Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 24

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 24

You grunt as you press through your tenth rep and look up at Hank. “Think you can add another ten on the rack? This is getting too easy again.” Hank smirked. “Look at you, getting all cocky.” “Not cocky, confident,” you correct as he grabs two five pound weights and places them on either side of the barbell. “I want to keep progressing, so if this is getting too easy, then I know to up the ante. You taught me that.” “And you’re learning it well.” “Was that an actual compliment?” “Would I do that?” “I think you would.” Hank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, smartass. Now get back to work. Those weights aren’t going to lift themselves.”

You smile to yourself as you continue to pump with one arm, while you run your vacuum cleaner with the other. The surge of blood through your limbs has become almost addicting to you now, and you keep wanting to feel that pressure as your muscles press against your sides. Each strain is another surge of pleasure as the muscles on your side strain and flare in time. Occasionally, you bounce a pec, just for the sake of variety. You pause a moment, shutting down the vacuum to pose in front of the mirror. Your emerald singlet clings tightly to every piece of your body, defining the muscle as you let out that same deep-throated chuckle. “Who’s a muscle man?” You ask yourself. After a few seconds to change poses, you let out another groan of pleasure and relief as you stretch, shifting your hold on the weight to your other side. Then you reply, “You’re a muscle man, and damn proud of it.” You look down at the bulge pressing against the crotch of your singlet. The outline of the jock strap you’re wearing is prominent, and you smirk as you tromp over to your weight rack and put down the dumbbell, before picking up your cell phone. You turn it towards the mirror, and Flash. You look down at your phone screen. A familiar smirk stares back up at you. “Looking good,” you compliment yourself. You’re about to turn back to your vacuum cleaner to finish the living room, when a sudden lurching in your stomach yanks you back towards the mirror. “Maybe just ... one more,” you allow yourself. Flash. Show off that muscle. Flash. So good. Flash. To pose. Flash. Like the camera. Flash. Fängsla’s camera. Click. “Show me muscle man. Show me the djur,” his voice echoes in your head. Flash. “Let the djur out. Let the djur stay.” Flash A pleasurable rumbling grates its way up your throat and out your mouth as thoughts of cleaning fade into the background. “Stay,” you low, and are rewarded by greater pleasure. You look down at a dimwitted grin, then look at the mirror to see the same features reflected on your face. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle as you reach up and rub your bicep. Flash. A shudder runs through your body as you pose again. The taste of vanilla is strong in your mouth, and you look down to see the image of your flushed face guzzling a huge bullet cup of protein shake. You belch, not even trying to contain it. “Nice one,” you mutter almost drunkenly as you kick the bullet cup out of the way and walk back towards your makeshift home gym. You lower your phone to the stand and grasp both weights. It’s time to work out.

... Like a beast. ... Like a djur. ... .. .

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 21

You stare at the poster on the wall, uncertain as to which may prove the best style for you. There were so many to choose from! You knew you wanted short. That much was certain. But just what kind of short would really suit you? Did you want the high and tight, the flat top, a simple buzz cut, maybe some kind of crew cut? Whatever it was, you knew you wanted short. It was just so hard to choose with all the possibilities! The comforting buzz of electric razors at work hummed cheerfully in the background as they sawed through hair follicles to the tune of soft jazz. You could already feel a sympathetic tingling in your scalp as the sound permeated through your ears. Then came the sound of smart shoes clattering against the laminate tiles as Harry approached from behind. “So, you decide yet, kid?” he asked. You shake your head mutely. He whistled. “Sure is a lot to choose from, isn’t there?” “Don’t remind me,” you reply glumly. Your long-sleeved Underarmor shirt hugs tightly to your frame and you take a certain amount of comfort in that constant embrace. Every time you moved, it was like someone was giving you a massage, rubbing over each muscle, and it felt so very good. You couldn’t understand why you’d never had more of these shirts in your wardrobe to begin with. Harry chuckled, and the crown on his head shone as he wagged it back and forth. “You know, kid, you could always ask the barber what he thinks would look best. He is a professional, after all. The company recommended him specifically for you.” You furrow your brow a moment. “Why ... would they do that?” “Do what?” “Why would they recommend a specific barber? There are plenty of others out there. Why this one, in particular?” Harry shrugged. “He may not look it, but the guy’s trained in more than barber school. He’s a former stylist for all sorts of events. Fashion week, Couture, movies. You name it, he’s done it. The man’s a genius. He always seems to know just the right look for his clients to get into character. You sway on your feet as a bout of dizziness overwhelms you. Were it not for Harry’s swift reflexes, you probably would’ve faceplanted. You’re dimly aware of the steadying arm wrapped around your own as you’re led, stumbling, to a padded leather chair. You feel a gentle breeze on your face, and something is shoved into your moth. You clamp onto it and suck, filling your mouth with the familiar taste of vanilla and cinnamon. “Easy, kid. Easy,” Harry soothes. The dizziness subsides. “That’s it. Relax. Just relax.” You gulp heavily, until the familiar rapid staccato of air rushing with the last dregs of liquid pounds through the room. You sigh as you fall back into the chair, and are pleasantly surprised to feel a head rest cradling your neck as your shoulders slump. “What just...?” you ask slowly. “Dizzy spell. You’re all right now,” Harry promised. “Barry here’s gonna take care of you. You can’t help but chuckle. “Harry and Barry, huh?” Harry smiled. “He’s gonna be okay.” “Good. I’d hate for my client to have to run, before I even get the chance to handle him.” You feel your chair swivel, and suddenly you’re facing a veritable Adonis. His golden hair was perfectly coiffed with a natural wave that formed on his right side to jut up into the air. His skin was a healthy tan and his face was rounded, almost heart-shaped. His white teeth practically radiated confidence as he bore them in a smile. His long white sleeves are rolled up around his biceps to highlight the light dusting of golden hairs along his arms that accentuated each curve of well-toned muscle perfectly. His deep blue eyes were an incredible sight, the kind you might have killed for, back when you were more focused on your modeling career. Well, it’s not like you aren’t still focused. It’s just ... not on those aspects anymore. You’ve been too busy focusing on your body. And ... well, the results speak for themselves. You can bench a good 140 pounds now. The repetitive clank of the weights, the burn as you feel the muscles working to tear and repair over and over again. That same process over and over.... “Hello? Earth to,” Harry calls your name. You blink blearily as you turn to face him. “Huh? Oh, sorry, Harry. Was kinda lost in thought.” Well, not so much lost as visiting a happy place. You never thought you’d consider all that effort as enjoyable, but now you find yourself almost longing for those exercises. A body is a machine, and your machine was designed to LIFT. “One of those, is it?” Barry asked in a bored tone. “It is what it is,” Harry said with a shrug. “Bosses want him to look the part.” “Well, he’s certainly well on his way to acting it,” Harry mused as he stroked his smooth chin. “How long?” “He’s been training for about the last two months.” “And how much has he gained?” “See for yourself.” You watch in that twilit sort of daze as Harry passes a phone to the man. He passes his finger along the screen a few times, and Barry lets out a whistle. “He has potential.” “That’s what I told them. Kid’s a hard worker.” “What can I say? I love to work out.” You shrug your shoulders casually. Barry pursed his lips as he considered you. “I see.” He walked over and stared at you closely, occasionally cocking his head to the side. “I’m going to touch you for a moment. Please don’t get upset. I just need to check your facial structure to be sure.” “Sure?” “Of what types of styles would work best for you,” he clarified as he reached forward and started probing at your cheeks, your neck, your jaw. “Hmm ... yes, yes. I think I have it now.” He withdrew and started stroking his chin again as he paced. “You, my friend, are most definitely a square type.” “Hey!” He rolled his eyes. “Square in facial structure, not in the insulting kind of way.” “Oh.” You chuckle nervously. “Sorry.” You’re such a dumbass. That dreamy smile returns again as you think that word, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. “Hmm. Yes, I think I know just the kind of cut you need,” Barry mused. “Something ... simple, low maintenance.” “I like simple.” “Of course you do,” he says offhandedly. “Um, excuse me, Barry. Can I pay up now?” A smaller, more reserved young man with black hair and a smooth part that shone with pomade looked timidly up at the man. A simple sweater vest hugged over a creamy white long-sleeved shirt. “Oh, but of course, Alexander. Forgive me. I completely forgot.” “N-no problem, really. I don’t mind waiting, if you need me to,” the boy said hastily. Barry’s smile widened. “Nonsense. A good young man like you deserves to be treated fairly, after that terrible ordeal in juvie. You’re a proper reformed citizen now, aren’t you?” “Yes,” Alexander said dreamily. “A proper reformed citizen.” He held out a twenty dollar bill, which Barry was only too happy to pocket.  “And do try to remember to stay with the right sort of people this time, won’t you?” Barry asked. “Of course, Sir.” Alexander’s smile widened into a dopey grin as he clicked his polished leather boots together and gave a smart salute. Barry chuckled. “Off you go now, my boy. I’m certain your parents must be anxious to see you again.” “Oh, right. Thanks again, Barry!” Alexander waved happily as he snatched his jacket off the coat rack and made his way out the door into the snowdrifts to a waiting sheriff's car. Barry sighed happily. “Ah, youth. I love seeing them make the right sort of choices again.” Then he turned back to you. “Now, then, let’s get started on your haircut, shall we?” He clicked a button on a remote and the lights dimmed as a familiar whirring began to play over the speakers. The buzzing of the razor left you feeling loopy as the vibrations carried from the first contact, seeping deep into the nerves along your scalp and neck. You roll your eyes back in delight as the room starts to spin. “In the professional circuit, we like to call this style the induction cut. Why don’t you just lean back, relax, and I’ll tell you all about it....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 13

“Look, Kid, they want progress pics, okay? It’s part of the contract, so just hold still and relax a little. It’ll be over, before you even know it,” Harry promised. You continue to look around nervously at the plethora of booths, where model after model are busy posing and flexing for the cameras. Reflectors glare as they spread illumination over each curve and bend of the various models. You can’t help but sigh as you see how free the photographers are with touching, adjusting the height of an arm for symmetry, pulling out a leg to broaden a stance. You’ve been through the song and dance before, but for some reason it just feels ... different this time. It seems almost like they’re just a bunch of puppets for the photographers to dress and pose as they choose. Then again, isn’t that basically what you’ve been doing even more than them? After all, you’re letting your contract decide your schedule, your habits. What else might it require of you? What other strings could there be attached? A sharp elbow to the ribs soon breaks you from that disturbing train of thought as Harry glares at you. “Eyes forward, kid.” A towering figure looms ahead of you. His black sleeveless zipper hoodie is parted to reveal rippling abdominals and thick, slab-like pectorals. The hood is drawn up over his face to obscure most of his features, but the way in which he carries himself more than makes up for the apparent shyness. A large hand covered in a rough fingerless glove reaches out to seize your own. “Greetings. I am Fängsla,” he announces in a thick, rolling Swedish accent. “And you must be the new model. It is a pleasure.” You feel a slight sense of vertigo as he squeezes your hand, so you shake your head to rid yourself of the feeling. “Nice to meet you, too,” you manage. Fängsla smiles wider, and you finally see past the shadows to a chiseled white face with a short cropped blond buzz cut that shines like platinum as it catches the light. “We are going to be doing great things together, yes? I can already tell.” He smiled and turned back towards an unoccupied photo booth in the corner. “Come,” he said. “We have much work to do.” Your eyes nearly bug out of your head as Fängsla hands you a a shiny dark purple posing strap. “You want me to wear this?” Fängsla shrugged. I am here to take pictures of your body, yes? How am I to do that, if we cover it up?” “Isn’t there something a little ... less revealing?” You feel the blush rising in your cheeks. “I’ve worn briefs that show less.” “If you like.” Fängsla shrugged again. “Bosses have other options.” he motioned over to a table, where a jock strap and a pair of briefs also sat. “Take your pick.” Naturally, you dove for the briefs. Your cheeks were on fire as you raced off to the changing room to get ready. Fängsla shook his head. “Americans,” he sighed. “The body is nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Then he turned to adjust his cameras and prime for your return. The constant flash of the camera was a little difficult to adjust to, at first. The slow motion capture frame set off a strobe of flashes every time you changed position, wreaking havoc on your eyes. It was fairly simple, really. You felt more like a little toy soldier than anything else as the camera man instructed, “Turn. Good. Good. Again. Other way now. Turn. Yes, yes. Very good. Now stand straight. Erect. Yes, yes, that will work nicely.” And so it continued. He would order, you would turn, he would snap, he would praise you. It actually felt kind of nice, not having someone so touchy feely working over you this time. He turned your head a few times, of course, raised your chin, that sort of thing, but he was very gentle with it. “Good, good. Remember, you are proud of muscles, yes? Show me you are proud. Proud men are not shy.” Flash “Proud men are not afraid.” Flash “Proud men are strong men.” Flash “And strong men show off.” Flash “They love to show off, yes? Of course they do.” Flash Things began to come easier. The blush faded from your cheeks. Fängsla’s words danced in your head, and a smile slowly pulled at your lips. “There he is. Show me, strong man. Show me your muscles. Show Fängsla your pride.” You were only too happy to oblige.

You walk out of the warehouse with a long stride and a grin on your face as you clutch the bag holding the posing strap, jock strap, and briefs from the shoot. “You keep,” Fängsla had insisted. “Use them to experiment later.” He’d shrugged, then. “You may come to like them, strong man.” You give your bicep a passive flex. Strong Man. You liked the sound of that. You smile and wave back at Harry, then strut confidently down the sidewalk, despite the slush and the chill in the air. Who cared, when it was so sunny and you’d been having such an amazing day? In fact.... You start to lift your legs up, puffing slightly. Today was a perfect day for a jog, and maybe a little home workout. Yeah.... You’re already lost in the rhythm of your own feet smacking on the sidewalk, by the time Harry stops waving. Unbeknownst to you, he raises his cell phone and activates his speed dial. “Hello? Yeah, this is Harry. We just finished the photo shoot. Kid’s a little shy about the straps, but a few more sessions should take care of that. Your man should be sending the photos soon. Kid’ll be blowing up like a balloon in no time. Now, about that pay check....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 12

“... You’re slipping now. Slipping down and down as you listen to my voice. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. And it feels so very good, so very relaxing as you listen. The more you listen, the better you feel. The better you feel, the deeper you go. Letting go now as you descend into that muted darkness, into that peaceful trance. “Ten. Feeling so good.” You find yourself sighing heavily as you hear the familiar thock of the metronome echoing over and over in your head. “Nine. Slipping farther as your legs stop wanting to move. So heavy. So relaxed as you go deeper and deeper, feeling better and better as you listen to my voice.” And you are feeling better. Thock. Relax. Thock. deeper. Thock. Listen. Thock. Deeper. Each stroke is so rhythmic, measured. It reminds you of the weights clacking at the gym. “Eight. Deep breaths. You want to listen to me. Listening as that heaviness spreads to your lower body. It’s getting harder and harder to remain upright. How about you just lay back against the couch? It would be so much easier than sitting up, and then you can listen more, without all that weight, without all that strain to distract you. And it will feel so good when you do, won’t it? Like when you collapse into bed, after a long workout.” You’re not sure when you started letting your body sag against the back of the couch, but you shudder in pleasure as a flood of relief flows through your limbs. “Seven. No distractions. No worries. Just listening to me. Just listening to the sound of my voice as I guide you deeper and deeper. And it feels so good. You don’t want to stop, do you?” “No,” you sigh. “That’s right. You don’t. You want this. You want to listen. You love how good I make you feel. And that means you should keep listening to me, because I make you feel good.” “Yeah....” “Six. Feel the tension flowing out of your body. Feel your thinking slowing, slowing as it’s flowing, flowing out your body. Flowing away with the stress. Flowing, like my voice through your ears as you listen. Flowing louder as you fall deeper. Flowing until it’s all you can hear, all you want to hear. “All I ... want....” you mumble as the world retreats into that strange twilight sort of place. Her voice echoes and babbles in your ears, like water flowing through a cave. “Five. You love the sound of my voice. It’s good to listen, isn’t it? You want to immerse yourself in it, don’t you?” “Yes.” So good. Feels so good. “Four. Flowing over you as you fall deeper and deeper, flowing like a river over you as you descend, washing away all thought, all fear, all hesitation. You are giving in to the current. You are letting it take you where it wants, and it wants to go deeper, so you want to go deeper.” By now, you can hardly hold your head up. “Deep...er....” “Good. Three. No longer resisting the flow. Letting go as I speak to you. Listening to my guiding voice. We are flowing to that perfect place, that place of absolute stillness, where your mind is perfectly open, open to me, open to my voice, open to listen, open to obey. Because when you listen to me, you are obeying me. And listening feels good, so obeying also feels good.” “Good....” Her words are lapping over you like a massage, and it feels heavenly. “You will obey.” “I will ... obey....” Obedience is listening. Listening is obeying. Listening feels good, so obeying feels good. Makes sense. The flow is taking you where you want to go, and where you want to go is where the voice is taking you. “You will obey me. Can you repeat that for me?” “I will obey you....” A new thrill of pleasure washes over you as your body slumps further in the couch. You can’t even feel its fabric anymore. You’re floating, and it feels so good floating, listening, letting go.... “Two. So close now. Letting go of all conscious thought, all will. Surrendering it to me, because you listen to me, because you obey me. You’re nearing a final curve in your downward slope. We’re almost at that perfect spot. Slip deeper. Listen harder. Relax. Obey.” And you do obey. You can hardly muster the effort to bob your head as it slumps forward, lolling over your chest. “One. Turning so gently, so slowly, into that final curve. Slow, like your mind, slow like your breathing. Slow and deep. Deeper and deeper. So deep in my voice that you can’t possibly imagine leaving it without my help. Floating into that sea of my voice, that gentle place that laps against you in waves, caressing you, filling you with pleasure to just listen and accept, listen and obey.” It feels so right. A dull smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Zero.” You’re floating, surrounded by that beautiful, sweet voice lapping at your ears. You are immersed in darkness, that quiet nothingness that feels so good as you just ... exist. No need to think. No need to act. Just relaxing. Just sitting. Just waiting. “Tell me the truth. Can you hear me?” A command. Must listen. Must obey. “Yes,” you say in a low voice. “Have you been listening to your recordings?” “Some. The pre-workout tracks make me feel excited. I enjoy those.” “And the night tracks?” “Tried a little. Haven’t done much with ‘em yet.” “How come?” “Noise makes it hard to sleep. Brain keeps stayin’ up. Used to sleep, but now my body’s adjusted, I’m not that tired anymore.” “Listen closely,” the voice ordered. “You will listen to those tracks every night. They will no longer bother you. In fact, they will help you sleep.” “But ... they don’t.” “Not yet,” the voice corrected. “The more you listen to them, the easier it will be to sleep with them. Every night you will listen to them. Every night, they will help you to sleep. Every night, you will fall asleep sooner with the track, because you are adjusting to it. It is natural. It is a part of your nightly routine.” “Natural ... routine....” “Every night.” “Every night,” you repeat. “Tell me, what must you do with the tracks?” “Play them every night.” “Because you want to.” “I ... want to....” “Every night.” “Every night....” “You want to every night.” “I ... want to ... every night....” “Good boy. Now then, let’s get to work on a little motivation....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 20

Harry whistled as he looked over your expanded frame. “Looking good, kid.” The sensation of the tape running over you again leaves you distracted. It always seemed to get so difficult to concentrate, when you were showing off your body, even for a routine checkup. “What was that, Harry?” you ask. “I said you’re looking good,” the man noted. “I like the new look. Fitness wear suits you.” Then you’re taking off your shirt for a proper measurement around your torso. You shrug your shoulders. “Nothing special,” you note. “Just gotta have the right gear for the job.” “And you definitely do,” Harry agreed as he eyed you up and down. You grunt and shrug. “It’s progress. Still got a ways to go.” You move to stand on a scale, as directed. According to the machine, you’ve gained five pounds. “Bodybuilders have more mass.” “How’re things with Hank?” “They’re good. He’s a great coach. I think I’ll keep working with him, after this gig is over.” “Do you mind?” the doctor asked exasperatedly as he looked up at you. “Hmm?”  “You’re bouncing your pecs again,” Harry noted. You look down at your bare chest to see the heavy muscle popping up, then relaxing again. You chuckle. “Sorry. It’s sort of a habit. I do it to pass the time, when I’m bored. If I didn’t flex something, I don’t think I’d be able to sit still.” The doctor sighed longsufferingly. “Would you at least try?” “What do you think this is?” you counter. You barely suppress the urge to laugh. Duff was right. This is fun. And judging by that smirk on Harry’s face, he’s enjoying it, too. And well, since you have such a captive audience, maybe you should put on a bit more of a show.

“Dude! You did that to a doctor?” Duff laughed as the two of you sat over your bowls of chicken and rice. “What? You do it for other stuff.” “That’s just priceless!” He thumped his hand on the table. You grin viciously. “I know, right?” “We should totally team up sometime.” “Oh, you know I’m up for that.” The both of you laugh again, and your voices echo in stereo. The constant exercise has not only helped to strengthen your body, but has altered your voice to pull it into the deeper registers. “Though speaking of team-ups, that reminds me....” Duff reached down into is gym bag and slammed a massive bullet cup on the table. “Time to up your dose.” Your mouth waters as you take the 32 ounce cup and lay it in your bag. “Finally.” “What, no grimace, no sound effects? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you actually like that drink now.” You shrug, and the tightness of the Underarmor as it clings to your shoulders sends a thrill of pleasure down your spine. “And what if I do?” Duff smiled knowingly. “Nothing, bro. Nothing. Let’s eat.”

You’re standing in front of the floor length mirror in your mini-gym again. You’re not quite sure why. Something just ... isn’t quite right. You narrow your eyes suspiciously as you scrutinize your body. Taut muscle twitches from the rapid pump of your heartbeat, after a good lifting session. Your eyes linger over the text that pops against your pectorals. EAT BIG LIFT BIG GET BIG The last of the three is divided by a heavily weighted barbell. You pop a flex, because you can, and you smile. You pat the bulge in your crotch gently, proud at the growth you’ve been able to experience there. But that’s not it either. Gotta stay focused. Even though it’s so tempting to just stand there and stare at your reflection. Stare. And flex. And stretch.... You run a hand through your sweaty hair to pull it away from your eyes, and it clicks. “You need a haircut,” you tell your reflection, and he tells you in turn. You smile again, proud that you were able to reach the conclusion and find what didn’t belong. In fact, you’re feeling so proud that you think you deserve a reward. You peel off the tank top and smirk as your pecs begin to bounce. First one, then the other. Up and down. Up and down. And as you watch them bounce, you feel that familiar emptiness returning, and you grin at your sudden realization. “Who needs a dumb recording?” You huff out another chuckle. “I’ve got muscle.”

I totally agree one hundred percent. I may not like language much, but this artist has a point. One that, unfortunately, hits all too close to home for me. ^^;

It’s Not Fair

As someone pointed out to me tonight, and as something I have known for a long time and I know others know too, I’m just going to say it, even though it sounds childish:

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that the creators of our favorite shows are allowed to hang and display fan art of their shows on the walls, but they can’t even touch fanfiction.

It’s not fair that fan artists can be hired by authors and content creators to design content for them, but writers can’t.

It’s not fair that fan art gets thousands of notes, but fanfiction rarely hits more than double digits (all likes, no reblogs).

It’s not fair that we have to beg for responses to our work.

It’s not fair that people demand us for new updates moments after we put out a new one.

It’s not fair that if we charge “too much” for a commission, we don’t eat dinner that night, but I’ve seen fan art sketches get sold for over sixty dollars.

It’s not fair that every time a writer makes a post about how much it SUCKS to be a fanfiction writer, we get people in the comments saying “artists work hard too!”

We know they do.

It’s not fair that I have to put a disclaimer in to every post like this saying that I recognize how hard artists work, that I appreciate and adore them.

But fandom, every single fandom, creators included, is not fair to its writers.

And it fucking sucks.