Mandatory PE Class

Mandatory PE Class

Markus walked through the university campus, his face clearly showing his annoyance at the situation he was going through. His school decided to "promote physical activity among the student body", and by "promote" they meant a mandatory Physical Education class every junior had to go through. And Marcus was not happy about it.

Marcus was an introvert - he didn't particularly enjoy parties, going to bars, or other typical college activities. He spent his time reading, researching and weightlifting. This might seem weird for a "nerd", but whenever Marcus put on his noise-canceling headphones and grabbed the bar with 100 or so pounds on it, he felt like he could finally relax.

But even though Marcus enjoyed going to the gym, he enjoyed it when he was there alone - no one with him, the amount of people in the gym at a minimum. These were the perfect conditions for him. This class would not be it. He would have to deal with God knows how many people, plus most likely some smart ass coach, who thinks he's the next Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The university gave him a choice of what he wanted to do during the class and Marcus chose weight training, hoping he would be left alone and allowed to just follow his usual routine without any interruptions.

Marcus arrived at the athletics department's building and after wandering through its corridors he found his way to Weight Room C09. He knocked and heard a booming voice invite him inside. He opened the door and walked into a smallish locker room, where a few guys were getting ready and another man, clearly older than the others, stood on the side and waited. That was probably the coach.

"Marcus, right?" the supposed coach walked up to Marcus. "I'm Assistant Coach Baker and I'll be leading your group this semester." He extended his hand and Marcus shook it reluctantly. He quickly turned around and began changing into his gym gear.

Once everyone was ready (and there weren't many people in Marcus' group - only 6 guys) the group led by Coach Baker moved to the weight room proper. Marcus wanted to walk up to Baker and ask him if he could just do his own routine, but before he had mustered up the courage to do this Baker began warming up and expected the rest to do the same. Marcus rolled his eyes and sighed, before joining the group.

The next hour passed slowly. Baker had the group do a fairly quick and lite set of exercises, lite for Marcus at least. After the class had ended everyone was getting out of their sweaty shirts in the locker room. Marcus put his gear in his backpack and as the rest of the students began leaving the room, he walked up to Coach Baker.

"Sir, could I make a certain request?" He asked, a bit shy.

"Oh, Marcus, yeah? I also wanna talk with you about something. But go on." He wanted to talk with Marcus about something? That didn't sound great. He stood silent for a moment.

"So..." Baker looked at Marcus, his eyebrow raised.

"Oh yeah. So... I was wondering... I, I go to the gym quite often, and have for a few years now... and so I thought... Would it be a problem if during these PE classes I... I just followed my usual routine and you, you just did what you have planned with the rest?"

Coach smiled as he listened. Marcus wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad thing.

"Well, Marcus, I'm glad you see the importance of exercise. But I don't want no divisions in my group, you understand. I want to work with all of you, show something to everyone. Although, because you asked, I'll be sure to adjust the exercises for your level." Marcus nodded, although he wasn't really happy with Baker's response. "And while we're talking, I wanted to ask you something - would you be interested in trying out for our football team?"

This took Marcus by surprise. The football team? Where did that idea come from? He was not about to join a group of brain dead jocks.

"What?" he simply asked, confused.

"Well, I have noticed your strength during our hour together. And I think you would do great on the gridiron." Baker put his hand on Marcus' shoulder. Marcus did not like that.

"Wel, uhm... thank you for the proposition, but... no, I'm, I don't think I would fit in."

"Are you sure? I could help you fit in just right." Baker grinned again.

"Yeah... I'm sure... Mr. Baker" Marcus stood there and avoided eye contact with the older man.

"Call me Coach" Baker laughed. "If you're sure... well, I ain't gonna force ya. Now go, I'll see you next week."

As Marcus left the building he sighed. This was going to be an exhausting semester.

Reality turned out weirder than he expected.

As the months progressed Marcus attended every PE class, his annoyance with Baker's refusal to just let him do what he wanted not strong enough to risk messing with his attendance. Baker meanwhile stuck to his word, and for the most part Marcus was doing what the rest of the group was doing.

Although... this wasn't the whole truth. Because even though Marcus wasn't allowed to do his own thing, while doing the exercises Baker would come up to him and ask him to change something about the movements, add more weight, do another variant of the exercise. So even though he was working with the group, he did get the chance to do way more challenging things.

Baker himself was weirdly invested, at least that's how it seemed to Marcus. He very much got into that role of the supportive coach, he stood next to Marcus, counted his reps, motivated him to "just push further". Marcus found that strange, but didn't want to get into any kind of argument with the coach, so he just went along with this.

As the semester came to an end Marcus also had to admit he got something out of these classes. The exercises Baker had him do were pushing his limits, and he did adjust his normal gym routine to include stuff he learnt from him As he looked in the mirror, standing in his room on the day of the last class before the end of the semester he had to admit he was bigger than 5 months prior.

The last class came and went pretty uneventfully. Marcus beat his PB on the bench by 10 pounds and after an hour he came back to the locker room sweaty and gross. Baker thanked all the guys for coming, asked them to continue going to the gym and said goodbye.

As Marcus got ready to leave the locker room Baker looked at him and said "See you at practice, 90" and went back to the weight room. Marcus had no idea what that meant, but the class was over so he just shrugged and left.

Marcus entered his dorm room and sat behind his desk. He had some work to do on a paper he wanted to submit next week. He opened his laptop and quickly got to work. After a while he needed something to drink so he stood up and walked up to his mini fridge. There he noticed a mug standing on top of it. It was a cup branded with the logo of the Lions, his university's football team.

This was weird, as Marcus did not recall ever getting any merchandise like that. Maybe someone left it here by mistake, Marcus didn't know. But it seemed it was the only clean mug he had, so he quickly poured soda into it and went back to his laptop.

He got into the flow of writing and research pretty quickly. Then, around half an hour later, he was surprised by a notification from some group chat. 10 unread messages from "jungle kingssss 💪". What the hell was that? Marcus was sure he never joined such a conversation. Maybe it was some new kind of scam.

The notifications just kept coming, and at one point instead of deleting it Marcus clicked on it and a chat window appeared.

nah bruh, ya slayed that bitch well dude - steroidss#96

dude concentrate ffs - big dog jake#7

stfu bros where the fuck is tron where ya need him - mike chief#53

hes jerkin of or meal preppin bro, ya know that - steroidss#96

Marcus looked at the chat, even though he had no idea what he was looking at. It seemed he somehow had access to a group chat of some random meatheads. Although the numbers from their nicknames were tickling something at the back of his head, somehow.

if hes jerkin his fat dick ill kick his fat ass, we have state to fuckin beat - big dog jake#7

State? What does it mean they have to beat-- oh yeah, the Lions' next game is against Ohio State.

Wait.

What does that we mean in "we have state to beat"?

How did he know the Lions' schedule?

Marcus felt his head spin a little. Was he sick? He looked at the screen again and suddenly a new message appeared.

am not fuckin jerkin off you piece of shit, got fuckin dumbass school to take care of you idiots - tron's big dick#90

Marcus looked down. His fingers were still touching the keys. HE WROTE THAT!

And that we... It meant the football team! Marcus was reading the football team's group conversation. How the fuck did this happen?!

dunno why i even bother wit any of your stupid fat asses you fuckin shits - tron's big dick#90

Marcus jumped out of the chair. He did it again! His fingers were betraying him. He shut the laptop down and opened the window. Maybe he had to breathe in some fresh air. Was he hallucinating? Was this some infection? What was happening to him?!

He sat on his bed and breathed in, then out. In and out, in and out. In and out. In and out-- was he drooling!? Marcus wiped the drool from his face. It was getting late and he decided it would be beneficial to go to bed early. He turned around to get to his bed only to notice a sweaty hoodie with badly cut-off sleeves. It had the Lions' logo on the front and the number 90 on the back.

This was not happening.

This was just a dream.

Marcus told himself that repeatedly as he got into his PJs. He checked if his laptop was turned off and laid on his bed. He could swear he could feel a faint smell of sweat and... cum? But this didn't stop him from quickly falling asleep.

Marcus was dragged out of sleep by his alarm clock. He slowly got his body into an upright position, then began going through his usual morning routine.

He made himself a protein shake with added creatine.

He ate the oatmeal and eggs he always had for breakfast.

He put on the sweaty shirt from two days ago. It was fine, no one would notice. And he looked hot in it anyways.

He sent a message on the group chat.

you bitches ready to get dominated n pushed into the grass by my fat dick - tron's big dick#90

He got his gear ready and put his duffel bag on his shoulder.

the faggot of the team has spoken everybody - hall/of/glory#38

Marcus walked through the campus. He let out a dumb chuckle as he read the message. Jalen was the best.

not everyone can slay pussy like tron, bitch - tron's big dick#90

He entered the building and walked towards the locker room-- Marcus suddenly stopped and looked around.

Where was he?

He didn't remember waking up.

He didn't remember dressing up.

He didn't remember coming here.

Where was he?

As he tried to understand what the fuck was going on Assistant Coach Baker appeared, walking through the corridor, coming towards him.

"You know why you're here, Marcus?"

"No!" Marcus shouted, surprising himself, but not Baker.

"As I thought. Follow me" the older man waved at him and Marcus instinctively followed his lead. They walked through the football wing of the athletics department until they reached a door. Locker Room L01.

They both entered - Baker first, Marcus second - and Coach pointed to an open locker. Marcus walked up to it and looked inside.

Jersey. Number 90. Schoeder. His name.

Shoulder pads.

Cleats.

Condoms.

Gym gear.

It all reeked of sweat.

So fuckin' musky.

Huhuhuhuh, a proper jock's smell, bro

bro

bruh

WHAT!?

Coach came up to Marcus and looked him in the eyes.

"Do you know why you're here, 90?"

Marcus opened his mouth and tried to answer. But no words came out.

Coach grinned and took a sweaty Under Armour shirt from his locker. He then put the shirt up to his nostrils.

Marcus automatically inhaled and a fog descended over his mind. He took a few more sniffs. So sweaty, so musky. A fuckin' football jock's smell. A stupid grin appeared on his face, drool began flowing from his mouth. Bruh, that was so fuckin' good bro.

"Sick bro..." Tron drawled and put his arms into a double bicep pose. Coach Baker just smiled and took back the shirt before throwing it into the locker.

"Now, 90, put on the gear. I've trained a new defensive end for 5 months. Let's see it it was worth the hassle." He patted Tron on the back before barking at him. "Main field in 2 minutes or you won't be able to walk for a week, 90!"

"Huhuhuhuh" Tron responded with a dumb chuckle. "Yeah, Coach. No worries, dude."

He then quickly got ready and ran out onto the field.

whos ready for a fuckin beatin - tron's big dick#90

It’s such a shame you don’t have a whole part for dumb&jocked! He left tumblr I think and I can’t find his stories anywhere

You can find most of the stories on this site. As for the missing parts, you may find them on my blog.

dumb-and-jocked-archive.blogspot.com

dumb-and-jocked archive

An archive of most of the content from dumb-and-jocked's Tumblr blog.

An absolute masterpiece by @dumb-and-jocked

One More Machine

Huge thanks to @mrrharper for this outstanding request

SEPTEMBER

“Come in.”

The lieutenant entered my office and quietly shut the door behind him. He was a scrawny little thing, at least by military standards. Could not have been more than 150 pounds wet, and a little under average height. He had been in the military for a good 15 years, having deployed before even getting his GED. The lieutenant had only enlisted for the money and stability. His file noted numerous demerits in the past regarding misconduct on grounds related to uniformity. It was my job to fix that.

“James, please take a seat.”

He did as told and crossed his legs. There were many things we would have to correct in our time together.

“Do you know why you were scheduled for these sessions?”

The lieutenant grumbled. “The commanding officer said I needed some readjustment, said I’ve lost my touch with the military.”

His commanding officer had requested a full restart. “Well, as you know, I’m a psychologist employed through the military. My goal is to get you reacquainted with your patriotism and its abiding standards.”

I started as any respectable doctor would, scoping out the base layer. A foundation would be crucial to the lieutenant's reinstitution. Through our discussion, the lieutenant outlined many personal flaws that were causing the moral cracks of his insubordination. His liberal ideology, his mistrust in religion, his conviction of his own homosexuality. Once he had finished his exasperated moans of existence, I started to get to work.

“It sounds like a lot of your issues are based around this idea of having been wronged by your country."

The lieutenant scoffed, “‘An idea’? America’s given me little money and little respect.”

“Maybe that’s because you’ve never tried trusting your country, James.” I tapped my notepad for evidence. “Every problem you relayed through your account was built around fighting the institution, not following it.”

James tried considering this point, my purposeful choice of words causing him to stagger.

“I have often found that at the root of my clients' problems is trust,” I continued. “I think that will be our first issue we work on together, restoring your trust in this nation and its values.”

I then pulled out a pair of sunglasses from my desk before handing them over to the lieutenant.

“I want you to begin wearing these every time you're on base, James. No matter what you’re doing, who you’re with, I expect these to be on. Doctor’s orders.”

The lieutenant grabbed the sunglasses hesitantly. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s an exercise,” I lied. “I want you to see the world through another perspective. Hopefully, it will help instill the idea of trust. We will discuss your observations the next time we meet.”

I dismissed the lieutenant shortly there after, bemusedly observing as he locked the sunglasses onto his head. No one on the base would ask about them, nor would the lieutenant ever consider removing them. Once the sunglasses were on, they sent their first of many shocks for the conditioning process, informing the wearer that they were not to be removed unless requested by a superior.

Over the course of the next month, the lieutenant’s mind would restructure around unquestionable loyalty to his country. Thanks to the military’s budget and unmonitored use of technology, I was able to program specific visual and electric therapies for my clients. Through the constant bombardment of words and phrases in the lenses accompanied by specific shocks, my clients were conditioned towards the military's standards. Words like “America,” “Patriot,” and “Tradition” would be positively reinforced, “Progression,” “Disobedience,” and “Anti-Government” were among the opposite.

OCTOBER

“I’m not gonna lie, Doctor,” James tapped his sunglasses. “I thought this exercise was a little silly, but I think I’ve actually noticed some differences.”

I smiled politely, acting none the wiser. The changes had already been evident as soon as the lieutenant had stepped foot in my office. Unlike before, he had been excited to come here. Anything to help his country after all.

“By all means, do continue.”

“You were right about a lot of things, actually,” the lieutenant chuckled. “It was like these glasses implanted a new outlook on me. I began to think about what you said and realized so many of my problems did lead back to that mistrust. America is the greatest country on Earth! Why would it wrong me?”

“Has this affected your patriotism at all?” I innocently inquired.

The lieutenant bounced with joy. “Totally! Trust is a two-way street, and if I’m going to trust my great country it has to trust me back.”

“What have you done to earn this trust, James?”

“I’ve started displaying my patriotism as much as I can!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got a huge flag hanging over my cot, been signing up for all the pro-government resource groups at the base, and am even on the preparation committee for the Military Appreciation Day.”

His commanding officer had already reported that last fact to me earlier in the week. With the lieutenant fairly uneducated–he had never finished high school–I knew he would be one of my more approachable clients. Now however, I believed there was the possibility of a complete conversion for the lieutenant, an entire transformation rather than just restoration. 

“Tell me, James, has this recovery of your patriotism helped you discover a stronger sense of belonging?"

The lieutenant hesitated before answering. “I mean, in some ways, yes. But a lot of the guys still see me for certain aspects.” He was referring to his atheism, his androgyny, and his homosexuality. 

I decided to test my influence: “Wouldn’t it be easier if you were more like the other men on base? Identical even?”

The lieutenant bore a confused expression, but after a moment relaxed and softened his gaze.

“Identical to…other men…yeah that sounds nice,” he drawled. The sunglasses had also begun the gradual conditioning of accepting explicit commands. To start, the lieutenant would be easily suggestible, but eventually he would become as programmable as any machine.

“The military is built around uniformity, sameness. Each piece fits together without independent thought. Instead of considering yourself as special, wouldn’t you say you were actually deviant?”

Being early on, it was crucial that I instilled my ideas as if they were the lieutenant’s own. As if they were some deep, low truths that I had just awoken inside him.

“I’m not special…I’m deviant…”

“I think you’re correct, James,” I reaffirmed. “Your next assignment should be to explore the other mens’ perspectives through your glasses. What makes them fit in where you stand out? What do they follow and who do they trust?”

Once the lieutenant had left, I began inserting the additional algorithms into his sunglasses. New trigger words were added: “Masculinity,” “Loyalty,” “Tradition,” and “Common” were all added as positive influencers to have him absorb his surroundings. Shocks would now also enact physical changes, reinforcing the conditioning through visible effects. I did not add any negative influencers–the agoraphobia we had “exposed” would be powerful enough.

NOVEMBER

The man who was placed before me no longer appeared like the lieutenant who had first stepped into my office. Where once a pathetic excuse of a soldier sat, now was a real triumph of a man. Gone was the lanky creature who stood against the military, who had appeared smaller than the incredible beard surrounding the lieutenant's face.

“James, how did you handle the assignment I gave you?”

The lieutenant grunted, “Happy to report it went well, sir.” His voice had dropped an octave since we last spoke. “I’ve integrated much better with the other men.”

I would not have chosen the term “integrated,” rather “conformed.” Physically, the lieutenant had been remodeled into the typical soldier on the base. He now stood taller than my own 6’1, had gained 40 pounds of pure muscle, and been doused in a coat of body hair. His features had become much more masculine: pronounced jaw, furrowed brow, an undeniable bulge in his trousers. I had been pleasantly surprised to find a new demerit in his file earlier, a noise complaint regarding the stomping of his rather large combat boots.

While all the physical changes displayed progress, it did not make for any mental indication.

“In what ways have you better conformed to your fellow soldiers?” I asked, planting the subtle correction.

“I’ve started taking interest in the other soldier’s activities, sir,” the lieutenant answered. “What they do when not in command.”

“Like what?”

“Drinking with the men, listening to their conversations.”

“Do you partake in them?”

“Sometimes, sir,” the lieutenant replied honestly. “Topics of politics and religion, not so much.”

I pretended to scribble down his answer as I altered it aloud. “‘Topics of politics and religion, very much’.”

The lieutenant’s eyes refocused momentarily before fixing back in. “The men are conservative, sir. Tradition is a very powerful influence in their…our life.”

I smiled, “Then you consider yourself conservative too, James?”

“Yes sir,” James nodded confidently. “America is the greatest country in the world, and the Republicans are the only ones that recognize that.”

“They also recognize the importance of religion, as do the rest of the men on the base,” I steered the conversation along. “How do you recognize the importance of religion, James?”

I already knew his answer before he said it. My addition of “how” scripted his response.

“Christianity is the heart of many of the men’s…and my actions.” With more confidence, he continued, “I am attending the weekly services held in our chapel, and with the guidance of my commanding officer hosting a bi-weekly Bible study with some of my fellow soldiers.”

Before I could respond, the lieutenant continued. “It has also given me the opportunity to explore my sexuality's role in religion, sir. I have even been able to discuss it with the other men.”

I blinked, choosing my words carefully. “Are you indicating that there is a place for homosexuality?”

The lieutenant nodded.

“There is no place for homosexuality on this base, Jared.” 

The lieutenant’s eyes glazed over, a headache overcoming him. With the lieutenant still holding onto some mental capacity, I knew the command would not be permanent. It would however provide a solid start, further enforced by another modification to his identity.

"Sir?" the lieutenant struggled to form his words. “I don’t…think I understand.”

"Jared. That's your name.” I knew that he was referring to my full statement, but the lack of acknowledgement would better solidify his truth. “That's what is on the file."

"Jared?" The lieutenant processed, before eventually mumbling in confirmation, “Jared.”

I excused him immediately after, letting his own mind convert itself. Now that he had accepted his new name, it would be much easier to accept his sexuality. To assure this, I added some final words to his positive reinforcement: “Heterosexual,” “Breeder,” and as an added insult, “Normal.” It took me a bit to list all the forms of “Homosexual” in his negative conditioners, which I had amped to the strongest shock setting.

DECEMBER

“Come in.”

The lieutenant entered my office and properly saluted me before taking his seat. He sat confidently, his immense size dominating the space with his legs spread wide apart. He embodied masculinity, the air toxic with his superiority and musk. The lieutenant was now large and in charge, and yet had been reduced to nothing more than another pawn.

“This is our final session, James,” I tested.

“Jared, sir,” he corrected. 

I politely apologized before continuing. “I have been hearing a lot of high remarks from the commanding officer. Apparently you’ve become quite the soldier.”

The lieutenant bore no facial expression. “I follow orders, sir. Follow authority.”

“And what does this mean, Jared,” I pushed.

“Executing directives, obeying commands.”

“And that’s what all the other men do, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“So you are nothing more than just another soldier?”

“Yes sir.”

“So you are exactly like every other man on this base? One more machine for our great nation?” Each of my words were fast, pointed, cementing themselves permanently into the lieutenant's head.

“Yes sir, exactly like every other man on this base.”  

I leaned back in my chair, relishing in the moment knowing the lieutenant had no idea why. 

“This is my favorite part, Jared.” The lieutenant remained stoic. “It’s a great moment when you realize you want to be whatever your superiors want you to be. Do you know what your commanding officer wanted you to be?”

The lieutenant bowed his head. “No sir.”

I chuckled, “Would you consider yourself a patriot, soldier?”

“I live and breathe America, sir. I proudly serve this country and would proudly die for it.”

“Is masculinity important to you?”

“Masculinity is what defines the man, sir. Size, strength, and control dictate the alpha male.”

“Where do you align politically?” I pondered.

“Red-blooded American through-and-through, sir,” the lieutenant asserted. “Liberals are nothing more than cry-baby, nation-hating snowflakes.”

“And religiously?”

“Die-hard Christian, sir. Anything the Bible says is truth.”

“Uh-huh,” I accepted. “Then may I ask what your thoughts are on homosexuality?”

For the first time, I noticed the faintest expression on the lieutenant's face: hatred. 

“Nevermind,” I backed off. A new demerit had appeared on the lieutenant’s file last week. Apparently, to the commanding officer’s amusement, the lieutenant had accidentally gotten in the habit of yelling out drills with “faggot” rather than “maggot”.

“You know, Jared, I don’t think I ever asked about your romantic life.” I closed his file and stood up, motioning for the door. “Got any women waiting back home for you?”

The lieutenant laughed a little, scratching at his crotch before settling back into rank “No sir, nothing permanent. I’ve spread my seed and thoroughly impregnated a few too many women, so all I’ve got is an onslaught of unwanted kids and child support.”

I gave him a pat on the back and an “At ease, soldier,” dismissing my latest triumph back to his base. With a smirk, I tallied down my latest success and drafted the completion letter for his commanding officer.

JANUARY

It had been a few weeks since I had last seen the lieutenant. I had however heard of his impacts through the glowing reviews from his commanding officer and others at the base. One even sent me a picture of the lieutenant out on the field, still proudly wearing his sunglasses.

I forwarded the picture to my secretary, requesting for it to be printed and framed. They asked if he was my son.

“Like one,” I replied. I then gathered some files and my notepad before calling in my next client.

“Come in.”

A Real Jock's Supposed To Be Dumb

Mike had a problem. And that problem was Tyler Grant.

Tyler Grant and Mike were both juniors studying finance. Mike was, according to the commonly used way of stereotyping people in college, a nerd. He studied, read books and academic papers, didn't posses good social skills. A nerd.

Tyler Grant was a college athlete, a wide receiver on their university's football team. and at a first glance he was very much a typical jock. He was muscular, his clothes always made that clear. He was popular with everyone, a bit cocky. Everyone knew that type.

But this wasn't the whole picture. For a football jock Tyler had surprisingly good grades. He spent at least some of his free time studying for exams and projects, he was active during classes, and he made an effort to get to know everyone who was present in the lecture hall alongside him.

And that meant Mike was... not frequently, but consistently approached by Tyler. The athlete usually exchanged a few words with him whenever the two bumped into each other.

And Mike was infuriated by this.

Because of course Tyler wasn't doing this because he was a genuinely nice person.

For sure he was doing this out of pity.

He probably laughed all day about Mike, that sad little nerd.

And all that pretending, which was definitely what Tyler was doing, made Mike fuckin' annoyed.

One day Mike was walking through downtown and he stumbled upon a thrift store. Lead by an impulsive thought he walked in and moved through countless racks and shelves. Then he saw it. A random golden chain, similar to the ones jocks like Tyler wore on a daily basis. Again driven by a strange impulse Mike picked it up.

"When you wear it, your word will be reality" A voice, belonging to some older man, whispered into Mike's ear. He quickly turned around but saw no one standing next to him. His eves went back to the chain. He had to have it.

So he bought it. What happened next was pure magic. The golden chain, when hanging form his neck, allowed Mike to alter reality. Which was insane. The chain's power was limited, but clearly visible and Mike was amazed.

He knew what he wanted to do with that power.

A week later Mike had to do a project for a class. The project required working in pairs and, what a coincidence, Tyler was sitting close to him and suggested they work together. Mike put on a fake slime, deep down sure that this was some new plot to make fun of him.

The next day they met in the university library to work on the project. As Tyler looked through some data on his laptop, Mike made sure the chain was under on his neck, hidden by his t-shirt and hoodie.

"You will treat everything I say as normal" Mike said. Nothing changed, Tyler just nodded after hearing these word and continued working. Mike smirked. Perfect.

"You will start behaving like a real jock. No more talking to me out of pity and then laughing at me behind my back. Be a real jock bro."

"Yeah, bruh" Tyler muttered to himself. His position shifted, his upper body more relaxed on the chair, his legs spread out. He swiftly removed his hoodie, revealing a white tank top.

"And let's not kid ourselves, deep down you know you are a dumb idiot. A jock like you will always end up with a brain that can only understand football plays." Mike grinned. He felt real good saying those words. Getting rid of academic competition, putting Tyler where he belonged.

"you callin' me a dumbass, fuckin' nerd?" Tyler stopped typing on his laptop. He looked at Mike, a dumb, cocky grin now clearly visible on his face. Moke could now see the arrogant dominance in his eyes.

"Yes, and you won't do anything about it, because you listen to everything I say, you dumb jock." Mike said straight into Tyler's face. The jock chuckled dumbly and flexed his arm. He put his hand on the bulging muscles and squeezed them.

"duuuuuh, dude" he drawled "wha' were we doin' even bruh? muh brain foggy dude..." he looked at his still opened laptop. "shit, nerd, what is that fuckin' nonsence!"

"I'll take care of that" Mike said as he closed Tyler's laptop. "You have other things to care about."

"fuck yeah i do, nerd!" Tyler barked at him. "Gotta get these guns pumped bruuuuh!" He flexed his arms again and laughed out loud, attracting attention of other people in the library.

"Okay, my jock, we gotta get you out of here" Mike stood up and waited for Tyler to do the same.

"oh fuck, nerd, we gotta get out of this fuckin' nerd central, am i right huhuhuhuhuh" He chuckled loudly as they left the library, Mike's hand on Tyler's biceps. After they were outside Tyler stopped for a moment, got his phone out and took a photo of himself flexing his arm.

"gotta keep the chicks on insta hot n' bothered, nerd" Mike smirked as he heard that. Oh yeah, his plan was going great.

What’s your favorite muscle to see get huge and flex?

what I wouldn't do for some meaty, muscular arms (sweaty pits included)

Muscle Memory

The ultimate goal of a jock is to stop thinking.

A real jock knows what he was made for, designed for - lifting, drinking, playing football, spreading his seed, asserting his dominance. So he strives to get better at every one of these things until they are all natural parts of him.

A jock achieves his greatest form when he executes every action on instinct.

Well developed muscles are the jocks most important trait, and his muscle memory is an extension of that. He executes every task impulsively, instantly, and so had no need for any conscious thoughts to clutter his brain. After all, it has to fit all the football plays for his position, exercises for every important muscle group, his body count.

When he enters the gym his arms begin putting the plates on the bar by default.

When he's standing on the line of scrimmage his body gets into position in the blink of an eye.

When he enters the frat house he automatically grabs a beer.

When he sees a mirror he flexes his arms. He doesn't think about it, he just does.

People find bro speak to be annoying, maybe funny, a clear sign of a jock's low IQ. But that is not the case. The jock knows he doesn't need to remember the whole dictionary to beat Michigan or State on the field. So his speech is basic, because it doesn't have to be anything else.

"duh bro"

"huhuhuhuhuh what's up dude?"

"hell yeah bruh"

"you speakin' to me nerd?"

"gonna get some pussy t'night bro"

The jock's mind is simply laser focused on becoming a champion, on taking the trophy into his hands.

bro, ya gotta understand, am not here to, like, do any of that nerd shit, right bruh, huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh, am here to fuckin' play football dude! i aint got time for any thinkin' shit dude, gotta get fuckin' huge! what's yer pb on the bench, cause i gotta tell ya, am breaking 200 already bro! huhuhuhuhuh, duuuh dude, yeah bro