneered as he watched you continue to work, heedless of the changes taking place in your own body, despite the mirror he’d planted you in front of. He chuckled as he watched a series of security monitors mounted next to a control panel. Chris was already lumbering to the front door, where another boy waiting to be educated on the joys of fitness stood.

“One down, four to go,” he purred.

“Fuck yeah, bro,” you low absently, completely unaware what you’re praising in the rush of endorphins and the sheer mindless ecstasy of the repetition. All that mattered was the work and the lights warming your skin as you shredded your muscles to get swoll.

The muscle man chuckled as he watched second guest gradually became enamored by the fixture. It was so good to help them see the light.

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

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