The School Of Buff Jocks Part 1

The School of Buff Jocks Part 1

Ladies and Gentlemen, Jocks and Muscleheads, Bros and Bruhs, it is my distinct honor and pleasure to present to you the long anticipated sequel to Real Men’s Journal and Of Spies and Muscleheads, the School of Buff Jocks! This story is being written on a commission basis, so give thanks to @muscle-jock-bro for footing the bill. And if you want to ease the amount he’s paid for you all to enjoy this, please feel free to throw a few dollars his way. As usual, I am currently open for commissions. Just message me if you’re interested or email me at Omnikitsune@gmail.com with the subject: Commission Inquiry. And if you wish to support my writing, please feel free to donate via my Ko-fi or Patreon.

Now, please enjoy. The other parts will be coming shortly.

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Stonewall Prep Men’s Academy. You hear words like that, and you’d expect some sort of boarding school for boys or something like that, wouldn’t you? And I suppose it still is. Things are just … different than they used to be. I’ll tell you what, though, we haven’t had to worry about big fights or fancy things like detention and suspension for a long time. Matter of fact, we have one of the best reputations as a no-nonsense school since the business was bought out by its current owner. It used to be called Stone Bluff Men’s Academy, but I guess Coach Stone preferred something stronger.

Can’t say I blame him. It feels so good to be strong. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The name’s Derek. Derek Jones. My friends call me DJ. I’m … sort of a big deal. Folks around the country call me Big DJ. Can’t say I hate the nickname. Feels kinda natural, actually. And, I mean, look at me. I am big. Thing is, I wasn’t always. Nobody is, I suppose. Not at first.

I used to be more of a nerd. Videogames were more my thing. The closest I came to sports was usually with EA Games’ Madden and other sport franchises. That and Wii Sports. I used to have a lot of gamer friends, too. We’d laugh, sass around about things like anime and other common interests. Then things started to change after summer break one year.

Guess that’s where I’ll start, since I’m supposed to tell my story. And, well, my story is the school’s story. I was sitting with a couple of my old bros, Jackson and Slater. We shared classes, had a lot of the same interests. It was a good match for us. And since the prep school allowed for electives to travel in the same circles, we got at least a couple of periods together each day. Being in the same dorm helps a lot for hanging out after, too.

To say we were surprised by our teachers’ appearances was an understatement. Every one of them was ripped. Not in the steroid sense of the word, but we could tell they’d all lost weight, and their new clothes highlighted the tone they had developed over the break. The school’s headmaster was, by far, one of the biggest changes. The man used to be heavyset and overweight. Now he was broad in all the right places. I mean, the man was built like a tank!

The opening assembly gave us a proper explanation.

The headmaster stared at us with flinty blue-green eyes as he spoke over the pulpit. Even without the speakers, his voice probably could have projected to the back of the hall.

“Welcome to another year at Stonewall Prep Academy. Some of you are likely confused by that name, considering the moniker our school has borne for so many years. It has recently been brought under new ownership, however, with new management as a result. There are to be no major changes in your curriculum, nor your daily lives.

“Your schedules will remain the same, save you should choose to alter them. However, the new owner has insisted on a higher budget to pay for greater resources to be utilized by our student body. As a result, the school will be undergoing certain renovations over the course of the year.

“Our computer lab will be updated with the latest in technology to give you all the best chance at learning both digitally and physically. As an additional investment, each of you will be given a personal computer that is to be returned to the school at the end of the term.”

The room was filled with excited whispers at that news. Our own personal computers. There were so many things we could do with those. Stream shows, play videos, post memes. And we could write letters and emails in our rooms instead of having to dedicate time at the computer lab to do it. It was perfect!

“Now, boys, settle down.” The headmaster smiled. “The best is yet to come. Since so many youths are full of nervous energy, our school’s new owner has insisted on donating a heavy portion of his own money to renovate and expand our fitness program, including giving new machines and equipment to allow maximum efficiency for you students and any sports teams. Living conditions will also be improved in due course on a person to person basis. The transitions in your rooms will be simple and swift, so you needn’t fear not having a place to stay. The changes will be superficial at best with updated furniture and amenities. We expect you boys to do your best during this year and immerse yourself in the spirit of health, wellness, and education that this school is meant to embody. With that being said, it’s time to adjourn for a meal. Then you will have free time to prepare for school tomorrow. To all new students, your schedules will be in your dorm rooms, and teachers will be standing by on the first day to help guide you to your classes across the campus. Welcome to Stonewall Prep!”

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Mister Andrews was my teacher for World History that year. The man was a big medieval buff in both senses of the word. He even kept a suit of full plate armor on display in the classroom to show off his dedication to the time period. I heard he used to joust and play tourneys at Renaissance Fairs before he taught at the school. As a result of his hobby, he always kept a solid frame stacked high with muscle mass, particularly in the arms, shoulders, and legs. His stomach had grown over the last few years of teaching as age caught up with him, but whatever he’d done over break had nuked the fat into nonexistence. A thin green froth coated his lip as he switched between greeting students and taking a swig from an intricately carved tankard portraying a knight charging into battle on his horse with sword waving dramatically in front. I figured it must be green tea. I’d heard the stuff was good for cutting fat, and it explained a lot about his sudden change in form.

His deep voice rolled over the class in a no-nonsense tone. “All right, boys, bros, and men, listen up. I’m Mister Andrews. For those of you who intend to participate in wrestling or football this year, you can call me Coach Andrews. I don’t do roughhousing or fighting in this class. You will pay attention, and you will learn. If you do anything to disrupt the other students or my lesson, you will be punished as I see fit. History is no joke, and I intend you boys to take it seriously.” He drained the rest of his stein and slammed it onto his desk. The resulting sound echoed like a gun shot in our ears. “I hope we understand each other.”

Needless to say, Class was quiet and very attentive on its first day of the term. We received our syllabi and were given a general overview of what to expect for the course of our lessons. It took every fiber of willpower I had not to cheer when he said we wouldn’t be doing any papers this year. Like every teen, I hate writing essays. When the period ended, and it was time to clear out to our next classes, I approached Coach Andrews and smiled.

“Glad I got you this year, Mister Andrews.”

Andrews grinned. “It’s been a while, DJ. How’s the gang?”

“Gallivanting as usual, Sir. Were you still planning on DMing this year?”

“With sword and daggers bared,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hope your party is ready. This year’s campaign, or campaigns as the case may be, are going to be a lot harder.”

I grinned. “I relish the challenge.”

“I would expect nothing less of our Half Orc Paladin.” He smiled. “Now you’d better move it. I won’t be held responsible for you being late to your next class on the first day. You can’t exactly use being a new student as an excuse, now can you?”

I laughed and offered a casual salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Andrews smirked. “That’s my soldier.”

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I couldn’t help but cringe as the scream rent the air, followed by a cascade of sobs. The hardwood floor of the school’s basketball court was now watered, not only by sweat, but by the tears of the goalie that bawled his eyes out as he clutched his crotch. Well, more held his hands gently over it. My grip tightened on my lacrosse stick as Coach Johnson lumbered forward and offered a consoling hand over the kid’s shoulder. The man was about six-foot-three and carried enough corded muscle to show more than his job was fitness. The offending ball now wobbled guiltily on one of the floorboards as he spoke in a deep, soft, and reassuring tone.

“Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths,” he coached. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The teens that had once been so competitive now averted their eyes as Johnson levelled his dark green gaze on them.

“Mister Larson.” The deep quiet tone carried louder than any shout or beration as he looked to his fellow teacher. “Help the boys put away their equipment. I think we’re done for the day. I’m going to help Kyle to the school infirmary.”

Mister Larson nodded as the wails and sobs gradually faded to that hitching hiccup you get when you’re in the limbo between a full-on bawl and silent tears. No man would dare to criticize Kyle for it. Several of us swallowed heavily as our gazes trailed to our own crotches. That could have been any of us, and that was a sobering thought.

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Jackson winced after I gave them the downlow on what happened in gym. One of the first things we’d done was download Steam onto our new laptops and start playing League of Legends. His black hair had that sort of shine that drew the eye and made most people jealous. How he did it, I still don’t know. He doesn’t either. Guess he was just lucky.

“Sucks to be him,” Slater said as he unleashed his character’s highest tier attack on the enemy hordes. His red hair had been cut to short bristles. He preferred high and tight to the longer bowl cut of his younger days.

“Seriously, man?” I asked.

Slater shrugged. “What? I feel bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna cry a river for him. We’ve got our own stuff to worry about.”

“Either way, I’m pretty sure lacrosse is going to be off the table for a while,” Jackson guessed.

“I feel sorry for the one who did the deed. I know it was an accident, but man, did you see the look on Johnson’s face?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s pretty much screwed,” Slater agreed.

“Or he’s just going to have to apologize. It’s not like he’s going to get expelled,” Jackson said. Then he double clicked his mouse and smiled as his avatar wiped out mine and Slater’s.

“Really, man?”

Jackson shrugged. “That’s what you get for putting me on the other team.”

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Coach Johnson and Mister Larson both stood in front of the mass of students. Their voices rebounded from the tiles of the locker room. Larson raised a bundle of straps with a single green pouch high into the air.

“As of this day, all students are required to wear one of these at all times during gym class. For those students who are unaware, this piece of equipment is known as a jockstrap. It’s designed to support your crotch while playing sports.”

Coach Johnson picked up the narrative and raised his hand into the air. A hard curved plastic insert rimmed by what looked like rubber glinted in the light. The dull gray and black were emphasized by hints of bright green to complement the theme of its paired jockstrap. “This is called a cup. It’s used in most heavy sporting events to protect your crotch from heavy impacts. As you can see, this one is designed with shock absorption, shock transfer, and ventilation in mind, including a gel perimeter and inserts to keep impacts from cutting into your skin. All students are required to wear their cups with their jockstraps in order to participate in fitness activities. This is a safety measure to protect you from future harm. We expect each and every one of you to wear them and take good care of them.”

The two taught us how to insert the cup into a pouch and how to ensure a proper fit. I felt silly and embarrassed by the bulge it left in my pants, but the assurance that I wouldn’t end up in a crumpled ball on the floor helped mute that part of me, even if it couldn’t be totally silenced. At least they didn’t force us to just wear the straps alone. Of course, we were teenagers, so at least a few of us had to make the joke about what we were packing.

Huhuh. If only we knew.

“Jocks and cups will be dropped off in each of your rooms this evening,” Larson said. “You’ll be expected to take good care of them and place the used straps and cups in designated bins for washing. Your surnames will be sewn onto the straps inside the waistband for identification and delivery.”

We played for the rest of that period, though the pain Kyle had experienced was still fresh in our minds, and I’m pretty sure most of us weren’t really putting our whole effort into the game. Our heads were somewhere else.

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Somewhere else. That was the answer we’d received when we asked about Kyle. To be more precise, they’d said he was somewhere else getting treatment. The ball must’ve hit harder than we thought. I was biased then, and angry from past bullying. I thought about those stupid dumb jocks and my blood boiled.

I slaughtered in Call of Duty that night.

Later, we had Trig. Mister Dale had just polished off a blended green shake, probably one of those new kale smoothies, or so I thought at the time. He’d grown, just like the other teachers, and he exuded a confidence that I had never seen in him before when he addressed us. Had the teachers all been using the new gym equipment or something over the break?

Mister D’s voice rolled over the classroom in a wave. “Trigonometry, in many ways, has a heavy impact on us and the way we live. Combine it with the laws of physics, and you can predict almost anything. For instance, how many of you have played air hockey before?”

The majority of us raised our hands.

“How many of you have ever watched the puck in action as it slides over the table?”

Again, everyone raised their hands or nodded they had.

He drew a straight line, followed by two exact angles with the aid of a ruler. “One of the basic premises of trigonometry is angle in equals angle out. If you don’t get involved with friction, spin, or other factors along those lines, the bare essentials lead to this inevitable conclusion. If you strike the wall at a certain angle, the object will bounce off at an equal angle. Hence the ricochet we see in air hockey. Or, for those of you who are gamers, the unique bounce of the ball in Pong as it strikes your paddle.”

He smiled at us, despite our lack of enthusiasm. “Likewise, the same can be applied to philosophy and psychological development. Set a person on a particular course, account for various outside factors like environment and personality, let them collide with an obstacle, and see how they bounce back. In a nutshell, that’s basically life, when you think about it. Release.” He pointed to the first angle. “Strike.” He indicated the axis. “Bounce.” He pointed to the second angle. “And repeat. We may not always get the desired outcome at first, but by repeating the motions, one can eventually analyze a situation, figure out the proper factors, and ensure a means to achieve the desired outcome every single time. Ballistics experts use trigonometry on a regular basis as part of crime scene investigation to gather evidence. Now, then.” He pulled down the projection screen and shut off the lights, so a presentation could begin. “Let’s talk about how we calculate these angles.”

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“Homework sucks,” I groaned as I leaned back in my computer chair.

“At least it’s easy stuff for now, DJ.” Slater pointed out as he clacked on his laptop’s keyboard from my bed. “It could be worse.”

“I suppose.” I sighed. “Least we’re not in the hospital.”

“Relax, Derek. It’s not like Kyle’s never coming back.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just don’t really like thinking about it, you know?” I winced and cupped my crotch.

“Yeah,” the others agreed softly. We spent the rest of the time focused on our various assignments. The trig program was pretty easy to follow through on. The exercise module ran sort of like a Prezi slide show. The line would trace and pause at a unique plane, and we’d have to figure out the angles. Wrong answers would generate a new problem as my point of view spun in reverse from the screen, following the line of trajectory. The more correct answers I got, the closer to the end goal I would descend. It wasn’t so bad as far as game designs go. Basic, but entertaining enough to keep the attention. And using games to teach always seemed a better way to go about school to me.

Module one was a breeze. Two and three took me a little more time. A slim amorphous figure voiced a chipper, “Congratulations,” as it flexed at the end of each one. The metaphorical walls and ricochet spun and drilled into the character, causing it to pulse and vibrate until the module had been absorbed. Then it flexed. The barest hint of definition could barely be perceived on its arm. “We’ll be fit for triggernometry in no time.”

I rolled my eyes. Cheesy one-liners for motivation and a mispronunciation. It was pretty obvious to me where this could end up going. The curriculum was the same for all of us, so we helped each other with our homework, then pulled another game night.

We had no idea what was coming.

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When Kyle finally came back to school again, we hardly recognized him. The pudgy boy had lost a lot of weight and gained in muscle and tone. The glasses he’d worn were nowhere to be seen, and the square block of his skull was much more prominent, now that the fat had been trimmed away.

He became a monster in Phys-ed. And Coach Johnson became his mentor. First term flew by, and he threw himself into every exercise Johnson put us through. He wasn’t the only one. The teachers all were growing. Their shirts were tighter, their figures trimmed. Whatever plan they were following sure seemed to be doing them good.

And surprisingly enough, the program was working. The more homework we aced, the bigger our seamless avatar would grow and the higher our overall performance would become in class. Sometimes, he’d be running a track. At other times, he’d be lifting barbells or performing chin-ups. The animations were so cheesy, we couldn’t help but laugh, but the results spoke for themselves.

I particularly enjoyed the English exercises. Synonyms, antonyms, imagery, symbolism, punctuation, structure.

I was a stickler for structure.

I am a stickler for structure.

Because structure is order and order is strength.

And a guy’s gotta play to his strengths, right?

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Second term is where things started to get … different. The renovations were well underway, and most of them had been finished over the break. It’s easier to work when things are empty. Lets you focus more.

My room smelled of rich pine, thanks to an air freshener that had been plugged into the wall outlet. Not my favorite smell, but I wasn’t about to complain. The bed had been replaced with an extra-long full-sized mattress that gave more support. The mattresses were Sleep System brand, so you can understand when my eyes bugged out at that. These things promise a perfect night’s sleep, and they’ll adjust to your frame automatically to help you sleep longer and better.

And trust me, they work. I love that bed more than I love being home with my family, if you can believe it.

Changes were even more prominent in the mess hall. Stainless steel and chrome shone brightly along the passenger lines. The kitchens, or what little we could see of them, had been decked out with brand new equipment. The food smelled and tasted AMAZING! I’m talking meatloaf, steak, mashed potatoes, tamales, pretty much anything you could name, they had. Not all at once, mind you. The cafeteria still followed a set meal schedule and menu, but the quality was and is out of this world!

The headmaster and teachers were all wearing compression gear with the school’s name and mascot on it. He told us we’d be able to wear school gear now to our other classes if we wished, provided it remained within proper dress standards. Our new “casual” uniforms were waiting for us in our dorms later that night. Me and the guys had a little get together to have some fun with the new gear.

I pitched my voice low and pushed the air out my mouth for greater effect as I flexed in front of the new floor-length mirror that had been installed in my room. Jim, the golden flexing fitness avatar, was showing off the goods on my left pec. His waist was obscured by a stone wall, while the words Stonewall Preparatory Academy stood out along the wall’s face.

“Check out these, guns, bro,” I lowed as I fixed my friends with the most vacant expression I could manage.

Jackson chuckled. “At least we get new clothes out of it.”

“There is that,” I conceded.

Not one to be left out on the fun, Slater smirked and popped both arms into the air in a double bicep flex. “It’s workout time, bruhs.” Jackson and I laughed as he got down and actually did a couple of pushups to hype up the act.

“Behold, Slater the Slayer!” I crowed.

Slater smirked as he got back to his feet. “Not a bad name, ‘bruh.’”

“Fuck, yeah,” I guffawed.

“Fuck, yeah,” they repeated.

We all laughed again, doing our best to push through that deep dull bass as we continued our antics.

We had no idea the seeds we were planting that night.

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Ever the lazy kids that we were, a significant portion of the school began to wear the gear, instead of their usual uniforms. I mean, come on, the stuff was comfy and easy to switch into on short notice if you were running late. What teen wouldn’t use that as an excuse to sleep in a little longer?

This, in turn, led to some developments that our teachers definitely didn’t approve of. Students were coming in late. Once or twice over a long period of time is fine, but when it becomes consistent across multiple students in a classroom, discipline has to be enforced.

And boy, was it.

One early winter morning, five boys came careening into the classroom with panting breath. Andrews was just explaining about Greek culture in ancient times, and we were about to focus on Sparta when we were interrupted. Andrews fixed them with a cool gaze.

“Boys,” he greeted them. “Late again, I see.”

“S-sorry, Mister Andrews,” they said in a low and garbled murmur as they averted their gazes and shuffled toward their seats.

After they’d gotten everything ready on their desks and were about to sit down, Andrews raised a staying hand. “Actually, boys, I’d like your help with a demonstration. Come back up here, will you?”

The kids blushed as they approached the front of the classroom again.

“Now, boys, the headmaster and staff have been talking. We’ve noticed a disturbing rise in the number of children who haven’t been making it on time to class. Not only does this indicate an unprecedented amount of slothfulness, but it also reflects poorly on us as your temporary caretakers. As such, a new mode of discipline is to be implemented, starting today. All boys who are late to class will pay a penalty.” He turned to the boys and grinned. “And you five get to demonstrate that penalty today.” He pointed to the floor. “Now drop and give me ten pushups.”

“Ex-cuse me?” one of the boys asked hesitantly.

“You heard me. Drop and give me ten. Don’t move quickly enough, and I’ll up it to fifteen.” He folded his vascular arms over his chest and frowned. “Now, gentlemen.”

The exercise took particularly long for one of the students, since his arms were basically like twigs. Andrews finally had to allow him to do baby pushups on his knees, instead of using his full body weight.

“Thank you, boys,” Andrews said as he ushered them to their seats with the wave of a hand. Then he fixed the rest of the class with a piercing glare. “And to anyone who gets any ideas about teasing these gentlemen for doing the honorable thing and not complaining, I’ll be happy to show you my personal training course for bullies. As it stands, I expect to see you five here in my classroom after the school day is over. We have a lot to discuss.” He turned back to the board. “Now, then, back to the Spartans.”

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“Damn it!” I swore. My die rolled a two on the table, and Andrews shook his head.

“Language, DJ.”

The gentle whirr of the projector as the game map shone on the screen demonstrated my character’s current predicament. A large Yuan-ti stood next to my character, and I had rolled to avoid being snared by its coils.

I sighed. “Sorry, Mister Andrews. So, what’s the damage?”

He rolled his dice and spoke. “The Yuan-ti’s coils wrap around Lathrok and hold him tightly. Lathrok takes two points in constriction damage. The serpent sneers and blinks as his eyes begin to pulse. He’s preparing to dominate you and will make the attempt on his next turn.”

“Uh, guys, a little help?” I pleaded of my party.

“Our hands are full, Derek. Sorry.” Slater shrugged apologetically to me. “Dealing with an army of thralls is no easy task.”

“Much though I hate to suggest it, it might be better for the rest of the party to retreat for now and try saving Lathrok later,” Jackson noted.

“Seriously, guys?”

“Given the overwhelming number of thralls we’re dealing with, it might be our only option, unless you want all of us to lose our characters with no chance of saving you,” Slater said. “By the way, I’m using my breath attack to clear a path, Mister Andrews.”

“A shrewd strategy,” Andrews praised. He took a deep drag from his tankard, and a button popped off his dress shirt to expose a little more of his chest beneath. We knew better than to comment on something like that in the middle of a campaign. “Let’s see how it works out for you.”

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“All right!” Jim cheered in my ears as his helper screen popped up on the interactive gym. “Time to up those weights. Let’s see how it works out for you!” It seemed that the teachers were going to insist we interact with the program every chance we could get.

“If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

Granted, the fact it was there to monitor and help transition for the workout equipment was very useful for most of us. Whenever we reached a plateau, Jim would log it in the system and trigger the machines to create a more challenging workout. I … wasn’t a big fan of this, if I’m going to be honest about it. I didn’t like working out back then. But since it was part of a grade, there wasn’t much I could do, other than let things take their course.

Kyle blew through his exercises like a machine. Rep after rep, set after set. He’d bust them out, guzzle his drink, then get back to work. When others asked him his secret, he just shrugged and said, “I just do it. I got tired of being scared and taking hits, and I did something about it.” Then he’d turn and get right back to work. It was no wonder he turned into such a hulk with the way he attacked the program. His version of Jim was jacked as all get-out. I mean rippling musculature the whole way through. Either he put in a lot more time on the modules or he was in advanced placement, because assuming the avatar followed the same principles ours did in their programming, that size shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, he might have worked on the modules while he was away to help pass the time between physical therapy and whatever else he did.

Either way, the irrevocable social laws of teenage dynamics began to set in, and in no time at all, everyone wanted to hang with Kyle. Spotting, eating lunch, whatever. The guy couldn’t seem to catch a break. It was no wonder he asked to join the lacrosse team. At least on the field, he could get some rest from all the people clawing at him and actually work off some steam. His coaches made sure of that.

It took five rounds of grueling physical exercises to finally get the hordes to back off. The coaches even got a couple of recruits out of it. It was pretty clever, honestly. I mean, making us do the fitness would test our limits and let them see exactly who would be the best students to scout for the sports programs.

Fortunately, I wasn’t among those students. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter in gym class during the weightlifting segment. The butterfly press was one of my greatest enemies, and Jim knew it. Every time I was on that thing, he would correct my form. He still does sometimes, but not too often anymore.

“Derek, your form is off again, big guy.” The monitor flashed to reveal a diagram complete with drawn lines and arrows to direct me and ensure I had a proper visual of the form I needed to use. “Raise your elbows to adjust your trajectory and put the emphasis on the proper muscle groups.” I grit my teeth and bit back the curse burning in my throat.

“Someone looks angry.” The recently promoted Coach Larson folded his arms and nodded at me as I growled through the next press. A tablet was clasped in one of his hands. “Good. Use that to push through the exercise. You’re a growing boy. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t show any aggression.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“No problem.” He strode up to the side of the machine and spoke into his tablet’s mike as he accessed the equipment. “Hey, Jim?”

“Yes?” the AI querried.

“Add another set to the end of Mister Jones’ routine today. Faculty disciplinary action override.”

The weights crashed as I let go and my eyes bulged. “What?”

“Teacher Identification?” Jim asked.

Larson tapped a code into his data pad, and a chime pinged as the data was submitted. “Okay!” Jim said in a chipper voice.

I wanted to scream, but I really didn’t want to have any more fitness added to what already left my body feeling like frozen molasses in the morning. I didn’t know how I managed to pull through that. Honestly, I was so angry, I hardly paid attention to anything till I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder. Kyle’s blocky features stared at me. His brow furrowed in concern, and his short flat top buzz cut flashed white gold under the gym’s lights.

“Hey, it’s, uh, … Derek, right?”

“DJ,” I snapped.

“… Okay, DJ, then.” The fact Kyle stayed calm instead of getting offended probably saved me that day. “You know class is over, right?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

He gripped my wrists and pulled my arms gently off the press. “Class is over, man. It’s been over for the last hour.”

“Congratulations! Way to go! I’m really im-pressed with your progress!” Jim continued to heap praises and cheesy one-liners. His arms and chest had gained significant definition. Mine, on the other hand….

Let’s just say it hurt to breathe, and my arms felt like they never wanted to move again, now that they were resting on my lap.

Kyle laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wanted to snap at him on instinct, but I managed to keep that part of me in check. Kyle wasn’t the jock stereotype I’d had to face growing up. A few months ago, he’d been a lot smaller and a lot less fit. This wasn’t getting picked on. This was someone concerned for my health. I nodded. “Yeah, I … sorry. I don’t know what happened.” My whole body tingled, and the hairs I had on my arms were standing on end.

“Come on. I know what you need.” Kyle smiled and hoisted me out of the chair like it was nothing. Then he guided me to the coaches’ office. The place was more like a lounge than an office. Maybe even a locker room with how much square footage it had. Fridges, freezers, first aid and medical stations, scales, this place had the works. Kyle easily pulled open one of the fridges and broke the seal on a plastic bottle filled with green liquid. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It’s a protein shake. It’ll help soak up all the acid your muscles are producing, so you can recover faster from today.”

“Is this … okay?”

Kyle shrugged. “Coach said I could if I needed it. Right now, I’d say you need it more. If they ask, I’ll just tell ’em what happened.” Then he guided me into the locker room itself. “What you need now is to chug that shake and take a shower. Cold water works better, but anything’s better than nothing. Trust me on that.”

“That, and the fact I’m a sweaty mess?”

“Well, I suppose there is that, too.” Kyle grinned, then looked at his own drenched compression shirt. “You’re not the only one. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

I shook my head numbly, then took a swig of the bottle. It was only then that I realized just how thirsty I’d become. The whole thing was drained in a few seconds, and I chased it with several mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountain after.

“Well, that sucks.” He shrugged, then led me farther back into the lockers, where the tile opened up into several shower stalls, each cordoned off by a shower curtain and bearing identical mounted dispensers. Shelving units laden with freshly folded towels stood in front each entrance. “Don’t know how the school afforded it, but these things are legit,” Kyle said. “Jets and an overhead designed to get a full body wash. Seriously, man, you’ll never want to shower anywhere else after you try it. And after the workout you just had, you’ll definitely need it. Turn on the massage setting. Trust me, you won’t regret it.” He grinned and patted me on the back as he traversed to a neighboring stall.

And he was right. I didn’t regret it. That stall left me feeling higher than a kite after it was done with me. I managed to move my arms enough to engage each of the dispensers and get a proper shower in. Then I just let the massage do the rest. Kyle was already gone by the time I finished, but he gave me a kind goodbye before he smacked down the tiles to get changed and go to his dorm. So far, it seemed, Kyle was actually going to be one of the good ones out there. Maybe he would be able to break my idea of the jock stereotype.

Maybe.

Credit to @bodriversblog for this incredible image.

If you like my work, please support me on Patreon, so I can continue to write stories and scripts for you all. For just $3 a month, you can have access to muscle, hypnosis, and other transformation content and even make suggestions for future stories you want me to write for the next reward on the Discord Server. Other tiers are also available with different rewards. Check it out.

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Deducation

I watch from the other side of the table. He’s been staring at that screen for hours. I can’t help but smile as he shifts slightly and rolls his arm to expose his new tattoo. All that time at the gym and the supplements he’d been using were really paying off. His pectorals tensed and pushed the sleeves of his tank top forward, giving a view of the crevice forming between the two growing slabs of muscle. I was so proud of him when he came out with the cap on this morning.

My little beta tester was becoming quite the alpha. I’d decided to call the program Deduction. The game itself was simple enough, designed with a premise to focus on deductive reasoning. The longer he played, the more challenging the deductions would become. With every correct answer, he would progress. With every wrong answer, he would face subliminal suggestions and reinforcement. I still remember the first time he blanked after getting the wrong answer.

“Maybe you should go to the gym, instead.”

The insult had been included as part of that subtle push, a sort of mocking from the antagonist in the game. What I hadn’t expected was for him to actually respond at that moment.

“Where are you going?” I’d asked him mildly.

“I’m going to....” He frowned. “I’m going to....”

“The gym?”

The way his gaze just ... glassed over, that sensation of watching it come to pass. It was ... incredible.

“That level was too hard. I should go to the gym, instead.”

And he did.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It got easier and easier to trance him over time. His sense of competition, that need to prove he was better than a machine or game, drove him to keep playing.

I tweaked the insults and subliminals with each “new iteration.” And he attacked it with the same zeal he’d come to develop toward his breakfasts.

“Too bad, ‘bro.’“

“Not ... even ... close.”

“Perhaps you should apply yourself in ... other fields.”

“I’d hoped for brains, not brawn.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Can’t you even read?”

“Are you slow in the head?”

“Leave the thinking to the smart ones, you lumbering brute.”

“Honestly, Chief, such sloppy work. Perhaps it’s time to trim the fat....

More insults, a “demotion” cutscene involving a hypnotic pattern in the background as the chief spoke the dialogue and the text scrolled by. All tools to help push my beta tester deeper and deeper.

And all the while, he kept growing. Muscle and tone replaced flab and fat. In a very real way, I was putting him through a mental version of the detraining principle, a rule in the fitness world that essentially states if you don’t use it, you lose it. If you don’t continue to train those muscles and parts of your body that have improved, then you will lose the benefits you gained. It’s also known as the reversibility principle.

“I think it’s time for a different sort of uniform. Don’t you?”

I still remember when he almost smashed my computer. I had to get in his way to calm him down. “Bro, stop!”

“He insulted me!”

“He’s a computer generated character! You want to smash something, go change and smash some weights, instead!”

He grumbled, but he followed my advice. I’ve hardly seen him out of his “bro” gear since.

“Congratulations. You finally solved something. I suppose it’s time to get hard.”

I nearly spat my drink when I saw him flex his biceps and retort, “I already am.”

Then came the suggestion I’d been waiting for. He was chewing on his oatmeal as part of that morning’s breakfast, looking thoughtful with his brow scrunched. He swallowed, then said, “Hey, bro?”

I shuddered at the low pitch he’d developed recently. I admit I was surprised, since he usually didn’t interact with me much during his breakfasts anymore. “Yeah?”

“You think maybe you could, uh ... include something else in the game?”

I was intrigued. “Like what?”

“You know how there are all these interactive parts to video games now, right?” He gulped another bite of his oatmeal, then belched without shame. “Why not make something like that for parts of the game? You know, like when breaking into a room or doing something that needs heavy lifting, maybe something for when you have to run? Something that’s ... idunno, active?”

“Active?” I repeated.

“Yeah, like ... you know, to let me move. It’s always solving combinations or following equations or something like that. It’s too slow. There’s just not enough action in it. It’s....”

“Yes?”

He sighed. “Bro, it’s boring. I feel ... idunno, sort of numb up here when I play.” He knocked the side of his head, and I barely suppressed the urge to smile.

“And do you have any suggestions?”

He blushed. “Idunno. Maybe, ... maybe a gym?”

“I can try something like that,” I admitted. “But I don’t have that kind of equipment to synch to my computer. Any levels or portions I design for a gym setting would have to focus on something else, perhaps on hand-eye coordination. Tapping the right key at the right place, that sort of thing.”

“If you could, that’d be great. It’ll make things more, uh ... uhhhhhhh....”

“Diverse?” I suggested. This time, I did smile.

“Yeah, that.” He gobbled down the rest of the bowl and chucked it into the sink, filled it and the pot he’d prepped the meal in with water, then raced toward the door. “Thanks for listening, bro. Gotta get to the gym, bye!”

He was still embarrassed, and I found that especially cute.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

His laughter permeated the room after he’d been playing the new level mechanics for the last half hour. Well, at least on this particular session of the new level. It was deep and low, just the way I like it.

“Fuck, bro. How long’ve I been spelling swears and curses?”

This time, I allowed myself to smile. It was perceived as a joke, after all, juvenile humor. And I knew to act accordingly. “You’ve been spelling more than that, but I’d say you’ve been doing that for ... well, ever since you started testing the level, so I guess about a couple of weeks now?”

“Damn, bro. That’s just ... fuck, damn....”

“Ass?”

He looked at me. I looked at him. And we both broke down into a fit of laughter.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, he swore again.

“Bro, this ... this game’s like a fuckin’ drug, man. How long’ve I been playing?”

I glanced at the stopwatch by my table. “Four hours.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. “This game is--”

“--Ready to lose again, my little henchman?”

His body became rigid. His chest heaved, lifting his shirt over the toned abs he’d been developing. He rose, and I took note of the growth he’d experienced in his legs and glutes as he turned and strode back to the computer again.

Eat, workout, shower, computer, eat, computer, workout, shower, eat, computer, and repeat.

And all the while, he kept growing. The bigger he got, the more relaxed he became. I watched a former valedictorian descend into the depths of the mental doldrums, and he was perfectly content to stay there and focus on his need to improve.

And I was only too glad to help him redirect that need toward his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I helped him change his major just last week. Exercise sciences are far better suited to how his mind runs now. And he seems content with that. He’s still determined to beat the game, though.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The latest deduction was more of a pattern. He has to list the alphabet. By now, he’s been conditioned to be triggered every time he reaches the letter D. His eyes become hooded. His breathing slows. His face goes slack. And I get to enjoy watching every second of it.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The timer goes off. The laughter filters through the speakers. His chest shakes with it as he shifts easily from his sustained pause to follow that track with his husky, “Huhuhuh....” Then he blinks slowly at the instruction.

TRY AGAIN

He clicks the button. The system cues up the level again. The process repeats a few times, and I just enjoy watching him fall again and again. I snap a picture. He’s too focused on the screen to care, tapping one meaty finger over each key and shoving it in time to the screen’s prompts.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhmb....”

“What was that?” I ask. A smile curls as my lips part to bare my teeth. I’ve been waiting for this moment.

He turns to me, looking away from the screen for the first time since he started this morning. He blinks slowly, as if he doesn’t quite recognize me or where he is. And then he speaks in that slow, dull tone that I’ve come to love hearing. “I am A Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m a Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Whose Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro are you?”

“Yours, bro.”

This time, I let the sneer come. “Good jock boy.”

The trigger was sent, and he reacted instinctively. Laughter burst from his chest like the retort of a cannon. “Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh.......”

You do realize that, regardless of whatever pictures you use and if it shows a dick or not, your content is still porn? Like your stories are literally gay porn. They’re good, hella sexy, but I don’t understand why you might not understand that a mod might go below surface level and actually READ the post and flag it?

Please read this all the way through, Anon. You wanted me to address your argument, and this is a very firm rebuttal on all fronts. Read it thoroughly.

Anon, you clearly have a different definition of pornography than I do, and more importantly than the rest of the world does. The content I write has nothing to do with sex, other than perhaps some characters talking about it as their transformations progress, and even that’s iffy. Arousal may happen to some characters, but I am very careful how I handle each instance of that occurring to keep it outside the bedroom and generally touch on it only lightly. I don’t write about masturbation, nor do I write other graphic forms of sexual intercourse. The closest I have come to writing about it has been in Endemic Evolution when it was implied in a conversation overheard by one of the main characters. Is my content arousing to the reader?

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Which means it would likely fall under the classification of erotica in that sense, at least. Muscle transformation is a niche, and it’s one that I also find arousing as I transform the individuals in my stories both mentally and physically.

But let me make one thing clear to you, Anon. I’m a Christian who takes his morals and his religious beliefs very seriously. I’ve written a total of maybe three works of fiction that involve characters becoming gay as a part of their transformations. These instances were in part to experiment expanding my boundaries in fiction, and in part because it felt right to do that for those characters or was requested as a part of a commission, depending on the case. The rest of my characters when they transform are straight and remain straight.

You’re the one who chooses to turn my writings into lewd thoughts as part of your own fantasies. You’re the one who uses your imagination to carry my work into the field of graphic sexual arousal and acts. So, please don’t go telling me that I write pornography.

To back my claims, here is Tumblr’s own definition of what they consider adult content, along with exceptions to that rule. I’ll bold the most pertinent portions in rebut to your claims.

What is "adult content?"

Adult content primarily includes photos, videos, or GIFs that show real-life human genitals or female-presenting nipples, and any content—including photos, videos, GIFs and illustrations—that depicts sex acts.

What is permitted?

Examples of exceptions that are permitted are exposed female-presenting nipples in connection with breastfeeding, birth or after-birth moments, and health-related situations, such as post-mastectomy or gender confirmation surgery. Written content such as erotica, nudity related to political or newsworthy speech, and nudity found in art, such as sculptures and illustrations, are also stuff that can be freely posted on Tumblr.

So, whether my writing is erotic or not, I can tell you right now that it is not pornographic in nature according to Tumblr’s own guidelines. And whether my writing falls under the classification of erotica or not, it is still protected under tumblr guidelines, hence why I was saying that Tumblr broke their own guidelines, and that they should trust me more in my own judgement about what is and isn’t appropriate.

Also, please note that erotica is defined as any content that leads to arousal. So, by that definition, that means that in the case of pedophiles, viewing, say, a public school yearbook with kids smiling at them could be classified erotica to them, because they may find that arousing.

For the record, I’m not saying I support such behavior. Pedophilia is not okay. It never has been, and it never will be.

But you can see why I differentiate between erotica and pornography here. And more importantly why Tumblr and the world differentiate between the two. The one can cause a person who reads it to feel aroused. The other is deliberately designed for that purpose by portraying or writing graphic sexual intercourse, human genitalia, etc.

So, no, Anon. My writing is not gay porn. It’s not any form of porn. It will never step into the boundaries of pornography, no matter how much you may wish it to do so. I don’t know if you are, but I’m saying it in the event that you may be.

I hope that this reply helps you to understand my position, and that it educated you more on the subtleties and differences between porn, erotica, and plain old fiction/fantasy.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Omni

P.S.

For the record, I have nothing against gay people or including gay relationships in my fiction. They’re real and should be acknowledged, even if my religious beliefs are opposed to homosexuality. Heck, I have multiple gay friends online, and we get along just fine. Look back to my previous post about transexuals for my standing policy on how I feel I should treat those who are not of my faith and would be considered sinners, sinning, or “living in sin” by its doctrine.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 2

Click for Part 1

Part two of commission story for @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love for his patronage! :D And if you feel so inclined, please feel free to fund my creative endeavors by joining my Patreon or by buying me some Ko-fis.

Thanks again! :D

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That night, I dreamed about a lot of things. First, I slid down the spiral from trig, bouncing from point to point like a ping-pong ball as I jerked along the axis of the slide, until I landed in the soft goopy mess of Jim’s body. I struggled and clawed, but my body just sank, and my arms still ached from the press. Darkness consumed me as I went under. Light finally came through a window, where I watched myself standing in front of a mirror. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jim’s voice came out instead.

“Great job! Time to flex!”

My dream self grinned and raised both his arms to pose in front of a mirror.

Once again, my mouth opened. Once again, Jim’s voice spoke. “Looking good, big guy!”

A deep throaty chuckle reverberated in my ears. “Thanks, Jim.”

“Any time,” I said. “If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

I watched helplessly as my dream self inflated inside the gym uniform. Shoulders broadened; neck thickened; and biceps, triceps, and flexors twitched and expanded with every breath. Shelf-like pecs pressed in slabs against the tight material of the compression shirt.

The laugh reverberated through my little space again as I watched, and a smile pulled across my face. Seconds later, I was staring at my new muscle self in the mirror, still grinning like an idiot. My eyes strayed to the screen where Jim flexed at me, the screen I had once been trapped behind, speaking as the program. The screen was filled with rippling liquid gold now, and that gold spilled in a waterfall from the screen as Jim spoke again. “Go to Jim. Listen to Jim. Go to Jim. Go to the gym. Lissssssssssssten….”

Tight hands. Gold coils wrapping my broad shoulders, pinning my arms. Scales that rippled and spun in accents just like the slide at the beginning of the dream. Pulsing eyes drawing me into pulsing liquid gold. Or were the eyes the gold, too? I suppose it didn’t matter to my dream self, so I guess it shouldn’t matter to me either. All I know is those eyes, pools, whatever they were, were waiting for me. Waiting to claim me as Lathrok had been claimed in the campaign.

And I watched helplessly as my dream self let them.

“Let’sssssssss go again….”

I fell through the coils. My world spun, and I was on the slide again.

I don’t know how many times I went through that dream before I woke up. All I know is when I finally did, it was dark, I was cold, and I was covered in sweat.

I wished I could have used those showers again.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Two weeks of the same dream. By this point, I felt so shot, I didn’t even bother to protest when Andrews looked at me. I knew what was coming. My arms pumped slowly and steadily till I reached ten, then fifteen, then twenty. The phantom cheers from Jim echoed and swam in my head with Andrews’ voice. I barely understood what he was saying.

“With the influx of sports activities, we’ve noticed a certain pattern of decay in the school’s overall academic performance.”

He frowned at each of us. It took everything I had, just to keep my head from hitting the desk.

“As a result, each of us has been tasked with informing you boys that all sporting and extracurricular activities will be barred to any student who doesn’t meet the proper standards.” He spread his legs wide and leveled a flat stare at us that smoldered with foreboding.

Again, I was too out of it to really notice or care. Hell, at this point, I couldn’t even tell what was dream and what was real. There were several objections from the class, but Andrews’ voice cut through them all easily.

“If you boys don’t like it, then change your performance. Use the tools we’ve given you. Do your homework, focus on your projects and assignments. Get the jobs done. You choose your actions. You don’t get to choose the consequences for them.”

To this day, I still can’t tell you what Andrews said after that. I blinked once, and class was over. I had just enough awareness to gather my things and shuffle toward the door, till Andrews stopped me and pulled me aside.

“Derek, are you okay? This isn’t like you.”

His skin seemed to pulse and writhe as I looked at it. With every second, the muscle he’d built seemed to strain against the spandex. I looked at him, and I saw the phantom of Jim’s placid featureless face flowing over my favorite teacher’s.

“Oh, no. Not again.”

If Andrews asked what I meant, I didn’t hear him. The world faded to black, and I was gone.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I came to in the infirmary. No nightmares this time. Once more, it was almost completely dark. The smell of pine mixed with the familiar scent of cleaning supplies. I had to grip the sides of my bed to be sure I wasn’t about to go for another ride down that horrific slide. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind it so much now, but back then, that thing was effing terrifying.

“Thirty students pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Thirty!”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. Was that … Andrews I heard behind the curtain?

“Calm down, Tobias.” This was a voice I didn’t recognize. The range was far deeper than anything I’d ever heard before. It rolled smooth as silk, but with the inexorable force of a tidal wave. Whoever was speaking was used to control.

“How can you expect me to calm down when my students are being driven to this state by your program?”

A dim light shone on my curtain. The two must have been far enough away that whatever source they were using wouldn’t disturb the room’s occupants.

“You’ve seen the results for yourself, Tobias, and I don’t much like your tone. You and I both know not all minds are the same. Some stimuli clearly had a negative effect on these boys. That’s why I asked you and the rest of the school staff to call me in the first place if you noticed abnormal behavior.”

“Some stimuli? Just what, exactly, is so stimulating for my students, Mister Stone?”

“Please, call me Coach.” I could picture the man shrugging his shoulders. “Given how you’re reacting, you’d think I’d done something to one of your sons.”

“Those boys are my sons.”

“And you think I don’t care about them? Tobias, you ought to be ashamed. These boys are the future. I’m not about to risk that, let alone the lawsuits that would rise if a parent thought I was doing something illegal.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Doing something illegal.”

Stone tsked. “I’m providing advanced tools for education and development, Tobias. That’s all. Now, why don’t you go get some rest? You’re tired and tense. If you can’t sleep, go blow off some steam in the gym.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with these kids.”

“Then we’ll go together. Leave the nurse to handle this. They should be perfectly fine after a good night’s sleep. Come with me, Tobias. I insist.”

Andrews was silent for a while, probably chewing over what Stone said. Finally, he spat out a, “Fine.”

“Tread lightly, Mister Andrews. We don’t want to wake them. You and I can air our respective grievances and rebuttals outside like real men.”

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I missed the next morning’s meal at the mess hall. The nurse insisted on checking each and every one of us for vitals and signs of recovery. Once we had a clean bill of health and were properly fed, we were released to our classes with strict instructions to alert a teacher if we started feeling any more fatigue or other problems.

The look of concern in Anderews’ eyes was mirrored by the intensity of his grip as he squeezed my shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

I gave him my assurances and thanked him for caring. I mean, the guy kinda went full on papa bear in the infirmary. That meant if there was any teacher I could rely on to be in my corner, it’d be this guy. That day, we went over the origins of the Olympics and the various traditional sports that were practiced in Ancient Greece. Of course, wrestling and track were two of the major ones. Interesting fact, the strongest man in Greek Myth’s real name was actually Heracles, not Hercules. Hercules is what the Romans called him. Guess it goes to show the eggheads in Disney can be kinda stupid, too.

He had Jim show us clips, reliefs, and footage from some old Olympics games to show us how the sport and various events evolved from when it first started. We’ve come a long way since then. For one, we don’t compete naked anymore. I’m a lot more comfortable with my body now, but even I wouldn’t do something like that. Every once in a while, I’d twist my back on my chair to stretch. Some of the guys were practically salivating over the footage. Others rolled their eyes or scratched their crotches.

In other words, it was another day of classes in the life of bored teenagers. When everyone filed out to go to their next classes, Andrews pulled me aside. He looked hesitant, which was a strange sight to see in a man who had always been so confident in the classroom.

“Is … everything all right?” I finally asked.

“There’s … someone who wants to meet you. He arrived after he heard about what happened to you and the other boys that were in the infirmary.”

“He scares you that much?”

“Who says I’m scared?”

“The student who’s known you for over a year?”

Andrews chuckled. “Touche. Look, I just don’t like him all that much. He says he means well, but I’m not so sure he does. Just … promise to come to me if he does anything strange, okay?”

I nodded. “I promise. So, what, is he going to take me out of one of my classes or something?”

Andrews shook his head. “I’m taking you to him. He wants to interview each of you one on one. I’ll be there as a second adult to keep an eye on you.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Andrews smiled.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

As you can guess, meeting Coach Stone for the first time was … interesting, to say the least. The man had to be one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in my life. He dwarfed me and Andrews both with his sheer size, not to mention the tightly cut muscle mass that pressed against his suit and dress shirt. The collar button had already flown off by the time I arrived. The man was a walking, talking oxymoron. His brutish masculine features and brawny musculature were emphasized by the tight platinum haircut he sported to accentuate the blunt square shape of his face. His eyes were a bright silvery gray with flecks of emerald. They shone with a bright alertness and a scrutinous intensity as he stared me down. I suppose sized me up would be a better phrase, given what eventually happened.

His voice was just like I remembered from the infirmary, only this time, I had the full effect of his body and gaze to go with it. He motioned to the chair after the usual introductions and pleasantries. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Am I your first student of the day, then?” I asked.

Stone shook his head. “No, but you are an interesting case. I wanted to hear from you and the others personally, rather than relying on separate accounts. On top of my degrees in physical therapy and other such fields, I also have a doctorate in psychology and psychiatry.”

“Aren’t you a little young to have all of those?”

Stone chuckled. “When you’re as smart as I am, you find shortcuts to get certified.” Then he leaned in closely and whispered loudly. “Between you and me, I’m not as young as I look.” He winked and pulled back.

“Is there a reason you’re trying so hard to put me at ease?” I asked. I wasn’t about to play games.

“If I’m going to give you a proper analysis, I need to see you in a relaxed state.” Stone shrugged. “Was I laying it on too thick?”

“Just a little.”

“Then I guess we should start by saying that whatever is said within these walls will remain completely confidential, save for extreme cases that may require contacting your family members directly. We can be alone or not as you wish. The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain the cause of the affliction you boys experienced, so I encourage you to be honest with me.”

I shrugged. “You could’ve saved a lot of trouble by just asking. It’s no big deal.”

“Then here’s my question. What caused your exhaustion?”

“Recurring nightmare.”

“About?”

“Crazy stuff all jumbled together.”

“I need specifics to compare cases. If there’s a common thread, I need to know, so we can address it.”

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“As I said, it doesn’t go beyond these walls. If you don’t trust me, trust Andrews. He knows I’m a man of my word.”

“He also doesn’t trust you.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I overheard your argument.” I shrugged. “Something about stimuli?”

Stone sighed. “Look, the long of the short of it is that developing minds react differently to different situations, hence my broad use of the term stimuli. Jim is designed to help and assist the students here as they study and grow, just like any other computer program uses a mascot, whether it’s Freddy Fish, Treasure Mountain, Clue Finders, or something else entirely. However, there are times where a developing mind can interpret these characters and conflate them with subconscious issues. Whether this be anxiety, anger, or something else, they contribute to the overall mental health of a patient. If you help me analyze your dream, you’ll help me to understand how best to keep this from happening to you again. So, will you help me to help you and your classmates?”

I looked to Andrews, and he nodded subtly.

I sighed. “Fine. Here’s how it went.”

Stone took notes while I described the dream. He frowned as he reviewed the contents, then finally asked, “Are you afraid of jocks, Mister Jones?”

I shook my head. “Afraid isn’t the right word.”

“You hate them, then.”

“Most, yes.”

“Because?”

“Because almost every one I’ve come across has been nothing but a bully who likes strutting his stuff and being an asshole.”

“Derek,” Andrews said reprovingly.

“It’s fine, Andrews. This is therapy. Let the boy vent. Tell me, Derek. What happened?”

The session took an hour, maybe a little more. He never said in exact words what was wrong with me, other than the possibility of what equates to a mild form of PTSD. Basically, changes in the school paired with the algorithm to cause growth in Jim’s avatar and the push in fitness combined with my own angry reaction from dealing with people who always thought might made right. In a way, Stone seemed almost sympathetic. Then again, sympathy is a far cry from change. It’s more like putting a band-aid over a cut, then putting the person right back into a room full of knives.

“If it’s all right with you, Derek, I’d like to meet with you once a week to check up on you. I intend to make similar appointments with the other boys as their cases require. Assuming our sessions don’t yield any improvement, we’ll take steps to remove you from any potential triggers to this condition.”

“There’s no way I’m stopping D&D,” I objected.

“And no one said you would have to, Derek,” Stone said mildly. “That’s merely as a last resort. As I said, let’s take things one day at a time.” He lowered his notepad onto his desk and nodded. “I’d say that’s a good starting point. For now, Mister Andrews will guide you to your next class. Notes will have been recorded to help you catch up with the time you missed, and you’ll be given an excused absence. I’ll see you next week. And remember to alert us if you start having these troubles again.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I found a mini-fridge in my dorm room later, completely stocked with familiar green drinks.

Just in case. See you around!

~K

The note was obviously from Kyle. As for the fridge, my guess is it was part of the new additions for our rooms. Pretty smart, when you think about it. It would allow us to have something cool and refreshing to drink during late nights. I popped one, just to help with some of the lingering aches of the last lifting segment from gym class. Then I pulled up Jim on the computer.

“Hi, DJ, let’s get to work.”

And we did. Teachers had a special file sent over to help me cover what I’d missed in class. The real test for whether I’d have that nightmare again would come soon enough.

I wasn’t looking forward to it.

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The familiar roar of victory bellowed across the school grounds as Kyle sunk yet another goal. He’d grown into a real tank, and all his teammates with him. Their bodies steamed in the cold winter air, but they didn’t seem to mind or care. Broad swollen pectorals thumped into each other as the team performed chest bump after chest bump. Veins stood out on their calves and arms from the intense running as they navigated the opposing team’s defense. Their lacrosse sticks waved in the air like barbarian clubs as they signaled their dominance and their victory to the crowds.

When the game was ended, I led Jackson and Slater to the locker room, where a grinning Kyle greeted us with open arms.

“You made it!”

“Saw the whole thing,” I said. I allowed myself a small smile. Given the help Kyle had shown me before, it would’ve been rude of me not to.

“I’m telling you, when I’m on that field, it’s like I’m a totally different person, and I love it!” He chuckled.

“You’re definitely different than you were at the start of the year,” Slater agreed.

Kyle winced. “Yeah, that … wasn’t very good.” The shadow passed, and his smile beamed as he straightened again and patted his crotch. “Got protection now, though. And I think that hit did something to me. I mean, look how big I’ve gotten!” He popped his arm into a flex to show off a swollen bicep. “It hurt like hell, but I think that may have been the best day of my life.”

“And it gave us one hell of a captain,” Jackson contributed.

“Hell, yeah, it did,” Kyle agreed. “Fuck, yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!” rebounded back as teammates cheered, hooted, and hollered from their places by lockers or back at the showers.

I cringed. “Anyway, thanks for the, uh, gift.”

Kyle beamed. “You been drinking them, then?”

“Not often. Just … for emergencies, you know?”

Kyle nodded. “I get it. Got to play it smart, conserve your resources.” He nodded. “Speaking of which, word on the street is there’s a D&D club? You guys wouldn’t happen to know who I should talk to about that, would you? It’s been a while since I dusted off my old character sheets, but I kind of miss it.”

“What class do you play?” Jackson inquired.

“Used to play a dragonborn necromancer. That character was OP as fuck when I finished leveling him.”

I cringed again. “… Yeah, you’re gonna need to make a new character if you want to join the campaign.”

“Who’s DM?”

“Andrews.”

Kyle smirked. “Figures. That guy’s a tactical genius on the field. He’d know how to run a campaign no sweat.”

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Andrews was all sweat when he burst through the door. His face was flushed, and his compression gear hugged even tighter to his frame as a result of the intense workout he’d doubtless run from to get to the classroom.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said quickly. “Weight training today.”

Kyle grinned. “Took some time to get in a session yourself, huh?”

“Can’t expect the teams to put in the work if I don’t,” he said by way of explanation.

Kyle nodded. “Lookin’ swole, Coach.”

Andrews smirked and flexed one of his biceps. The fabric looked more like a blood pressure cuff than a sleeve. “Swole and in control. Now let’s get up to speed.”

Kyle’s new character was discovered in the slave pens of a compound outside the main temple that was their party’s destination. He was being enthralled with Dominate Person and in the middle of being garbed in new armor when the party struck. Once they killed the caster, the spell was broken, and Kyle’s barbarian was freed to reap his revenge. In exchange for saving him from that fate, he was honor bound to help them deliver my character from his own enslavement and kill the Yuan-ti’s leaders in their temple.

The final boss was a real pain, the Anathema. Think of a huge serpent over twenty feet in length with burly arms tipped with three-fingered clawed hands and six heads atop its torso. Six heads means six chances to target someone with a charm.

Unfortunately, we failed miserably. All four of us were ultimately defeated, enthralled, and disarmed. In time, three of us were sacrificed to their demonic god. My character was forced to watch the proceedings with a smile on his face as the others were led to their gruesome demise. Yuan-ti are subtle creatures. They knew how to make the altars seem like beds or examination tables to their thralls. It was a simple matter of ordering them to lie down and close their eyes.

My character’s new master took great pleasure in experimenting with its new toy, altering his mental state and twisting him into a variety of forms and classes by convincing him mentally that he was those things. A full-blooded Orc with no signs of his human half remaining. A ruthless barbarian with an almost animalistic bearing. A loyal pet at its master’s side.

“And so, Lathrok Stormhammer lost his mind and his very soul, the last of his party to survive, and the first of many in his order to be controlled. Through him, the dreaded Yuan-ti infiltrated the city and gradually dominated its denizens until none remained to stand against their empire and their ambitions. Thus began the Yuan-ti campaign for their god to conquer not by the sword, but by cunning, by whispers, by secret combinations. And their demon god was most pleased.” Andrews looked around the gathering of stonefaced youths. “I did warn you the campaign would be harder. I don’t want any complaints.”

“So, what now?” I asked.

Andrews smirked. “Well, assuming you’re done playing the good guys, I thought you might like to try playing for the other team next. The Yuan-ti have a long way to go before their plan succeeds, and they could use all the help they can get in their campaign.” He extended a sheaf full of character sheets and smirked. “What do you say? Wanna join the team?”

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“Are you insane?” I practically spat in Stone’s face when I met in his office again.

“Analysis indicates at least a part of this issue you faced revolves around muscle and sports, most likely a primal fear instilled as a result of a past trauma you faced,” Stone noted coolly as he peered up from his clipboard. “If you want to avoid enduring this recurring nightmare again, I strongly recommend you consider joining a sports team and living the lifestyle, at least for a time. It would dispel your suspicions and address the concerns that are clearly lying beneath the surface, including a fear of becoming the very stereotype you seem to despise so much.”

“I’m not going to join a sports program!”

Stone shrugged. “That is your choice,” he admitted. “But I can tell you now that the better option would be to face and overcome your stigma, rather than allow it to fester. Such feelings have an intensely negative impact on social and mental development.”

I twisted and adjusted my position in the chair for what had to be the sixteenth time.

“You know, I’m not going to judge, if you need to,” Stone cleared his throat, “relieve yourself. I’ll even look away if it makes you feel better. Or you can excuse yourself to the bathroom and we’ll resume afterward.” He shrugged. “I want you to be comfortable in my office.”

“I’m good. Really.”

Stone narrowed his gaze. “No, you’re not.” He lowered his clipboard and handed me a pass. “Go. Take care of whatever you need to and come back after. I can wait.”

“But—”

“I said I can wait.” Stone practically lifted me out of my chair. “Now go. And don’t be ashamed to ask to leave if you need to again.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he opened his door. “Come back soon.”

My whole face felt like it was on fire when I was practically propelled out of the office. It took all my will power to keep my composure. When I got into the bathrooms, I rushed to the nearest stall and locked it. The relief when I finally got to scratch myself was beyond anything I’d ever felt before. For a moment, there was just mindless bliss. And in that fleeting moment, I think I understood, at least a little, how Kyle felt when he flexed his muscles after a long workout. That same almost explosive relief after the fact.

The words slid easily from my lips. “Oh, fuck, yeah….”

My voice echoed only slightly before the words faded into silence, a lone cry in the wilderness. I’m not sure what it was, but I think part of me felt incomplete somehow, almost guilty at how paltry the words sounded. The other was mortified I’d even dared to utter them. I quickly shook my head and readjusted my jock strap. Gym was next period, so I’d decided to just wear the thing for the day. It might have been a trick of the light, but the pouch looked … fuller as I reinserted the cup that would protect my groin and complete the look.

I washed my hands for extra measure, then opened the door and barely evaded getting bowled over by one of the upperclassmen. His eyes were desperate, almost glazed as he adjusted his crotch. The stall door closed. And seconds later, I heard the same haunting words in a far deeper and resonant voice.

I left quickly, but those words echoed in the cavern of my brain for the rest of the day like some ghostly knell.

On further review of the original photo, I felt it was too risky to show the whole thing. The image was still chaste in nature, but it did show a clear outline of what lay beneath the fabric, even to the extent of showing some veins against it. I wasn’t comfortable with that, so I cropped the image.

Credit goes to @musclecorps for the original image. Thanks for posting images that inspire me to write, man! :D

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Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181323718642/endemic-evolution-chapter-5-doctor-barton-sighed

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617475185126277120/credit-to-asianhunks-x-for-these-images

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 6

“That’s right, Rante. No shame in taking a selfie. You earned that body. Flaunt it, little bro.”

The camera shutter went off. A grin spread over Rante’s face. “Damn,” he swore.

“See? Told ya. Feels pretty good, don’t it?” Kyle’s deep bassoon carried from the bedroom.

“I ... I didn’t even notice,” Rante said as he stared at his phone’s screen.

“Kinda the point, bro,” Kyle pointed out. His blond hair glinted in the light from the room’s fixtures as a football game on demand played in the background. “The more ya get swole, the more your meat gets swole. Malloy said not to question it, so I don’t.”

“Uh ... question what?” Rante asked.

Kyle chuckled. “Exactly, bro. Feels good being so thick and heavy, don’t it?”

“Yeah ... good....”

Kyle sneered as he walked in behind the doctor. “We’ll have you in proper gear in no time, little bro.” Rante’s breathing caught, and his eyes rolled briefly as he felt the presence of the towering muscle behemoth that Kyle had become. The man stood a full head taller, and his broad shoulders were nearly as wide as the doorway. Thick, beefy white arms dwarfed Rante’s toned and shredded ones. The doctor’s core flexed almost instinctively.

“Easy, bro. You don’t gotta show off around me. I know how it feels tryin’ to grow.” He chuckled. “You’ll be just fine. You just need a little more time at the gym is all.”

“A little more time....” Rante echoed in a distant voice.

“That’s right, little bro. Gym’s the place to be. Malloy wants us to be there.”

Rante let out a low moan. “At ... the gym?” he asked dazedly.

“S’right, little bro. At the gym. The gym is where we belong.” Kyle’s hand clapped firmly on Rante’s shoulder.

“Where we belong....” The cell phone clattered to the floor. Rante’s pecs bounced back and forth, back and forth. His arms twitched and tensed. His pants finished falling to the floor as he turned and stepped out of them in nothing more than his boxers. “I must go the gym. The gym is where I belong.”

Kyle grinned. “C’mon, little bro. I’ll show you the way.”

Rante followed shamelessly behind. He strode past the doctors in their hazmat suits. He strode past muscle men and meatheads and jocks and whatever other names he had once called them. That didn’t matter anymore. They were all going to the same place, after all. He paused briefly to stare at a much smaller Asian man. Rante furrowed his brow at the sight. He looked ... familiar. More big men in suits stood around him, and they looked to be reaching for tasers. Rante shrugged. He didn’t care. He locked eyes with the man and spoke. “You comin’?”

The man shuddered, but shook his head wordlessly, albeit weakly.

Rante shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he grunted. Then he lumbered after Kyle like a wayward puppy. Gradually, the thump of his feet on the carpet was joined by another pair, and then another, and another. Muscle touched muscle. Meat pressed against meat. Men marched together as the familiar warmth flooded their bodies and a mind-numbing pleasure surged through their brains.

Two behemoths pulled open the doors to the facility. The air was filled with the grunts of hard labor and exertion. When they passed through, Kyle turned and grinned. “Welcome home, bros.”

Rante didn’t think, couldn’t think as the words passed from his lips, and he knew they were true. “The gym is my home. I belong in the gym.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. He wasn’t sure who started it. All he knew was that his chest was heaving, and the room was suddenly echoing over and over with the sound of dull vacuous laughter. They crashed together like ice in a blender. Different tones, different pitches, different voices. But slowly, they homogenized. High voices dropped. Low voices extended the length of their guffaws. Once weak and timid laughter pressed effortlessly out the diaphragm as the men engaged their cores

...

And let the meat do the work.

The piles of muscle by the door grinned knowingly at Kyle. Kyle made no effort of hiding his response. “Come on, bros. Let’s work out.”