Well, As A Suggestion, And To Add Some More Inanimate TFs, A Buff Featureless Mannequin TF? The Details

Well, as a suggestion, and to add some more inanimate TFs, a buff featureless mannequin TF? The details could be anything. Someone wish to get buff only to have the wish twisted around. Modeling for a friend who draws him then redraws the image to look better, changing him to look buff, before erasing the extra features that would take away from looking at his now perfect body. A mind controlled drone related TF. A fashion store in need of a new mannequin. A weird yet well paying job. Etc.

I’ll consider it. Though, I still need to focus on the work I’m doing with my current series, before I pop into that one.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 34

“Hey, kid. I’ve got another gig for you, if you’re interested,” Harry’s voice carried over your new bluetooth phone accessory into your ears. Hank suggested the twin earpieces the moment you talked about how Harry’s calls were messing up your workouts. The little devices were an absolute miracle. “It’s for a new brand of sports gear coming out,” Harry continued. “Jock straps, cleats, socks, shorts, uniforms, football, baseball, you name it.” You pump your dumbbells casually, admiring the healthy gold that’s replaced your once pale white skin as you mull the offer over. “How long?” you finally ask. “It’ll take about a week or two.” “Local?” “Out of state, but they’re willing to add housing expenses.” You mull that over again slowly as you continue to pump rhythmically. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Finally, you nod and speak. “I’ll need a gym. High quality, full spread, full access. It’s not home without a gym,” you say, “and I need to keep up my workout schedule.” “Of course. I already explained the details of your other contract to them. They agreed a muscleman like you is perfect for the job.” The world came to a halt as your weights dropped to the padded flooring. “A muscleman like me is perfect for the job,” you repeat in a dull monotone. “Because proud musclemen love to show off, and what is modeling, but a chance to show off those muscles?” “I am a proud muscleman. I love to show off.” “That’s right,” Harry said. “Show off for the cameras.” “I show off for the cameras.” “You will pose as you are ordered, during your photo sessions, because proud musclemen don’t think. You remember that, don’t you, muscleman? Musclemen don’t think.” “Our muscles think for us,” you return. “My muscle drives my body.” “Just a big, dumb muscleman growing bigger and dumber, bigger and dumber every time you lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down,” you slur in a deep, bovid voice. “That’s right, Djur. Lifting and growing and dumbing, until there’s nothing but a bulky, brawny brute of a body builder. Because that is what you are becoming. That is where you want to be, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Good muscleman. Now, when I say the word congratulations, you are going to wake back up out of this trance with no memory of this exchange. You will remember agreeing to the contract and feel enthusiastic about the modeling to come, because musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand. You know this from the compression gear you take with you to the gym every day.” “Yes,” you agree. “And you will wear whatever they ask you to without complaint, because...?” “Musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand.” “That’s right. You’re a good muscleman.” “I am a good muscleman.” “Now pick up your weights and resume your exercises.” You quickly move to do so, pumping mindlessly as you listen to the voice that has held your attention so raptly. Harry’s chuckle carried over into your ears. “Congratulations, kid. You’ve got the contract.” You blink blearily for a moment. “S-sorry, Harry,” you low slowly. “I ... didn’t get all that. I think you broke up a bit.” You shake your head to try to clear the fog. “I said you got the contract, kid. I’ll send the travel arrangements your way, once I’ve got them booked. A big grin spread over your face as your heart rate picked up. “Awesome! Thanks, Harry!” Harry chuckled. “No problem, kid. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work.” “I will,” you promise as you stare into your mirror and smile at the way your muscles ripple and shift under your skin as you work them. “I will,” you repeat in a dreamier tone as the buds pick up on your MP3 player and the familiar tracks filter through your ears.

Harry panted to himself as he laid a hand against his chest to get his heart rate under control. An exultant surge pulsed through his brain as the flood of adrenaline merged with a hint of arousal. His cheeks flushed and his bald spot shone with sweat as he reached for a tissue and dabbed the droplets away. Once he’d regained enough control of himself, he pulled out his cell phone and clicked the redial button. A few rings later, and he heard the familiar voice of his client on the other end. “How did it go?” the deep voice asked. “Surprisingly well,” Harry said. “I ... I’ve never done something like that before.” The man on the other end chuckled. “You enjoyed it.” It wasn’t a question. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mister Harrison.” The flush in Harry’s cheeks deepened. “Please, call me Sir. I find that much more informal than ‘Mister Harrison.’” “I, uh ... don’t know if I feel all that comfortable calling you that, ... Sir.” Harrison chortled. “I’ve already sent the payment, along with a little ... let’s call it a bonus, a reward, if you will, for excellent service.” Harry’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I ... I always aim to please, Sir.” “Of course you do. You have talent, Harry. You don’t mind, if I call you Harry, do you? After all, we’ve been working together for so long.” Harry gulped. “O-of course not, Sir.” “Good. Good. You see, Harry, when I find talent, real potential, I like to make use of it, polish it until it shines so perfectly, so emptily, that I can see my own reflection.” “Um ... is this going anywhere, Sir?” Harry’s voice cracked, and he swallowed to alleviate the dryness, then fumbled for his coffee mug and took a sip. His hand trembled as he returned the mug to its place on his desk. “To put it simply, Harry, I see that glimmer in you. I see the talent, the spark. You, sir, have the soul of a conditioner, a manager, if you will, not unlike Fängsla.” Harry chuckled nervously. “Um, thank ... you?” “Which is why I’m going to start polishing you now.” “Excuse m--?” “Report, candidate.” Harry shot bolt-upright in his chair. His eyes stared unseeingly at the door to his office. “Yes, Sir.” His chair scraped back against the hardwood floor as he reached over to grab his phone and keys, then made his way to the office door. He stopped only long enough to lock it behind him and tell the secretary to hold his calls and cancel his appointments, followed by the assurance he’d be in contact soon and handing her the key to the main office. “Lock up. Take care of the place. There’s a bonus in it for you, if you do well,” he promised. And then, just like that, he was out the door walking at a brisk pace to reach his car. He had to report.

This needs to be re-blogged as much as possible.

Don’t just accept the new Terms of Service

Tumblr’s at it again, thanks to the new European Privacy Laws. There’s probably nobody who will read this, but it pissed me off so much that I decided to make a post about it. (Ignore the weird language mish-mash, depending on your country the language might differ.)

OK, so many of us get this screen when we try to access our dash:

Realise how the ‘OK’ button is a nice, attention-grabbing blue? If you’re like me, you’re not exactly into reading a 100 pages document and tend to just click it.

My tip? DONT. Instead click on ‘Manage Options’ right next to it:

Now you’ll see this page:

Still pretty harmless, right? That ‘Accept’ button is looking really attractive right now. Instead, click on Verwalten (Probably something like ‘Manage Options’ or something in english) and you’ll get to this page:

Now that’s not too bad, right? I just switched all the buttons to ‘off’, because I’m jealously guarding my personal information and don’t want Tumblr to go off and do who knows what with it. Looks like we’re done! But wait: There’s a SHOW option.

When we click on that one, what we will get is this:

A HUGE list with OVER 300 ENTRIES of companies that can use your data by default if you’d just clicked ‘OK’ on that very first page. Coincidence that this list is hidden that much? Me thinks not. They’re all switched on by default, but I am still a petty bitch that doesn’t want to give out her data, so I switched them all off. All 300+ of them. There is no option to switch them all off at once, and even if you disable all the options above, the companies are still switched on.

(If you wonder how i got that number, I copied the list into excel and looked at the cell number. No way am I actually counting all those entries)

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 32

The days have all become a round of mindless repetition now. You eat you portioned meals, drink your protein shake, lift, drink your protein shake, return to the apartment, eat your portioned meals, lift your weights to the pulsing screen and throbbing beat of your speakers massaging your brain, drink your protein shake, train with Duff, sleep, repeat. One or two times, you questioned yourself, your progress, what you were becoming, but a few pumps of your dumbbells, a few words of encouragement from Duff, a few seconds of your recordings, and those doubts were swept away like so much sweat off your brow. You linger in front of every reflective surface you see now, and you flex out of impulse. With the arrival of late spring, you’re able to go out in public with your shorts and tight muscle tee. After all, Sun’s out, guns out. The bar bends under the hefty plates you’ve laid on both sides. You work more in grunts and growls now, hardly speaking, but that’s because you have to focus on your body. Put everything into your body. You smile proudly at your gains, at the power you now exert every time you press against that bar, pushing higher, harder. Up and down. Up and down. Then the pullups. Up and down. Up and down. Squats. Up and down. Up and down. Situps. Up and down. Up and down. You grin as you execute your purpose. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say to yourself. A brute like you doesn’t want to do anything else. And then your bliss is interrupted by the ringing bells from your cell phone. You stare at it for a time, considering just letting it go. But ... you promised to pick up, if it’s Harry. You groan in frustration as you break your daily routine for the first time in you don’t know how long and check the ID. As you suspected, it was Harry. “What is it, Harry?” you growl as you answer the call. “You’re interrupting my workout.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back it up, muscleman. Don’t go killing the messenger.” Your head reels a moment and you stumble briefly, then grunt as you shake your head to clear it. “Why would I want to kill you?” There was a period of dead silence on the other end. “Harry?” “It ... was a figure of speech,” Harry finally responded. “Oh.” You flex your pecs impatiently. Your body still wants to move. “So, what’d you call me for?” “The client loved your photos from the last session. What they don’t love is how pale your skin is.” “And your point is...?” “I booked you an appointment at a tanning salon. I’ll be picking you up tomorrow at twelve thirty. Make sure you’re ready to go, muscleman.” Once again, the world spun around you. “I ... understand. I’ll ... I’ll, uh, ... be ready. Yeah....” You liked your skin, but, uh ... whatever the client wants. Yeah. You’re bound by contract, after all. So, what the client wants, you want. ... Yeah. ... Have to follow instructions. “Good. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work, kid.” “Will do,” you low absently. The weights are already calling you back. You don’t even bother to end the call as you return to your exercise. Can’t allow yourself to lose the pump, after all. Real Musclemen love the pump.

“And I’m a real muscleman now,” you mutter to yourself as that pleasant haze returns again. “I lift things up and put them down....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 26

The rhythmic clank of the weights on the barbell beats into your skull like the blow of a hammer on steel. The weights are the hammer. The bench, your anvil. And you, you’re the metal being forged, molded, remade into something powerful, useful, efficient. Combat ready. A smirk crosses your face. You’re not sure where that thought came from, but you like it. After all, what else are muscles for? They are to show that you are the best. The bigger you grow, the stronger you get. The stronger you get, the harder it is for opponents to defeat you. It’s only right. Soon you’ll be a match for Duff, and then he’d better watch out. A perfect match. “Yeah,” you rumble as you feel that burn you’ve become so addicted to rushing through your vascular arms. “You say something, bro?” Duff looks down at you with a knowing smirk. A set of earbuds trails down from his ears into his MP3 player as he spots you. “Just that I’m gonna whoop your sorry ass next time we wrestle,” you growl. Your voice has dropped a good half octave, and it feels so good every time you push into the deeper registers. It’s good to drop deeper. That dull numbing sensation returns in your head as Duff chuckles, and you would join him, if you could, but you have to keep your focus on your set. Uneven breathing wreaks havoc on your lift. And a muscle machine like you needs to lift. A new wave of pleasure washes out all thought as you open your mouth. “I lift things up and put them down.” Duff is grinning as he looks down at you. “Nah, bro. We lift things up and put them down.” He lets out a familiar husky chuckle as his gaze becomes unfocused. He pops a flex as you stare up at his broad torso. His pecs are bouncing one after the other in perfect time, and you can’t help but mimic his grin at the sight. You push quickly through the last of your set, then rack the weight and stand with him. The gym is empty once again. Too close to closing time for most customers to want to visit. And that’s good. It leaves the rest of the equipment open for the two of you. Besides, Hank doesn’t mind letting you two stay late. He trusts Duff. Certainly enough to make him a workout buddy, or a ‘big bro,’ as Duff jokingly said one time. You chuckle at the sight of his pecs jumping in perfect rigid tempo. “Huhuhuh....” “Look who’s talking,” Duff countered with a sneer. You look down and marvel at the sight of your own pecs dancing to the same beat as Duff’s. Back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. Up and down. Up. ... Down. Everything seems to slow to a trickle as you stare, mesmerized by the motion. Your mouth hangs open in a confused sort of O as you breathe deeply. Deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. No need to think. Just ... be. “I lift things up and put them down.” You look up dazedly at Duff. He’s handing you a massive pair of dumbbells. You take them without thinking. The pumping continues. The rhythm pulses through your brain. “I lift things up and put them down,” you return in that same vapid tone. Soon you’re both standing shirtless in front of the floor-length mirror. Sweat glistens over your torsos as you continue to pump. Duff soon joins you with another pair of weights. “I lift things up and put them down,” he utters again. “I lift things up and put them down.” And so it continued late into the night. Two weapons being forged in the flames. Two machines executing their programming. And it was good.

I actually had no idea there were so many different middle eastern styles of headwear. I find this highly educational.