A Question

A Question

TLDR: I want to open a new transformation series on my patreon with a tier dedicated to that story and future muscle tf stories that will be posted regularly alongside my other tf stories that I put up there. That way, you guys get the content you all really want without having to hope I won’t choose another medium or species for my monthly updates. Need suggestions on pricing for the tier and what you all would be willing to pay on a monthly basis to continue receiving that content. I also need to know how many of you would be willing to help me on patreon, so I can see if it’s viable.

Details below.

Please leave comments with opinions and suggestions on my idea and for any other rewards that might make you choose to contribute to said hypothetical tier.

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Hello to my many followers. So, a few weeks ago, I lost one of my subscribers to my patreon because while he did enjoy when I did muscle transformation stories, I didn’t always produce them each month, since I was trying to add a little variety and I am also dealing with a lot of real world stuff. *Eye rolls* Fun, right? Anyway, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, my content has been coming more regularly again. And to that end, I have a question for all of you followers that I’d like as many of you as possible to answer.

PLEASE!

I am now flooded with a backlog of ideas for muscle tf stories, including a new one that occurred to me last night as part of a series not unlike Lifting Up and Dumbing Down or Of Spies and Muscleheads. Albeit without the gradual and subtle aspect of the tf.

If any of you are familiar with the game show that premiered on SyFY a while ago, called The Chase, then you might have an idea of where I intend to take this series. I’ll even be willing to premier a sort of prologue here on my tumblr to whet your appetites for the rest of the series.

I would like to offer a new tier in my patreon that is exclusively for the muscle tfs that you guys all like. If I were to add such a tier and update on a monthly basis with my other tf stories, how many of you would be willing to subscribe to my patreon to see the content? And as a followup, how much should I charge for that tier? What would you all be willing to pay to help fund me as I work on these projects? I was considering a $10 tier separate from my current one, but I want to hear what fits best for all of you guys first, and how many would join. I might even take some extra requests or give you guys the ability to vote on a theme you’d like me to follow. What do you think?

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/omnitf

Kofi: https://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Please donate or pledge to support my writing. I really need the money. We now return to your regularly scheduled Transformation content.

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Stripped

You’ve heard of carjackers, people who steal your vehicle for themselves or chop it up, strip it down to the bare essentials. Well, that’s what happened to me. Only, it wasn’t my car that got stripped. Nah, bro. It was me.

See, I used to be smart. Honor student, high grades, above average. I was gonna go places, do things. Important things. Things like running a business or saving the world, maybe winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

Yeah, I know. The way I look, the way I sound, that ain’t no college student. That’s just a big burly meathead who spends all his time in the gym, right?

Well, it’s true. That’s what I am now. But that was after I got stripped and had to be built from the ground up. You see, that’s what this gym specializes in, bro. It makes its patrons up right. You want the bod, gotta take the mods.

Don’t get me wrong, bro. I love what I am now. Mmm ... shedding those smarts, the effort I put into my studying, all of it, was just ... euphoric, man. It was like the best pump I’d every had in the world. I signed the papers, started working out, and it just ... happened, you know?

First thing to go was my alarm bells, that feature that goes off if anyone tries to break in, you know? No radar either. It made me feel relaxed, at home. I didn’t feel scared of anyone anymore. There was no need to, no matter how intimidating people got here. Then they gutted fuel injector, my engine, and headlights. It made me docile, compliant. I was stuck in neutral, the only way for me to move, because my drive wouldn’t work. There weren’t no more lights on upstairs. And that was all right by me. I kinda couldn’t really care either way then.

They tore off my wheels, ruined my suspension, and cut my brakes. And I let them, because I coudn’t do anything else.

Then they really got to work.

Situps, pushups, chinups, weights, cardio, presses, squats, the works. I couldn’t stop. I had no breaks. They were building me from the ground up.

Suspension came first. My legs bulked up into thick, veiny structures able to take heavy blows and support most any burden. Then came the arms, my guns. Pumping up the muscle, increasing my vasculatory capability. My wheels were put back on, and I ran mile after mile. New kicks, new socks. Pounding away at the endless track. I did what I was told, because, bro, I couldn’t think. I was just a pile of meat, bones, and the bare essentials.

Then they really started on me. Fuel injectors gave me the boost I needed to really rev my metabolism. It roared with my surging bloodstream. New, powerful engine, so many cylinders, pulsing, thrumming, pushing me to improve, to rush forward full tilt. And I obliged.

Pistons pumping in order. One two. One two. One two. Bang. Bang. Backfire. Purring. Showing off. A new hood ornament was installed with my new hairstyle. Pomade does wonders, sort of a wax, instead of a proper gel. Kind of like the wax on my outer shell after the paint. Mmm ... paint, just like my tan. Huhuh. Looks pretty good, don’t it, bro?

They didn’t put in the alert system again. Don’t need it. Bro like me, we don’t need to be aware of anyone else. Everyone else should be aware of me! Like I said, used to care about that, but not anymore. Feels good to just ... rev. Don’t think, just do. You know?

Mmm. Stick shift. New chassis. Streamlined performance. Power. Yeah, I’m a real muscle car, aren’t I? It’s what I was remade for, to show off, to pose and flex. I’m like a living mascot. They finally put in the brakes again just before I collapsed from exhaustion. But by then, I was already hooked, bro. I came back as soon as my body could. And look at me now, bro.

Huhuh. Look at these guns! Look at this body flex! Listen to my engine ROAR!

You’d better be amazed. That’s what this place is all about. That’s why it’s called Full Throttle Gym. And bro, you’d better be ready, because we’ve been stripping you for the last ten minutes. Time to take out that radar, bro. You think I’m huge? Just wait till you see what they’re gonna build from you. Starts with a T and rhymes with bank.

Trust me, little bro. You’re gonna love it.

S’right, bro. Let it go. Time to work out. Let’s crunch that old frame into shape and start building that armor plating. No dread, all tread. Full fu**’in speed ahead!

Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh......

Had to reblog this. It’s gamer comedy gold. And the best part, the illuminati completes the four with its triangle that holds the all-seeing eye. BRILLIANT!

Pressure

Peer pressure is a powerful, albeit subtle thing. Much like temptation, all it takes is a nudge, a little poking and prodding. And then, the results speak for themselves. One person starts something. And then it spreads. It spreads, because a person thinks it’s, “cool,” “hip,” “modern.” There are many more such names and titles given to various acts. And that person performs the action and spreads it to another. And that one to others. And that one to more, until a whole new phenomenon is born. But what would happen if, for just a moment, that pressure had more than the power to push a person toward what is deemed a social norm? What if, for just an instant, it had the power to alter the very fabric of reality?

Picture, if you will, an open park, or perhaps a campus quad. Somewhere that teenagers and young adults go to blow off steam and simply be themselves. There are many that would seek to mind their own business, of course. Just enjoy the day, get some sun, read a book, play on the grass, maybe eat a meal in peace on one of the many public benches that may or may not dot the area.

Now, let us consider this principle in action. It is not unusual for men to remove their shirts on a warm day. Be it summer or spring, many who are fit and unashamed of their bodies remove their shirts to simply enjoy the sun and try to cool off at the same time. Perhaps there is a game going on. Perhaps it is football. Perhaps it is soccer. Or any other number of field sport. However, as men are wont to do, there is a simple way to tell apart the teams. Perhaps you are familiar with this system. It is a well-established social norm, after all. The shirts and the shirtless.

All it takes is a lost teammate. Perhaps someone needs to go home. Perhaps a player is tired and needs time to rejuvenate. Regardless, the call is made. The team is imbalanced. And this must be corrected.

A pair of young men are relaxing on a nearby bench. One is busy adhering to yet another form of peer pressure, the need to graffiti.

It is a harmless enough pastime. Indeed, for many, it is fun to add to what others have left before, almost like a message in a bottle. The anonymity allows one to be cruel or kind, base or lofty. The end result is still the same. The bench is defiled, the message carved.

“Why do you do that?” the first boy asks. His white shirt reflects the sun’s rays, offering a slight relief from the relentless sun.

The second one shrugs in his black shirt as he carves away at the table with a sharpened rock, or perhaps a pen or marker of some sort. “Why not?” is his response.

And the first has no reason to raise. After all, his friend is not the first, nor will he likely be the last to leave a mark on the table.

And then the boy in the white shirt is noticed by our players. The sun’s rays reflecting off the fabric draw the eyes of the competitors. A representative is sent.

“Bro, come play ball with us.”

It is a simple request. A prodding. But our young man is uncertain, nervous, and intimidated by the size and fitness of some of the other players.

“We really need someone to help the team,” the delegate says. “C’mon, bro. It’s easy. Promise.”

The second push. Another nudge.

“I don’t know....”

“Nah, bro. It’s all cool. Come on. You’ll fit right in.”

Cool. You’ll fit right in. Small words, spoken so casually, but that carry such heavy weight at times.

Authority. Confidence. Assurance. Persuasion. Coercion. These concepts, so easily interchangeable, simple to flip, like the sides of a coin spinning on its axis. They flip. They fold. They merge. They join as one voice becomes two becomes four becomes many.

A cacophony.

A barrage.

A call.

Invitation has deformed into a ringing summons.

Request contorted to belligerent demand.

“Be cool, bro.”

“Loosen up.”

“Have some fun.”

“Join us.”

“You know you want in.”

“C’mon, bro.”

“Team needs you, bro.”

“You have to.”

“You need to.”

“Let’s play.”

“Take it off, bro.”

“Don’t ruin the game, bro.”

“Don’t make a mistake.”

“Don’t be that guy.”

“Come on.”

“Come on!”

“COME ON!”

Perhaps they cheer him on. Perhaps they jeer him, instead. Regardless, our young man has a choice to make. Will he accede to the pressure, accept, and receive the gratification of this horde? Or will he reject it and face the consequences of potential social ostracization?

Reluctant to offend either party, and rendered immobile by the pressure exerted by such an exuberant summons, our hypothetical man is at a crossroads and frozen in the grip of indecision.

As is often the case of those still in development, he seeks council from one who is not subject to the pressure for guidance.

Our second youth shrugs disinterestedly. “Whatever.” He returns to his graffiti without a second glance. He is too busy to care. What started as a reply to a chain message has degraded to lewd doodles and the beginnings of curiously angular and curved letters. It is almost as though he cannot stop.

The pressure resumes once more. “See? He’s cool with it. So, whadaya say? Join us?”

The cracks develop.

“I ... guess....”

The web spreads as the cracks extend and deepen.

“Then what’re you waiting for? Take it off, bro.”

The shirt begins to slide.

“Promise not to laugh?”

A few grains begin to fall through.

“Bro, relax. You’ll just be another player. One of the guys.”

Just another player.

Our peer smiles.

One of the guys.

The shirt pulls up.

Cheers abound. Positive reinforcement. A veritable tsunami of approbation.

“One of us! One of us!”

Barriers shatter. The flood breaks through.

The shirt slides off like a cocoon to reveal toned muscle. The hints of abdominals press under the skin as he bends, while the beginnings of a treasure trail thickens to become more prominent. Tight muscle flows over the hints of ribs as his arms stretch high. Two massive slabs of muscle drop down in the form of well-defined pectorals as he lowers his arms. The white fabric waves in his hand in limp surrender. His biceps and triceps ache to pump and flex with the flow of blood. His smile widens into a grin that’s indistinguishable from that of the player that’s invited him.

The shirt is cast aside on the cement that supports the picnic table, and the pants creak briefly under the increasing muscle mass in his calves and thighs.

“Let’s play, bro.”

The player grins and seizes his new teammate’s hand in a forceful grip that causes both of their arms to strain as veins stand out from flesh. “Atta bro.”

The new player joins the peers that have crushed him into their mold, none of them the wiser for it. But what of our second subject?

Let us see what peer pressure has done to him in the course of his former friend’s transformation.

The rock has shifted into a sharp metal edge. The wood yields easily to his efforts as the dark handle rests easily in his palm. His black shirt lengthens into a baggy dark tee. Once-folded cuffs unfurl and lengthen along his pant legs as the cut widens and slumps. He pauses briefly as an unfamiliar weight drags in the pockets of his pants. He reaches and feels the cling of saran wrap. Something feels ... off, but he doesn’t check what it is. Instead, he returns to the table. He had to finish. Had to leave his mark.

Cotton boxers peek over a waistband pulled deliberately low. His head tingles as the beanie on his head tightens and takes on a dark gunmetal-gray. As if in retaliation to the marks he has left, dark ink begins to scrawl its way across the backs of his hands. Thick muscle cords up his forearm, then inflates along his biceps and shoulders as they broaden. His eyes glaze as the light behind them dies, leaving nothing but dark emotionless shadows.

The fabric in his shirt perks against swollen pectorals, then slumps again as it expands. He cracks his neck, revealing a binary code engraved on the left side. A dew rag peeks out from one of his other pockets as a counterweight appears on his other side. He pats the pocket briefly. His fingers reach inside and brush the hard metal barrel, the textured synthetic material for a firm grip. The click of the safety flicking off and on again puts him in a haze as he widens his legs in a relaxed, albeit aggressive stance.

He flicks his knife shut and looks over his work. MACHINES stares back at him. “Damn straight,” he mutters in a deep bass. He watches the game idly, occasionally glancing at the bathrooms nearby. The dropoff is waiting, but he needs the all-clear first.

His phone buzzes. Sorry, bro. Can’t make it. I’m sick. This text is followed by a puking emoji. He smirks. Police were on the prowl.

He taps his package again. The deal will have to wait.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the territory he’s marked for the gang. He smirks and pulls out the durag.

After all, nobody said he couldn’t do some recruiting.

He sneered and cracked his knuckles.

All it would take was a little pressure.

And so, you see, invitation, coercion, cajoling, deriding. In the end, they equate to the same thing. Pressure exists all around us.

The question is, what will you do when it comes for you?

Can you resist?

Will you even want to?

Is it even your decision to make?

I doubt it.

Oh, there I go nudging again.

But then again, I’m not really sorry for it.

After all, I can’t wait to see what mold you become, my little canvas.

Mmm ... don’t disappoint me.

Incubus Chapter One: The Introduction

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Please help fund this series and my other writings by contributing on my patreon or Ko-fi. Anything I can get is appreciated for this poor writer. (Seriously. I’m unemployed and need all the money I can get while I keep applying for jobs. Ideally, I’d love to switch to writing full time for all of you, but I don’t have enough income to do that yet.)

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/omnitf

Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

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I could hardly believe I was finally here. One of the most exclusive male modeling agencies in the world had picked me, me, out of the hundreds of thousands of applicants to join their academy. I mean, I joined the lottery as a farce. My body is anything but model material, but the contest did say all body types were welcome to apply.

Next thing I knew, I was whisked away on a private limo, followed by a private jet to an undisclosed location. Tropical island or something like that, I suppose.The staff was surprisingly kind when they saw me. No complaints, no grimaces, all smiles. Their motto is that anyone can become a model. They just need enough time, patience, and training. And now I was going to get that and all the benefits that went with it. I was floored!

The elevator to the main office was one of those reflective metal ones with mirrors inside, probably to give models the chance to sharpen their appearance. I tried to do the same, though I cringed as I did so. My sweatshirt had been tied around my waist, and my pudge pressed against my XL black shirt as I pulled at the part in my hair to try and look more presentable.

...

I swear, everyone in that office looked like an Adonis or better. How was that even possible? You’d think someone would have been less fit, but they were all lean and cut with designer clothing that clung in all the right places.

Dennis is my caseworker. He called himself my agent, but I know I’m not exactly a marketable kind of person. He frowned at that. And the man wasn’t exactly the sort to go against. He was one of the bigger workers there. Taller, thicker muscles, all tone. In short, the kind who is very assertive while still being kind. At least, I hope the second part will be true.

“Everyone here is marketable, and you are no exception,” he said sternly. “If you want to keep up that dour outlook, you can turn right around and get back on that plane. I work with believers and doers, not do-nothings. In Incubus, anyone can and will succeed. Understood?”

Needless to say, he set the pecking order very quickly, and I obliged. “Understood.” I gulped and nodded.

“We’ll need to put you through a regimen to prep you for your first shoot, but that shouldn’t be too hard. We’ll put you with Nathaniel for a roommate. He’ll help you adjust, act as a sort of guide, give you a rundown of what living here is like.” He handed me a picture of a man with heavily rounded cheeks and a double chin. His skin was a very light tan, and his dark hair laid thin and flat against his head. “This is his before shot, just so you can have an idea of what we’ve worked with previously here. Look at him now, and you’ll understand why we say we accept any body type. He’s sort of an upperclassman in the program. Think of him as a big brother. He’ll treat you like he’s one, anyway.” Dennis smirked then, handed me a packet and patted me on the shoulder. “Welcome to Incubus, kid. You’re gonna go places.”

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When Dennis said I was going to go places, I didn’t expect a plush apartment complete with dark leather couches, lush carpet, and gigantic entertainment system. And that wasn’t counting the kitchen. Open layout, tile, an island, flawless marble countertops, the works! My jaw dropped at the sheer opulence.

It dropped even farther when I met my roommate. The Nathaniel I saw in the photograph was a far cry from the stud that lay before me now. I say stud, because frankly, there are few other words I can use to describe him so concisely. The fat from the photo had been almost completely eroded, save for a small portion under the chin that had been coated in a dark stubble that hid the chub and accentuated the blocky angular features of his jawline. Instead of pale skin, I saw a rich healthy tan that stretched evenly over his whole body. A sleeve tattoo flowed down his left arm, highlighting the curves of a large bicep with the image of a flawless gem, probably meant to be a diamond. His right leg had been similarly bedecked over the front of his thigh. I couldn’t tell if it was some sort of floral pattern or something else, but it definitely drew the eye toward his core.

Even leaned back and relaxed as he was against the leather of the couch, I could see the hints of the six pack waiting to tense into being. Both biceps were raised in a pose indicative of self-adoration or narcissism. A pair of black briefs clung to his legs and bulged in all the right places while accentuating the curves he had already developed in his thighs with whatever regimen he’d had to follow. It must have taken him years to get to this point. Was that really what Incubus planned to do for me, too?

He looked at me with sort of a half-dazed smile, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was high on something. I knew some models used drugs to help cope with the stress. If he was dosing, I definitely didn’t want to be around him. But the voice that emerged from that particular flavor of perfect was perfectly clear and coherent.

“Hey! You must be the new guy! Name’s Nate. Come on in.” He motioned with his head toward a free cushion. “Sorry I’m not getting up to greet you. I’ve still got an exercise to finish for class.”

“Is that why you’re in the nude, too?” I asked as I made my way to the far cushion and sat.

He looked down at his briefs, then back at me. “Well, not totally nude, but yeah, I guess. Part of training required me getting over my fear of showing skin, so I have to spend a minimal amount of time each day just wearing stuff like this. It’s gonna be jock straps next.”

“Seriously?”

“We’re gonna be models, bro. Kinda goes with the job description. It’s not like they’re gonna make me do nudes or porn if I’m not comfortable with it. Incubus ain’t like that. They’re just helping me be comfortable with my body as it is. They’ll do that for you, too, if you let them help.” He shrugged, then groaned and stretched as a timer went off. “That’s better.”

“What was that for?” I asked.

“Posing homework. Models have to be able to hold poses and flex on command. It’s pretty grueling sometimes. That was an endurance exercise to help me hold a pose longer.” He propped himself up on the cushion, then rose to his feet and offered a hand to me. “So, like I said before, name’s Nate. What’s yours?”

My throat suddenly felt dry as I averted my gaze. “Cole,” I said. It barely came out as a whisper.

Nate chuckled. “Yeah, you’re green all right. Let me guess, that’s the model name Incubus suggested in your packet, right?” He seized my hand and shook it. “Don’t do what doesn’t feel comfortable to you, at least not at first. Incubus pushes you, sure, but it won’t force you into something you’re not ready for yet. It’s Nickolas, right?”

“I ... like to go by Nick.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you.” His grin was so confident and reassuring, the melt you like butter and drink you up kind. If I were a girl, I probably would’ve swooned. Fortunately, I’m not. But it was comforting, all the same.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He picked up my suitcase like it was nothing and hefted it over his back to hang behind his shoulder and strain the triceps in his arm. “I’ll show you your room.” He led us down a long corridor past a vast vanity area with vaulted ceilings and more marble counter tops. Two wavy glass doors surrounded by stainless steel framing were marked A and B. “That’s the bathroom, obviously. The glass is thick and textured to keep people from seeing you when you’re in there for a shower. There’s a communal hot tub, too. Trust me when I say this, that’s going to be one of your best friends while you’re here.” He chuckled. “The other half is farther back through the third door. It sort of doubles as a posing room, too, if you want to show off and admire yourself someplace private. Most people do when they first start, myself included.”

The end of the hall broke off in a T leading to corresponding apartments labeled the same way the doors had been. “I’m B, so that leaves A for you.” The door opened on a completely blank space. The carpet was soft. A king size bed with a silver comforter and plush pillows waited. A large curtained window let in streams of golden sun to illuminate the room. A single large circular light fixture had been attached to the ceiling with a dome-like pale glass finish dyed a creamy white. A massive flat screen television had been mounted on the wall. The master suite continued in a panorama that revealed weight racks for dumbbells, multiple fitness machines ranging from steps and bike to treadmill and a total fitness gym. A large gaming laptop sat on a side table, connected to a charger.

Nate dropped the suitcase on the bed and grinned at me. “Yup. I had the same look when I saw my room. It’s all yours. You can do whatever you want in here, so long as you keep to the regimen you’re given. Personal decorations are up to you to pick. The laptop has a program that’ll let you choose your customization. Then the work’ll be done while you’re in class.” He grinned and strode to a side door with a lock in it and pulled it open to reveal more textured tile and marble to carry on the theme. This time, the colors were a rich dark green and black with white streaks. “And this is the communal spa room, complete with sauna and hot tub. Our rooms connect here, but we can lock or unlock those doors as we see fit for privacy. So, what do you think?”

Naturally, I was speechless. “I, uh ... wow?” I finally said.

Nate chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. They treat us well here. All you’ve gotta do is stick to the program, and you’re pretty much gonna be set for life.” He beamed that lazy smile at me again. “I’ll let you finish settling in. Then we can get a bite to eat. Hope you like Indian food. It’s chicken tikka masala tonight.” The smile soon grew into a grin of triumph. “We’re not all just dumb models, you know. A man has to feed.” He strode into the sauna to cut to his room. “See you in a few, roomie.”

I bounced in utter bewilderment as I sat heavily on my new mattress. This was actually happening. How was this happening? How long was I going to have to stay here to get those kinds of results? So many questions. And I had no idea how much time.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there before the smell of rich tomato paste and curry powder mingled with sweet onion and garlic reached my nostrils. My stomach growled and I laid my hand over it. The light in the room had dimmed to a subtle orange glow. It had to be evening. Had I really taken that long to process my current reality? Regardless, my body had spoken. For now, it wanted to eat. Questions could wait till later.

I couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at my lips.

I had the sneaking suspicion that Nate would be too happy to answer.

Johnny Diez