Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 3

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 3

Your first session with Hank may not have been deadly, but it was far from unpleasant. He meant it, when he said he would test your limits. He took you through the whole range of exercises from cardio to calisthenics to strength and endurance training. To establish a base line, he’d said. A part of you wondered if it was just because he took pleasure in seeing you sweat. Then again, that was kind of his job, so he probably did. A purple turtle neck clung to your upper body, helping to keep you warm as you gingerly removed your coat to hang in the closet. The workout may not have been intense, but you still felt the after-effects, and you were not looking forward to day two. It always hurt more on day two. The waiting room was a small one, but incredibly warm. Harry had said he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it yourself. It was a vocal coach, after all, and you only had to say the one line. A few sessions, and you’d have that part ready to go for the cameras. You twiddled your thumbs idly as you waited in the leather chair. Finally, a good five or so minutes later, the door opened and a tall man with dark hair and green eyes walked out with a smile across his face as he put on his glasses. “Thank you so much for the help, Miss Schroder. Your training is an absolute life saver.” “It’s no problem, I assure you,” a woman’s voice carried out from behind the man. A few moments later, you caught your first look at her. Her skin was pale and flawless as marble, and she strode out confidently in high heels. Her hair fell in rich red curling waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back like the fronds of a willow tree, and her pale blue business suit was accented by light pink lipstick. “Just make sure to remember those dialects. Just because it’s one nation doesn’t mean they won’t have different accents.” “Ah, but how could oi be forgettin’ sumpin’ so positively voital ta me craft, yer ladyship?” he asked as a sly smile pulled at his lips. Miss Schroder laughed. “Oh, stop it, you. Save it for the character.” “All right. All right,” the man acquiesced as he raised his hands in defeat. “But it is fun, you know.” “Naturally. Just make sure to be careful, Scott. I find that the roles my customers play tend to take a life all their own.” Scott laughed. “Well, I don’t think that’d hurt all that much, in my case. See you around.” He waved, nodded to you, then retrieved his coat, before making his way out the door. Then Miss Schroder turned her attention to you. She called you by name, then motioned curtly with a finger as she strode back to her office. You followed her her with little prompting. “I’ll have you know that I take my craft very seriously,” she started. “I meant what I said when I warned Scott back there. My lessons can be very much like role playing, and like all role playing, there is a chance that the character can spill over into your everyday life. I would advise you to keep things as separate as possible.” She handed a sheaf of papers to you. “Please make sure to sign these, before we continue. They’re release forms, among a few other necessary documents. By signing them, you agree that I am not to be held responsible for any changes or repercussions that should occur during your time here. You are taking my courses of your own free will, and are willing to accept the consequences of whatever may result from these courses. As a part of the process, some hypnosis may be applied. In signing these papers, you consent to allow me to hypnotize you for the sake of understanding the role you are to take. If you do not wish to be hypnotized, you may so indicate in the necessary boxes; however, it will take longer for you to accomplish your role to satisfaction this way, and the commercial will not move forward, until I give my official seal of approval.” “What?” you balk. “They trust me. I’m good at what I do. If I say someone isn’t ready, they aren’t ready. Each time I’ve warned a client, my predictions came true. After a time, people learn to listen.” She shrugged as she planted herself in a tall stool with a high back to support her lithe frame. “Now, then, assuming you’ve finished the paperwork, let’s get started.” You gulp, then sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s not like she’d be able to do much to you, anyways, even if she did manage to put you under. And you needed this part. You scrawl quickly across the necessary lines, after a swift perusal of each of the segments for any hidden language or gimmicks. “All right. Let’s get started,” you sigh. “Good.” She seized the paperwork and shoved it into a file with your name on it. “Now, then. According to the paperwork, you are to play the role of a stereotypical bodybuilder with just one thing on his mind.” “Lifting weights. Yes,” you say as you roll your eyes. “I take it you’re not too keen on the role.” You shrug. “I take what I can get.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. You’re going to be an interesting one. It’s more difficult working with a client who isn’t enthusiastic about his part. Not impossible, mind you. Just more difficult.” She perused the file once more, then pulled out her phone. “Let’s start off with various accents, shall we? I want to see what kind of range fits you best. There are a few that come more prominently to mind. You have German/Austrian, surfer beach bum, frat boy jock, and a few others. Each of them may sound similar, but there is a certain subtlety that designates each vocalization as its own unique sort of language. The only difference here is, rather than a language of words and letters, you have a language of sounds and inflections. Now then. Let’s begin.” You run through each of the various accents and styles, trying your best to replicate each. She shook her head and tutted at each separate attempt to mimic the recordings. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” she sighed. “Let’s start off with the basics.” She flicked to another track, and white noise started playing gently behind the sound of a metronome. “I want you to listen to the beat and follow it. Emphasize the key words of your line with each stroke. ‘I lift things UP and put them DOWN.’ Got it? Up,” her voice climbed higher, “and down.” Her voice glided down into the lower register.

You sigh, then set your shoulders as you listen to the recording. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say lamely. “With feeling. Emphasize. You have to draw the audience into what you’re saying. Again,” she ordered. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say. “Again. Hit the beat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Again.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Repeat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Good. Keep going.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That’s right. Follow the beat. Up. Down. Up. Down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” Click up. Click down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down. It’s so boring, but you continue to follow the pattern. “Cadence is everything. Flying high, then dropping low.”

Up. Down.

“Lower.”

“I lift things up and put them down.” Did ... your voice sound huskier? “Deeper. Don’t stop now. Repeat. Follow the rhythm.” Follow UP. Follow DOWN. Follow.... “I ... feel funny....” “Relax. You were just starting to get it right. Try again,” she urged gently. “You want to nail this part, don’t you? So you have to try again. Relax. Try again. Listen. Try again. Follow the beat. Try again.” Her tone was so soft, so low. You had to strain to hear. Had to listen. ... Had to try again. “I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down....”

“That’s right.” You feel something in your hand. A ... paperweight, maybe? “You lift things up and put them down. Up. Down. Up. Down.” And suddenly your arm is moving. Up and down. Up and down. You lift things up. You put them down. Lift up. Put down. Up. ... Down. “Good boy.” Then everything went dark.

Totally worth the reblog. Hands off to the artist and whoever invented the concept for this series. *Applauds loudly*

Created by Dragonart

This is pretty much me in a nutshell, every time I try to work out a scene. I have the general idea in mind, but it’s hard sometimes to really put it down with proper character development, scenery, etc. that’s balanced with exposition and action. Tis a delicate art, but a fine one, when it’s finished. ;)

Me: *thinks about writing all day* *already knows how each and every conflict will turn out* *has every detail fleshed out*

Also me: *puts fingers on keyboard* how this work

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 6

“They’re swarming the compound, Hunter. More than half have been converted already.”

“Why hasn’t anybody shot them, damnit?” Hunter growled.

“We’ve tried. Somebody rigged munitions. It’s all blanks.”

“How the hell can our entire armory have been compromised?”

“Very, very carefully,” Stone said. “I’ll have to thank Arsenal later. He should be waking any moment now. He’s such a good meathead.”

Hunter groaned.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Agent Hunter? Feeling a little heavy? Oh, but I bet it feels so good, doesn’t it? It’s hard to resist all that growth, all that power. Why don’t you just … let it go?”

“F–Fuck you,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. Then he shuddered as the bulge in crotch increased.

“Ooh, you’re coming along nicely. Just a matter of time now, Agent Hunter.”

“Hunter, they’re … they’re beating at the doors. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep them out. They’ve sent a platoon to Skinner’s office. If they get him, they’ll have the override and all of our access codes. Wait, they’re … knocking? Holy shit!”

“Jason, what is it?”

“I-it’s Director Skinner. He’s already turned. He’s as big as Thirteen, if not bigger. He must be another overseer class, but … how did he change?”

Hunter snarled. “The damn bastard’s been playing us from the beginning. He kept authorizing the missions. He kept pushing that we had to find Stone. It all makes sense.”

“And the light begins to dawn at last.” Stone chuckled. “Your director was not an easy target, Agent Hunter, but given enough time and more than a few spiked coffees, he was only too happy to join us in his proper rank. Such a good trainer, wouldn’t you say? He really knows how to take charge of his meatheads and make them totally mindless. Never questioning, never thinking. Just endless pleasure and obedience. Obedience to their trainer. Obedience to me.”

“Obey Coach Stone. Serve Coach Stone. Obedience is pleasure. Obedience is strength. Obedience is muscle. Obedience is growth. Meatheads must grow. Meatheads must obey. We are Coach’s big, dumb meatheads,” the guards said.

Hunter heard a groan. “They … they’re gathering at the door, Hunter. So … so many meatheads. I … I don’t know if I can keep them out long.”

“Control? You okay?”

“I … just a little dizzy. Hunter. Skinner is coming.” Another grunt. “I don’t know how long I have. Before they … get to me. Before they … make me like them.” A tiny rip sounded across the microphone.

“Control? Jason? Jason, stay with me!”

“Hunter? I … I can’t hear you very well, Hunter. I … something … isn’t right. You sound … far away. So far away. So far. So faint.

“Jason!”

“…”

“Jason, don’t you do this to me. Answer me, damn it!”

Hunter heard the sound of a door hissing open, the faint clacking of keys on the keyboard, the heavy clomp of many thick boots, and the weight behind them. The clacking grew slower, heavier, then stopped. A heavy breathing was all that Hunter could hear. The whirr of wheels rolling further away from the mike. More heavy boots approaching.

“Sorry, Lil’bro, Jason’s busy. But Meathead’s here for ya,” the Neanderthal of a man chuckled.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Hunter roared. He felt his neck tense, the muscles cording and growing, his jaw expanding, growing more defined. He didn’t care. “Answer me, Meathead!”

Tearing fabric. Thumping limbs. A few well-placed grunts. “Meathead didn’t do nothin’ to him.” Again, that infuriatingly dull chuckle. “Meathead was brought to wake his bros up. Skinner’s the one who brought out the meatheads in ‘em. Good job, Skinner.”

A deep, booming voice responded. “Skinner is a good meathead. Skinner obeys. Make more meatheads. I obey.”

“See? He’s fuckin’ awesome, lil’bro.” He laughed. “Knows to obey Coach n’everything. Just like me. We’re all a bunch of big, dumb meatheads, aren’t we, bros?”

Hunter heard the solid thump of legs coming sharply to attention. “Yes, sir. We are meatheads. Big, dumb meatheads. Meatheads obey. We obey. Obey and grow. Grow and obey. Obey Coach Stone. Lift. Grow. Flex. Obey. Grow big. Grow dumb. Grow into bigger, dumber meatheads.”

Stone laughed. “You see, Hunter, my little supplement is what you might call a bit of a drug. Once it gets worked enough into your system, it makes the user a little more … susceptible to suggestion. It builds the muscles in the body so quickly that you literally become addicted to the feeling of your own physical perfection. Every flex, every workout, every breath, every movement becomes … stimulating. And the best part is that the more they grow, the more dependent they become.

“Now don’t get me wrong here. The supplement doesn’t require you to constantly take more. On the contrary, given enough time, the supplement rewires your brain and your body to produce it naturally. Unfortunately, a common side effect is for the brain to suffer certain … alterations. These alterations, unfortunately, inhibit certain higher reasoning functions. Perhaps it’s better to say that it overrides them. Or maybe the person really just doesn’t care anymore, and so they choose to forget on their own. Whatever the case may be, those who reach that stage show a major loss in intelligence. Perhaps you’ve felt that loss, Agent Hunter. That hazy cloud forming over your mind like a calming blanket. So difficult to focus, to think clearly. The urge to just sit there and let your mind go blank, and let your body do the talking. To let it move for you, let it think for you, let it act for you, and just smile the whole time, because of the pleasure you feel.”

“S–stop it,” Hunter growled as he swayed on his feet.

“So you do feel it. Doesn’t it seem a little familiar, Agent Hunter, even the slightest bit?” Stone asked as he approached one of his guards. “That emptiness, that lack of thought that they accept so readily, makes them moldable. It makes them want to listen. Isn’t that right, Grinder?”

The hulk closest to him grunted and nodded. “Listen to Coach. Obey Coach. Grinder is a mindless meathead. Grinder listens. Grinder obeys.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said as he smacked Grinder on the back. “You see, Agent Hunter?”

“How long?” Hunter growled.

“The subliminal treatments, you mean? It varies from meathead to meathead. Sometimes we prime our candidates before exposing them to the supplement. Other times we perform the work simultaneously. We’re still figuring out which works best. Though I have made some headway with applications for the formula. Unfortunately, the gaseous state isn’t quite ready yet, but we’ll get there eventually.”

“And what happens, if they break the enforcement?”

“They can’t. That’s the best part. They constantly enforce themselves every time they work out, every time they follow an order. It literally becomes an endless loop of enforcement, growth, and obedience. And the best part is they want it. They love it.” He laughed again. “Isn’t that right, Controller?” he asked.

“Controller? Who’re you–?”

Hunter heard a loud groan of pleasure over his earpiece. “I … I … can’t stop. Growing … fuzzy. So fuzzy.” The voice warbled between the familiar tenor of Hunter’s friend to a deep baritone.

“Jason? Jason, you’ve got to fight it! Snap out of it!”

“Jason?” the warped voice asked slowly. “Wh–who is … Jason? So … so hard to think. So hard. Hard … hard muscles. Feel … feel nice.” A loud rip followed that sentence.

“Jason, whatever you do, don’t listen to them. You have to stop. Don’t let them influence your mind.”

“Mind …” he repeated dreamily. Then he laughed. The longer the laugh went, the deeper the voice became.

“Jason? Jason, listen to me. Jason!”

“Meatheads have no mind,” Meathead’s voice boomed in.

“Meatheads love muscle,” Skinner’s voice added.

“I like muscle,” Jason’s deeper voice said. “My muscles feel good.”

“Meatheads love to flex,” Meathead said.

“Flex … feels good.” Another loud tear. “I like flexing,” he said exuberantly.

“Meatheads don’t think,” Skinner pressed.

“… Think?” Jason asked. He sounded confused by the term. “I don’t … can’t … what … what were we talking about again?”

“Muscles, flexing, and being a big, dumb meathead. ‘Cause that’s what we are, lil’bro,” Meathead said.

“… We?”

“Yes, we. Skinner is a big, dumb meathead. Skinner does not think. Skinner flexes. Skinner obeys. Skinner is a good meathead.”

“Good … meathead.”

“Time to wake up, Controller,” Meathead said.

No.

“Wake … up.”

Stone wouldn’t.

“Flex deeper. Grow bigger. Become. You are a massive, burly, mindless meathead, just like us,” Skinner said.

“Like you.…” A guttural grunt. Loud cracks. Something bursting, snapping. Ricocheting metal. More shredding fabric. A rumbling bass. “Just like you.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said, laughing. “And good meatheads obey.”

“Damn you!” Hunter roared as he lunged for the man, his mysterious restraints suddenly broken. Thick hands threw off his balance. He grabbed for an overhead throw, only to be taken out from beneath by a rolling form. The added weight on his shoulders was his downfall as he dropped to his knees, then to his face as ten muscular hands and arms restrained him on the ground.

“Impressive, Agent Hunter. Very impressive. To break out of conditioning like that takes a lot of mental strength. You and Controller must have been very close.”

Hunter squirmed beneath his captors. “His name,” he panted, “is Jason.” He spat at Stone’s feet.

“Not anymore.” Stone chuckled. “Not for much longer, anyways. Would you like to see him, Agent Hunter? Would you like to watch him finish his awakening?” He sneered. “That can easily be arranged.” He raised his voice. “Meathead! Take the flash drive from Skinner and upload its contents into the server. It’s time to convert the facility.”

“Yes, Sir. Meathead is a good meathead. Meathead obeys,” the thug’s voice droned into Hunter’s ears.

A few moments later, Hunter found himself staring into a screen on a data pad Stone had taken from one of his lackeys. He tapped a new icon, and the light on the camera flashed, indicating it had become active. A large screen popped up, revealing a good twenty men in shredded uniforms flanking three bigger men. Even converted, Skinner was easy to pick out with his silver hair and piercing green eyes. Meathead grinned vacantly at the screen, his black spandex uniform still clinging tightly to his frame as he idly bounced his pecs. His dark brown hair had an almost unusual sheen to it, despite its flat cropping. He was just as huge as Hunter remembered him. The hulk’s shoulders had to be at least a good three feet across. His square jaw and jutting brow were slightly more pronounced than the other meatheads. His muscles quivered in anticipation as he gaped into the camera. “Interface complete. Meathead has obeyed. Meathead is a good meathead.”

“Yes you are, Meathead. Now stand by a moment. I want to be able to enjoy this. Gentlemen, lift our prisoner up, and help him take a seat.”

Hunter soon found himself forcibly seated at a rounded metal table near a fitness bar. The tightness of his stealth suit, or what remained of it, clung to his waist and crotch, a constant reminder of his change in size. And he was still growing. He could feel it, throbbing through him like some disease, the tingling on his face heralding the growing facial hair. Looking to either side, he could see the hair thickening on his arms, even as they strained beneath the collective grips of his captors. Stone dropped in next to him and put the pad down on a stand attachment.

“All right, Meathead, move aside. Show us Controller.”

“Controller isn’t ready, Coach.”

“That’s an order, Meathead.”

Meathead stiffened and saluted as the lycra of his suit strained to contain his body’s bulk. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He stepped aside to reveal a hunched figure. The man was breathing heavily. Instead of the rags and remnants the other meatheads wore, a new gigantic heavy jockstrap held loosely to his frame, its pouch sagging. His hair was slick with sweat, and had been pulled messily back by a hastily styled hand job. His broad shoulders shone with the sweat of his changes as he continued to pant, and his thick hands clenched and unclenched intermittently. Skinner stood next to him, hair gel in hand as he grinned at the new hairstyle.

“Excellent choice, Skinner,” Stone complimented.

“Thank you, Sir,” Skinner said. “Sleeper meathead, designation: Controller, is coming along nicely.”

“How close is he to finishing?”

“This meathead believes awakening will be complete within the next ten minutes, Sir.”

“Excellent. You may stand down now, Skinner. I want to finish him myself.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.” Skinner bowed, then stepped back to join Meathead.

“Jason, listen to me! Your name is Jason Bowman. You work as a technology supporter. You’re a genius with machines and electronics! You’re not–.” Hunter felt the giant hand covering his mouth. He struggled, screamed, yelled, and tried to bite to no avail.

“Potential meathead will not interrupt meathead re-conversion to muscle. Potential meathead will watch. Potential meathead will listen. Potential meathead will remain silent. Potential meathead will not struggle. Potential meathead will obey. Sit still. Obey. Listen. Obey. Watch. Obey. Be silent. Obey. Meatheads must obey.”

“Meatheads must obey,” the others droned, both behind Hunter and through the viewing monitor.

The hand came away from his face. “Fuck y–obey.” Wait, what? He watched as Stone smirked. That bastard. He had to try again. “I obey.” No, no, no, he does not obey. Damn it, not again. Not again. And yet it was happening again. He felt a pair of hands direct his head toward the screen. He felt them leave. And try though he might, his body would not look away.

“Much better, Agent Hunter. Much better,” Stone purred. “And the best part is, you’re feeling so much pleasure from this, too. I can tell, you know. So why deny yourself?” He sighed. “Ah well. You’ll come around soon enough, Agent Hunter. They all do.”

Hunter heard the clomping of heavy feet. He felt two thick hands smack down on either of his shoulders, heard the rasp of the Stone’s whispering voice. “Now watch me work my magic.” He felt the heavy bulk of Stone sit down next to him. Felt the heat radiating from the giant body. Felt the titanic bicep touch his own smaller one. He could tell it was bigger. And as much as he hated to admit it, some part of him felt … jealous of that. He watched Stone’s giant hands shift the screen, so both would have a proper vantage point. Saw those bulky arms twitch with every shift of wrists and fingers. And then they were gone.

Nobody had moved on the screen. The huddled form that had to be Jason continued panting. Though as they listened, the pants turned into more of a series of guttural grunts.

“You there,” Stone said in a commanding tone of voice. “The one in the middle panting and sweating. What’s your name?”

The head lunged up. Jason’s eyes had sunken beneath a shelf-like brow. His lower jaw bulged unnaturally, and his chin had become particularly prominent. The brown of his eyes had dulled and taken on a murky greenish tint, like swamp water. His pecs had developed into two perfectly sculpted slabs that hung round and taut, waiting to go off. “Me?” he asked.

“Yes, you. What is your name?” Stone asked.

“Name … name … my … name.…” His brow furrowed. His mouth gaped open slightly. He reached down passively and scratched at the pouch. “Can’t … I can’t … think. Fuzzy. In head. Don’t … I don’t … I … can’t....”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a flexing bicep in the corner of the screen. A wave of slow, pulsing light flowed across the control room. Jason’s mammoth shoulders slumped as he stared at the screen in front of him.

“Don’t think, then. Just listen. Listen to my voice, and watch the screen. Just flex, and stare, and listen. The longer you stare, the more you listen. The longer you flex, the more focused you become on my voice. Listen, and flex. Watch, and flex.”

It started small at first, a faint twitch, the quiver of a pectoral. Then the other twitched. Then the first. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then he raised an arm and looked it at dreamily. He tensed it, flexing the bicep, and watched as the mound slowly rose. His face pulled into a vapid grin. “Flexing feels good,” he said again. “Good to flex. Good to listen.”

“That’s right. Keep flexing. Keep listening. And while you do that, why don’t you tell me what you are? That’s so much easier than who, wouldn’t you say?”

“Easy,” he grunted in agreement, shifting to a double bicep pose, then into a lateral spread as he turned to look at the other muscle men. “Like them.” He continued to flex, and as he did so, his waist began to expand. The straps on the jockstrap tightened as he gained in height. His muscle tone increased, and a washboard of abdominals slowly carved itself out of his core, like a stoneworker had been busy chipping away at Jason’s old self. Then again, that may not have been far from the truth.

“And what are they?” Stone pressed. Hunter hissed, taking deep breaths, but could do little more.

Jason shrugged as his forehead expanded and his teeth became perfectly aligned. He chuckled as he flexed some more. “Dunno. Just like ‘em is all. Like to flex. Like … my muscles flexing.”

“Growing,” Stone prompted.

“Yes … growing. Growing muscles. Growing me.” He chuckled.

“They like growing, too. Growing bigger and stronger all the time. They just care about their bodies, and flexing, and listening, and growing, and listening, and obeying.”

“Growing,” he said dreamily as his neck expanded.

“Growing into big, dumb meatheads,” Stone said.

“Meatheads. Yes. Like … meatheads.”

“So big. So dumb. Just following their orders, like a good meathead should.”

“We are meatheads. Meatheads obey Coach. We obey,” the men droned together.

“Tell me who I am, meatheads,” Stone ordered.

“Coach Stone,” they droned together.

“Good meatheads.”

The men shuddered, and grinned. “We are good meatheads. We obey.” They began to pose and flex as they eyed the screen.

“You’re becoming like them, too. Tell me, do you like that, the idea of being a big, dumb meathead?”

“… Like muscles. Like growing. Feels good.” Another loud crack, and his hands grew into massive mitts of bone and sinew. He stared at them in wonder, and his grin widened. “Big hands. Good to be big. Like being big.”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a brain with IQ stamped in white letters. A display popped up to the left. Its number read 110. Above it, another display popped up showing the number 150. Behind these numbers, two different sized transparent pink brain backdrops appeared. He tapped the larger of the two, and a loading ring took shape around it, its pulsing light running around and around in a counterclockwise motion. He then selected the muscle icon, and dragged it next to the brain. This time the outline of a body formed around it, creating a perfect silhouette, complete with sagging jock strap.

“I have to give you credit where credit is due. You really are a genius,” Stone complimented. But you see, we have an issue here. You put so much effort into here,” he said, tapping the silhouette’s brain, and causing it to pulse, “that you’ve lost so much down here.” He dragged several lines leading from the brain into the arms, legs, torso, crotch, and shoulders. “But to really be like them, you need to not only be big, not only obey my voice, but you need to be a total meathead. Your head. Focused on nothing but muscle and meat. Building your body. Building your muscles. Building your manhood, your meat.

“Build.…”

“That’s right, my little meathead-to-be. You build those muscles, and you build that meat. But to do that, you have to feed them, fill them with something.” Stone smirked. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do with all those troublesome brains of yours. You’re going to use that muscle to build your other muscles.” He tapped on the brain icon. The loading circle broke off, and began to spiral into the brain. Each pulse of light followed the trail, then coursed down the lines to each of the body parts Stone had highlighted previously. Now flex for me. Obey me. Watch the screen, and pump those muscles up. Watch the screen, and focus on your muscles. Focus on your meat. Focus on letting it grow and swell. Let it fill you. Fill everything about you. Making you massive. A massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge, just like the other meatheads.”

“Big, dumb meatheads. Just like us. We flex. We obey,” the men said in unison.

Jason shuddered as he stared up at the screen. Light continued to pulse. He slowly shifted into a side chest pose. The silhouette did the same, shifting onto his form to match him movement for movement. The brain superimposed itself over his head, and the number appeared above. His pectorals throbbed as he bounced them in time to the rhythm of the lights on the viewing monitor. A tiny chime sounded as a little white arrow appeared beneath the numbers pointing down. The flexing continued, the throbbing increased, and so did the size of his muscles as they grew wider, broader, and more well defined. The number dropped by a point. He shuddered, and grinned wider.

“Big me on screen.” Jason laughed.

“Yes. And the more you grow, the better you’ll feel. Grow for me. Flex for me. Fill that head with nothing but meat.”

“Meat.” Jason grew another few inches as his feet expanded in size. The display dropped to 130.

“Massive muscles. Massive meat. Massive, manly bulge.” Stone sneered as he tapped the outline of the jockstrap on the screen. A new spiral formed over it, this time spinning clockwise as the line pulsing from the brain connected to the spiral on the crotch.

Hunter groaned as he felt the crotch of his pants tighten further. He watched as the sagging pouch of Jason’s new jock strap slowly began to inflate.

Jason gaped at the screen as he continued to flex and grow. “Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly, huge. Grow. Grow for … for …” He scrunched his face up, looking confused.

“Grow for Sir,” Skinner said as he lumbered next to Jason, and started to flex with him.

“Obey Sir,” Meathead said as he moved in on the other side. “Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads … obey. I … obey … must … obey … and watch … flex … listen. Yes, Sir.” The numbers dropped significantly, and the pink mass shrunk. Soon the display read 90. A slight outline began to press against the pouch of the jockstrap.

“Meatheads obey, you obey. Meatheads grow muscles, you grow muscles.”

“Like … meatheads.”

“Because you are a meathead,” Stone said. “My meathead.”

“I … am a meathead. Meathead. Meathead.” With each repeat of the word, his voice grew deeper, the bulge in his strap grew more distinct, another surge of growth struck, and his eyes grew more vacant as the brown in his iris became less prominent and the green more prominent.

“A big, dumb meathead, just like them,” Stone pressed. “You want to be a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You love being a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You are nothing but a big, dumb, obedient meathead.”

“Big,” Jason flexed. “Dumb.” He grinned as he watched the pulsing screen on his end. His body expanded yet again. He towered at eight feet now. “Meathead.” The pouch in his jockstrap now clung to his swollen manhood. His grin widened as he stared at a part of the screen. “Big meat. Like big meat. Me … I … uh …” He grunted, and held a hand over his pouch briefly. “Feelin’ funny. Sorta … dumber.” He chuckled. “Dumber. Dumber. Meatier. Dumber. Fuckin’ hung, and fuckin’ dumb.” The numbers dropped again, this time to 84.

“You are a meathead, part of a collective, one of many,” Stone said.

“One of many. Same. This meathead understands. This meathead obeys,” he droned.

“Tell me your name, meathead.”

He wasn’t flexing anymore. He stared perfectly straight as he addressed the screen, like a little toy soldier. “This meathead has no name, Sir. This meathead has obeyed his programming. This meathead awaits his orders.” The number dropped to 80. “This meathead is too stupid to think.” 78. “Nothing but meat and muscle for Coach to command.” 76. “The bigger meathead grows, the dumber he becomes. This meathead will grow for Coach Stone. This meathead will forget. This meathead will be dumb. This meathead obeys.” 74.

“You will wake up, meathead. And you will wake every other meathead in the organization, understand? Wake up, and remember, Controller.”

70.

The new meathead’s eyes went completely blank, as if the pupils had disappeared. The pulsing lights phased in and out, in and out. He breathed in time, even as his body expanded yet again, this time with longer arms and a broader back. The jockstrap creaked in protest, but he paid it no mind. “Meathead designation Controller received,” he said. Turning smartly at ninety degrees, just like the drones Hunter had watched, the newly-dubbed Controller advanced to a console. “Implementing control protocol C. This meathead obeys. This meathead will wake other meatheads.”

Stone sneered triumphantly. “Good meathead.”

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 7

Hey, guys. Just one more part to go after this, and Of Spies and Muscleheads will be complete. It’s been awesome sharing this story with you, and I look forward to sharing more in times to come, but after this, Coach Stone may end up disappearing for a time as I work on the next arc involving him. My apologies for having to make you wait, but rest assured, there will be more transformations to come across a variety of paths, including muscle growth and mental changes, so don’t worry. You’ll see more of the themes you love. I promise. ~Omni

The newly dubbed Controller chuckled. “Time to wake up, bros.” His fingers whisked over the keys faster than they had, even when he had been his old self. “Meatheads will wake. Meatheads will respond. Meatheads will obey.”

The smaller men behind suddenly stiffened, as if a bolt of electricity had run through them. They doubled in size and muscle mass, grinning like the idiots they now were. A metal storage closet door buckled and shrieked in protest, before bursting open to reveal the torn lab coat of a technical assistant beneath a tower of muscle. A headpiece that was far too small for this man’s new form barely clung to his ear as he strode out of the tiny and much deformed space to join the others. And still all Hunter could do was stare.

“How far along are we, Controller?”

“Conversion at fifty percent, Sir,” he droned.

“Good. Meatheads, go round up any stragglers in the building who haven’t been hooked to the communications network. Controller, keep up the work here. Meathead, Skinner, guard Controller.”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, Coach. We are meatheads. We obey,” echoed in stereo over the screen, before the column of men filed out in search of stragglers.

“I do so love my meatheads. Don’t you, Agent Hunter?” Stone asked.

“Go to hell,” Hunter growled.

“That would make an interesting vacation spot, but I think I much prefer Florida,” Stone quipped.

“Let me go, damnit!”

“In due time, Agent Hunter. In due time.”

“All field agents accounted for, coach,” Controller said. “They have begun the process, and will soon convert to muscle.”

Various screens began popping up over the main one on the tablet.

“Agent Butcher reporting. Butcher is a good meathead.”

“Agent Iron Skull reporting. I am a good meathead.”

“Agent Quicksilver reporting. I am a good meathead.”

And so it continued one after another. Each new agent reporting in was another blow to Hunter’s heart as he watched his comrades in arms fall to little more than thugs for hire swearing their loyalty to a maniac.

“Meatheads, continue your assignments as normal, then contact Controller for your next instructions when they’re complete.”

A collective, “Yes, Sir,” followed, and the communications cut off, leaving just Controller and the meatheads there, and Stone with his meatheads and captive.

“Meathead conversion ninety-nine percent complete, Sir,” Controller said. “Meathead Gym Titan waits for its coaches.”

“And your gym will have them. But first, we should take care of that last percent, wouldn’t you say, Controller?”

“Whatever you say, Coach. This meathead does not think. This meathead obeys.”

“Good meathead. Now put on your helmet, and trigger our last sleeper agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys.”

The giant known as Meathead approached with a helmet similar to the ones Hunter had seen on the drones as he snuck through the castle, and placed it solidly on Controller’s head. The green plexiglass covering flickered and glowed, and soon enough, he looked just like the rest of the drones.

“Connection restored. Reinforcement protocols initiated.” He flexed, and made his way to the console, his pupils dilating and contracting in time to the pulses from his helmet.

Hunter groaned as he watched those pulses. Jason’s … no, he’s not Jason anymore. It’s Controller’s jockstrap. Controller’s body. He watched the jockstrap straining to hold up. He saw those curved muscles, watched those pectorals as they twitched and bounced. Bouncing. Huge. Swollen. His thickened brow furrowed. Why was he so upset again? Something … wrong?  But bouncing. Pecs. Muscles. They’re nice, aren’t they?

“Not yet, Hunter,” Stone said. Hunter felt a sudden pain burning through his arm. One of the former agents was clinging to it, twisting the skin. “You need to watch and listen.” Stone sneered then, and pointed to the other brain that had been left off at the side. Hunter’s eyes widened as he saw the number had dropped down to 90.

“That’s–.”

“Your IQ, yes. Strange how susceptible you are to my little tricks, wouldn’t you say? Already, you’ve lost so much,” Stone mocked. “Then again, you’ve been exposed for quite a while now, haven’t you?” He turned back to the screen. “You’ll initiate contact on my mark, Controller. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, Coach,” Controller replied.

“If you’re going to turn me into one of your–” Hunter grunted, swearing in his mind. Why did his clothes have to be so tight? “–Mindless meathead drones, then the least you can do is show me the agent responsible.” His number had dropped to 85, and it was getting harder to stay himself. Harder not to want to flex, to sit and stare, to watch it all go away, far away. Wrapped up deep inside. Deep in his massive meat. But no. He couldn’t … not yet. Not … not yet. Have to focus. Have to stay strong. Stay strong. Strong.… “Who … who helped you? Who betrayed us?” So hard to focus. So hard. Hard muscles. Stronger. 82. Pulsing deeper. 81. Deeper is dumber. Dumbing down. 80. Like a good meathead shoul–NO! He was not a meathead. Want to be a meathead. He would resist. Convert. Obey.

“Wait and see. It won’t take all that long, before Controller makes contact, once I give the order. Just relax, enjoy the ride. I see you’re already starting to, anyways. It’s a real rush, isn’t it, all that power? I felt much the same way when I first changed. The swelling muscles; the surge of the testosterone; the heft of my penis and testicles as they hung, swelled, expanded. I nearly lost myself to my body then, became little more than another one of the brutes you’ve seen. For a short while, I was.

“All I wanted, all I cared about was gym, eat, sleep, and the occasional sexual intercourse. I found employment at a local gym, and for almost a year, I worked and lived as nothing more than a musclebound, weight-obsessed, protein-chugging meathead. Made a nice mint as a model, too, from time to time.” Stone smirked. “To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what it was that snapped me out of it, and back to my old self. Possibly a delayed reaction in the compound, or maybe it was sheer dumb luck. Whatever the case, when I finally came to myself, and returned to my little lab, the compound had degraded too far for recreation, and, unfortunately, during my little stint in the land of the meatheads, I’d carelessly used my research notes as towels and placeholders for my protein shakes and beer. I had to start from scratch.

“As you can see, I’ve managed to recreate the growth in muscle and body mass, but I have yet to figure out how to preserve my targets’ intelligence. Of course, that’s not an entirely bad thing. And since I was the first, in an ironic twist of fate, everyone automatically perceives me as the alpha, or coach, if you will. Even without proper mental conditioning, I just have to approach them, bark an order at them, and they obey. For example, I could say something like ON YOUR FEET, MEATHEAD, AND GIVE ME TWENTY PUSHUPS NOW!”

Hunter felt a sudden surge of vertigo, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, pushing silently with brutal efficiency. Half a minute later, he was back on his feet again. This was his chance. He could–

“BACK TO YOUR STATION, MEATHEAD. NOW!” Stone barked.

Again, the spinning sensation, the loss of balance or connection with the world. Then the world righted itself. Hunter was staring back at the screen again. He shook his head in disbelief. Stone had to be bluffing. It was the conditioning. Something that traitor Skinner did. He had to be the agent, he had to be. Stone was just trying to keep him distracted, so he couldn’t break free and finish the job. He had to fight this somehow, had to beat it. Smash. Crush. Dumb down. Obey.

“Good boy.” Stone smirked as he watched Hunter’s number drop to 78. “I’d say you’re ready. Controller, contact our agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a good meathead. Controller obeys.”

A high-pitched whine, and the sound of harsh, grating static assaulted Hunter’s ears. He winced.

“’Sup, bro?” Controller’s voice said over the earpiece. “Time to wake up.”

“No … hell no!” Hunter growled. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Stone smirked. “Controller, override sleeper programming. Authorization key: Full Restore.”

“I obey,” Hunter heard in stereo as the meathead that was once Jason pressed into the console. A familiar workout tune beat into his eardrums. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys his coach.”

“Jason, if there’s even so much as a scrap of you left in there, now would be the time to fight back,” Hunter said. “Please.”

Controller paused for a moment, as if considering what Hunter had just said. The music pulsed in Hunter’s brain, making it harder to focus. The heavy clank of weights echoed down the corridors of his mind. He remembered the men so mindlessly at work on those benches, pushing, swelling, growing. He recalled that giant among the meatheads, his helmet, his face, those blank glassy eyes. He remembered the one drone that had offered his helmet, and the intense regret that had run through his mind when he rejected it. Then Controller reached for a particular button, and pressed it. The volume turned up. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys. Time to remember, meathead. Time to obey.”

Pain arced through Hunter’s skull. He screamed, and the last thing he heard was the endless laughter of Stone and his army of mindless drones.

That Feeling

You know the one.

The one that punches you in the gut, just as you let down your defenses.

You’re feeling better, feeling higher, and you smile in relief, thinking the worst is past, that things are okay.

Then reality asserts itself, and history repeats.

Time turns back its hands, and you’re dragged with them to that place you never wanted to be again.

Regret. Guilt. Remorse.

These are names people use to describe this feeling, compartmentalize it, so we can box it away somewhere and keep it under wraps. And for a time, it works. It seems almost to disappear, like the mysterious misfiled paperwork for an insurance claim. 

Sometimes that’s all there is to it, and it really is gone.

But only sometimes.

All it takes is one trigger, one false move. A twinge of memory, the prelude to a great loss. 

Words said by a loved one that make you sound selfish and uncaring.

A single sign marked with just a few barring words.

These are just a few examples of the many triggers man faces every day, forcing that feeling to jab, to strike, to tear anew.

It sucks, but you have to deal with it somehow.

What will you do, when that feeling hits you?