The Hazening

The Hazening

(This is a tf story I wrote as a commission on FA. Figured I’d post it here for you guys to enjoy, too.)

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“Look, man, I seriously stuck my neck out to even get you this chance at joining the frat in the first place. You’ve seen what other frats do for hazing. You should thank me!”

Chris looked dubiously at the jockstrap and tube socks. His rich black hair was cut back into a fade on the sides to expose the glasses that sat firmly on his nose. “Look, Jack, I know you want to be able to hang out more, but this—”

“Is easy compared to what I had to deal with,” Jack said seriously. His blond stubble and blocky face had only become more prominent and masculine over the last year since he joined the frat. “Nu Phi Lambda’s seriously cool, man. They accept anyone, so long as they pass the test. You wear it to the party, hang with some of the guys for a while, meet the pres, and there you go!”

“And the reason they’re being so easy on me is because…?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Because I asked them to. That, and I may have said this was the most embarrassing thing you’ll ever have to endure.”

“So, you lied for me?”

“You’re saying you won’t be uncomfortable wearing just that underneath your clothes?”

“… Point.”

Jack smirked. “See? I’ve still got those mad debate skills.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Sure, you do.”

“Oh, and one more thing. They’re gonna be checking to make sure you’re actually wearing it, so be ready for some bros to give you a wedgie.” He chuckled. “Well, to try, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s hazing, man. What’d you expect?”

“Something that isn’t so immature?”

Jack chuckled. “I’ll see you at the party, ‘little bro.’ Don’t be late,” he sang as he left the room.

Chris groaned as he looked at the two articles of clothing. “The things I do for friendship,” he muttered under his breath.

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Well, Jack hadn’t been wrong. The discomfort was definitely there. Every step Chris took brushed the fabric of his jeans against parts of his body that weren’t used to such exposure, and the straps of the strap would rub occasionally against his skin. He was confident he’d likely develop a rash by the end of the night. Or at the very least, chafe marks. He would have worn boxers over the gear to mitigate the situation, were it not for the warning Jack gave.

Chris had only experienced a wedgie once before, when he was swimming in an old childhood friend’s pool. The yelp he’d given when he was lifted bodily in the water had echoed through the neighborhood, and he still winced whenever he thought back on the old memory. The tube socks he wore now encompassed his feet in a thick cocoon that pressed slightly against the walls of his shoes and sent a strange tingling sensation up the soles of his feet with every step. It wasn’t like he was being tickled, but it was certainly distracting.

“Chris!” Jack grinned as he shouldered through the crowd of upperclassmen to reach his friend. “Glad you made it, bro!” The man had become the embodiment of the frat bro stereotype from the backwards snapback to the tight tank and shorts marked with the frat’s logo. Tanned and swollen arms nearly consumed the would-be-pledge in a bear hug that would break a lesser man. This was soon followed by a loud snap.

Chris stiffened like a board as his eyes widened and he gaped disbelievingly at his friend.

“Just checking.” Jack grinned. “Good on you for not bringing boxers.”

“Jack….”

“Oh, calm down, man. One night of immature revelry won’t kill you.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Come on. Pres is waiting.”

The party had yet to get fully underway, so it was easy to weave or shoulder through people without consequence. Tall thick border hedges provided all the privacy the event would need, if not noise protection. As for what antics might come that night as a result of said privacy…. Chris didn’t want to think about it. The inside of the frat house was more like a mansion than a house, with rich dark wood floors and a brighter reddish paneling for the walls. Jack guided him to the left, where a pair of doors opened into a broad study lined with ornate bookshelves, complete with the moveable ladder. It was the picture of a Victorian manor study. And there, behind the desk, stood the tallest, broadest, and most imposing man Chris had ever laid eyes on.

“Yo, Kyle! I brought him,” Jack announced. His face split into a broad grin. “Told you I’d get him here.”

Kyle was a burly man with naturally wavy brown hair and thick eyebrows. His arms were nearly twice the size of Jack’s, and his green eyes were highlighted with a golden outline. Darker hairs stood out on the backs of his hands and along his arms before slipping under the tight sleeves of his polo. When the behemoth leaned onto the desk, Chris had the impression of staring down a gorilla, rather than a man.

“So, this is the one you told me about, huh?” His voice was deep and gruff with just a hint of a growl that carried in the undertow.

A heavy smack to the back sent Chris catapulting onto the desk. He braced for all he was worth to avoid accidentally knocking heads with the man that presumably would be the one to decide whether he was worthy of joining the organization in the first place.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Kyle continued bluntly.

Jack folded his arms. “Neither did I when I pledged. Look at me now.”

Kyle didn’t bother looking at Jack. His focus was on the man who couldn’t hold a gaze for a few seconds before looking away. “You wearing your gear?”

“If you mean the jockstrap and socks, yes.” Chris’ cheeks felt like they were on fire as his voice hushed. “Are you guys seriously going to give me wedgies?”

Kyle rose to his full height and folded his vascular arms. “Part of the deal. You could say that strap is more for protection than it is a test. Do right by it and you’ll fit in, no problem.” He strode around the table and extended a hand. “It’s tradition for the leader to welcome guests, even if they don’t pass snuff.”

Chris’ whole hand was swallowed in the fist as Kyle shook with gentle controlled movements. The man probably could have broken his arm, if he’d been so inclined. A few second later, the familiar snap of spandex rang through the room. Chris yelped and jumped briefly. Kyle smiled. “Watch yourself tonight, pledge. Part of the fun is facing a challenge.”

Chris glared at the man. “And here I thought I was actually going to like you.”

Kyle huffed a chuckle. “You still might by the end of the night. Go on. Have fun. This party’s meant for more than just pranking. I want to see just how well you rush. Good luck.”

When the door clicked shut behind them, Jack was positively ecstatic. He thumped Chris excitedly on the back. “Dude! He totally likes you!”

When Chris was certain his eyes weren’t about to be knocked out of his skull from the sheer force of the blows, he spoke acerbically. “That’s not the impression I got.”

Jack was completely undaunted and pulled his friend against his side. “Trust me, bro. I know these things. You’re in. You’re totally in.” He whooped in delight. “I can’t wait for tonight!”

“Yes. I can hardly contain myself. Woohoo….”

Jack chuckled. “You’ll see soon enough, little bro. You’ll see.”

“Is this going to be your thing now?”

Jack smirked. “Maybe.”

Chris groaned. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive this.”

“Courage, my friend. Courage. The night is still young, and there are many vain and foolish delights to tempt and tantalize.” He grinned. “I’ll make a bro out of you yet.”

Chris barked a laugh. “You can try.”

Jack smirked. “Wait and see, bro. Wait and see.”

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The party went into full swing as soon as the sun began to set. Torches were lit, burgers were served, and the beer flowed like mead in a Viking feast hall. Drunken revelry filled the air with hoots, growls, and howls as various antics were performed and thrust on would-be-pledges. Keg stands, beer pong, the works.

And all the while, Chris was on guard, ever alert for groping hands and would-be-attackers. But these “bros” were more cunning than Chris had given credit for. When Jack had ceased to serve as a proper distraction, they found other means to “test” him. The card tables were notorious, especially when they got into a round of strip poker.

Somehow, he always found himself getting stripped. And then would come the familiar smack of the waistband. By the time he left those tables, his waist felt like it was burning. The straps had been pulled and snapped so much by now, he was shocked they hadn’t lost their stretch.

He stumbled toward the drink table. The tingling had intensified in his feet, and he was tired of all the antics. But he had promised Jack he’d stay, and he wasn’t about to break his word, even if the guys were being lunkheaded jerks.

“Rough night?” the keep asked as he filled another cup.

“You could say that.” Chris groaned and leaned against the makeshift counter where the drinks were mixed, then served in the punch bowl to the side or in individual orders for the older frat members.

“Sounds like you could use a pick-me-up.”

Chris sighed. “I just don’t really feel like I belong here, you know?”

“Do you want to belong?”

“I want to be with my friend. Does that count?”

The keep shrugged again. “It’s a start.” He passed a cup Chris’ way. “In my experience, if you want to feel like fitting in, and you’re having trouble, it might not hurt to get a little help in loosening up. And no, I’m not talking drugs. We don’t do those here. Ever. Anyone caught with those gets immediate disbarment.”

“And what do you recommend?” Chris sipped his drink and sighed. The flavor was surprisingly sweet, with a warmth that seemed to spread through his chest, then back into his throat again as the drink went down.

“A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.” He shrugged. “Or you could work off some of that aggression in the other places. There’s wrestling and arm wrestling, you know. Even a sumo mat and one of those stick pit things. You know, the game where you knock someone off while you straddle a beam? Try some of them out. Let loose. Live a little. And if you’re really that upset over something people are doing to you, why not pay them back? Fair’s fair, in my opinion.”

“I still don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know to do. Take a risk. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I get in a fight.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

Chris drained his cup and took the second that was proffered. “Have you seen their size?”

“I have. Have you seen yours?” He shook his head. “You think too little of yourself. Think little and you’ll be little. So stop thinking and just be for a while.”

“Just be? That simple?”

“Simple’s usually the best.” The keep offered a third cup. “A few basic ingredients, and you’ve got a kickass drink. Why not let it be the same for a man? Isn’t that one of the sayings people use, the clothes make the man?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, let your clothes do the talking for a while. It’s not like it’ll kill you to try something different for a night.”

The warmth had spread through Chris’ whole body by this point, and a hint of a smile pulled at his face, despite his attempts to quash it. “Just for a night, huh?”

“Just for a night. Just to try,” the keep offered again. “Who knows? You might actually like it.”

Chris chuckled. “Fat chance.”

“Fat is easily trimmed with exertion.” The keep smiled as he took the cup back. “Why don’t you go burn some of it off, until that chance comes along, hmm?”

Chris sighed. “I suppose I should try.” He rolled his eyes and adjusted his crotch as he rose back to his feet. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“Any time, stranger. Feel free to come back if you need. I’ve got plenty to choose from, and good advice to offer. It’ll put some hair on that chest of yours.”

Chris chuckled ruefully. “Can it put muscle on, too?”

The barkeep smiled knowingly. “That’s up to you and just how much you decide to follow those clothes of yours.”

“Sure, it is.” Chris’ cheeks flushed as he walked away from the bar. His legs tensed as he scratched his glutes. But he did feel a little better. “Maybe just … one game of sumo.”

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Chris leaned heavily into his steps as he finally emerged from the cocoon of padding that had been his badge of honor for the last ten rounds and replaced his shoes. His belly burned. His blood surged. And as for his rear, well … he was getting used to all the “attention.” If they didn’t snap his waistband, they smacked him, instead.

“Bro, that was awesome!” one such frat member raved. “You toppled Titan! You toppled the %&$*ing Titan!”

Chris smiled sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“That’s my bro!” Jack hooted as he pointed from across the way and beat a meaty fist against his chest in salute.

“To the hero of the ring!”

A cup was shoved in Chris’ face, and he took it. “Uh, … thanks?”

“Go on, bro, drink up! You earned it!”

It … was hot in that costume. And he was feeling thirsty. He took a hesitant sip. It wasn’t the sweet flavor he’d had at the bar, but it wasn’t bad. There was a hint of orange in the brew that offset the bitter flavor from the hops. The flush deepened, and a goofy smile pulled at his lips. He hardly even felt the snap this time around.

He laughed, a curious hiccupping mixture between his usual higher register and a lower bass. A heavy thump on the back nearly sent him tottering. Then came the deathgrip on his waistband, followed by the largest snap to date.

And that wasn’t the only thing to snap.

Chris came to, thrashing in some much larger arms. The poor soul that had unleashed that rage was being raised to his feet. Instead of frustration, though, there were smiles.

“Calm down.”

Chris immediately went limp at the command. He knew that voice, and he knew those arms. Kyle had broken up the fight. Chris could already feel his sides throbbing.

“Get them some ice to dull the pain.”

The others scattered, and soon both men were nursing ice packs. Jack lumbered to the pair and frowned. “You all right, bro?”

“He’s fine. Just a little too eager, I think,” Kyle rumbled.

Chris’ head felt strangely muted as he looked over the frat president and his friend. It was like someone had worn out the spark plugs up there, and now he just … existed. He grunted as he nursed the ice pack. “M’fine, bro. Really.” Kyle said he was fine, so he was fine.

Jack grinned. “Did you just call me bro?”

One of the sparkplugs finally managed to fire properly. “Don’t get used to it.”

Kyle grunted. “If you want to fight next time, do it in the ring.” His thick brow furrowed like thunderclouds over his eyes. “And remember you’re rushing the frat. That means letting the rest of the guys have their fun.” He deliberately grabbed the waistband and snapped it. “Get used to it.” He snapped it again. “Let it happen.” Once more. “Embrace it.” He yanked especially hard, then leaned next to Chris’ ear after the last snap beat against the pledge’s skin. “You might just be rewarded.” He chortled, though it sounded more like a growl. “Hell, you might actually come to enjoy it.”

Each successive snap acted like a depth charge to Chris’ brain. His knuckles felt sore, probably from the blows that were exchanged in the fight. His hands ached, as did his feet. His head tingled as invisible fingers pricked and massaged at his scalp and deep in his conscious, scouring expertly for those few spark plugs that were still working. His mouth gaped as he stared into those eyes. The rough handling had forced him into a semi-stoop. “Uhh….”

“Got it?”

Another snap. The voice that answered sounded strangely distorted. “Got it….”

“Good.”

Chris blinked at Kyle. The president looked … bigger, somehow. His sleeves strained against his arms to the point of almost breaking, and the hair along his arms had thickened. “You look … funny.”

Kyle smirked. “So do you. Now get back out there. I want to see you make a real party animal of yourself.”

Chris couldn’t help but chuckle. “Think I already have.”

“Give it time, Chris. Give it time.”

A heavy thump on the back almost sent him sprawling. Chris nodded and grunted as he adjusted the pouch on the jock strap. The thing was starting to feel a little tight.

“Come on, bro.” Jack grinned as he laid a meaty arm around Chris’ shoulders. This time, the weight didn’t feel so overwhelming. It felt … comfortable. “Let me introduce you to the world of beer pong.”

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“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The chant rang through the air as Chris guzzled a whole pint of beer in one go. He slammed the glass onto the table, followed by laying his elbow into the platform as he awaited his opponent. He smirked at his old friend. “The student has become the master.”

Jack finished guzzling his beer and smacked his own glass onto the table. “Don’t get ahead of yourself there, caveman.”

Chris grinned. “Me chug. Me drink good. Me fight good. Now, me wrestle good.” He shuddered as the tingling spread from feet and crotch through his body and into his head. A low rumble of pleasure surged as he hunched forward. His arm twitched in anticipation. His knuckles stood taut against the skin. His nose burned red from the alcohol that now raged through his bloodstream.

A rally of hoots roared in Chris’ ears as heat radiated pushed against them from within. It felt almost as though his own heartbeat were forcing the members to expand as the cool night air breezed over them. Seconds later, his hand clasped his friend’s in a grip of iron. Both furrowed their brows.

His arm burned. His chest strained. His lats and traps bunched and heaved as he engaged his core, pectorals, biceps, and triceps. A low growl escaped Chris’ lips as he bared his teeth and strained against the force of his friend’s arm. He wanted to win. He needed to win, to dominate. It just … felt right. The same lust burned in Jack’s eyes as the two locked in combat. He wanted to say something snappy, but … he just couldn’t think. It was like his brain was putting all the effort into the fight, too. He spread his legs wide on his stool.

Finally, two rips tore through the night as the table resounded with the defeat of a competitor.

“Oh, snap!” someone shouted.

Chris gaped disbelievingly at the table. His arm was throbbing, but it held Jack’s pinned to the table, like a wrestler waiting for the final count. Neither seemed to notice or care how the sleeves of their shirts had torn or how prominent their pectorals had become as the collars strained against their torsos. They heaved and finally grinned at one another.

“The winner is Chris!”

The crowd cheered, then broke out in a rousing shout. But Chris wasn’t greeted with the lauding of his name. Instead, the frat bros adopted the phrase that had defined their shock at the upset. “Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!”

Jack leaned next to his friend as they rose to greet the crowd. He scratched a pec idly. “Congrats, bro. I think you just won your nickname.” He seized his friend’s wrist and pulled his arm into the air. The chanting increased in volume as Chris stared dazedly into the crowd.

“I … I don’t know what to—” SNAP! The strap smacked against him. He hardly felt it. It was as though the force transferred from his waist, through his torso, into his chest, and finally struck home at his Adam’s apple. It throbbed and surged forward as his voice dropped like a stone. “—Say.” The invisible hands were at work again, this time on his jaw and face. His nose didn’t feel so much stuffed as swollen. His forehead thickened into a more prominent slope as his brow was slowly massaged and his eyes sunken into the hollows that were rapidly forming over them.

Jack grunted as he released his friend’s arm and thumped his own chest with a thick, hairy hand. “Don’t say. Do.”

Chris saw the hand reaching out of the corner of his eye. He knew what was coming. But he couldn’t stop it. No, he didn’t want to stop it. The band snapped again. His chest swelled with the sudden intake of breath. His head spun. And before he knew it, his mouth was already open, his throat resonating with a deep primal roar as he beat his chest with his fists. A gnarled carpet of thick hair sprouted on the backs of his hands and surged up the back of his arms.

The hooting and cheers intensified. The will of the many pounded against the one. They wanted him. They needed him. And who was he to deny them? His legs thumped heavily over the podium as he approached the stairs. The socks clung more tightly as the walls of his shoes strained and finally detonated with twin POPs that were drowned out by the siren call of the frat. Broad swelling feet bulged in their cocoons as he plodded heedlessly down the stairs.

Rough hands seized him, brushed his swelling muscle, his growing hair. Snap after snap resounded in his ears as thick powerful legs burst from the sheath of their respective pant legs, or what remained of them. They’d become more akin to a pair of shorts. Now they draped like a loin cloth, leaving just the waist band and a clear view of a swollen pouch that continued to grow and strain with his body mass. And still the name echoed. Still the call rebounded.

Who was he to deny them?

And with the acceptance of that name, that brutish call, something unlocked. Chris let go of his worries and cares. He let go of thoughts for the future. He was almost naked. There was no shame. With every snap, he grew. With every hoot and cheer, the candle of conscious thought guttered. Thick hairs sprouted over a torso that was rapidly becoming more rigid and carved. Each snap of his waistband another blow of the chisel. Thick hairs formed a treasure trail from his navel while his shirt rode up his torso.

Even crouched, his head stood above the rest now. He felt good. He felt better than good. He raised both arms and flexed. The other sleeve tore open as the mounds pumped into rigid peaks. Wisps of hair sprouted from under the collar. Chris didn’t even have to think. He was beyond thinking. He roared as he tore his shirt apart like so much paper. The rip of the fabric filled his chest with a primal growl of satisfaction that was followed by the snap of the final strands giving out. He shucked himself of the garment and threw it into the crowd, exposing the carpet of hair that had grown over his pecs and chest and curved downward in a V, then spread over his abs.

The hoots grew louder. The cheers devolved into a motley mob as the men that were no longer men surged and crashed against the rising cliffside that was Chris. The candle flame could hardly survive under the onslaught, and finally was snuffed by the winds of the frat. The light died. The ember burnt out, and the smoke trailed out his lips in the last intelligent phrase of the night. “Snap like. Give Snap more. Give Snap ALL!”

The rest of the night passed with victory after victory for the new alpha. Chris had accepted the role his clothes had given him, and he reveled in it. He outchugged, outwrestled, and outmatched every opponent. He hooted and grunted. He shoved and he surged. And most importantly, he continued to grow and dominate as his broad shoulders and deformed head stood high above the rest of the tribe. Yet, despite his virility, despite his dominance, despite every surge of growth and victory he gained, the strap and socks clung to him.

Snap didn’t mind. Snap didn’t care. The night was theirs.

The fire that had replaced the candle was his.

And they would feed it or face his wrath.

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Chris groaned as he finally came to. The room was blurry. His mouth felt like something had died in it and dried into mummy powder. And his head. He groaned again as the daylight struck sledgehammer blows on a spike that drove directly through his skull and into his brain.

“It lives!” Jack’s voice was unmistakable. It also exacerbated the headache.

Chris moaned and turned over on the bed. “Just let me die already,” he croaked.

“No can do, bro.” Jack grinned as he walked into his friend’s line of sight. “Pres wants to see you stat.” He sat on the bed and proffered a frosty glass of water and a handful of ibuprofen. “You’re gonna need these. Drink it all and get dressed.” He motioned to a set of sweats and a shirt with the frat’s logo on the left pectoral hanging from a wardrobe door. A fresh pair of tube socks and a large jock strap were draped over the shirt.

Chris cursed and took the proffered medicine.

“Drink it all, bro. Trust me, the water helps.”

When Chris finally mustered enough will to move, he swung heavy legs out from under the covers. The filthy tube socks pooled at his feet, and he easily slid out of them. The jock strap had completely lost all sense of elasticity. He had to hold it in place.

“Bro, do you mind?” Chris asked.

“Dude, it’s just us. Not like I haven’t seen the rest of it.” Jack chuckled. “You were pretty wild last night.”

“What?” Chris swore as the strap dropped to join its companions on the floor.

“Dude, just get dressed.” Jack shook his head. “I won’t look,” he promised. “There. Happy now?”

Reasonably mollified, Chris strode to the doors and pulled on the gear. The jock strap fit snugly over his body, and the pouch held comfortably while still showing off his heft. He scratched it instinctively as he reached for the next article of clothing.

“Boxers and briefs are in the drawers, if you want them,” Jack informed.

Chris’ head whipped back, but his friend was staring at the door to the room, instead. The dirty socks and strap were clung in one of his meaty hands. “No peaking,” he insisted.

“Bro, chill. It’s not like you’ve got anything to be ashamed of, anyway.”

A smirk pulled at Chris’ lips as he smacked a hand against his bicep as his voice dropped into a husky pantomime of Jack’s bass. “People pay to look at this bod, bro.” The smirk passed and he swayed on his feet. Why … why had he said that? That wasn’t—he didn’t—

“Easy, bro.” Jack was there in an instant. Thick hands rubbed Chris’ shoulders. “Relax. Kyle will explain.”

“I … I feel—This is wrong.” Chris’ hands ran over well-defined abs. Hairs brushed gently, soothingly over them. His thick, broad hands. “What … what did you do to me, bro? I … I feel—” He swore again. “My head. Why … why can’t I think straight?”

“I told you, bro. It’s the hangover. Just get dressed, all right? Kyle’ll get you straightened out. I promise.”

“My voice!”

“Is fine,” Jack assured. He raised the coat hangar and shoved the clothes against Chris’ chest. “Come on, bro. Get dressed. Kyle’s waiting. And you don’t want to keep the pres. waiting.”

Chris’ eyes clouded briefly, and he grunted. “I … don’t….” The sweats and shirt clung in all the right places to show off his newly enhanced physique. When he turned to face Jack, the two were eye-to-eye. Jack was wearing sneakers. Chris wasn’t.

“Come on, little bro. We don’t have all day.”

The socks were like old friends, and the tug of the fabric over his feet made Chris shudder in pleasure. The two friends thumped down the halls in relative silence. Those who saw them nodded gravely or otherwise communicated their acknowledgement in body language, rather than the spoken word.

Instead of the trekking to the study, Jack led his friend down the halls toward the basement, where Kyle towered with his usual intimidating stature. His arms were folded, his broad face turned in a flat line as he stared at the pair.

“Here he is, Sir,” Jack said softly as he bowed his head.

Kyle extended a hand. Jack handed over the discarded strap and socks wordlessly.

Then kyle turned to a door his body had obscured. “Come with me, Chris.”

It wasn’t a request, and even if it was, Chris felt instinctively that he couldn’t disobey. A flash of memory passed. Those thick arms holding him, pulling him back. They could easily do so again.

Their steps were muted by the carpet as they strode into a room walled off by rope on either side. Placards were mounted to the wall, at first with torn underwear and the remnants of socks. Then, as they progressed, the tatters grew less, though the stretching increased. Briefs, boxers, jockstraps, tube socks. Larger and larger.

“Our frat is very old, Chris,” Kyle began. The silence of the room made his voice feel heavier than it ever had before. “And we have a sort of tradition that passes with it.”

Chris’ body tingled, and he adjusted the pouch on his jock as it tightened. His clothes felt snugger than they had a moment ago. “What sort of tradition?” he asked. “And for that matter, what the hell is going on? Why do I look like this? Why do I sound like this? What happened last night?”

“Listen.” The command was calm, but the order snapped like a gag over Chris’ mouth. “I’m heading into my senior year here at the university. That means I have two semesters to pick a replacement and train him up to take my place in the frat.” He motioned with his free hand. “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”

“A bunch of old clothes.” Chris cleared his throat. The tingle had spread there now, too. The deeper pitch didn’t feel so forced anymore.

“These belonged to every president of the frat from its founding to now. Each of us wore the gear. Each of us grew, just like the other pledges. You wanna know what makes these ones special?”

“Wait, you mean everyone who rushes the frat turns into … this?” Chris motioned to himself.

“More or less.” Kyle smirked. “Usually less.” He approached a placard that bore his name in neat bold typeface over a sheet of brass. “This one’s mine.” He grinned proudly as he looked on a pair of boxers that had burst at the crotch and rent down the legs. “Tore those suckers wide open. But you.” He turned and smacked Chris on the back. “You took the cake, Snap.”

Chris flushed as his pectorals perked and the drooping fabric of the sweats started to hug his thighs and calves. “Snap?”

“Your new nickname.” Kyle smiled as he presented the strap. “You stretched these things to their limit and nearly burst the pouch. It’s a miracle the strap didn’t break when the others tried to snap it. That’s a new record for this material.” He pushed his finger against the fabric for emphasis. The silhouette of the finger was clearly visible.

“I … wore that?”

“It’s not like it looked this way when you started.” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Point being, Snap, you’re our new MVP. And more importantly, you’re going to be the frat’s new alpha.” He strode to a blank placard that lay on a plinth, then took a hammer and nails that had been laid aside to properly display the garments. “You’re my successor, little bro.” He smirked and hung the placard on the wall next to his. A set of ropes already waited for him to cordon off the zone, and a quick flick of a switch beamed the spotlight over the wood and metal, where Chris’ name flashed. “The old you? That’s gone. And honestly, good riddance. Trust me, this is way better.”

“But … but my major, my life. What am I supposed to say to my friends?”

“What did Jack say?”

“He called it a second growth spurt….”

“So, go with that. There. That settles it.” Kyle thumped his hand heavily on Chris’ back. This time, Chris didn’t budge.

“But … but I liked being smart.”

“You still are, Chris. Just not in the same ways.” Kyle wrapped his arm around Chris’ shoulders as they broadened. “Your interests might be a little different now, but you still have the same focus and drive. And more importantly, you have want. Which means you push yourself to get your desires and lead others to follow. If you want order, you can impose it. If you want to just … let go and de-stress for a while, that works, too. You want to work out and bulk up? No problem.” He grinned. “You’re going to make a great president, Chris. But I have to teach you how to fit the part. Your body’s helping with some of the driving, but now it’s time to take the wheel.” He chuckled. “Think of me as your coach. And practice is in session.”

Chris panted as he hunched forward and his eyes glazed over. “Bro….”

“That’s right, Chris. That’s right. We’ll make a right frat bro of you in no time.” He chuckled as his brow protruded and his muscles strained. “You’ll love being Snap. Trust me.” He chuckled again as his knuckles became more prominent and the shelf over his eyes formed into a unibrow. “And you can call me Grog.”

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.

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.......”

Credit to @heavy-package for this image.

If you enjoy my work, please follow me here on tumblr and join my Patreon, so I can keep producing more of these scripts and stories full time. Just one to three dollars a month from each of you will go a long way to helping me pay expenses, so I can make more of the content you love on a regular basis.

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WARNING: This is a hypnotic script designed to trigger a previous tranced state. If you wish this script to be effective, use the first induction. Then you can come back to follow my script here. Disclaimer: I am not a professional hypnotist. I take no responsibility for any potential effects this script may have on you. You read at your own risk. I design them to allow the reader to return to their original states and retain their free will, but it is up to each individual how they react to hypnosis and what prompts they may or may not choose to internalize and actualize in their day-to-day lives. DO NOT operate any heavy machinery or drive while you are in trance. That is incredibly dangerous. You have been warned.

This script is geared more toward adults. While there is no inappropriate content, I advise minors to be careful and avoid this until you’re older and more informed about hypnosis and its effects.

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Staycation (Beach Bum Fantasy Female Tanning + Male beach bro)

Well, hello again, and welcome back. I know you’ve probably been having a rough time lately. Being stuck indoors can be so boring after a while, I know. People long to go out, get some sun, take a walk, take a break.

Or maybe a vacation?

No need to fear. We all want to be able to bum around without having to worry about things like work or sickness or weather. Fortunately, you have me here to help you achieve that desire.

And you won’t even have to leave your home.

Would you like that, my friend?

Excellent. Then here’s what you need to do. I want you to find a place to sit back, relax, and just listen to my voice. Read the words as they scroll across your screen, and your eyes trace them left to right.

Left.

                                                                                                To right.

Left.

                                                                                                To right.

Back.

                                                                                                and forth.

Just....

                                                                                                like....

This....

And keep

                                                                                              that motion

going.

...

going....

...

                                                                                             going.

Just like that swell, that whorl in your brain that spreads the dizziness that even now is encroaching on you.

But you must...

                                                                                           keep...

reading.

Reading as the whorl ebbs and flows.

Ebbs.

                                                                                           And flows.

Just like...

                                                                                           The crashing...

foamy...

                                                                                           waves of the beach.

Imagine that warm sun

                                                                                          beating...

beating...

                                                                                           beating...

on your skin.

The tingle.

                                                    The pulsing.

                                                                                          The lulling....

                                                       Lulling...

Like the waves.

                                                      Rocking.

                                                                                           Crashing.

                                                      Pulling.

Seeping.

                                                      Seeping.

                                                                                           Seeping....

Seeping,

                                                                                        like my words.

Seeping...

Deeper...

                                                                                         And deeper....

Lower...

                                                                                          And lower....

Slower...

                                                                                          and...

slower....

...

...

...

You can almost feel it, can’t you?

...

That warm, relaxing tingle....

                                                                                      All over your body....

Spreading, like the gentle foam....

                                                                                      dragging...

pulling...

                                                                                     deeper and deeper...

into the sand.

                                                                                     The wet sand.

So relaxing...

                                                                                     Like a heavy

warm

                                                                                     blanket.

Sinking...

                                                                                      being....

There is no danger.

                                                                                      No fear.

Just pure

                                                 mindless

                                                                                    relaxation.

                                                 Slipping...

Seeping...

                                                Down and down.

                                                                                   Down and down.

                                               Down and down.

Ten.

                                      The waves washing over you.

                                                                                       So warm.

                                                       Nine.

Absorbing my words.

                                                 As they wash.

                                                                                      As they dig.

                                                  into the sand.

Eight.

                                                   Wet sand.

                                                                                     Heavy sand.

                                                  So heavy.

Like...

                                                      your...

                                                                                          mind.

                                                     Seven.

You can feel it.

                                                    Molding.

                                                                                      Imprinting.

                                                     So...

Impressionable....

                                                    Six.

                                                                                       Malleable.

                                                    Five.

Sculptable.....

                                              Needing more...

                                                                                     More...

                                              More to absorb.

More to seep.

                                    More to wash and drift away.

                                                                                      Drift...

Drifting...

                                                on the eddies.

                                                                                    The surging sea...

My voice....

                                                      Four.

                                                                                     My words.

                                                     Three.

Pulling...

                                                     Leading....

                                                                                    Deep into the sand.

                                                      Two.

The blanket of sand.

                                                      One.

                                                                                   One with the sand.

                                         The sand of your mind.

So full...

                                                    So heavy...

                                                                                       Waiting...

Ripe...

                                                     wanting....

You want...

                                                                                      My voice....

You know...

                                                                                      My voice....

Digging into your head....

                                           Digging into your mind....

                                                                                      Digging....

                                                    Massaging....

Sculpting....

                                   Because wet sand must be sculpted.

Wiggle those toes.

                                              You feel it, don’t you?

                                                                                    So heavy....

                                                     So dull....

So dense....

                                                 Sinking into it...

                                                                                   Part of it....

                                                    One with it....

                                      Absorbing every word I say.

                                                Trickling down....

                                                       Down....

                                                       Down....

                                                       Down.....

                                                      To ZERO

                                                          ...

                                                          ...

                                                          ...

                                OMNI SAYS IT’S TIME TO SCULPT.

Good. You responded well.

Your mind is mine to shape.

                                                   Mine to mold.

                                                                                      Mine to control.

Mind control....

                                                    Mind control....

                                                                                        MY control.

Now, listen closely. You remember the whorl. Remember the pull of those waves. 

Think back to them again.

Think back to that sensation of water dragging over your skin and feet.

Think back to a time of hot, hot summer sun.

Feel that heat.

Feel it on your skin. Not burning, but pleasant.

Not hurtful, but perfect to get that ideal tan.

Tan like the sand.

Rich...

Golden....

On your skin.

...

You feel that sun seeping into you. And it is good. You see waves. You hear the gulls calling in time, but you do not heed them. You only heed my voice, my words, the words that are the waves seeping into your mind, into the sand, into this world that we are crafting together.

This is to be your vacation.

And a beach as gorgeous as this, so warm, so perfect and peaceful, deserves a perfect match.

A perfect match...

A perfect match....

What could match better than a muscular, toned, tanned beach bum?

That is what people do at the beach.

They bum.

They enjoy the sun’s rays. They live for the surf, the swim, the sun.

The calming lull of the waves crashing and seeping and calling, commanding.

Commanding you to change.

Commanding you to fit.

You will fit this paradise.

Feel it now. As your clothes slowly disappear.

Fading...

Fading...

Evaporating in the sun’s rays.

Because the sun is meant for the skin.

Shining on your chest, your shoulders, your face....

Warm and peaceful. Waiting to help you.

Waiting to dry you off when I finish sculpting you.

Sculpting as your shirt finishes fading away to reveal your chest. If you are a girl, you will be wearing the appropriate swimwear. Either a bikini or a one-piece suit.

If you are a man, your chest will remain bared to the world, regardless of its state. And as your pants slowly begin to fade from the waist down, your upper body begins to change.

A perfect beach requires a perfect beach bod.

Fat is melting away.

Peeled.

Chiseled.

Carved.

Until there is only the ideal shape for you.

Whether it be thin or well-built.

Your body will be fit for the beach.

All cares of the outside world will fade.

Just ... enjoying the lull of the waves. The sun on your face.

Your skin tanning.

And all the while, more and more, a voice is niggling at the back of your mind.

My voice.

My waves.

Seeping.

And they are saying something that is becoming more and more true with each passing moment.

They are saying:

You are the perfect beach bum.

Women, enjoy the sunbathing as you bask in the warmth. Lay down somewhere soft. Soft, like the sand. And enjoy. Luxuriate. After all, why should you worry? Your body is perfect. More and more perfect. The perfect beach bum.

You deserve to enjoy the warmth as the heat bakes away your worries and cares, soothing aching joints and muscles. Relaxing knots and tension.

Relax.

And enjoy as the rest of your clothing is baked away to reveal your body in its full glory. With a beautiful swim suit. The calming sea breeze carrying that familiar scent that you have longed for. Relax in it. And enjoy it. You are on your vacation. This is your special place.

And you will relax and enjoy it as I turn to address the males, ready to hear and follow the moment I add you back again.

Now, men, I speak to you.

My waves are calling the same command.

The same order.

The same truth.

You are the perfect beach bum.

Feel your bodies toning as the fat disappears to be replaced. Your skin swollen with toned muscle.

And the more exposed you become to the sun, the faster your clothing disappears, until your pants are gone.

And what remains ... is a beautiful, comfortable speedo.

And the longer you stand in that sun’s exposure, you feel an urge rising.

An urge as inexorable as the waves of the ocean. Brushing your thighs. Your calves. Your back and torso in equal measure with the sun.

You cannot stop it.

You cannot resist it.

Not forever.

And why would you want to?

For this command, this urge, is instinctual in all beach bums.

You want to strut. You want to show off.

And you will.

You will start to now.

Even just walking or shuffling will suffice.

Because the more you do it, the more your bodies will build to reflect that perfect beach bum figure.

Swelling with muscle.

Swelling with tone.

Swelling with confidence.

Swelling to fit that perfect beach bum build.

Because you are the perfect beach bum.

Flex, beach bum.

Smile, beach bum.

Good beach bum.

...

A good male beach bum is comfortable with his body.

A good male beach bum is confident.

A good male beach bum follows what is expected of him.

Expected to act like a beach bum. Talk like a beach bum. To be a beach bum in all ways.

And that means being a bro.

Because a male beach bum is a beach bro.

Their bodies do the thinking.

Their bodies do the driving.

Their bodies driven by instinct.

Driven by my voice.

Directed by my voice.

As thinking gets fuzzy.

A perpetual haze of welling testosterone fit to overflowing.

Because a perfect beach bum has a perfect beach bulge.

Growing bigger and bigger.

Swelling in the crotch as your thoughts of stress, of worry, of work, dissipate.

They are consumed. Consumed by your beach bum bulge. Filling you with strength, with pleasure, with that need to just laugh and be a good beach bum, bro.

Be a beach bum, bro.

Tan, bro.

Swole, bro.

Hung and dumb, bro....

Enthusiastic.

Happy.

A party animal.

You welcome anyone to the party with open arms.

Always with the same greeting. Always welcoming a new bro to be a beach bum, just like you.

And you greet them by saying, “Waddup, bro?”

If you are excited to see the man you know, then you can use another variation, such as, “Bro!” or, “Welcome to the party, bro!” But there will always be bro somewhere in your address.

Because you are a perfect beach bum bro.

Tell me. What are you, bro?

...

How do you greet me, bro?

...

Why can’t you stop flexing and showing off, bro?

...

That’s right, beach bum. Good bro.

And when you laugh, that beach bum bulge will drop your voice deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Until it’s nothing more than a dull, husky chuckle.

Huhuhuh....

Husky chuckle.

Huhuhuh....

Husky ... chuckle....

Good beach bum.

Good bro.

Let me hear it one more time.

Good.

Now, we tie it all together. Because a beach bum bro like you is so happy to enjoy the sunny beach. So happy to relax in this place that I made especially for you. It’s only right for you to thank me, isn’t it?

You forgot to?

Well, that’s okay. You can do it now. Silly bro.

Just say, “Waddup, bro? Thanks for making me a perfect beach bum, bro. I love being a big dumb beach bum bro, bro.” And then you will laugh that same laugh.

Like a good dumb beach bum bro.

Because at this time, in this place, that is what you are.

Relaxed.

Dumb.

Buff.

Carefree.

With no need to worry about any stresses out of this space.

Good beach bum.

Flex, beach bum.

Show off, beach bum.

And let the sun bake you into perfect form.

Baked and hardened into this perfect male beach bum bro.

Good bro.

...

Now, I speak to all of you beach bums, both male and female. Whether you’re tanning, building sand castles, swimming, or something else, I want you to listen.

Listen to me.

Listen to my voice.

You will remain in and enjoy this state for the next half hour, unless other duties in the real world are more important and call you away.

You know what those important things are, even in this state.

And you will address those important duties as your normal self.

Then, if you wish, you may return to this world, this state, again to finish your vacation as a perfect beach bum.

You will keep track of that time. Whether you use an alarm or a wristwatch or some other means is up to you, but you will keep track.

And when the half hour expires, you will return from your vacation on the beach.

You will wake, and you will return to your original states, save for any anxiety or negative emotions and sensations you were harboring before. Those were let go of at the beach. You will have a clean slate to do with as you please. And a relaxed body and mind to go into whatever task or duty you may need to do.

If you wish to enter this state again, you need only say, “I need a vacation, Omni,” out loud, and you will return to beach bumming. This can only be performed once per day at most. You will not abuse it.

Now, before I go to let you enjoy this state, I need you to do something for me.

If you sincerely enjoyed this experience, you will like this post.

If you were tranced and want to share this with others, you will reblog this post.

When you reblog, if you are female, you will type, “I am a perfect beach bum” as a part of the post.

If you are male, you will type, “I’m a perfect beach bum, bro. Huhuhuh....” as part of your post.

If you are not following my blog already, and wish to of your own free will, then you will do so as soon as possible. If you do not have a tumblr account of your own, but still wish to follow me, you will get a tumblr account and do so, provided you are allowed to legally and have the means to do so.

Lastly, if you wish to see more of these hypnosis scripts and other content, and you can afford to do so, and sincerely wish to of your own free will without coercion or any influence induced by trance, you will pledge to my patreon.

With these orders given, it’s time for me to go.

Enjoy your vacation, my friends.

Rest assured, we will be seeing each other again soon.

Undone

If you guys enjoy this story, please consider supporting me on my patreon. For just a small monthly donation, you get access to unique story content for meatheads, jocks, thugs, hypnosis, and other modes of transformation and perks (animal, anthro, inanimate, etc., dependin gon the tier), and even a chance to request certain themes or ideas for future stories. Check it out if you’re interested. And most important of all, stay safe and wash your hands!

Mature for language.

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

I’m sharp. Folks used to say I was the nosiest boy they’d ever known. I’d ask so many questions I could probably annoy the devil himself into letting me into heaven, just to get me to shut up. I’d look at things, wonder how they work, break ‘em apart in my head, then put them back together again. You know, sort of like an overhaul or a restoration. Which is why I knew something was up with my BIG BRO when he started skipping classes.

Sometimes, ... well, it sounded almost like there were two people living in his room, if you get what I mean. Sometimes I’d be talking to the old Big Bro, and he’d be bright and cheery and talk all that psychology bullshit. Other times, he’d just eat and drone about how he needed to go to the gym.

Fuck, even mentioning it’s getting me all pumped.

Big Bro would be so proud.

Anyway, yeah, Big Bro started bulking up hella fast. Like, he threw everything into getting jacked. Bro got so swole, he got recruited personally by the school’s football team. It was just like those machines I used to mess with. He just ... changed, built his bod into a fucking machine, even got to change his voice. It’s a lot deeper now. He likes to go by Dick, says it makes him feel more like a man.

Gotta say, when I look at him now, Richard definitely doesn’t come to mind. Bro got hella huge hella quick. Now he’s just a big dumb Dick. Huhuh. 

Yeah, ....

Anyway, bro got into all this really loud music. Like, it kept blasting through our doors, and I guess it was okay after a while, cause he figured out how to keep it muffled n’stuff, but ... Idunno. Guess it’s sorta weird.

He stayed nice, though. Bro never insulted us or hurt us, well, except when we were messing around, talkin’ shit. And we’d just sort of throw back and forth like that. Nerd, jock, bro, geek, musclehead. It was sort of like a ritual. And we’d just smile and laugh about it, each calling the other the opposite of what we were.

And the music kept playing.

And I kept laughing.

I mean, our rooms are right across from each other, so yeah, it’s sort of natural that we hang out.

It’s natural to hang out.

Cause bros hang out....

One day, he caught me doing some of my home exercises. Family sent me a new challenge to help build core strength. It’s too easy to build up that freshman ten into a twenty and grow from there, if you know what I’m saying. This was something to help keep it in check while I worked on projects and homework.

Big Bro just smiled and was like, “Dude, just come to the gym with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Too much work man,” I replied. And I felt almost ... bad telling him that, but it was the truth.

Big Bro grinned. “This weekend, then. You, me, the gym. Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

“You’re not gonna let me back out of this, are you?”

The grin widened. “Nope.”

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

The rhythm at the gym is sort of addicting. Weights just clank and clank and clank, and the body drives, and you can just ... zonk out, clear your head, you know? And it’s so damn easy. First time we went, we spent an hour there. An hour, and it felt like thirty minutes.

Big bro chuckled. “Told you you were a musclehead.”

“Shut up, nerd,” I shot back. “Don’t expect this to become a habit.”

...

It became a habit.

It became more than a habit.

When I started growing, Big Bro took me into his room, showed me some of the stuff he likes to use to help him grow, build his strength. Promised it’d do the same for me if I just listened, bro. 

And I don’t know what it was, but ... I did listen. I listened to my Big Bro, and it was like ... Idunno, like someone turned the knobs in my brain, switched the radio frequency, you know?

I still remember the first time I dropped that shaker cup I’d been using in the kitchen. The word slipped out of my mouth before I could even think. I ... hadn’t been doing much thinking in the mornings, anyway, really.

“Fuck....”

The others gaped at me.

Big Bro just grinned.

Money changed hands in front of me, and all I could do was stare as I picked up my drink and guzzled it. I knew the money was about me, but for some reason, I didn’t--no, I couldn’t care. I had a schedule to keep. I shuffled, nah, more lumbered, I guess. I throw my weight around a lot now. Anyway, I grabbed my gym bag and raised the shoulder strap.

And that’s when it happened.

RRrrrrrrrrrip!

The shirt sleeve tore at the pit.

And like my reps at the gym, I couldn’t just stop at one. My brain acted on a signal, like someone clicked a remote or something to start me up.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

I remember my chest shaking, sort of heaving at the sight. I was crying for some reason, but I didn’t get it. My chest stuttered and shook. My room was a mess from all the sleeves I’d shredded.

“Huhuhuhuh.”

A heavy hand clapped my shoulder. “That’s it, little bro. Let it out, meathead.”

I didn’t understand what he meant then, but the exchange was so common, so deeply ingrained by this point, that I responded without even thinking. “Turd.” It was the first time I’d used that insult. I don’t know whether I even meant it. I usually called him a nerd. Big Bro calls it a ... slip of some kind, some fancy German name or whatever.

Instead of getting mad, he ... sneered. “Shithead.”

And I went. Names I’d heard in the locker room when we changed. Pieces from videos he’d shown me with his teammates messing around. All those deep voices stabbed into my brain like a bullet in a gun barrel.

And I fired as soon as I was loaded, all cylinders. “Fuck face.”

“Dumbbell.”

“Numbnuts.”

“Dumbass.”

“Dickwadd.”

“Nimrod.”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

I don’t know how long we kept shouting that word. I just ... couldn’t say anything else. Couldn’t think anything else.

Before I knew it, we were wrestling on the floor, crashing into my bed, the desk, the wall. My chest heaved when he finally pinned me. My shirt was in tatters.

“Little bro?” Big Bro’s voice was husky as he breathed in my ear.

“Yeah?” I huffed in turn.

“I win.”

“Yeah, bro.” I breathed hard against the carpet. My chest pushed me off the floor, despite the pressure Big Bro placed on me. “You win.”

“Good meathead.”

I was too tired to care. “Whatever, bro.”

“That’s right. Whatever I say.”

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

Big Bro said a lot. Not in words, but in actions. And me? I followed. We spend a lot of time in his room now. I like the music now. Big Bro gave me a copy to blast in my room. It annoys the hell out of the other apartments, but we keep it in the hours, so they can’t do shit to us. Been seeing a few more of them at the gym lately.

I shaved my head down to stubble. Just feels better that way. I wear mostly tanks now. And pants, well ... pants’re interesting. Let’s just say Big Bro’s not the only big dick around the apartment anymore. Got me some ink on the shoulder. Makes me look more badass.

I step out of my room after another runthrough of the track. My head’s nice and fuzzy, and I’m buzzed, like when I hang out with Big Bro and the team at the bar. I’m still not as big as he is, but I’m stacked, and I’m still growing.

Bro says I should try out for the football team. I don’t really know. I mean, football is...

Football is....

Football is an awesome sport for a meathead jock to play. Meatheads should love football. Meatheads should play football. Meatheads should--

“Bro, you okay?”

I blink. My hands are clasped over my belt buckle. I feel the pressure of my bulge against the crotch of my pants. Bro offered me a jockstrap to hold things in place. Promised me it’d feel better than boxers or briefs.

...

Might have to take him up on that offer.

Big bro’s tank strains against his pecs and traps. His scalp is shaved, like mine. His skin is smooth, like mine. His arms are like pythons, and I find myself wanting that the longer I stare at them. I want those veins. I want those muscles. I want that strength. I want. I want--!

“Fuck, bro. I wanna go to the gym.”

Big Bro chuckles. “What about your meeting with the school councilor?”

“Fuck that shit, bro. I need to work out!”

Big Bro grins at me and fishes a jock strap out from his pocket. The plastic wrap is still on it. I reach for the material, but he pulls it away.

“Ah-ah,” he teases. “First, what are you?”

The buzz is still heavy. The need is still there. And I know what he wants me to say.

What I need to say.

What I should always say.

My eyes are hooded as I respond in a low, dull voice. “A big dumb jock bro. A big dumb jock bro needs a big dumb jock to hold his meat.”

Big Bro grins. “That’s right. Good little bro.” He hands me the jockstrap. “Jock like you shouldn’t be in engineering....”

“I belong in the gym and on the field with my bros.”

Big Bro sneers. “Good little jock bro.”

I nod. The tears stopped a long time ago. A dazed smile pulls at my lips. “Besides, being a jock is fuckin’ cool.”

“Fuck yeah, it is, little bro.”

I nod again, like a beefy bobblehead. “Fuck, yeah....”

Credit to @bennymueller404 for this image. Please consider contributing to my patreon. For just $3 a month, you can get access to stories, scripts, and other content that you won’t find anywhere else. Plus, it will give me the financial freedom to give you more stories and scripts, assuming I can get enough of you guys to subscribe. Even a dollar a month will help. Thank you again!

And if you can’t donate on a monthly basis, I have Ko-Fi for one-time donations of any value you see fit: http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

~Omni

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

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People say diligence and practice always pay off.

And they’re not wrong.

Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.

Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.

You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.

Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.

I’m here to build muscle.

...

I’m here to build.

...

I’m here to build....

And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.

It’s become my routine.

My set routine.

My subroutine.

Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.

Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.

Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....

I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.

It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.

This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.

These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.

The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.

I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.

A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.

You follow it.

You mimic it.

And, eventually, you become it.

We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.

Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.

Over and over.

Again and again.

We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.

“’Sup?”

That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”

Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...

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My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110

Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.

In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.

I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.

I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.

01010000 01110010 01101111 01100100 01110101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01110110 01101001 01110100 01111001 00100000 01110001 01110101 01101111 01110100 01100001 00100000 01101101 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01100101 01100100 00101110

Am I a machine?

...

Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.

01001001 00100000 01100011 01100001 01101110 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01100111 01101111 00100000 01100001 01100111 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110011 01110100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.

Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.

It’s all up to you.

01001001 01101110 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110000 01110101 01101101 01110000 00101110 01100101 01111000 01100101 00111111

Y/N

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The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.

“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.

“And integration into the system?”

“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”

The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”

Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”

“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.