Of Spies And Muscleheads Part 4

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 4

Hunter ghosted through the halls. The dull hiss continued to play over the loudspeakers as he passed.  Every thug he snuck past murmured to himself as he stared, blank-faced, ahead. As he ran, Hunter felt increasingly dizzy. His erection had grown extremely uncomfortable, and his body felt so warm. Hot. Tense.

“Flex, meathead.” The voice was low, dull, a nigh perfect replica of Thirteen, only synthetic, somewhat mechanical. It was the first real message Hunter had heard over the loudspeakers the entire time he’d been here. His body froze as the men in the halls turned. As one body, they groaned and struck a pose.

“I am a meathead. I obey. We are meatheads. We obey. Meatheads flex. Meatheads obey. We are all big, dumb meatheads.” They flexed together, moving in a choreographed ballet of muscle and masculinity. All those muscles. All those bulges. Straining. Pushing. Swelling.

Hunter barely suppressed a groan. His head was swimming. His body trembled. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. The fabric in his crotch strained.

“I obey. I obey. I obey.”

“I obey …” Who said that? It sounded just barely out of time. Had it been his imagination?

“What was that, Hunter?” Control asked.

“What? Uh … nothing, Control. Nothing,” Hunter whispered back. “They’re just affirming their orders.”

“Obey, meatheads. Report to the gym. Work out. Change guard,” the voice commanded. The men clomped from their places on the walls, and began to form up in a line.

Hunter watched them, then smirked. Yes, it could work. “I’m going to try something, Control. Just don’t freak out, okay?”

“What’re you up to, Hunter?”

“What better way to sneak into the gym than with a crowd of mindless soldiers?”

“Hunter, that’s not–”

But Hunter had already filed in as he turned off his camouflage. “I obey. I am a meathead. Meatheads obey. Report to gym. I obey. I will go to the gym. I will work out.”

Nobody batted an eye. No one raised an alarm. No one tried to seize him. The soldiers parted, making space within the line for him, before standing at attention. Every one of them was a hair’s breadth apart from the man before him.

“March,” the voice commanded.

As one, they pressed forward. Hunter stumbled a few times, but eventually he got the hang of the rhythm, and fell into stride. One. Two. One. Two. Right. Left. Right. Left. Meat. Head. Meat. Head.

“Meathead ….” He shuddered in pleasure. The shudder seemed to pass down the line. Everyone felt it. Everyone. All one. All the same. Fellow soldiers. Fellow units. Fellow meatheads. Wait, since when did he think of them as …?

“What was that, Hunter?”

Hunter shook his head, snapping himself out of it. “Nothing, Control,” he whispered vehemently. “A little radio silence, please? I don’t want to give away the act.” He felt a heavy pressure on his shoulder. A deep, empty voice spoke into his ear.

“Listen. Obey. Meathead.”

The dizziness came back full force. Everything felt so fuzzy. He almost fell out of step. Another hand landed on his other shoulder, steadying him. Steady. He can’t afford to fall out. Fall in. Fall in, and march. March in time. March, and repeat orders. “Listen. Obey. Meathead …” Have to repeat. Have to fit in. Steady. So steady. Tromping. All in line. All in sync. The hands squeezed briefly. Then they were gone. He leaned more heavily into his footsteps. His legs spread wider. He grunted. It was met with a grunt of approval from behind. They marched. And marched. And marched. Keep going. Keep moving. Stay together. Obey. How long had they been marching now? He couldn’t tell. Just going in unison. One. Two. One. Two. Meat. Head. Meat. Head. He could feel his meat. His massive meat. Straining. Just like his head. He tried to turn his head, but … why did he want to? He couldn’t afford to stand out. Standing out is bad. Fall in. Obey. Fall. Repeat. Obey.

“Obey …” The word was out of his mouth before he could think. But … why should he think?

“Hunter …”

So thick. Hard to think. Head full. Meat full. Straining. Growing. Yes. Growing. He should grow.

“Grow with us,” the voice behind him said.

“I …”

“Grow.”

Head. So thick. Growing thicker. Heavier. Harder to think. Don’t think. But … Growing … harder to think. Don’t think. Obey. Conform. Growing … growing….

“Grow with us, meathead.”

“Grow?” Should he? Was that … right? He was trying to blend. He had to. To finish his mission. …What was his mission again?

“Yes,” the deep voice confirmed.

“Hunter, snap out of it!”

“Grow with us, meathead,” the voice repeated.

That buzzing. Something … in the back of his mind. But … growing. Should he?

“Grow with us, meathead,” the voice said for the third time.

“Grow with us.” The command came again, this time from in front of him.

“Grow with us.” This one came from further behind. Soon the whole line had taken up the command. Their voices were deep and compelling, timed perfectly to their heavy march.

“Grow. With. Us. Grow. With. Us.” Step. Step. Step. One. Two. Three. Step. Step. Step. Grow. With. Them. Perfect rhythm. Pounding. No shout. All united. All in sync. Just like their steps. Just like his steps. Just like him. Growing. Growing with them. Grow … with … them.... Yes.

“I …” Hands on his shoulders again.

“Grow with us, meathead.”

Obey. Follow. Fall in. Listen. “Grow … with … you …” His hands twitched. They felt … bigger. Bigger is good. Yes. That was his mission. To grow. Grow big. Grow Strong. Grow like a meathead. Just like a meathead. Because … because …

“Damn it, Hunter!”

The hands on his shoulders tightened ever so slightly, then released, hanging loosely on him. “Yes,” the voice said. “Grow with us, meathead.”

Grow. “Grow with you. … Meathead.” He shuddered. His suit felt tighter. “Grow … with … you.”

“We are meatheads.”

Repeat. Conform. Obey. “We are … meatheads.”

“You are a meathead.”

“I am … a meathead.” Of course. He should grow because he is a meathead. Grow with us, meathead. Grow. Meathead. Grow into meathead.

“Just like us.”

“Just … like … you.” Same. Obey. Grow. Meathead. Meathead. Meathead.

“Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads … obey.”

“I am a meathead. I obey.”

File in. Repeat. Conform. “I am a meathead. I obey.” And so it went down the line. They were all meatheads. They obey.

“We are all big, dumb meatheads,” the voice said.

“We are all big, dumb meatheads.” Everyone said it. He said it. All said it. All. One. The same. Meatheads. Everyone. Conform. Obey. Fall in. Tromp. Follow. “Meatheads must grow …” Yes. Must grow. Grow big. Bigger is better. Bigger is dumber. His head felt so clear. The lightheadedness, the stuffiness, gone. Empty. He felt the hand squeeze his shoulder again, and he knew it was approval this time. Welcome. Must join. Must grow. Meatheads must grow.

“Grow with us.”

“Yes. Grow. Must grow. I am a meathead. I must grow.” He felt hot. So warm all over. It was good to follow. Good to obey. He felt his muscles strain against the fabric of his suit. He smiled. Grow. Must grow. Fulfill his mission. Grow into a true meathead.

“Grow at the gym.”

“Grow at the gym …” Report to gym. Grow at gym. Work out. Grow. Lift. Strain. Step. March. Follow. Obey. His suit clung to his body, but it didn’t get any tighter. Thoughts of Stone were far behind him now.

“You are a meathead.”

“I am a meathead.” Obedient. Meathead. Follow.

“Meatheads must grow.”

“Meatheads must grow. I must grow.” Yes, so clear. So right.

“Grow at the gym.”

“I grow at the gym.”

“We are meatheads.”

“We are meatheads.”

“Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads obey.”

“We obey.”

“We obey. I obey. Meathead must obey.” Must obey.

“Join us,” the voice droned.

An invitation. Feel so good. Muscle to muscle. Back to back. Bulge to bulge. Staring. He wants to grow. Wants to obey. Wants to march. To be a meathead. To be the same. He is the same. Meathead is the same. This meathead will join. This meathead will march. This meathead will listen. This meathead obeys. Join. March. Listen. Obey. Join. March. Listen. Obey. March. Listen. Obey. March. Obey. March. Obey. March. O– Hunter yelled in pain as a heavy electric shock ran through his arm. The fog cleared. What had he been doing? What had he been thinking? He shook his head, and immediately ducked out of the way, flattening himself against the wall as the column suddenly stopped. He braced himself for combat.

The literal wall of muscle turned as one, and simply stared. Together, they pulled up their visors. Together, they stared vacantly ahead, their eyes dull. Looking to the one that had been behind him, Hunter saw unfocused abyss-blue eyes locking with his own icy blue. “Join us,” the familiar voice repeated. He took off his helmet. He offered it to Hunter.

Take it. Obey. Meatheads must obey. This unit is a meathead. This unit must listen. This unit must join. Join. Listen. Obey. Join …. No! Hunter gritted his teeth, and pulled back the hand that had been reaching for the helmet. He barely staved off the shudder he knew would come. He had been that close to joining them. “Never.”

The thick man looked at him almost pityingly, and shook his head. He placed the helmet back on his own head. Then, as one, the group formed up, lowered their visors, and tromped away, still mumbling their orders. Even as he watched them go, Hunter couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of regret. He had disobeyed. He had not joined. He had not listened. He was not a good meathead.

“Hunter, you damned idiot,” Control hissed. “Didn’t you think for even a moment that maybe, just maybe, that substance in the pipe might have been the same substance Stone used in the main hall?”

“I’m sorry, okay, control?”

“Oh, you’re sorry. I suppose that’s supposed to make everything better now. Look at yourself, Hunter. They nearly turned you into one of them! Your dopamine levels and HGH are skyrocketing, adrenaline is rising, your heart rate is fluctuating, you’ve put on at least a good twenty pounds in muscle mass, and you don’t even care!”

“Why should I?” Hunter hissed vehemently in return. “What’s done is done. We can’t change it, and I can’t get the hell out of this place until I swipe across that damned checkpoint. So do me a favor. Take notes on the effects the drug or whatever it is has on me, and tell me where I need to go. If you’re right, then this process is still happening, and I’m still mutating into a–.” He caught himself just in time. “–Into one of them. We have to finish this, before I’m fully compromised. I have to kill Stone. If he dies, his project dies with him.”

“Hunter.…”

“Just do it, Jason!” Do it. Convert. Become a–no. Hunter shook his head. He had to stay focused.

“Follow the corridor. According to your suit, you’ve dropped a good ten stories beneath the castle. The size of this compound is positively massive.”

“Massive … yes.…” Grow massive. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly–pain. Hunter cried out. His watch. It broke him out of it. He breathed heavily, leaning against the cool metal walls. The lights flickered above him in strobes, marking his path. Occasionally, the pattern of the walls would change, giving way to numbered key pads and thick blast-proof doors. So thick. Like his muscles. Like him. Thick … heavy…. Stop it.

“Hunter, are you alright?”

“I … I am now.” Hunter shuddered. He was far from alright. He was slowly losing his body and his mind, his very will to this … whatever it was. And however pleasurable it may be, it still wasn’t worth the end result. “They … they must have trigger words for this. Things that make us–them compliant.” He was not one of those things. Not yet, at least. “Keep shocking me, if I start … you know.”

“I will. I promise.”

“And Jase … stay on the line with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Hunter.”

“Thanks. One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Turn off the synthesizer. I … I want to hear what’s happening to me with my real voice. Not … not his.” He heard the clacking of keys.

“It’s done, Hunter.”

Hunter took a deep breath. “… Test. Test.” As he had feared, his voice had deepened somewhat. It was only to be expected with the growth of his body, and particularly the anatomy straining against the crotch of his pants. “Well, at least I’m not vapid yet.”

“And you’re still coherent. We’ll probably know you’re closer when you start using less intelligent words.”

“I guess making them dumb is his way of keeping them in line.”

“… I don’t know. The drug seems to be doing something up in your cerebellum. Wait a minute, no, the cortex. No, the frontal lobe. Shit. Your whole brain’s lighting up like a Christmas tree. I’ll try to isolate–”

“Don’t bother, Control. You and I both know you don’t have the hardware for it. You can barely read what’s going on in my brain with those sensors in the suit as is. Just keep recording what’s happening, and move me along already. I have to get to that gym, before Stone does.”

“… Take your next left. After you pass through three intersections, hang a right. It’ll take you through a spacious room. The plans are kind of vague on its function. Apparently it’s some sort of observation room, but other layouts read it as a lab. Just be careful passing through there, alright, Hunter?”

Hunter grunted.

“Hunter.”

“I’ll be careful,” he finally said.

The room turned out to be a giant dome-like structure supported by several heavy beams that arced upwards to meet in the central joint, where a ring covered in machinery laid in wait. Large, flat display monitors curled up like scutes on the maw of some demented beast. A series of symmetrical lab tables sat in order one after the other, forming a circle of approximately twelve adjustable slabs including restraints, adjustable mechanisms, and multiple tools within the drawers. Some of the storage units wouldn’t open, indicating that these were either for decoration, or possibly could only be accessed via remote control, like the monitors above. Pulsing blue LED lights lined the columns and ceiling above, circling the white fluorescent bulbs. Several smaller LEDs formed the outlines of large oblong hexagons about three feet off the floor, a good six feet long, and a good eight feet more in height. Considering the size of some of the behemoths in this place, Hunter couldn’t fault the investment. Anyone in the ops business could clearly tell they were viewing windows of some kind. He probably just had to find the controls to see inside if he really wanted to. Twelve tables, twelve viewing windows, twelve cells. Twelve possible victims he could save.

“Control, can I access these rooms with Meathead’s security clearance?” Hunter shuddered at the word and the cotton started to stuff itself back in his head again.

“That depends on his clearance.”

“What happens if it’s not high enough?”

“Security comes to get you.”

Obey. Follow. Go with them. Hunter groaned. “Control, I need another shot.”

“You got it, Hunter.”

One extremely painful shock later, Hunter made his way to one of the panels. “… Frat boy?”

“That’s what it says. Don’t ask me.”

Hunter crossed to another of the consoles. “HSBDJ … Thug 4 Life … Teen Titan … Peer Pressure … Meat Ray?” Hunter stared in disbelief. “The hell are these supposed to even mean?”

“You have two choices. Either try to open them up and find out or get out of there and get to that gym.”

“… We need all the intel we can get. I’m going to try to access the units … whatever they are.”

First, Hunter tried the cell marked Thug 4 Life. Sliding the card across the scanner, he found that a series of options appeared on the pad. He selected View Subject, and watched as the heavy steel slowly pulled open and he stared inside, or rather, he tried to stare inside. A layer of black or some sort of brown stared him in the face. “What the hell?”

“Who knows?” Control responded. “Try another one.”

This time Hunter went for the one labeled HSBDJ.

“Acknowledged. Meathead.” With a mechanical chirp, the pad unlocked and Hunter pressed the viewing button. The metal opened with a steely hiss, and as Hunter looked inside, he saw a large bed, a weight bench, and a myriad of other workout machines ranging from a step machine to a treadmill to a stationary bicycle. A pyramid of protein powders complete with mixing cups and blenders sat on a mahogany desk that had been littered with the remains of previous drinks and old clothing.

A set of shoulder pads lay strewn in a corner, the jersey tossed to the other side of the room. Some stray bits of fabric peeked out from beneath the bed, and a crumpled piece of under armor hung precariously from one of the closed drawers of what appeared to be a dresser. A professional grade football lay atop it, mounted on a metal stand, which also held a pair of football gloves on its prongs.

Posters of every major player from the latest season of the NFL posed around the room, catching balls, throwing the touchdown pass, tackling another player, or smiling out with a dopey grin at the win that had just been pulled off while his teammates surrounded him. A single shower stall sat in a small alcove with what appeared to be some sort of viewing screen. Either it had settings for the shower or it may have been an actual television.

A tall boy with a medium build and shaggy black hair stood by what appeared to be a nutribullet machine, only without the logo. It whirred loudly, causing the football’s stand to vibrate, along with some of the used cups that had been discarded to one side. A large mirror hung behind the blender, stretching from one end of the dresser to the other, and reaching a good four feet higher. The boy unlocked the drink and began to swallow as he turned towards the viewing window. Dead grey eyes widened as he gaped and dropped the drink all over the floor. A single oversized dark green jock strap barely clung to his waist.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You … you’re not … you’re not one of them, are you, br–?” he barely managed to stifle the last word.

“My god; he’s kidnapping minors,” Control said.

Hunter pressed the com link. “How old are you, kid?”

“I … I’m fifteen,” the kid replied. “Please. You … you’ve gotta get me out of here. They’ve been … doing something to me. To all of us.”

“There are more of you?”

“At least ten of us. Probably more. I … see them sometimes. Well, I used to. Before I was put in here. They’re … different now.” He looked away. “Sometimes they show me feeds from the gym on the monitor. There’s more of them every day, and they just keep growing … growing …”

“Stay with me, kid,” Hunter said.

The boy shook his head. “S–sorry.” He shuddered. “Some of them welcomed this. Most of us were bullied before we were brought here. I used to be four and a half feet tall with a squeaky voice. Now …” He motioned to himself. “The people who really wanted this, they grew. Fast. But some of us were … what they called stubborn. One day, a couple of us went missing. Took a couple weeks. At least … I think it was a couple of weeks. But then they were back. They were back … but they weren’t the same anymore.” He looked down. “All focused on this and this,” he said, pointing to the sagging pouch of his strap and the smaller muscles on his frame. “They … didn’t talk much anymore after that. They just kept working out. When they did talk, it was all about sports and statistics. And fuck, man, did they ever get stacked.” He shuddered and shook his head. “Sorry … sorry. I … didn’t used to talk like that.”

“How long have they kept you here?”

“Weeks. Months. Who knows? I don’t know anything anymore. It’s … it’s what they do here. It’s like they suck your brains out and turn you into some sort of muscle zombie. It’s all you can think of. All you want to do. All you want to be... all you want to be …”

“A mindless meathead,” Hunter said, shuddering.

“A big, dumb jock,” the kid said. His cheeks were getting flushed and the fabric didn’t sag so much on his strap anymore. “You … you have to get me out of here.”

“Kid, I don’t know if the card I swiped even has the clearance.”

The heavy thrum of drums and a wavering series of notes began to play over the intercom. The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh no. Not again. Please, no.” he looked desperately at the window. “You’ve got to get me out. Please!”

“What’s going on?”

“Every time this music starts to play, I black out. I fight it, I try so hard, but I … I … always … Gah!” he clutched at his head. “Fuck!”

“Kid? Kid, stay with me.”

“That damn song … always that same damned song!” the kid growled. “Stupid. So … stupid. I … it’s … so … so stupid … I … I …” he looked down at a rapidly forming tent in his jock strap and a dazed smile came to his lips. “Yes. So … stupid … dumb … so … dumb …”

“Kid! Snap out of it!”

Something flickered over the window. Its pixels moved, but Hunter couldn’t make it out.

“Trav, dude, you’re lookin’ good today,” a deeper baritone said. The voice paused. “What happened to your shake?”

The boy looked numbly down at the spilled liquid on the floor. “I uh … dropped it.” He put a heavy hand to his head and swayed on his feet.

“Well go get another one, bro. We don’t got much time. Workout starts soon. You know how Coach gets when we’re not on time, and you’re gonna need the protein, man.”

“Marcus, I–”

“It’s Mark, bro, you know that.”

“Uh … yeah. Do I uh … y’know … have to listen to … that music again?”

“Course ya do, bro, the whole team does. You do want to join the team … right?”

“Join … the team?”

“Yeah, Trav. You know, the football team. Fucking tackling, training, lifting weights, getting swole. It’s fucking awesome!”

The boy cringed. “My … my head. It … it hurts!”

“Headache, bro. Not enough fluids. Ya gotta drink your protein. Go on. And move your ass. Coach is almost here.”

“I …”

“Drink the protein.”

“… Drink … the protein.” The boy called Trav, probably short for Travis, made his way towards the drink stand and grabbed a shaking mixer cup. He opened one of the canisters of powder and dumped three heaping loads of emerald green sand into the container before filling it with milk from a minifridge, closing the cap, and shaking it up. His hands followed the rhythm of the drums.

“Drink the protein,” Mark repeated.

“Drink the protein.”

“Gotta get swole, bro.”

“Get … swole.” Travis swallowed the drink.

“Get swole to get on the team.”

“Uhuh …” Travis took another drink.

“Get swole and listen to coach.”

“Listen … to coach …”

“Listen … and obey … Yeah … obey … Feels good to …”

“Fall in!” A rugged voice barked.

Travis stiffened like a board and approached the screen. “Yes, sir!” The cry was a chorus. Just how many kids were on that intercom?

“Mark, get in with the other jocks. You’ve got a lot of muscle to grow today.”

“Yes, sir, Coach,” Mark’s voice droned. Hunter remembered the line of meatheads he’d been following, how easy it had been to just fall in with them. To walk. To listen. To obey. They must have been doing the same thing to these boys. And the kid Marcus had mentioned a whole team. Just what the hell were they trying to do?

“Trav, report in. How’s your growth coming?”

Travis shuddered. “Grown a full six inches.”

“Grown a full six inches, Sir,” the voice grated. “We’ve been over this, Travis. I’m your coach. You have to show the proper respect.

A dim spark jumped in Travis’ sleepy eyes. “But ... not … you’re not … my coach. Not … not like … them. Not … not … a jock.”

The gravelly voice sighed. Then it spoke gently, almost like a parent would to an ignorant toddler. “Travis, I see you’re wearing your jockstrap. That’s good. You know who wears jockstraps?”

“… Jocks.”

“That’s right, Travis. Look at the screen. You see those boys over there? They’re all good jocks. They’re wearing their jockstraps. They’re wearing their uniforms. They’re waiting for orders. All together. They’re part of a team, Travis. Tell me, do you see a difference between what you’ve got in your room and what they’re wearing right now?”

“I … I uhh …”

Hunter cursed under his breath. He couldn’t do anything but watch. If he tried anything, he could be captured before he had the chance to fulfill his mission.

“Speak up, Travis.”

“… No …”

“No what?”

“No … Sir.”

“So if jocks wear jockstraps, and you’re wearing a jockstrap, what does that make you?”

Travis gritted his teeth as he eyed the pixels. Hunter could see the resistance, but it was minimal. How long had they been exposing this kid to these treatments? What could they possibly be trying to accomplish?

“I’m waiting, Travis.”

“…”

“Don’t want to talk, huh?” The music intensified and a dull ringing played over the intercom. “Then just listen to my voice, and obey. I’ll tell you what you are.”

Travis groaned. The bulge in his strap grew a little larger and he stumbled forward, his hand slamming against the viewing portal.

“Listen to my voice, Travis. Listen to the music. You’re falling into a haze. Deeper and deeper. So deep. So groggy. So hard to do anything but listen. To listen to the music. To listen to me. To listen to my voice. Just listen. And fall into trance. You remember what it’s like in trance, don’t you? Peaceful. Warm. Safe. Relaxed. So relaxed as you fall deeper and deeper.”

A mumbled, “Yes, sir,” echoed from the speakers. It would seem the rest of this so-called team could fall into trance just as quickly. How many had this man broken? A second hand thumped against the window as the half-empty cup clattered to the floor, spreading its contents. Travis was breathing heavily. Something was flashing across the pixels, but Hunter couldn’t make out what. Something … in his eyes. Hunter took his hand off the intercom.

“Control, I need you to isolate whatever it is that’s playing across that screen. Think you can get something based on the reflection in the kid’s eyes?”

“I’m a technological genius, Hunter, not a magician.” Control sighed. “But I can try.”

“Please do. And bring it up on my eyepiece. I want to see what this kid’s seeing.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Just give me a shock if I start going under.” He smirked. “You know you like doing that anyways.”

“Hunter …”

“Alright, alright, I’ll lay off. Just do your best, okay, Control?”

“… Fine.”

Hunter pressed the control panel and activated the intercom again. The tribal drums beat low, loud, and clear. The high pitched whine continued. Light flashed on the boy’s eyes and … oh no.

“You can’t stop watching, can you, boy?” the grating voice said. The sound of groans and moans could be heard from behind along with the dim hum of machinery and the loud clanking of weights. They must have already begun the routine.

“Can’t … stop.”

“Here come the images, Hunter,” Control said. “Mirror feed activating now.” And with that, Hunter could finally see what the kid was seeing. He cursed profusely in his mind. The giant square jaw and piercing grey eyes of Stone bored into his gaze. The image flickered from time to time, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the other boys behind the maniac. Each stared blankly ahead, a holo-display flickering from a headpiece they wore as the jocks watched and worked. They were practically as big as he was, and their tight-fitting lycra-spandex pants left little to the imagination. Their broad, hefty shoulders were accentuated by the shoulder pads beneath the jerseys they wore. Occasionally, Hunter would notice a larger, older man passing by and speaking to the boys. So, Stone had brought his bodyguards to keep an eye on the kids. That would make things harder.

“You’re falling into the screen. Falling … falling … falling into the screen. Falling into my voice. Falling into line. Falling … and as you fall, you listen to me. And you can’t help but listen to me. Can’t help but listen to my voice. Can’t stop staring. Can’t stop listening. Listening to me.”

“Listening … to … you …” Travis mouthed.

Images and words superimposed over the broadcast like JOCK, MUSCLE, GROW, and OBEY. Muscled beasts of men and teenagers stared ahead blankly as they posed and grinned before flashing away just as quickly. Images of footballs, lockers, padding, and other sports gear also flashed by.

“Good boy.”

The boy stared, slackjawed.

“Can you hear me, Trav?”

“It’s … Travis …” the boy said.

Stone’s brow furrowed. “You told me you hated that name, Trav. Don’t you remember? I think you said something along the lines of ‘only a fucking pussy would keep a nerdy name like that.’”

The times Travis’ brow furrowed. “… Fucking … pussy … fuck, what was I thinking?”

“You weren’t, but that’s alright, my boy. You don’t need to think. You just need to listen to me. Listen, and obey.”

“… Listen … and obey.”

“Good boy.”

Travis, now Trav, shuddered at the praise. He stood up and rubbed the side of his head with a hand.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh … yeah. Head feels all … fucking fuzzy.”

“It always feels fuzzy, Trav, remember? It’s why you always have trouble in school.”

“… Trouble?”

“Yeah. You barely pass anything. Most of the time you just scrape by with a C. You’re just that dumb.”

“… Just that dumb?”

“You said so yourself.”

“… Just that dumb. … Dumb … I’m … dumb …” Trav’s eyes grew more vacant as he stared. His hand dropped to his side as he processed what Stone had just said. Ever so slowly. Slower and slower. “Uh … right … dumb … dumb....”

“Come on, kid, fight it,” Hunter thought to himself as he clenched his hand into a fist. Stone sneered. That was one more reason this son of a bitch had to die.

“That’s right. I’m right. I’m always right, Trav.”

Trav nodded his head as it drooped ever so slightly. “… Always … right.”

“There’s only one class you ever got an A in, Trav. You know what that is?”

Trav shook his head.

“Gym.”

The word was like a bomb going off. Hunter watched as Trav began to sweat. He spread his legs, no longer comfortable to keep them so close together, and rightly so. The kid’s legs were starting to expand, and besides that, the sagging pouch in his strap wasn’t so saggy anymore.

“You love the gym. It’s the only place where you can actually think straight. The more you worked out, the more you did anything physical, the more focused you became. You just empty your mind and focus in the gym. It was great. It is great. Great to just empty your mind and focus on me. Focus on my voice. Focus on your coach.”

“… Yeeaahhhhhhh …”

“Of course, the only problem is, the moment you stopped working out, you stopped being around the gym and went back to class. Things got worse again. Things got fuzzy.”

“… fuzzy … uh … yeah. Hard to … hard to think.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and start a set on the bench there? Clear that dumb head of yours.”

“Yes, Sir.” Trav walked over to the workout bench and sat down, leaned back and waited. A machine lowered itself down from the ceiling and racked up the bench with three hundred pounds. He grabbed a hold of the bar. He strained, pushed it up, then began his set. As he did so, the sweat poured down his brow and his arms began to bulk up ever so slightly.

“Good jock.”

“M’not a–” he grunted as he pressed upwards “–jock.”

“Not yet,” Stone said.

“Not yet …”

A piece of plexiglass descended over the boy as he pumped, arms growing, hands firm, chest expanding, shoulders broadening. A light beamed from a tiny projection device behind the glass, forming the image of Stone properly. Hunter didn’t need the reverse mirror camera anymore.

“But don’t you want to be?”

Trav grunted as he pressed into another set.

“So large, so strong, so … hung. The boys at home would worship you, and you could crush them under your feet if you wanted.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, pressing again. Don’t … wanna be … like … like …” Trav was staring up at the screen above him now. The images and words had returned with a vengeance. “Like … uhh …”

“Something the matter?”

“Be … like … something …” He grunted as he pressed again. His jaw grew more defined while his brow pressed out ever so slightly. “Can’t … remember.”

“Like your posters, perhaps?”

Trav pressed again, turning his head ever so slightly to view the players. “… Football …”

“Yes. Football. Your favorite sport.”

“… Favorite … sport.”

Hunter gritted his teeth. The setup made sense now. This was a form of isolation chamber. The whole point of the room was to reinforce the idea of being another mindless meathead, only this time, they were molded to fit the jock stereotype. What was Stone’s plan? World domination?

“Football is your favorite sport.”

“Football is my favorite sport.” Trav’s voice cracked as he said it with the other jocks.

“Do you know why?”

Trav grunted and favored the bar instead, pressing harder as he widened his legs. The jockstrap was rapidly inflating now as he continued to work, and a six pack was starting to form in his abdominals.

“It’s because sports are your life. Your body is your life. Muscle is your life. Growing it, working it, reveling in it. And the bigger your muscles, the better you feel. Bigger balls, bigger dick, bigger you.”

“… Yeah,” Trav slurred.

“There’s just one catch.”

“Wut?” Trav asked dazedly. A fine sheen of sweat covered his now significantly larger body. His broad shoulders pressed out from the edges of the bench. His arms practically ballooned outwards as veins pulsed and throbbed beneath the tight skin. And worse yet … he was grinning.

“Damn, that stuff works fast,” Hunter thought.

“The bigger you are, the dumber you get,” Stone said.

The results were nigh instantaneous. A full body tremor ran through Trav as if he had fallen flat on his face. The light in his eyes dimmed as he stared up at the screen, the grin still holding. He chuckled as his tone of voice shifted to fit the dull, empty look in his eyes.

“Good boy.”

Trav chuckled again. “Feels fucking great, Coach.”

“Of course it does, Trav. Being a big, dumb jock always is. And right now, that’s just what you are, isn’t that right?”

Trav’s brow furrowed. “Uh … I … don’t know …”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t know anything but football and weights. Just like a good jock.”

“I–”

“Because you are a good football jock. Wearing your big jock jockstrap for your big jock junk and your big jock bod.

“Big … jock …”

“Why don’t you try on some of that gear, muscleman? You’re looking a little … underdressed.”

Trav blushed as he put the bar back on the rack.

“Start with the girdle and pants, jock boy.”

“Pants …”

“Put them on. The clothes make the man. You dress like a jock, you think like a jock, you act like a jock, you become a jock. And you’ll like it. I guarantee you’ll like it.”

“But what if I don’t want to–?”

“Listen. Obey, jock boy,” Stone snapped.

Trav went rigid again as he stood up and clomped over to the girdle and pants that lay in a crumpled heap next to the drink stand. His significantly larger feet and heavier frame created a loud smack on the floor as he passed. “Yes, sir, Coach,” he droned as he retrieved the items from under the bed and began to slide the material over his calves. He shuddered. “I listen … I obey … obey …” He adjusted his bulge absently once he’d finished putting everything on. The pads accentuated his larger legs and glutes as he stared blankly at the screen. It had adjusted on a rotating axis to keep level with Trav as he pulled on his gear. He pulled his arms into a pose and watched his bicep as he flexed it, enjoying the pump he’d experienced from the sudden increase in muscle mass. The lighting of the room shifted almost imperceptibly to a bright green that flickered and pulsed. “Fuck,” Trav groaned pleasurably.

“Feeling good?”

“Hell yeah,” Trav bellowed.

Stone smirked. “You know, that pump would look even better if you had something tight wrapping around it. Show it off more, you know? Why don’t you try on that under armor you have hanging out from your dresser over there?” He chuckled. “Honestly, you jocks are all alike. Always so messy.”

Trav rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Coach.” This time he sauntered over to the shirt and shrugged into it. Pulling it down for a tight fit. The number 54 shone boldly on the front and back in white over the dark grey material. He turned to face the dresser mirror. Hints of the substance responsible for his changes had formed dried specks on the bottom, but Trav didn’t care as he took in the new contours his body had developed. “Fucking tight. Fucking swole. Fucking huge. Fucking big … big … so big …” The lights continued to pulse as Trav flexed and posed in the mirror.

“That’s right, Trav. And getting bigger. Bigger and dumber.”

“Bigger and dumber.” Trav sounded more confident now, almost as if he welcomed it.

“Let’s try on those shoulder pads next, hmm?”

“Yes, Sir!” Trav grinned, his heavy footsteps jostling the lighter objects in the room as he ran across the floor. He seized the pads with relish and quickly put them on.”

“Now pull the straps to their loosest setting.”

“But Coach, won’t that–?”

“Don’t question, Trav. Just do it.”

Trav did. The lights pulsed in his eyes as he stared before uttering a loud hiss of pain. The pads had pushed themselves up slightly, just enough for Hunter to make out the needles. They retracted a few seconds later, leaving a very dazed-looking Trav.

“Now grow into those pads, jock boy. I need a bulky, burly, brawny defensive tackle.”

Trav let loose a primal roar as his body expanded yet again. His calves and thighs grew to practically twice their size as he shot up to six and a half feet. His chest and shoulders broadened as his muscle mass increased. The pants, once snug, now strained against his new shape as he continued to grow. Body hair sprouted along the tops of his arms, growing thick and rugged as he stared blankly ahead, his brows protruding further to make a permanent scowl. He now stood at six foot nine. His jaw cracked and widened with the rest of his face, giving it the same square, blocky appearance all the drones bore. The shoulder pads creaked as he breathed, but were still a little loose.

“That felt good, didn’t it, Trav?”

“… Yes,” Trav lowed in his new deep voice.

“Good to be big.”

“Yes.” Trav’s nose broadened and flattened slightly, as if it had been pressed in by an invisible hand.

“Good to be dumb. Because bigger is dumber, isn’t that right, Trav?”

“Bigger is dumber,” he droned. “Yes, Sir. Want to be bigger. Want to be dumber.”

“Dumb and obedient.” The flashing grew more intense.

“O … bedient … dumb … and obedient … listen … obey …. Must … obey.” Trav stared, blankfaced at the screen, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

“That’s a good jock.”

“Good … jock …”

“And a good jock is always in uniform.”

“In … uniform.”

“Which you are not. Pull on that jersey, boy. Be a good jock.”

“… Yes … Coach …. Must obey. Be … good jock,” Trav droned as he moved to pick up the old jersey. The under armor looked more like a second skin as it strained against his new muscles. He leaned down and picked the jersey up. The number 54 again showed prominently as he donned it.

“Much better,” Stone purred.

“… Better. Bigger … is better. Bigger … dumber …”

“Jock.”

“Jock,” Trav repeated.

“Nothing but a big, dumb jock, Trav. That’s all you are. All you will be. All you want to be.”

“Want to be … big … dumb … jock …”

“And a big, dumb jock is part of a team. A team of big, dumb jocks just like you. Just like them. Because you’re all big, dumb jocks. Why don’t you tell him, boys?”

A series of plexiglass panels descended, surrounding Trav one after the other until a full nineteen panels flickered to life. The faces were nigh identical. Skin tones varied, along with one or two of the hair styles and colors, but ultimately, they all shared the same facial construction and vapid stares. One looked slightly different, but only for a few moments before his neck thickened, his brow pressed outwards, and his shoulders broadened beneath his pads. That one must have been Marcus. He opened his mouth and the others opened with him.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Thick muscleheads as dumb as rocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Just want to be a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We love becoming big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks….” The chant repeated over and over in a united chorus.

“The more you push at the gym all day, the more you push your thoughts away,” one of the kids said as the chanting continued in the background.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“The bigger you grow, the smaller the mind. The more you leave your old self behind,” a second said as the first rejoined the chorus.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“No going back. You’re here to stay. The bigger you grow, the more you obey.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Bigger … obey …” Trav droned.

Hunter could see what was going on now only too clearly. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to look away as he watched Trav stare, listening to each and every boy as the chanting continued.

“The stronger you grow, the harder you play. Be more like a jock bro every day.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“More like a jock … every day … bro …”

“Gotta bulk up. Gotta get swole. Put the meat in your head. Put the jock in control.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

Trav slumped forward slightly as his shoulders broadened again, filling out the uniform even further. “Meat in my head … jock in control …”

“Damn it! Come on, kid. Fight,” Hunter thought to himself as he watched. His head was starting to ache a little.

“A thicker skull to charge like a bull. Squeeze out the brains. No pain, no gain.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

A loud crack sounded as Trav’s skull flattened on top and jutted forward yet again in his brow and chin. “Thick skull. Squeeze brains.” He chuckled. “No pain, no gain, bros.”

Hunter hissed in pain. His skull felt like it was about to explode. A few seconds later, it stopped. He reached up and felt over his face. His eyebrows felt bushier. His brow had become more prominent. He barely stifled a groan. “Control,” he whispered. “What just happened? My head feels like someone put it through a … a …” His mind was drawing a blank. He could picture the item. See it squeezing, the crank handle, the two metal bits drawing closer together as the lever was turned. “A squeezy thing.”

“A squeezy thing? Hunter, you should stop. Get out of there. Complete the mission.”

“I can’t, Control.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I mean I physically can’t.” Hunter did everything he could to remove his hand from the control pad, but whenever he tried, his body refused to comply.

“Big, dumb jocks must stay and play. Big, dumb jocks always obey,” the seventh of the boys said.

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Play. Play football. Yes. Stay and play. I obey,” Trav said as he gaped at the screens.

“Control, I swear I can’t move,” Hunter whispered. “My body wants to stay and play … a big, dumb jock always obeys … big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Turn into a big, dumb–Ow!” He hissed. “Thanks, Control.” He tried to remove his hand. It still wouldn’t budge. “But my body still won’t move.”

“Hunter, I swear, if you make it through this, you’re going straight to kill Stone, got it?”

“I make no promises.”

“Hunter!”

“You see what’s happening here. What about the other rooms?”

“We can scavenge them after you do the job. Take out the head, Hunter.”

“Fine,” Hunter said as he rolled his eyes. Control had a point. The weapons and research could be analyzed later. Assuming these goons were all as dumb as the recordings made them sound, and apparently become, they would probably just keep repeating their programming. Hopefully the organization could help put things right after this was over and get these poor souls back to normal again.

“The longer you listen to us talk, the more you turn into a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Listen. Become. Jock. Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock.” Trav’s shoulders broadened yet again as his calves sculpted further, inflating inside the pants. His feet cracked, then grew longer and wider as he shifted his stance to fit his new frame.

Hunter grunted under his breath. The stealth suit was starting to cut into his skin ever so slightly. Not good.

“Clear out our heads. Empty it all, till all that’s left is weights and football.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Empty … football … yes.” Trav grunted as he listened, flexing a bicep as he looked at the weight bench. Travis was long gone now.

“Obey Coach Stone. There’s no other way. The better we listen, the better we play.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Obey … listen … better. No other way…. Must obey Coach. Obey Coach Stone.”

“All the meatheads we used to mock. Become just like them, a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

Trav chuckled with his new deeper voice. “Dude, do you even lift, bro?” He flexed a bicep and kissed it. “Fuck yeah, I do, ‘cause I’m a big, dumb jock. A big dumb jock. I’m turning into a big, fucking dumb jock.” He grinned as he started picking up the rhythm of the chant.

“Atta boy, Trav. That’s the spirit,” Stone said approvingly. “Keep going. You’re almost ready to join the team.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Fuck yeah!” Trav cheered. “Put me on the field. Let me show you what I can do. Let me obey. Let me grow. Turn me into a big, fucking dumb jock!” His arms expanded further as his legs grew longer. His thighs and calves thickened, turning into pistons to propel him forward on the field. “Thick musclehead as dumb as rocks. Fuck yeah. Fuck … yeah ….”

“You must conform. You must obey. Be just like us if you wanna play.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Wanna play … just like you. Big, dumb jock. Must conform. Must obey.” Trav’s voice grew more distant again and less cocky. “Just … like … you. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock.”

“The harder we stare, the longer the glance, the deeper we fall into dumb jock trance.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Deeper … stare … trance … yes. Just want to be a big, dumb jock.”

Hunter swayed on his feet. “Control?” he whispered

“On it.”

The familiar pain shot through his arm and cleared his head. “Thank you.”

“We’re big, burly brutes with abs like stone. Big fucking dumb jocks right down to the bone.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Dumb jock … down to bone … yes. Big, dumb jock. Love becoming a big, dumb jock.”

“Big, bulky, brawny. You ain’t no wuss. You’re turning into one of us.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Turning … one of you … Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Turning into a big, dumb jock.” Trav hunched forward as the muscles in his neck expanded.

“More muscles. Less thinking. Work out. Can’t stop. Until we become Coach’s big, dumb jocks.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks….”

“Can’t stop … work out … more muscles …. Big, dumb jocks … Coach’s big, dumb jocks … become … for coach. Musclehead … dumb as rocks … yes.” Trav slowly lumbered his way to a rack holding several dumbbells. The screens followed him, maintaining their droning chant. He picked out two of the larger ones before he began performing sets of curls while staring at the screens.

Stone laughed. “That’s right, Trav. Lift those weights. Work out. Get bigger. The harder you work, the easier it is to just listen and obey like a good jock.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… Just want to be a big, dumb jock …. Good jock for Coach. Lift. Listen. Obey. Become a big, dumb jock. Yes, Coach. I obey.” Trav grunted as he pumped and stared. The shoulder pads began to creak and strain as he continued to sweat with that vapid grin. His clothes grew tighter still as a shudder of pleasurable growth ran through him.

“The bigger the muscles, the more we get swole, the deeper we fall under Coach’s control.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“Must … obey Coach. I obey. Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. Just want to be … only want to be. Must be … for Coach.”

Trav dropped the weights with a heavy thud as they dented the wood and stayed. He made his way towards the squat rack and stood in front of a scanner as it ran over his eye. With an electronic chirp, a full four hundred pounds was piled onto the waiting bar bell. “Lift … for Coach,” he said as he heaved it up over his shoulders and proceeded to squat. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the room as the rear pads fell with a gentle smack onto the floor. Soon the flesh began to be exposed as spandex burst and fabric began to separate. The jersey ran up on his torso and his underarmor followed suit as one of the straps on the shoulder pads snapped.

Hunter gaped.

“He looks … practically simian,” Control said.

“Not quite. Just more masculine traits. Thicker jaw, jutting brow. No thick skin either. And normal body hair. It’s just his face that’s changing. His head. Like … like mine,” Hunter whispered back.

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah …”

Trav continued to squat obediently as his pants were quickly reduced to tatters.

“From the scrawny nerd you used to be. Now a big, dumb jock is all we see.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… We love becoming big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We’re turning into big, dumb jocks.” Trav’s shoulder pads gave up the ghost with a series of metallic pings as the buckles broke and he sluffed them off, exposing the series of tears that had formed over the rest of his clothing.

“Flex out of your uniform. A big, dumb jock boy now is born.”

“Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks ….”

“… We’re turning into big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Thick muscleheads as dumb as rocks. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Obey, become a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. Just want to be a big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jocks. Big, dumb jocks. We love becoming big, dumb jocks.” Trav repeated the chant over and over with the other boys as he continued to squat and grow. He shredded out of his uniform, so that only tatters clung to his shoulders and waist. Soon those were gone, too, leaving nothing but the bright emerald-green sweaty jockstrap which now barely held against his much broader and muscled frame. It seemed … paler in the sweatier parts. He shuddered and grinned as he placed the bar back onto its mount after finishing his set.

           “So that’s how they started them on the chemicals, absorption through the skin. God, look at him. No wonder he’s so … well, you know.”

           “Well endowed? Hung like a horse? Bull balled? Packing heat?” Hunter allowed himself the briefest of smirks at the dirty humor and the squirming he knew he was likely putting Control through, before he dropped it and sighed. “Looks that way, Control, but look at the price.” He watched as Trav pulled at the tight waist bands cutting into his flesh. The kid’s eyes were so blank. Must be high on his own endorphins and testosterone, and he wouldn’t be coming down any time soon. Hunter shook his head consolingly. “I can relate, kid. I can relate,” he whispered, fiddling with his own suit as it squeezed uncomfortably against his neck, arms, and crotch. It would definitely be hard to move in this thing. Once he actually could move, anyways. He’d probably tear through it if he tried full range of mobility, but there might not be any way to avoid that.

           Stone laughed. “See now, Trav? That wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re even enjoying yourself now, aren’t you?”

           Trav turned to face the screen projecting Stone’s face. “Yes, sir, Coach. It’s good to work out. Good to be a big, dumb jock.”

           “That’s right. And now it’s time for you to join your team in earnest.”

A whirring sounded from over by the dresser as the mountain of old cups toppled, having been shifted by the panel that was rising out of the sealed segment to reveal an armored safe. With a high pitched tone and a mechanical click, the door creaked open to reveal a headpiece just like the other boys had been wearing.

“Put it on, Trav. Complete the process. Join the team.”

“Yes, Coach,” Trav droned. He lumbered over to the mirror and reached into the safe. He pulled out the band, put it on, then adjusted it to fit his head. He checked himself in the mirror a few times, posed absently, then stood stock still as the glasses let out a chirp, followed by a whirring sound as two slim wire-like protrusions snaked outwards and entered his ear canals. A dim holo-screen projected over the front. A small progress bar flickered over the screen, displaying 99%.

“Congratulations, Trav. You’ve converted to muscle. You made the team. You are now officially one of the boys.”

The bar filled to 100%, and as it flashed, a dark sludgy-green slowly seeped out of his pupils and consumed the grey. With a pathetic snap, his jockstrap gave up the ghost. “Big, dumb jock. Big, dumb jock. I’m nothing but a big, dumb jock.” He laughed then, a deep, empty sort of laugh. It made Hunter shudder.

“Good jock. Put on your new jockstrap, and report to the gym for your new uniform. A meathead will be waiting for you outside. As for the rest of you boys, get back to work.”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, Coach,” echoed through the room as the display monitors shut off one after another. Hunter hastily retracted his hand, his body his own again. The viewing window went dark, and a loud crackle sounded through the dome-like facility.

“Meathead, you didn’t follow orders. I told you to report directly to the gym. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Hunter bowed his head. “Sorry, Coach,” he replied as the voice simulator kicked in again. He shuddered as he felt his crotch grow tighter.

“You can apologize when you’re working at your station again. You’ve been gone for too long. I know you were watching. Now get the kid, and bring him here. Make sure he finishes cementing his programming, then report to me personally. Do I make myself clear, Meathead?”

Hunter shuddered. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead understands. Meathead obeys. Meathead is a good meathead.” He heard it and felt it at the same time as the suit began to tear, exposing his skin to the cool, sterile air of the lab. He turned, and stared at the door to the isolation room, waiting expectantly.

“Good Meathead,” Stone purred. Then the connection cut off. The door opened with a steely hiss as Trav thumped out.

“Big, dumb jock. I’m a big, dumb jock. Obey coach. Make more jocks. Yes, Sir. Grow the team. Good to be on the team. Football team. Love football. Fuckin’ love football. Yes, sir. Must report. I obey.”

“Meathead obeys. You will follow Meathead to gym. You will follow Meathead to Coach. Must obey Coach.” Hunter let out another grunt as he turned, doing his best not to tear his suit further. He could hear the kid padding behind, droning his affirmations. Poor guy. Now Trav stood taller at six foot eleven, but unlike Meathead, he didn’t try to dominate or throw his weight around. That probably came later in programming. Hunter paused a moment as he felt a tingling sensation running down his hand. Looking down, he cursed. His wrists had grown as well. The band barely clung to the expanded joint. “Control, we have a problem,” Hunter said.

“I know. Your readings are all practically dead. Circuitry’s pretty much shot. All I’ve got left are your watch and your head gear.”

“Those won’t last long. At least the watch won’t.” Hunter groaned. “That means … I don’t have much time left. It’s been nice knowing you, Control.” A massive shock passed through Hunter’s arm. “Ow! What the hell, man?”

“One last dose, before–” the wrist watch snapped. “–That happens.”

“My growth is increasing, Control. Soon enough, I’ll probably be just as far gone as this kid is. We have to take out Coach Stone before that happens.”

“Coach Stone?”

“You know what I mean, Control.”

“Just making sure you’re still with me, Hunter.”

“I am, Control. Now where to next?”

“Follow the corridor to its end, then hang a right. The gym will be at the end. Use Thirteen’s ID to register and pass through.

“Got it. Get to the door, use Meathead’s ID, deliver the package, then take care of Stone. Easy.”

Real Men’s Journal Part 11

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

COACH came back today. He’s not MY COACH anymore, but he is still a COACH. He put us through the ringer. Mile run, pull-ups, weights, you name it. Course, we crushed it. Me n’ the bros. My BIG MUSCLE bros. Just kept calling me bro so much, I let it go. Too much work tryin’ to tell em my name, ya know? We’re all in this together anyways, so we’re all bros.

Coach brought some newbie. Said we’d be put against him for our tests. Wut wuz the guy’s name again? Brook? Wookie? Uh … Rookie? Yeah, Rookie. Think that was it. Wish he’d just get a number. Numbers are easier to remember. 100. 56. 13. You know. Numbers. Numbers are better to remember. So uh … does that mean they’re better than names? Maybe? I guess. Hard to think. So hard to think. It hurts. I just wanna BLANK OUT. LET GO. Forget about that stupid test.

What test? You know, the one with the numbers and all the hard questions on science and shit. It was so fucking stupid. I told COACH so when I turned it in. He just laughed! I wanna punch him in the face so bad. The jackass. I just wanna hit and keep on hitting and bashing and tackling and wresting and … and … fight. It’s good to fight. The more I fight, the clearer my head. Don’t have to think. Just let it all go. And … I feel good when I do it. Like I’m GROWing. Getting SWOLE. Have to go. Time to fight. Then we lift weights. The others said something about a special surprise. Said I’d enjoy it. Doubt I will more than my bulge. Or my muscles. Just can’t help but FLEX and grin a STUPID grin every time. It comes so easy. Just FLEX and grin and BULGE and SWELL. Can’t hold back much longer. Gotta fight. Wrestle. WIN!

DOCTOR’S BRO LOG

~April 20th~

BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE (You know it)

‘Sup, bros? So yeah, I took that test COACH told me to take. He had me sit in front of some screen first, just sorta look at it while it flashed in my face. Said it’d help me fit in more if I uhhh … rewrote my language synapses? I … think that’s wut he said. Hell if I know. I just LISTEN like a good JOCK, like a good ROOKIE should. A ROOKIE LISTENs to his COACH and let’s face it, that’s what I am to COACH. I’m his ROOKIE and he’s my COACH. I like it that way. Makes things simpler. DUMBs things down. DUMB. Yeah …

Uh … wut wus I saying again? Been spellin kinda funny lately too. But COACH says I have to act the part. Just like the rest of them. So uh … yeah, I been doin’ that. You know, spying and all that. Collecting STATS. Making GAINS. Getting SWOLE. Every once in a while, COACH has me watching that screen. Every few days. Keeps me FOCUSed. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on MUSCLE. I’m watchin’ it now, actually. So easy to just BLANK OUT and LISTEN as I FOCUS. FOCUS on GROWing. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on words. FOCUS on SPIRAL. Flashing. Swirling. Down. Down. Down.

Yes, sir. Write what I say. Write what I see. Repeat.

I LISTEN.

I OBEY.

Love my MUSCLES. Yes, sir. MUSCLES are good. MUSCLES are great. MUSCLES mean everything.

Everything GROWS. BIGGER MUSCLES means BIGGER BULGE.

Yes, sir. I love my BULGE. Love my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Want to make it BIGGER.

Everything GROWs. I FOCUS on GROWing. Everything goes into my body.

Put my brain into my body. Yes, sir. Brains go to MUSCLE. Brains go to BULGE. Brain turn to BRAWN.

I OBEY.

I forget.

I OBEY.

I LIFT.

I OBEY.

I train.

I OBEY.

LISTEN.

OBEY.

JOCK.

OBEY.

CONFORM.

OBEY.

Don’t think.

OBEY.

Don’t question.

OBEY.

I don’t think. I OBEY. I don’t question. I OBEY.

OBEY my COACH.

ROOKIE obeys COACH.

COACH says FOCUS on sports. COACH says LOVE sports. I OBEY COACH.

I love sports.

Yes, JOCKs love sports. I love sports.

JOCKs love MUSCLE. I love MUSCLE.

JOCKs love bulge. I love my bulge. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

JOCKs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

JOCKs LIFT weights. I LIFT weights.

JOCKs get SWOLE. I get SWOLE.

Yes … JOCK. Becoming a JOCK.

More like a JOCK.

JOCKs work out. I work out.

Work out. JOCK out.

COACH trains JOCKs.

COACH trains me.

COACH trains me …

COACH turns me.

BIG COACH. Makes BIG JOCK.

COACH turn me. COACH make me.

COACH makes me BIG JOCK.

COACH turns me into JOCK.

COACH trains me into JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE wants to be a JOCK.

BIG DUMB JOCK as DUMB as rocks.

WEIGHTS and MUSCLE fill my head.

I’m BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE. Old doc is dead.

BIG shot doc to BIG FUCKIN’ JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE will report.

BIG ROOKIE will practice.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

Just like the others.

Just like a JOCK.

Will remember nothing when I wake.

Yes, sir, COACH.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

…

Lights out. Time to sleep. COACH says. I’ll tell ya about the test later. Night, BROs.

 ~June 24th~

‘Sup, BROs? Been a few days. Hard to write when there’s so much PUMP to get on, ya know? Been hangin’ out with my new BROs. We do everything together. LIFT together. PUMP together. TRAIN together. TRAIN with COACH. They don’t talk much. Hard to get em to start. But I’m getting’ used to it. Better at it. They like to flex a lot. Talk about their MUSCLEs. Admire their BULGE. Hell, I get in line with them, start to pose, I lose track of time. Watching my PUMP. My ABS. My fucking HUGE six-pack. My SWOLE biceps. … My BULGE. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Straining my JOCK strap. GROWing BIGGER. Feels so fucking good. Uh … wut wus I talking about again? I forget. But … I don’t mind. Huh.

Bin growin’ like a fuckin badass last few weeks. Feels so good. I feel … younger. So fucking heavy though. I could totally take anyone. Been thinkin’ bout wrestling. Guys do it all the time. 56 is champion right now. Think I’m SWOLE? Bros, he’s a FUCKING GIANT! Every time I’m near him I just sort of … BLANK OUT. I come to, we’re lifting. He’s spotting, and I’m rock hard. I smile. I don’t know why. He just looks dazed. His BULGE GROWs. My BULGE GROWs. And we both just smile. I’m still smiling. My BULGE is still growing. So much pl … pl … uh … can’t think of the word. Just … feels good. Real gud. Fuzzy up top. Getting fuzzier. But … I like it.

I wus gonna tell ya somethin’. Uh … lemme think a bit. Hard to think. SO hard. So fucking hard. So horny. All the time. Gives me an edge when I work out. I love working out. Love to GROW and SWELL my MUSCLES with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Built like a FUCKING tank.

Built to FIGHT.

Built to LIFT.

Built to GROW.

Built to OBEY.

Yes, sir, COACH.

I’m your MAN, COACH.

Your young MAN.

Your boy.

Spy boy.

JOCK boy.

Your JOCK boy.

Time to LIFT.

I LIFT for COACH.

I GROW for COACH.

I OBEY COACH.

 ~June 30th~

Took a retest for COACH. Said the results were lost. I was pissed, but COACH said I had to to avoid suspicion. Test was so fucking BORING! I just stared at the page and I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t stop thinking about the GYM. About that PUMP surging through me. So much. Made it hard. Hard to think. Do I … even want to anymore? I don’t know. … Don’t know anything.

I wus gonna tell ya about that test, right? The first 1? I did pretty gud on it. Guys were jealous. Got out of the test early. I fucking crushed it AND the fitness exam. Wus a little harder first time, but retest wuz E Z. Exercises were nothing. COACH says I did gud. Makes me happy. COACH just laughed. The others. Guess I know how they feel now. BROS belong in a GYM, not a class. Desks are too fucking small. Felt too close. No room to stretch. No room to FLEX. How do those nerds stand it? How did I stand it? I don’t burn fucking bunsons, I burn calories. Gotta get SWOLE with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Each time I say that. Each time I write it. My head feels fuzzier. And I want 2 wurk out.

Spelling’s not 2 gud anymoar, but that’s O.K. BROs don’t mind. Don’t have a mind. I’m a BRO too. So … I don’t have a mind? Let me … th … th … fuck, head’s all fuzzy. Gotta … can’t … LIFT. Gotta LIFT. So DUMB. Can’t do nuthin’ else. Won’t do nuthin’ else. Just LISTEN to COACH. LIFT for COACH. OBEY COACH. Cause I’m a good JOCK boy.

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

I am the fucking KING! Aint no one can touch me. They try, I WRESTLE them til they SUBMIT. Every time I win I feel BIGGER. BUFFER. SWOLE.

My BROs respect me. Call me Q.B. Even get to help Lil’ BROs adjust. Plug em into their ear buds n’ listen with ‘em. They don’t mind so much after the first time.

I’m so fucking HUGE. Love my muscles. My bulge. Just posing in front of the mirror. Workin’ with the new guys. This one guy, Rookie, he’s pretty legit. COACH said he’s been trainin’ on fast track. Dunno Y, but I can’t stop trainin’ with the guy. Build him up. Make him SWOLE. BIG n’ DUMB. Just like me. I didn’t like it at first, ‘specially when I failed COACH’s test. Then I got used to it. Just sorta went numb up there. Numb n’ DUMB. Hey, that’s catchy. COACH says my I.Q. is down. I say screw I.Q. Who the hell needs it?

I want 28. I want Kevin. I miss him. COACH sez I’ll see him again soon if I TRAIN real hard. Sez he’s WEIGHTing for me. WEIGHTing at the final phase, whatever the fuck that is. COACH sez we’re nearly there. Me’n the team. Got some more shit 2 watch’n listen 2. COACH sez we graduate after phase 3. Then we gotta choose sumpthin’. Final play, I guess. Days have bin hard 2 keep track of. We moved to underground. Don’t see the sun much. Don’t really wanna anymore. I’m actually pretty happy here. Things’re smooth, like my reps. Get up, shower, LISTEN to COACH. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Zone out. JOCK out. Showur agen. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Listen to COACH. Eat. Showur. Scan. GROW. Sleep. Repeat.

Balls itch so much. More I scratch em’ the bigger they feel. That fucking weight between my fucking legs, like a bull, BRO. A HUGE fucking bull, ready to charge. Smash. Beat. FUCK! Head’s so dizzy. Can hardly rite. Barely reed. But … that don’t matter much, does it? I’m fucking HUGE. I do wut I want. But uh … wut do I want? I … I don’t know anymore. Don’t know. Don’t know anything. Just … weights. Clacking. Clanking. Wrestling. Grappling. Fight. Burn. GROW. GROWin’s gud. GROWin BIG. BIG balls. BIG dick. BIG bulge. BIG MUSCLES. BIG me. BIGgur is DUMBur. And I’m fucking MASSIVE! A MASSIVE, MANLY MAN with a MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Can’t wait for fase 3. COACH tells me I want it. COACH sez I need it. Need to be a BIG DUMB JOCK. Need to OBEY. Want to OBEY. Want to be a BIG DUMB JOCK for COACH.

Huhuhuh. Funny word, DUMB. Makes my mouth feel all teengly. Sounds funee 2. DUMB. DUMB. So fucking DUMB. All I become, so fucking DUMB. Time to scan. Then I wurk owt.

 ~DAY ???~

‘Sup. Over seven feet tall now. Weigh like … fucking four hundred’r sumpthin’. Owtgrew my clothes. COACH gave me nu 1s. Thair sooper tight. Cling to my bangin’ bod. COACH sez I luk gud. COACH sez I should lyk em. Ges I do. They make me feel gud. Tingly. COACH even put my name on it. 56. In fucking HUGE numburs, lyk me. COACH sez he was real happy wen I wrote it on his test. Dunno Y he made me take it agen, but he wuz happy so that’s all that maturs.

I look like 100 now. Like my BIG BRO. It made me smyl. COACH sez I’m gonna make it BIG in sports. I believe him. I just wanna LIFT n GROW n wrestle n tackle. Feels so gud wen I do. Like a real man. A real JOCK. COACH sez I’m so gud, he wants me to help the noobs. So I bin doin’ that. Bringin’ shakes n’ helpin them lift. You know, make ‘em my lil BROS. Make em TUFF. Make em BUFF. Get em SWOLE. Bring out their iner JOCK. COACH sez I gotta make em all like me. Some try 2 fite. I just put em’ in a sleeper hold, TACKLE em’ to their bed, then plug in their headphones. They try 2 pull em out, so I hold their teenee toothpick arms 2gethur. Lil’BROs struggle for a bit, then they just sorta go limp. The rest of the lil’BROs join me n’we chant with em. Takes a time or 2, but the lil’BROs come round. They start 2 listen to their COACH. The rest happens cuz they see they want it 2. Lil’BROs get SWOLE, like me. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Don’t need ta think with the JOCK in control. Just LIFT. GROW. Get fucking SWOLE.

Time 2 LIFT.

 ~DAY ???~

COACH sez I’m a fucking natural. All my BROs look up to me. I lead em in everything. In the showers. LIFTin’ weights. OBEYing COACH. Just followin’ orders, ya know? Don’t need nuthin’ else.

COACH sez time for football. Can’t fucking wait to SMASH those fucking pansies to dust. The nerds call me Supreme Ky. I told em the name’s gay, asked em to call me Super Ky instead. They got into it after a few uh … persuasions from me n’ my fist. Give em a few throws n’ they fall in line real quick. I love knocking the nerd outta them. They call me Q.B. Then they bulk up. Then they’re with us in faze 2 with our MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Learning to OBEY the playbook. And LISTEN to COACH. Have to go. COACH is calling. COACH sez report now. Sure thing, COACH. I OBEY. I’m your JOCK. I’m your Q.B. 56 reporting for duty. 56 is part of the TEAM. 56 is yours. Let’s play some fucking ball.

 ~DAY ???~

NUMBER 56 reporting.

56 is redee.

56 is MASSIVE.

56 is 1 with the TEAM.

56 is all for COACH.

56 lives for COACH.

56 OBEYs his COACH.

56 is COACH’s boy.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

MASSIVE, BURLY, BIG DUMB JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is BRAWNY JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is perfect JOCK.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

…

…

…

56 is redee for faze 3.

Real Men’s Journal Part 12

Here it is, folks, the final chapter in our great meathead odyssey. It’s been quite the ride, and I’m glad to have shared this piece with you, grammatically flawed though it is (I was too lazy to go back and edit, after I’d learned how. :P). So, I hope you all enjoyed the characters. And don’t worry. Coach Stone will be back soon enough, with a new bevy of obedient meatheads at his beck and call. You’re not gonna want to miss it. ;)

MASSIVE MANLY BRO LOG

BIG FUCKING ROOKIE

~July 15th~

Bin workin’ hard every day. Wurkin’ for COACH. He put me with 56. Super Ky. He’s the fucking best partner a guy culd ask for when he LIFTS his WEIGHTS. COACH asks ‘bout 56 all the time in the showurs. I LISTEN to him there. Sit back. Report. OBEY. COACH sez higher-ups want me 2 stay. Keep watching 56. Keep working with him. Watch him GROW. GROWING’s gud. GROWING BIG. GROWING BRAWN. GROWING BUFF. GROWING BULGE. GROWING SWOLE. GROW 2 fit his DUMB JOCK role. They say I can leave after. I’m … not sure I want 2.

I luk at 56 and I feel … jelus. He’s so BIG. BIGgur than me. And I can’t stop listening 2 him. Evry1 calls him Q.B., so I do, 2. Cuz, U no. Spy. But … it feels gud when I say it. Lyk when I say I LISTEN to COACH. Makes me feel kinda fuzzee up top. Makes me smyl. The guys LISTEN to him lyk COACH. Lyk we’re a TEAM. Gess the brainwash WURKs. Not on me tho. I’m a spy. I act lyk the rest cuz I have 2. 2 blend. Fit in, ya no? Talk lyk them. Rite lyk them. LIFT lyk them. Act lyk them. Just like COACH sed. Then I report. Report in the showurs. I don’t remember much, but I don’t worry cuz COACH sez not to. Cuz I’m his ROOKIE. He’s my COACH. And ROOKIEs LISTEN to COACH. ROOKIEs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

I OBEY.

 ~July 30th~

DUDE! 56 is so fucking ripped! He just shredded his fucking clothes today, man! COACH had to give him new stuff. Sumpthin’ like a … suit of some kind? All black. Two piece. Shorts and top. Looked fam--uh … lyk I seen it B4, ya no? But … can’t think where. Can’t think. Head … 2 fuzzee. I … why? Supposed 2 B spy. But … don’t feel like 1. Feel lyk 1 of the guys. Wut wuz I saying again? So hard 2 think. Gear’s 2 tite. So fucking horny. Can’t concentr8. Feel so hevy. My BULGE … it’s GROWing. I … must record … sounds. COACH sez. … Rite wut I say … GROAN … COACH … wut’s happening 2 me?

Abrams … COACH Abrams … he … he wuz wearing … wut 56 is wearing. They … used 2 be … difrent. More smart. … I used 2 be more smarter 2. GROAN so fucking horny. Can’t think. But … have 2. Sumthin’ about … hypnosis. A … program? Some kinda … trigurr? Oh god it hurts to think. Hurts my dick. My huge … fucking dick. So huge … so DUMB … I … no. Have 2 focus. Sumpthin’ 2 do with my JOCK strap. My … BULGING … straining … BIG DUMB JOCK strap. For BIG DUMB JOCKs. JOCKs lyk 56. JOCKs lyk 28. JOCKs lyk me. Redy 2 snap. … snap. Snap? I … think (god that hurt to rite) has 2 do with snap. Sumpthin’ bout … uh … bout … no turnin’ back. Lyk uh … That’s it! Snap the strap n’ subjects furget! Makes em focus more. Snap the JOCK, unlock the JOCK. Become more JOCK. … Reinforce training. … Uh-oh … Shit, someone must’ve falsi … fals … fal … FUCKING FAKED MY RESULTS! But … who? Why? I wuz a gud JOCK … gud JOCK … SHIT! Didn’t mean 2 rite that.

Gud … gud … so fucking gud. BULGING. GROWING. STRAINING. I feel it. So close. Gonna BUST my fucking JOCK. Be a DUM JOCK. Gud DUM JOCK 4 COACH. Cuz that’s wut I am. All I am. BIG 4 COACH. FLEX 4 COACH. DUM 4 COACH. JOCK 4 COACH. Gud JOCK.

NO!

Can’t break my fucking JOCK if I take it off. Gotta hurry. Can’t let it …

…

…

…

REMOTE ACCESS INITIATED

SYSTEM OVERRIDE AUTHORIZATION CODE ACCEPTED

SYSTEM COMMAND: ACTIVATE RECORDING SYSTEMS

ACTIVATING RECORDING SYSTEMS

“Coach, wut’re you GROAN doin’ here? I … I gotta do something. Please. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, Rookie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Coach. Please.” The voice catches.

“Just relax, Rookie. I’m right here. Calm down. We’ll work through this together, just like we always have.”

“No, coach, we can’t. I can’t let what happened to Abrams happen to me. I won’t. I can … can still … think. GROAN.”

Easy, Rookie. Let’s not be hasty here.”

“Coach, I’m almost out of time. I have to do this. If I don’t, I’ll … I’ll ...”

“Turn into a muscle head? Grow into a jock? Didn’t you want those things?”

“You knew? You knew what was happening to me?”

“Of course I know. You wanted it to happen. You told me so in our meetings. Don’t you remember?”

“M—meetings …”

“Yes. Our sessions. It was all you could talk about. Growing, getting bigger muscles, your bigger ‘equipment,’ all of it. And you sure as hell loved your new sex life.”

“I’d never … I … I wouldn’t …”

“You would. You did. Hell, you spent half a workout bragging about your conquests. I have your paperwork right here. You signed on to become a part of this program. You wanted this.”

“That’s a lie!”

“That’s the honest to god truth, Rookie. Look at you. Look how you’ve changed. The Process regenerated you. Rejuvenated you. You’re young. And thanks to your latent desires, you’ve unlocked your hidden genetic potential. You’re a perfect physical specimen. A teenager who has yet to hit his peak. Just like you wanted. If you don’t believe me, then read the papers yourself. I have them right here.”

“Why … can’t I remember?”

“Plausible deniability.”

“… What?”

“You volunteered for a new form of the process, a different formula. But you wanted to keep working, too, helping 56 progress. We agreed so long as you could remain professional. But the organization needed to be able to deny any charges you might make while you forgot. And it needed to be able to observe each stage as if you didn’t know about it. So we wiped your memory and left the subconscious commands intact. … I see you still don’t get it. Damn, that stuff works good. Basically, it was so we could say we didn’t do anything bad to you and had no idea what was happening.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because it acts as a distraction.”

“Distract—oh crap! Let go of me!”

“Sorry, Rookie, I can’t do that. Not until you’ve finished this phase.”

“Coach, stop!”

“Just let it happen, Rookie. Stop struggling. I know how badly you want this. How much you need this!”

“I need to stop this! I never wanted this! Let go! I don’t wanna be like them! You’re lying, you have to be!”

“Listen to me, Rookie! We know that’s not what you really want. What you need. You need muscle, power, strength. You need to be a jock. Cocky. Powerful. A man. A real man. A massive man with a massive bulge. Can’t you feel that? Feel it straining. Growing. Swelling. Just like your body. You reek testosterone. Why? Because you’re a jock!”

“St—stop it!”

“A huge jock.”

“Coach …”

“A massive, brawny, meathead obsessed with weights.”

“No…”

“You might as well let it happen, Rookie. It’s too late to turn back. You’re my Rookie and I’m your Coach, remember? And a Rookie always listens to his coach.”

“…”

“So listen to me now.”

“… Coach …”

“Just relax and listen to my voice, Rookie. Let it go.”

“Coach …”

“Let it go.”

“… Let it … go …”

“Relax.”

“Y-yes … sir.”

“Good boy.”

“…”

“Can you hear me, Rookie?”

“… Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“… Coach.”

“Do you know who you are?”

A breathy sigh is heard. “Rookie.”

“That’s right. You’re my Rookie.”

“Your Rookie.”

“And Rookies listen to their coach, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie is listening.”

“Good boy. Everything I say is truth. Understand, Rookie?”

“Yes.”

“You will accept everything I say without question.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.”

“And you’ll obey everything I tell you to do, right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie listens to Coach. Rookie obeys Coach.”

“Good boy. I’m going to get off of you now. I want you to stand up slowly and not run or do anything else. You’re just going to stand there and listen.”

“… Yes, sir.” There is the sound of shifting bodies and the heavy tromp of cleats on cement.

“That’s a good boy. Now, Rookie, tell me, do you like your muscles? Do you like how much you’ve grown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like how easy it is to lift?”

“Yes.”

“And you like watching those muscles grow in the mirror.”

“Yes.”

“You think about weights a lot, don’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“What do you think about most?”

“… Lifting. Getting swole. Muscles. Chicks. My dick. Fuck, It’s so massive. So tight. So … bulgy. Like me. Growing. So big. Fucking huge.”

“*Whistle* That thing is growing pretty fast, isn’t it?”

“*Grunt*”

“Now listen to me, Rookie. You want it to grow. You want to keep growing. Just like your training said.”

“… Yes, sir, Coach.”

“You love your size. You love your body. You love what you’ve become.”

“Love my size … love my body … love what I’ve become.”

“Good boy. Tell me, what is the square root of 81?”

“Uh … Give me a sec.”

“Take your time.”

“I … I know this. I … know … this … *Groan* … god, I can’t think!”

“Relax, Rookie. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s … not?”

“That was a test. You passed. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I … wasn’t?”

“You don’t care about math, remember? The only time you use it is when you’re focusing on your stats.”

“… Yes. That’s right … I … I don’t care about math. Don’t care …”

“Math is stupid. You said so yourself.”

“Course it’s stupid. Math’s for nerds.”

“That’s right, Rookie. And you’re not much of a nerd anymore now, are you?”

“Fuck no … I mean … maybe a little.”

“*Chuckling* Don’t worry, that won’t last long. All you want is to keep growing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Growing boy. Growing body. Growing bulge. Growing brawn.”

“Yessssss …”

“Remember what happens the bigger you get?”

“Dumber I get.”

“That’s right. And you want to be big, so …?”

“I wanna be dumb.”

“That’s right. You want to be dumb. You were tired of being smart.”

“Tired of bein’ smart.”

“No room for smarts anymore. All that brain’s being filled with pure muscle. Pure brawn.”

“All muscle. All brawn.”

“That’s right. All those smarts are going to your manhood. Everything. Make you a massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge.”

“*Groan* Massive, manly man … Massive … manly … bulge …” There is the sound of straining fabric.

“That’s right. You love this feeling. You love being big. And you want more. You always want more.”

“*Grunt* More massive … *Groan* More manly … *Grunt* More bulge.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 28.”

“… Just like 28.”

“Just like Abrams.”

“… Just … like … Abrams.”

“Just like a jock.”

“… Just like a jock.”

“Because that’s what you’re becoming: a big, dumb jock. My big dumb jock. And you want that.”

“… Becoming a jock. A big, dumb jock. Want to be a big, dumb jock. … Your big dumb jock, sir.”

“That’s right. Good jock boy.”

“*Groan* Rookie is your jock boy, sir.” A sudden echoing snap breaks across the recording, followed by a deep, dull laughter. “Wanna be a big, dumb jock. Rookie will be Coach’s big, dumb jock. Getting’ buff n’ getting’ swole. I’m big fucking Rookie!” The sound of shredding fabric is heard.

“Big Rookie is right.” The coach’s voice echoes as he laughs. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for phase three in no time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get you dressed, Rookie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spandex, I think. Something tight to show off your body. Is that alright with you?”

“Fuck yeah. Who wouldn’t wanna see this jock bod?”

“Good jock.”

“Yes, sir, coach. Rookie listens. Rookie obeys.”

END TRANSMISSION

 ~August 30th~

Been LIFTING like a fucking BEAST, like COACH told me 2.

I see COACH in the showurs. Evury day.

COACH sez I’m speshul.

COACH sez see him 3 tymes a day.

ROOKIES LISTEN 2 COACH.

ROOKIES OBEY COACH.

So I OBEY.

COACH gives me special proteen. Sez it’ll make me SWOLE. I lyk SWOLE. WURKS OUT. I’m Fucking HUGE. BIGGur than 56.

BROS don’t talk much eneemore. Don’t need 2. We LISTEN. We OBEY. We LIFT. We GROW. We SWOLE.

Sum talk, but we GROW ther BULGE. Make them MASSIVE lyk us. They fall in lyn. They JOCK out lyk us. Don’t talk much after that. It’s bettur that way. Easyer 2 LISTEN 2 COACH. Easy 2 OBEY.

56 left. Coach sez he went 2 faze 3.

I’m in charj now.

New clothes feel so fucking gud. Wear em all the time.

Shows off all my MUSCLE.

I am MUSCLE.

MUSCLES do what they’re told.

MUSCLES OBEY commands.

I OBEY.

MUSCLES don’t think.

I don’t think.

MUSCLES GROW wen they WURK OUT.

I GROW wen I WURK OUT.

ROOKIE is MUSCLE.

MUSCLE is ROOKIE.

COACH gave ROOKIE a new name.

ROOKIE is Number O-000.

ROOKIE is Zero becuz ROOKIE is nothing.

Nothing but a JOCK.

A BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is COACH’s BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE OBEYS COACH.

ROOKIE GROWS wen he OBEYS.

GROWS BIG. GROWS DUMB.

ROOKIE is STRONG wen he OBEYS.

ROOKIE OBEYS wen he is STRONG.

ROOKIE OBEYS.

Zero OBEYS.

I OBEY.

OBEY.

OBEY.

…

 ~September 5th~

Yes, sir, COACH.

ROOKIE is 0

0 OBEYS COACH.

0 does not think.

0 is DUMB.

0 has 0 brains.

0 is DUMB.

0 OBEYS.

0 is MUSCLE.

0 FLEXES.

0 OBEYS.

0 LIFTS.

0 OBEYS.

0 is SWOLE.

0 OBEYS.

0 is BIG.

0 OBEYS.

0 is JOCK.

0 is COACH’s JOCK.

0 is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

0 OBEYS.

0 GROWS.

0 is MASSIVE MANLY MAN with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 is just like the TEAM.

0 is 1 with TEAM.

Yes, COACH. 0 will go.

0 OBEYS.

0 will go to faze 3.

0 is redee for faze 3.

ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 FILES

~DAY???~

LIFTING gud.

Thinking bad.

56 wants to LIFT.

COACH sez 56 shuld rite tho.

56 OBEYS.

56 LIFTS with the TEAM.

56 rites with the TEAM.

56 chants with TEAM.

56 is 1 with TEAM.

28 WEIGHTed for 56.

28 and 56 were happee.

TEAM wuz happee.

Now 56 is just lyk 28.

56 and 28 R BROS.

Fucking HUGE.

GROW for COACH.

OBEY COACH.

LIFT.

DUMB.

LIFT.

BIG.

LIFT.

JOCK.

56 doesn’t need recordings.

56 heres COACH all the tym.

56 is part of TEAM.

56 OBEYS with TEAM.

56 doesn’t think.

COACH thinks 4 56.

COACH thinks 4 TEAM.

Yes, sir, COACH. 56 heres.

56 OBEYS.

I am 56.

56 is drone.

56 will GROW TEAM.

JOCK now. JOCK 4ever.

MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

56 will chant with TEAM.

TEAM is home.

Home is TEAM.

56 is home.

Lyk … wut’s the play, COACH?

SUBJECT O-000

~September 30th~

0 is part of TEAM.

0 WURKS OUT 4 COACH.

0 GROWS 4 COACH.

0 is COACH’S JOCK.

0 is BIG DUMB JOCK with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 knows his place.

0 is OFFENSE.

0 FIGHTS.

0 makes BROS.

0 OBEYS.

0 will make JOCK BROS.

0 will GROW the TEAM.

0 will be COACH’s point guard.

0 will be assistant COACH.

0 OBEYS.

END TRANSMISSION

RESEARCH NOTES: OMEGA PROJECT FORMULA

C.E.O. SIGN IN: VICTOR STONE

The program has been hitting some snags of late. Those with a high enough I.Q. have been able to resist The Process to the point where some have been able to hold on for several months to their original psyches. This was unacceptable. So, of course, I had to fix it.

Number 56, formerly known as Kyle Matthews was the last straw. Abrams had been failing for too long. He was too sympathetic, too gentle. I fixed that. Now he’s the most aggressive offensive lineman you’ll ever meet. As for 56, well, I simply pushed him in the right direction. Even with my skills though, the boy was still surprisingly resilient. It took me too long to break him for comfort. I immediately authorized initialization for The Omega Project.

This new and improved formula for The Process is specially designed for the higher I.Q. It drops the test subject down to a basic grunt. I called in Doctor Seroyan for testing and gave him his own office. Little did he realize the special ingredients I included in his food and drink. He didn’t take long to show signs of change. Within the month, he was already beginning to crack. The subliminals from the lights helped of course, but a lot of it had to come from the treatment itself. Notes from my other workers revealed similar results in isolated test subjects throughout the compounds.

I got him hooked on working out and the rest was history. I kept conditioning him alongside 56 so they could interact when the time came. I wanted to see if I could incorporate him into the system without him knowing. After all, that’s the whole point of the Omega Formula. That, and of course, it breeds a stronger, more obedient jock drone. Best of all, it’s completely undetectable. Seroyan became my subject zero. And he’s perfectly happy fitting his new role as my personal assistant. I’ve given him free reign over 56’s team while I’m away and designated a new coach to keep tabs on him while I’m gone. I’ve given specific orders not to interfere, though. Omega Zero has potential to be a great coach once I’ve taught him how. Until then, I’m having him run over exercises with the team as they practice and play their programmed sport. More than a few of them are going to enter the N.F.L., that’s for sure. I love seeing my boys making me money.

We’ve come such a long way from when my project first began. I’m so glad I blew up my lab all those years ago. Hell, the results were definitely worth it. I still haven’t been able to fully replicate the accident that made me this way, but that doesn’t matter much. I like being the alpha. And once I got our investors to try my … unique product, they were happy to fall in line. They signed over ownership to me, obviously, and pursued their own careers in their respective muscular fields. I still get a monthly check from them after they’ve won a big competition or something along those lines.

Next phase will be accelerating the process. I want to have nigh instant results. When I’m not working as a personal coach for my jock force, I get back to the lab to work with the boys on progression. Now that we’ve found a compound that breaks past the I.Q. barrier, it’s only a matter of time. Soon enough, I’ll be everybody’s coach in a perfectly healthy, masculine muscleman society. I can’t wait.

What Have you Done?

I had intended that inanimate story from earlier to be a one-off piece, but after receiving a comment, I think I’ve seen an opening for it to continue, though I think I’ll shift this one to the third person perspective. Please, enjoy.

That was the cry, over and over again as the target breathed shallowly. The barrel of his gun pointed directly at the man’s head. He couldn’t have been much older than his early twenties, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Whether he was a mutant, an alien, or the result of some strange supernatural event, the agency had sent Stallone to acquire him, alongside his partner. “Briggs, you got him?” Stallone asked of his partner, never allowing his eyes to stray from the man, whose head was currently in his hands as he shook it back and forth again.

A high pitched rising glissando signaled the charging in Briggs’ taser as he raised one hand to face the target. The other held a syringe. “Keep him in your sites,” Briggs said tersely. “I know what I’m doing, Briggs.” A choking stutter of a breath rose in the target as he struggled not to sob. Tears pattered against the hard wood of his table. “What have you done?” The light from the fixture overhead shone on his thin blond hair, revealing the receding hairline and the gleaming scalp beneath. A cold winter wind blew harshly against the apartment window. He had yet to move, or even to try to resist. Stallone blinked rapidly as his eyes became irritated briefly. When he’d cleared his vision, he refocused on the target. Briggs hovered next to the man, with the needle poised for insertion. His brow furrowed in concentration as his reddish-brown beard twitched from clenching his teeth. “What are you waiting for?” Stallone growled. Briggs moved slowly, imperceptibly towards the target’s neck, yet with every passing second, the movement became slower. The man’s arm began to tremble as the needle neared the skin, and his biceps and triceps strained, as if against some invisible force. “I’m ... trying,” Briggs grunted through clenched teeth. “Oh, for %#@!’s sake,” Stallone snarled. “Give it here.” He strode over and reached to grab the needle. That was when he heard the fatal pop as the taser launched. Then all he knew was pain. His muscles twitched and spasmed as the electrical current coursed through his nervous system.

Briggs’ eyes were wide with horror. “I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this!” he protested over and over, even as his hand continued to clench the trigger firmly. So caught up in his distress was he that he didn’t even notice how the plastic seeped over his skin, spreading like molasses, and then hardening into polished black metal. When he finally did notice, he dropped the needle in shock. “What the--?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” the target said as he looked up at the pair. Tears coursed down his cheeks in rivers as he watched. The light danced over his eyes, causing the gray-blue in those orbs to brighten.

Briggs clutched the offending appendage with his free arm, even as the substance continued to spread. Fabric bulked and strained as strong, well-built muscle surged into a block-like parody. “What’s ... happening?” he cried as he strained against his arm. Soon his body began to lean as the mass continued to expand and fabric began to tear. The current continued to flow as the taser writhed like a living thing. It seeped into his hand, then crawled up, never breaking the connection to the wires as two ports suddenly opened with a mechanical whirring along his forearm. “What did you do to m--?” He cried in pain as the needle he had planned to inject in his target jammed into the muscle between his shoulder and neck. 

Stallone writhed on the floor with each new electrical pulse. It seemed to run on a timer. It would sustain itself for a few seconds, then ease, and his limbs would twitch on their own as his nervous system struggle to compensate for the sudden disruption. Then, just as he was ready to act, the current would fire again, and he would be stuck right where he had been in the beginning. With each surge, his nerves would fire off all at once. And with each easing, the frazzled system would buzz and tingle, struggling to reconnect. Eventually, things became sort of ... numb. Oh, his body would still dance, like a marionette in a toddler’s hands, but he couldn’t really feel the pain so much anymore. A strange sense of apathy descended as he watched. And much to his surprise, when he blinked at something, he seemed almost to zoom in on that spot, sort of like a camera lens. He would have chuckled, had he had control of his body, a brief, humorless thing. He felt more intrigued than concerned when he locked onto the needle and followed its flight path. Another surge of electricity, and suddenly he could picture a hundred different scenarios at once for where the needle would land. Number 56 proved correct. He suspected it might. After all, trajectory was his specialty. He blinked again, and the brief whir and click of a mechanical shutter greeted his ears as a great red targeting reticle appeared around the edges of his vision. The next current laid him out flat as a board, his face frozen into a grim-set line.

Briggs heaved as he hunched forward, resting his new titanic metal hand on the floor. His shoulders snapped and cracked as they broadened, shredding the fibers of his shirt apart to reveal the currents of energy surging under his skin like circuitry, before the soft substance hardened into a bulky carapace. The wound from the needle spurted briefly, and then the current reached it, and the needle pushed in. Briggs shuddered. Everything felt so strange. A sort of fogginess filled his brain as he clenched and unclenched that piece of him in time to ... what was it? Some sort of--EXECUTE--command? For some reason, it felt so good, when that part of him went off. Why did it ... feel good? Wasn’t he ... supposed to be ... doing ... something? COMMAND PROMPT: EXECUTE SEDATION DELIVERY DIAGNOSTIC

A slow mechanical whirr, not unlike the sound of a hydraulic cylinder, sounded in his ears. His body vibrated, and pleasure sang through his brain as he locked onto the two silos that had opened on top of his shoulders. He shuddered again as twin belts began to move in those silos, cycling the ammunition, a familiar set of needles. 1 Chunk 2 Click 3 Chunk 4 Click 5 Chunk 6 Click

... It felt so good to count them. Rigid. Orderly. All must be in order. The whirring sounded again as he turned his head to the target on the floor. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. The current went on its own. He watched, unblinking, as the power jumped through his cable delivery system. His optic units cycled as they zoomed in on the target he had snared. Stallone shuddered as his body jumped again. He heard the popping detonation as the seams burst apart on Briggs’ legs. He watched as cold, hard metal replaced weak flesh. Knees and joints were replaced with intricate metallic counterparts. Feet burst free from the confines of the changing man’s shoes, only to reveal the thick metallic boot of the mechanoid he was rapidly becoming. Briggs’ eyes flashed a bright neon blue, and the sound of mechanical servos at work filled the air as the almost-robot rose to its feet, even as the needles that had once been one single item cycled through on their ammo belts. Ammo. The energy coursed through Stallone’s body once more. This time, the power spread over his flesh, just as it had Briggs. Stallone’s body practically exploded out of his clothes as his torso expanded, forcing his back up, and up, and up. His neck was consumed by the metal as his face became a convex sphere. The harsh creak of metal sounded as he groaned into an upright position, his body gleaming a sleek silver as his arms expanded into well-armored silos. Port after port opened to reveal a legion of gun barrels. His head hunched forward as the massive mound his back had become opened to reveal a silo filled with heat-seeking and anti-tank missiles. His eyes were gradually replaced with two bright red LED units covered in a red blast-proof polymer designed to shield his ocular units from damage. His mouth became little more than a flat line that flashed with red light as his speakers came on line. He slammed his hands into the ground and began to lift himself as his legs bent into an artificial crouch. Servos zipped and whirred as his waist spun left and right, testing the new system integration, while the rest of his lower parts expanded to support the weight of his hull. He felt no regrets as his weak organic heart slowed to a crawl, shuddered weakly, and then gave up the ghost. In a matter of nanoseconds, the pathetic organ had been remade into his true heart, a power core that supplied him with the vast stores of energy he required to fulfill his function. Fulfill ... its function. QUERY: WHAT IS THIS UNIT’S FUNCTION?

The new bot rose slowly to its feet. It towered over the other unit as its scanners passed over the room. It detected no current threats. But ... threats to what? It ran its logic processors over this new query as it watched its brother unit retract its stun prongs. Then its ocular units locked onto the organic that looked on them with an expression the unit did not quite understand. The last dim spark of its fleeting humanity whispered the word, haunted.  And suddenly, the unit knew its function. “PRIMARY FUNCTION IDENTIFIED: SERVE AND PROTECT DESIGNATED USER.” The ground shook with every step the combat unit took. It watched as the red organic hair melted into shiny red metal over its brother unit’s face to add a menacing element to its appearance. The material up top rose into rigid spikes that arced with energy. The hinges on its jaw creaked as it opened to reveal a speaker with several interlocking metal pieces along the inside. A swift scan revealed their primary function was to act as an amplifier and a method to control the direction the sound would travel. The system deployed briefly, then retracted once more as the unit finally finished cycling through its silos and lowered them again to blend seamlessly into its armor. “PRIMARY FUNCTION ACKNOWLEDGED. DESIGNATED USER IDENTIFIED. STUN UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WILLBREAKER, READY TO SERVE.” It strode in a rigid march to stand before its designated user and snapped to attention, its vibrant blue ocular units flashing as it completed its action. “AWAITING ORDERS.”

The massive combat unit lumbered over, its ponderous legs smashing into the ground as it joined its brother unit. “HEAVY COMBAT UNIT 001, CODE NAME: WORLDSHAKER, READY TO SERVE.”

The man sunk to his knees. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. The two units remained silent and unmoving as their new master cried himself out. Such organic things were beyond their comprehension. His vitals were all normal, so there was no need for them to intervene. Eventually, the fit passed, and their designated user looked up into their ocular units. “Why were you trying to kidnap me?” he asked in a tired sigh as his shoulders slumped and he fished out a tissue from a pocket to clear his nasal passages. “DOES NOT COMPUTE. PRIMARY FUNCTION IS TO SERVE AND PROTECT,” the two units said together. Their user sighed. “Okay, then, let me try this another way. Where is your point of origin? Where did you come from, before you came to me?” The two units stopped for a moment. The lights that helped to make up their “faces” flashed as they processed the request. Then the lights ignited completely as the search completed itself. “POINT OF ORIGIN FOUND,” they said together. Their user stared at them with narrowed, puffy bloodshot eyes. “Take me there.”

Real Men’s Journal Part 10

DOCTOR’S LOG

~February 28th~

It’s been nearly a month. Subject 56 has changed drastically. He’s grown in size and mass to the point of being truly “swole.” He’s been positively stacked with muscle and his penis has grown to the point where it’s remarkable he can manage to put together so much as a sentence. The boy is constantly swearing and cursing up a storm, repeating the words “Fuck” and “Damn” over and over again. Every time he speaks a trigger word, the easier it is for him to fall into trance. He’ll be lost soon enough and then I can move on.

Statistics as of last scan:

Height:  5’9

Weight:  290 lbs

Subject Response Rate:  90%

Subject Rank:  Advanced

Recommended Course of Action:  Advance to next level. Transfer to intermediary.

As for me, I’ve made some serious gains over the last month, and Coach Stone has encouraged me every step of the way. I’m grateful for the lights now. They help me to focus. I doubt I’d be able to get my work done if they were fixed. Viewing the statistics, watching 56 transform and convert, it’s been very … informative. I believe I have a better understanding of the language our subjects use now and occasionally, I use it around my colleagues as a joke. A few of them laugh, but the only one who really seems to get the humor is Coach Stone. We continue to meet on a regular basis for three hours a day at the gym while I work out. My musculature has improved vastly and my dates have been through the roof. I guess it’s true what they say. Working out is an excellent way to improve testosterone production. My sex life has been nothing but aces since I started. I’ve never felt better, and I’ve never been bigger. I am loving the new me. Goodbye, Doctor Seroyan. Say hello to Big Rookie.

 ~March 30th~

56 continues to grow. He’s gotten so huge. I’ve made it a habit to review his journals every day now. The way he slowly changes is so captivating. He started off so small, so out of shape. Now he’s essentially a god. Cocky, confident, boastful, and slowly becoming obsessed with sports, physical fitness, muscles, and of course, his bulge. Watching his hologram progress projections in sync to his entries as well as seeing the videos from security footage and the recorder in his tablet have become my new hobby. That, and spending some more time with Stone.

My own personal clothing has grown rather snug with the gains I’ve been making. Since the lab coats are specially tailored, along with my other garments for work, I have little choice but to shift to my work out gear when I can. I doubt it will go unnoticed, but I don’t have much choice. I have to go. It’s time for my work out again. Coach Stone and I have agreed we’re going to try to extend a little longer. I can see why our subjects love the gym so much. The rush of endorphins is incredibly pleasurable. So much so sometimes that I even find myself dreaming of the gym, working out, and continuing to grow. The ladies love my new muscles and increased masculinity.

…

So do I.

 ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Phase 2. Entered. Hard to think. People posing so much. FLEXing. I feel so small compared to them. I want to join them, but I can’t. Not after what COACH did. They’re trying to wear me down. I … can’t let them. Have to remember. Have to … think back. Back home. School. Classes. Man, they were so boring. And I was so weak. A fucking pussy. But … I liked being like that, didn’t I? Did I? It’s been so long. Can’t even count the days anymore. Who has time though? Got so much work to do. Worked so hard at school. Worked like a fucking dog. Worked and worked and worked out. Felt so good. Feels so good. Working out is good.

Damn that hissing! I’m not one of them! I won’t give in. Won’t let myself get SWOLE. Even if I am a fucking stud. Hell, I’m hung like a horse. Like a fucking bull. Feels so fuckin good with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. People coming up to me. Callin’ me bro. Yeah … lil’bro. We’re bros …

Damn it, we’re not!

… But we are. I’m so confused. It hurts my head. But I can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop touching myself. I’m fucking ripped. Look at me. Look at us. So HUGE. So SWOLE. FLEXing. Posing. So good. But … I was … thinking about … something …

…

Game time. Report. Go to showers. 56 Reporting. Must March. Must Report. Yes, sir.

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~April 12th~

I’ve been having such strange dreams lately. I don’t remember them well. Something about pushing. I remember a heavy weight. Grunts. A sense of satisfaction. I felt … almost mindless. I think there was a voice of some kind in the back pressing me on. I … I don’t know.

For reasons they won’t tell me, my superiors have had me confined to the base. I am having great difficulty dealing with that since my romantic life was doing so well, and it helped to relieve certain urges that are now building up in my system without release. I’ve lodged a complaint, but have yet to receive a response. The only things I can do now are observe 56’s progress and work out.

I’ve taken to referring to Coach Stone by his title, much like the other test subjects. My reasoning behind it, however, is a bit more logical. Since he has decided to dub me “Rookie,” it seems only fair that I call him “Coach,” much like the relationship between a boy and his trainer. I’m rather glad to report I took him by surprise when I said it. We both had a good laugh over it as I got to work on my routine. It’s a great joke: a nickname for a nickname. I’m up to five hours now in the gym. Time goes by so fast. It’s hard to stop. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to.

I think I’ll see about extending my hours again.

56 has been upgraded to Phase Two in The Process. “Coach” made the unfortunate miscalculation of starting into the desire to be a football jock too soon. He neglected to look into the boy’s, well, I guess I can’t call him a boy anymore. Let’s go with strapping young man’s history. It would appear that before he was recommended and brought into the program, Number 1 and Number 5 decided to act on the bullying program instilled in their subconscious as football jocks, which we use as standard cover for our operatives to fit in. The High Schools are so judgmental and cliquey that a living stereotype blends perfectly. Unfortunately, this bullying has led to a great aversion to the sport in the subject at a subconscious level. It will take some time before the desire to play takes root, I fear, though being around fellow members appears to be helping him in the long run.

The close proximity to greater muscle excites the subject and pulls him into a hypnotic stupor which allows the subliminals we play on the speakers every day to have greater effect. That combined with the trigger words we’ve installed in him will soon have him towing the line again. He’s already adopted the others in his new barracks as “bros,” and they have adopted him in kind. The command to watch sports and follow reinforcement protocol is also intact and he has followed it militantly with his brothers. Even as he fell in line, I watched as he gained an extra two inches in height while matching stride. His pre-programmed arousal only added to his euphoria and sense of displacement from his former self. Even if he claims otherwise, the subconscious desire to conform, to fit in, to be the same, to belong, is strong in every high school student. It is strong in him. I watched as his genitals expanded, while they marched in unison. While he is not yet at their level, he will soon catch up. Soon he will match in hair style, in weight count, in competitive nature, in muscle mass, and, of course, in I.Q.

Here is a recording of their transcript. Watching them as they filed in was quite the experience. Of course, I did make sure to include filters in the cameras to preserve dignity. It’s part of company policy.

ACCESSING PHASE 2 CONFORMITY CAMP CAMERAS

A group of boys line up in files and prepare to make their way to the showers. One is shorter than the rest with shaggy dark brown hair. As each file forward, they approach the camera and a light blue light surrounds them as they are scanned. A door opens, and they pass through. Eventually, this shorter boy walks up and stands inside as the entrance seals shut. His jaw is square and his eyes are open, staring obediently ahead as he spreads his legs, exposing his erection while he stands at attention.

“Identification?” a female voice inquires.

“Kyle Matthews,” the boy replies.

“Identification?”

“Kyle Matthews.”

“Please state registered identification.”

“Ky–”

“Please state registered identification.”

“… Number 56.”

“Voice identification imprint confirmed. Initiating scan.” The light blue light flashes up and down over the boy as he stands there, unblinking. His pupils contract as his erection presses further against his pants. His brow grows slightly more prominent as the hair along the ridges becomes bushier. “Confirmed. Player Number 56. On track.”

“Player Number 56. On track,” he mumbled back and shuddered as a smile crossed his face. A new door hissed open as he passed into the locker room and the camera angle shifts to the inside. He approaches a locker where another scanner waits. The shower room is cavernous and from the upper vantage point, multiple men stand side by side as they look into the digital eyes on the metal surfaces. No benches are anywhere in sight. The room slowly becomes more filled as the systematic hissing of the entry doors repeat rhythmically. More men march into the room at a measured pace. No one speaks. No one interacts. They just file and wait in front of the lockers. When everyone has arrived, the men turn as one body to the red lenses that stare back at them from the seamless metal before them. A large, bold number identifies which portion they are meant to stand before.

“Welcome, subject players. Identify.” As one, the men stare at the lens and announce their numbers simultaneously.

“56.” He flexes in front of the lens as others perform similar actions. A red beam fires into his eyes, scanning his retinas as his pupils dilate, then contract to pinpricks. “Gotta get swole. Massive, manly bulge,” he says in unison with the others. The beam disengages as a musical chirp sounds, followed by a loud clunk as the lock is undone on the locker unit and the metal hisses open. Unabashed, the subject proceeds to disrobe with the other men as he stows his clothing in the locker and takes the towel, shampoo, and soap provided. As one man, they turn and file towards the stalls with only their jockstraps left.

“Gotta catch the game. Can’t miss. Too important.” These and other snatches are caught on the camera being muttered by various men as they continue to file toward their stalls. A clouded glass door descends over their stall entrances after they disrobe and casually toss their jock straps to the side.

The sound of flickering screens turning on is heard as the sound of static surges through the air. It soon clears to a more bell-like tone. A calm, deep, smooth voice is heard.

“I want you to relax. Just sit down, and relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. So deep. So smooth, so relaxing. Just listen … and sit … and relax.” The silent whirr of machinery is heard as several dark shapes rise slowly behind the clouded glass. As one, the sound of shifting weight and slapping feet is heard. Flashes between cameras show the distorted shapes of the hulking men sitting on the shadowy shapes that rose. The camera then returns to stall 56. This distorted shape is still standing.

“I … don’t understand. Where is the game?”

“So calm. So relaxed. Just happy to sit … and listen … and relax as my voice takes you deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Until you are fully seated. Fully relaxed.”

“But … the game …” The form is trembling where he stands.

“Your legs are feeling heavy. So very … very tired. Even now, they want to rest. Want to relax. Just as you want to relax. Relax and listen. Listen and relax. As my voice grows stronger, clearer. It’s all you want to listen to. All you want to hear. Everything else grows less and falls away. Falling away. Just as you are falling. Falling into your chair. Falling into relaxation. Falling into peace. Falling into a warm, happy place. Falling and letting go as you sit. Falling into trance.” A chorus of mumbles echo around the showers, responding to the promptings, affirming them.

“I … I feel … heavy … so heavy … legs … tired …”

“And as you sit, and rest, you feel perfectly at peace. So glad to just listen and rest. To sit and rest. To listen and sit. To sit feels good. To listen feels good. So good, so restful, so peaceful. Just listening to my voice and letting go. Listen and sit. Listen and rest. Listen and sit and obey. Falling deeper and deeper. Listening more and more. You want to listen. You want to obey. To obey your legs as they say to sit. To obey the voice that makes you aware of what your body wants. Of what you want. And you know it’s the truth. You know that you want it. So sit. And listen. And obey.”

The figure in stall 56 has entered into a crouch and is trembling above the shadow. “S—so tired. I … I can’t. Can’t … have to …” A heavy thud is heard as the shape falls onto the shadowy chair. “I listen … feels good to listen. Sit. Listen. Relax. I follow. Yes …”

END TRANSMISSION

What follows is a series of continuous hypnotic dialogue as they are slowly converted to match the personality and body type we wish them to take. In that session alone, Number 56 grew to a full six foot three. He also consented to a haircut, calling the “fucking mop on my fuckin head a fucking disgrace.” Subject has clearly reached mesomorph status and is still growing. Body fat content has dropped to eight percent. His muscle has grown at an astounding rate since the treatment took place. The boys chant and sing together on a regular basis about their “MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.”

Odd … why did I use all caps? Perhaps a computer error? I mean, they are BIGGER. There it goes again. Why must I emphasize with capitals like that? The only time I see that is in the boys’ journals. But I’m clean. My scan said so. It must be the computer’s fault somehow. I’ll make a call in to the I.T. people tomorrow about it. After my workout with COACH.

Mmmm … Can’t wait to get my PUMP on. It just feels so right in the gym. Helps me work off some of that tension from being stuck on base, too. COACH just makes it all go away when I LISTEN. When I LISTEN to him, I can just let it all go. I LISTEN to COACH and just let it all GROW. Mmmm … flickering lights. Love em. Going off. Making me feel BIG. BIGGER is better. BUFFER is TOUGHER. COACH is calling. Time to work out. Gotta get SWOLE. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

 ACCESSING NUMBER 56 JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

Been a week now … I think?

Music. Pounding in my head. Crashing. Thrashing. Bashing. Tackling. Grunting.

So much fighting. Wrestling. …I want to join. But not ready yet.

Feeling so big. SWOLE. Not enough though. Still smaller. Too small.

Been eatin’ a lot. Workin out a lot. Just workin’ ya know?

Easy to let go that way. Easier to listen. Easier to get SWOLE.

Big and SWOLE MUSCLE bro. Just like 100, ya know?

Just like him.

All MUSCLE.

All BRAWN.

Want that. Don’t I? So hard to think.

Why think?

I … don’t know.

Maybe I … shouldn’t?

So fucking horny. I … gotta go. Time to report.

Report my GROWTH.

My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

GROWing MUSCLE in my head.

Other stuff goes to my dick instead.

BIG MUSCLES.

MASSIVE BULGE.

So much pleasure.

Can’t stop. Don’t wanna. Can’t stop.

Report. Train. Gotta train.

Bulk up the BRAWN.

Dim … dim … can’t think of the word. Can’t spell it.

Something about my brain? Forgetting?

I … I am forgetting.

Oh god, I’m forgetting.

What’s happening to me?

…

 DOCTOR’S LOG

~May 12th~

Doctor Seroyan

Big Rookie

56 is almost done. Soon he’ll be part of the TEAM. Just like the rest. COACH says it’s time to test him. Dunno how we’re gonna do it. COACH says he wants me to take the test, too. Be a sort of spy for him to see things up close and personal. He says I’m BIG enough.

I asked about the head honchos. The BIG guys. Not MUSCLE BIG, but the in charge kinda BIG. They said I couldn’t go in before. Said it was a bad idea. COACH just looked at me. I never felt so bad. If COACH says it’ll happen, it’ll happen. I have to listen to COACH. Trust him. The more I LISTEN, the more I OBEY, the better I feel. The BIGGER I become. Become. Yes. Become what COACH wants me to become.

Yes, sir, COACH. I’m listening. Spy is just like the others. Avoids suspicion. Acts just like them. I’ll spy for you. Be just like them. Yes. BIGGER. BUFFER. STRONGER. Make me fucking MASSIVE!

Um … yeah. Excuse me. I um … have to go now. Have to get ready. Ready to GROW—uhhh … I mean go. Besides, it’s gym time. Have to get used to their schedule if I’m gonna fit in. Gotta get SWOLE, right? And GROW my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Yeah. I’ll fit right in.

…

Real Men’s Journal: Part 7

Hey, Tumblr. Sorry it took me so long to update. Real life is annoying that way sometimes, and as a writer, I’ve been working to earn commission money to help pay the bills. You know how it goes. Anyways, here’s the next installment in the series. I hope you all enjoy. Please reblog, like, and otherwise enjoy as you wish. There’s more to come for our friend, Kyle.

As you bros can see, he’s starting to crack. I wonder how much longer he can endure. Let’s find out.

~DAY ???~

           That video file could’ve gone better. I just … I feel so –Idunno, vulnerable, I guess. It’s taken me a few days to get my composure back. On the plus side, the coaches aren’t too happy about that. I haven’t been working out as much as they want since I’ve been trying to get myself back under control. The rest of the people in my “class” also became more kind after witnessing the event. At least I’ve got some friends now; even if they are pity friends. I miss my real friends and my real family so much right now. And, surprisingly, I find myself missing Kevin and 100.

           I need something to get my mind off of all this. Maybe I’ll go take a shower. Watch a game or something. I could use something mindless right now. Later.

 ~DAY ???~

           I’ve been dreaming. The same dream all the time. I see all the faces in my family, old friends, my old life, even those stupid bullies Damien and Bryan. We’re in high school and I’m laughing like this was the dream and that was the reality. I didn’t even care when I got beat up, or made fun of for my “being a fucking pansy.” I was home. Then I walk into gym class and we’re in the weight lifting segment. We get a substitute and I see Abrams and Stone standing there. They segment us off, make us take different machines and spot and work out with a partner. Surprisingly, I didn’t see the dreadful duo.

I got assigned with Kevin, the Kevin I knew before he disappeared, before the change. He was just as eager, just as kind, just as earnest as ever. I smiled as we got together and began to work on a set with a different pair of individuals working at the bench next to ours. Something about them seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place my finger on what.

We began to lift, and it was surprisingly easy. Up. Down. Up. Down. It was a special kind of rhythm and it just brought a smile to my lips as I fell into it. Kevin smiled back at me as he kept an eye on the bar, his hands hovering just below in case my arms gave out. My whole body throbbed with blood as it pumped and flowed through my veins, filling everything. The weights just kept clanking and clanking in my ears. Up. Down. Clank. Clank.

Then came the grunts, groans, and moans. It started off sort of small at first, a distant person, but then it grew, slowly spreading across the room. When it started to my side, I turned my head to see our two neighbors. I heard their voices growing deeper, shifting in unison as the one lifted and the other watched. Soon the spotter just backed off and started to pose and flex. He was hard as hard could be as he kept going. Then, to my horror, I heard another grunt, a pleasurable groan, and I watched as Kevin left me, walking towards this stranger. The two posed, flexed, and then began to grow together. I wanted to scream, cry out, do something. But all I could do was watch silently as I continued to lift like a robot. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Kevin blew up before my eyes, becoming more and more what I had seen of him before he disappeared. I watched his companion as he grew and swelled, his features slowly changing, becoming masculine, prominent. I watched his smile turn into a sneer as he continued to grow. Soon, in the stead of the nice boy, I saw Damien. Instead of kevin, I saw … I don’t know what to call it to be honest with you. He was big, buff, powerful, but he didn’t even seem to recognize me as he looked at me. He seemed sort of dazed. Confused.

I heard another groan of pleasure and to my right, I watched as the other boy clanked faster and harder. The more he pumped, the bigger he grew. Soon he was as tall as Damien, and nearly as broad, and just as hard. Seriously, do erections have to follow me everywhere? I can’t even get away from them in my sleep anymore. And the more I remember them, the harder it gets to stop. So hard. So very hard. And getting harder. Thicker. Stronger. Muscles. So horny … so … so horny. I … have to go. Be back … later. Bigger. Better. So much better … to be big. Big. Muscles. BIG. BUFF. BIGBUFFMUSCLEBIGBUFFMUSCLEMEATMASSIVEMANLY BULGINGHUGESWOLEBEASTBROMUSCLEMASSIVEMANLYBULGEMASSIVEMANLYBULGEMASSIVEMANLYBUIOIOOONLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLlllllllll—

 ~Day ???~

Damnit, they did it again! Sorry about that. I … let’s get back to the story. The dream. Anyways, the guy to my right. He finally stopped clanking and put the weights on their rest. It was 300 pounds, easy, far different than the starting weight I’d seen before. He grunted, sneered, and then I watched his face turn into Bryan’s. He walked up and patted Kevin on the back. Damien smacked him on the butt. I watched in horror as Kevin’s face twitched, then pulled up into a dazed sort of smile. Then he grunted and posed to the cheers of his two companions as they lay their arms around his shoulders, whispered things in his ears, and he just nodded and mouthed along. Soon they were standing bare as bare could be, a trio of men in what appeared to be posing straps of some kind, similar to speedos. I watched as they looked at themselves in the mirror-wall. I saw Kevin’s smile turn into a grin, and then slowly into a sneer to match his new companions.

And still I lifted. Still, I pressed. Up. Down. Clank. Clank. Pump. Pump. I felt my own member stirring and heard a low grunt issue from my lips against my will. Everything clenched and unclenched. First I was tight, then I was loose, then tight again. Pump. Bigger. Clank. Tighter. Up. Buffer. Down. Big Guns. I felt myself get up and lay the bar on the bench. The weight read 400 lbs. total. I heard the dull thuds of my footsteps across the floor, felt the shockwave as it spread from my heavy frame into the floor. I felt the air across my body as my clothing faded away. I felt the tightness of my skin on my arms as I swung them and shuddered at their power. I looked down to see the floor much farther away than it was before and a neon yellow jockstrap with bright green writing on it. Looking up into the floor length mirror before me, I read what it said in its reflection. “Jumbo Jock Junk” stood out boldly on the pouch of the strap, which grew bigger and tighter every few seconds.

I tried to resist, to fight back, but was powerless in my dream as the three surrounded me, ganged up on me, and ultimately changed me. I grinned at my reflection and watched it warp into an identical sneer. “So big.” I chuckled deeply as I felt something seeping from my head with every pump of blood. “Just a big, dumb jock. Just think with my cock.” I mentally recoiled from that, but the others joined in with my dream self as we slowly grew bigger, bigger, bigger, until we burst through our straps, and still we grew.

I always wake up in a cold sweat with a raging hard on. The first time, I felt so dazed, distant, foggy even. And when I wrote about this … well, you read what happened. Crap, again already? But it can’t be that time. I never used to be so boned. And … my clothes are starting to feel a little tight. Everyone’s giving me the stare. I can only assume I fell into trance again. The scary thing is … I think I’m starting to like this. Scans say my endorphins are through the roof. And my testosterone is increasing like mad. Who knew growing could be so … pleasurable?

 ~DAY ???~

Okay, so maybe the coaches aren’t so bad. Maybe. Stone’s actually been kinda nice. He keeps his distance for the most part, lets me do what I want. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still pissed. I still want to know what these sickos are doing with everyone and how they’re getting away with all of this. But he does show some measure of concern for the others, even if they are just sacks of meat and muscle by this point, like 100. He warns them not to train too hard. Even told me to take a break. That other coach never did that. Funny … I can’t think of his name. But … why can’t I? I see his face. I remember his muscles, the shrill blow of his whistles. His deep voice. His uniform. Coach’s stripes. All official looking, like a coach should look. I … guess I’ll just call him coach. Yeah, coach’ll work. I … I think I remember now. Coach Abrams. That’s the name. Yes, sir. Coach. Coach Abrams. He was pretty respectful, too, now that I think about it. It’s good to show respect. Respect authority. Coach is authority. Respect Coach. Obey authority. Obey Coach.

I have to go now. Have to listen to coach. Have to obey coach. Coach says work out. Coach says to listen. Yes, sir, Coach. I listen. I obey.

 ~DAY ???~

           Man, I just can’t seem to get enough of those protein shakes. It feels like I just finish one when my stomach starts to rumble again. 100’s been a big help, not even complaining when I ask for another one. Each time I taste it, I just feel so good. So warm. I’ve been gaining more muscle, but I don’t feel too different yet. Maybe I’ll be able to stay like me instead of turning into one of them? I sure hope so. I like being me.

           My body’s been feeling a lot more energized of late. And I have to admit, it feels really good. I eat a lot more than I used to, but it doesn’t seem to be much of a problem. My body burns it almost as fast as I eat it. My clothes have been feeling really tight and so have my shoes. I look at myself in the mirror sometimes and I can’t help but smile a little. I actually look fit. I actually feel fit. And … well, alright, once or twice I’ve tried flexing in front of a mirror.

I think I can see why the others do it. After losing so much weight, I’m starting to look like a real model. It’s kindof nice. That and my bulge. It’s … well, it’s bigger. My penis is bigger and I like the way it looks pressing against my shorts, alright? It just makes me … feel good. Especially when I pat it. But every time I cup ‘em, I feel … Idunno, disappointed, I guess. My hands always feel too big compared to em. I feel upset. It’s almost like I want them to be bigger. But I can’t. If I start thinking like that, then the brainwashing will win. But I can’t stop thinking about them. Always growing. Growing bigger. Larger. Like me. So massive. So full. Pressing. Bulging. Mine. All mine. My bulge. My massive, manly bulge. Swelling … straining … bigger. Bigger. BIGGER! MAKE ME FUCKING MASSIVE!!!!!! FUCK YEAH!!!!!!

 ~DAY ???~

ACCESSING #56 VIDEO FILE 003

           A sweaty teenager with plastered hair and well-toned muscles is smiling into the camera. His brown hair is darkened by sweat and his blue eyes blaze with a smoldering sort of pleasure.  

“Man, my head’s been feeling so fuzzy lately. But I can’t seem to stop. It’s weird, but I’m actually kindof fine with it. I feel more relaxed than I’ve been in ages. I just sort of blank out and let it go, you know? I’ve gone up a couple of sizes since I last wrote. Tore through my workout clothes while I was doing a set. It’s a good thing 100 was there with another set for me to shift into. He clapped me on the back and I couldn’t help but smile. I really don’t know why I was so scared about this. It’s pretty fucking sweet.” He paused and frowned a moment, like he’d tasted something unpleasant. Then it cleared and he returned to his narration.

“Oh yeah, I’m cursing a little more than usual. What do you expect? Deal with these muscleheads long enough, you need to learn their language. It was inevitable. You know, like it was meant to be. Gotta go. The game’s on and I need to shower with the guys. They’re waiting for me. Knuckleheads. Always trying to show off their gains. Can’t match me though. I’m still bigger.” He smirked. “And it feels good to be big. Can’t wait to see their dopy grins when they watch the screens. Fuckin’ nerds won’t even see it coming.” This time he didn’t flinch. First they’ll turn on the screens, then they’ll watch the lights, then they’ll start to flex. Feels so good to flex. Their muscles will BULGE.” He strikes a pose, flexing a bicep, which barely raises the sleeve of his larger shirt, but is still noticeable. “Then they’ll start to PUMP. Then they’ll get more SWOLE!” He smiles goofily as he strikes a double bicep flex.

“Feels so good, too. FLEXING. Just listening and letting go. Watching the game. Just like the guys. Just one of the guys. One of the team. With a massive, manly bulge. So big. Bigger. Must be MASSIVE. Make MASSIVE.” He smirks as he poses again. “Look at that.” The camera pans down to where a medium sized bulge presses against the shorts. Then the camera pans back up to his face. “That’s my bulge. My swelling, growing, bulgy bulge. Bigger. Have to be bigger. Bigger is better. Makes me happy.” He gets up and moves to the camera. “Time for a shower. With the team.” Before the camera turns off, there is a groan of pleasure followed by a snapping sound. “Ohhhhh hell yeah. Burst my fuckin’ jock.” A dimwitted, deep chuckle is heard as the recording shuts off.

END TRANSMISSION

 ~DAY ???~

Hey, guys. What’s up? Been working out like a fucking BEAST the last couple weeks. Time’s going by so fast. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here now. Then again, I don’t really care so much anymore either. I’ve been having too much fun with the guys. Josh is bulkin’ up like mad, man. If I’m not careful, he’s gonna be bigger than I am soon.

Cooper’s a great kid. Been listening to my MP.3s with him. He was kinda scared at first, but now we’re both really getting into it. It’s just so good to listen, ya know? He doesn’t listen as long as the rest of us do, but that’ll change soon enough. Coach says it’s good to listen to them as much as we can. Hell, I even work out listening to ‘em now. It just feels right, and I get such a huge pump when I listen, too.

As for Trent, well, Coach said he needed special classes. Last time I saw him, he was chowing down as much protein as he could get. The kid’s like three times the size he used to be when he came in. Said hi, he just sorta smiled at me, grunted, got back to eating. Don’t need ta talk really, not when you’re getting’ swole, ya know? Just breaks your concentration. He was wearing solid grey and sitting down with the big boys on the team. Coach said Trent’s a fast track student. His bulge is already so huge. So’s he. I wanna be big too. I thought being fit would be enough, but I just keep wanting more and more. It aches sometimes how much I want it. Need it. Need muscles. Need to grow. I … I need it. So hard. So big. Need to … Need to … I … have to go. Have to work out. Gotta get swole with my massive, manly bulge. My fucking bulge. Yes. Yes, sir, Coach. I’m listening. Coming now. Just let go … yes …

 ~DAY???~

Shit, what happened? Guess coach just sorta needed me … or something. Scanning every day now. Bout three times a day. Makes me all warm and tingly. Every day I feel a little tighter. A little closer. But … closer to what? I … I don’t know. My … my head hurts when I try to think about it. Why does it hurt? Make it stop. Make it stop. Just … make it fucking stop!