Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 32

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 31

You grunt heavily as you plant yourself down on the reinforced metal stool. The cool granite counter top soothes the burning in your forearms as you slot in next to two more of the gym’s regulars. The music throbs in your ear canals through your earbuds with that dull droning in the background. The barman approaches and grunts as he runs a drying cloth over a massive cup. “What’ll it be?” “Post workout,” you return. “Biggest size you’ve got.” The man nodded. “One muscleman special coming up.” You shudder and grunt as he turns to the blender, enjoying the high that surges through your system. Looking to either side of you, you notice the whole bar is full of regulars. Each of them sits mulling over a massive container of protein shake. Earbuds snake down their ears as they sip and stare intermittently. The loud whirr of the blender makes it impossible to talk, but for some reason, you know that even if they could, they probably wouldn’t want to. These guys were hard core body builders, after all. You were just a prissy model who came in for a gig. You casually tense your bicep as you watch it inflate. “Not so prissy now,” you mutter. The mug smacks down in front of you, and you look up in some surprise. Had the time passed that quickly? “Good hustle on the floor today,” the barkeep complimented. “You deserve this.” “Thanks,” you say. The keep shrugged. “Just tellin’ the truth.” You furrow your brow in confusion. “Do I ... know you from somewhere?” “I’m here every day, dumbass,” he deadpanned. You chuckled as that pleasurable fog rolled in. Dumbass. So funny. “Huhuhuh ... yeah. Sorry, man.” Then you frown again. “But seriously, haven’t I seen you ... you know, somewhere else?” He turned quickly away from you as he worked a cap off one of the many jars of powders the bar provided for its unique blends. You watched his shoulders tense and relase as he hunched forward, then returned to his full height, and suddenly it clicked. “Yeah ... weren’t you on the team that helped remodel my--?” “You really should be drinking your protein shake, muscleman.” And suddenly your body went rigid. Your eyes fell on the shake. Your mouth watered. “I ... I should....” “Drink your protein shake, muscleman.” Your hand trembles as you reach for the tall container. “You are what you eat. Drink the muscleman, become the muscleman, muscleman. You should drink the shake.” You blink your eyes slowly. Your head feels full of cotton. “Drink ... the shake?” You feel the cold from the cup seeping into your hand as the droplets tingle on your skin. It’s sweating, just like you’re sweating. And for some reason, that makes you smile. It’s good to sweat, after all. “Don’t think, muscleman. Just drink. That is what you are here for. You should drink your shake.” “It’s good to drink,” a gruff voice sounds to your right. “I drink the muscleman to be a muscleman,” the hulk on your left says. “Musclemen drink their shakes,” the counter says in unison. You smell the sweet scent as the cold beverage hovers under your nose. Your hot breath fogs the plastic on the cup. As one body, the men hold their cups to their lips as their eyes rest on you. “They’re waiting, muscleman. Drink,” the barkeep says. “I should drink my shake....” The words are out of your mouth before your addled head can even wonder. And then you feel that familiar, exultant sensation of thick, cold liquid flowing over your tongue, consuming your taste buds, flooding the roof of your mouth. And you feel your neck throbbing, bobbing, with every swallow. Up and down. Up and down. Your eyes look to either side. Thick legs are spread at a perfect symmetrical angle. Backs are straight. And Adam’s apples are bouncing with every loud gulp. Up and down. Up and down. Musclemen drink their shakes. Up and down. Up and down. Together..... Your crotch tightens with each gulp and you sigh, then belch in perfect time with the others as you all lower your cups to the counter top. Everything feels so ... muted, calm, empty. A massive hand claps you on the back. “Welcome to the club, muscleman.” Your response is immediate. “I am a muscleman. I grow my muscles.” The man looks at you calmly. “We lift things up and put them down.” You shudder in pleasure at the phrase as the pair of you clasp hands and he nods approvingly. “I look forward to seeing you on the circuit.” “When I am ready,” you respond. “Until then, muscleman.” He nods to you, and you nod dazedly in return as a smile crosses your face. “Until then,” you say. Then you turn back to the barkeep, who’s busy clearing away the empty cups. “So, what was it you wanted to ask me again?” he said. “Huh?” “That question. You wanted to ask me something.” It takes a moment for you to process that. “Did I?” The barkeep rolled his eyes, but smiled, despite himself. “Nevermind, dumbass.” You chuckle and pop a double bicep flex. “What can I say? I put it all in here.” “You’re a real meathead, aren’t you?” You take a few minutes this time as you tap your chin, flex a few muscles, bounce your pecs shamelessly against your tight tank top. “Yeah, ... I suppose I am.” You grin. “Just a big, dumbass meathead.” And every part of you sang at the phrase.

Heifer Haven

It was such a funny little name. You really didn’t understand it, considering the fact the place seemed like a dairy. You’d done your research. You knew a cow couldn’t produce milk, unless stimulated through hormones or delivered of a calf. The former was little more than an artificial means of messing with the creature’s biological clock. The latter would render the farm’s name null and void, since a heifer is a virgin cow. Was it just an affectation or did the owner of this place really mean for the farm to only be for heifers? Of course, you didn’t know, and it wasn’t really for you to wonder about in the first place. All you knew was that you were here to test the quality of the product and write about the farm’s practices on your blog.

The farm’s owner was a kind and straightforward woman with broad shoulders and long flowing black hair. She started you off in the field, touring along the border of the property and pointing out all the cows grazing in the distance. Next came the milk room, where she showed you how the pump machines she utilized worked and the best way to milk the cows’ teats without causing undue irritation or pain. Then she showed you the barn and pens, where the cows would sleep during inclement weather and the winter months. You were happy to see she’d laid them with straw and other forms of bedding that would prove harmless and comforting to the herd. As a whole it was definitely one of the best dairies you’d seen. There were absolutely no signs of any form of abuse. The woman seemed to care very deeply for her herd.

Lastly, she led you to a small wooden stand, where a series of empty glasses sat waiting on the side.

“Now for the best part,” the owner said with a playful smile, “the sampling.”

“Sampling?” you return.

“You’ve never had a glass of real milk before, have you?”

“Um….”

“I mean before it’s pasteurized,” she clarified. “If you think you know milk, you’ll change your mind, after you’ve tried some of this.” She made her way behind the stand and crouched down to pull up a plastic tube that she placed inside one of the glasses. Then she twisted something from behind the wood and you watched as the frothy white substance poured out into the cup. When it had filled, she cut off the flow, then offered you the cup. “I guarantee it’ll change your life.”

You looked dubiously at the drink.

“Oh, would you relax? I’ve drank unpasteurized for years. It won’t kill you to try a single glass.”

“I have always wondered what it’s like,” you admit as you come closer and take the cup from the lady. You sniffed the glass carefully. It didn’t smell any different than your usual cup of milk in the morning. Then you took a sip, just a tiny one. The milk was thick and rich with a sweet creamy texture, nothing like what you’d bought in stores before. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as you fought and ultimately failed to suppress the moan of pleasure that built in your chest and burst out your mouth.

The farmer beamed at you. “Told you it was better.”

You went after the milk with far more gusto this time, letting the froth coat your lip in a moustache as you did your best to swallow every last drop. Each gulp was a symphony of flavor on your taste buds. You moan again as you pull the glass back regretfully from your lips and lower it to the stand. Your nostrils flare as you snuffle, fighting to take in as much of that heady aroma as possible along your lips. With every breath, you enjoy more of the smell and a goofy smile crosses your face as you grin dopily at the farm’s owner.

You feel a peculiar warmth in your nether regions as you lick your lip with your broad tongue, brushing against your nose and moistening it as well. “Moooore?” you ask, heedless of how your voice has deepened. You sway briefly on your feet, feeling suddenly unsteady. You crouch to try to lower you center of gravity, but that doesn’t do you much good, and only seems to make your pants feel all the tighter as you lean heavily onto the wooden stand for support.

The woman is only too happy to provide. She holds a glass up to you and your nostrils flare again as you shove your face into it, licking and swallowing as much as you can. Any that spills, you just bow your neck down to lick up with your broadening tongue. Off in the distance, you can just make out the sound of the herd lowing to one another. Your ears flicker in annoyance as your fingers fumble weakly on the hard wood, scrabbling across its surface as they grow thicker and darker. A slight tickling sensation draws your attention down to your arms, where you notice a rigid dusting of hair. A strange sense of familiarity overtakes you as you look down at your hands. You think you’re supposed to see these strange pink things, but … all you see is a black mass. But … that’s what you’re supposed to see, … isn’t it? You work your jaw and smack your thick rubbery pink lips together as you struggle to gather your thoughts. A curious euphoric fog is clouding your mind as you feel thick calloused hands run over your head, rubbing at an upper corner. You groan in pleasure, and it comes out as a gentle low.

So good. So nice. Nice to just … relax and … and ….

A loud detonation sounds as the zipper on your pants breaks apart. A warm, sloshing mass is swelling, pressing tighter and tighter against your expanding girth. You don’t mind, though. It’s too good just enjoying the woman’s ministrations. She smells so wonderful. It makes you feel warm and safe as you nuzzle her gently.

“That’s right,” she coos into your ears. “Good girl.”

You hardly even register her words, too lost in the euphoria of her touch and the swelling fog that derails your train of thought. You shudder as she nurses and pulls ever so gently at the horn that’s starting to emerge from your skull. Another few breaths and the constriction on your chest is suddenly relieved as the sound of shredding fabric tears through the air. The woman reaches down and pulls off scraps of white cloth, the shredded remains of your shirt, but all you can think of is the loving caress and the question of why such a thing would be on you in the first place. It doesn’t even smell like you.

The woman stops to peer into your eyes and smiles. “You’re coming along very nicely.”

You don’t understand the words, but you don’t mind. You nudge at her with your long, thick neck and toss your expanding head as your ears flick again. She soon gets the message, and you feel that wonderful touch on the other side of your head. A second horn bud soon emerges to join the first. You shudder in pleasure as the warmth becomes more pressing against your belly. You’re dimly aware of a faint sloshing and a distinct sort of pressure starting to build down there. You’re loath to ask, but the question needs to be answered. It’s starting to get a little uncomfortable, after all.

You kick back with one of your legs and low softly as your ears drop behind your head. She seems to understand, nodding her head and passing behind you. You crane your neck, which feels surprisingly flexible, and watch as she lifts your rear hooves and pulls off the offending pieces of cloth that have been keeping you from feeling the familiar pressure of the turf. A loud popping sounds as more cloth breaks free and falls. She reaches up to reclaim it, brushing your wide, bony hips, which leads to more tingling as a long ropey tail launches out from your rear. It flicks casually left and right, leaving you with a sense of repetition that eases that twinge of fear floundering in the back of your head.

You lick your broad velvety nose as the lady cuts away at the band that’s been biting into your waist. It finally breaks free with a satisfying snap, allowing that uncomfortable warmth to slosh down low to the ground. The pressure has built so heavily that you can’t think about anything else. The tall grass tickles against the protrusion and you low with need. The woman smiles and walks back to the wooden stand, while you drop onto all fours, looking patiently and trustingly at the lady that has been so very kind to you. She withdraws a stool and a large bucket. She places the bucket beneath you, then lowers the stool onto the ground by your withers. She pats you once on the side, then begins to pull at the sensitive sack that had been so tightly pressed against your body before. You hear the distinct sound of high pressure liquid striking metal as she pulls. Relief floods you as the pressure begins to ease. Her hands aren’t even cold.

“Good cow,” she utters. “Good cow.”

Over and over again, she repeats. It’s almost entrancing as you stand there, leaving your tail to flick in the wind. You low gratefully to her as the pressure continues to ease and your eyes widen Your pupils expand into broad ovular pieces that flick left and right as your nostrils flare. You smell your milk. You smell the sweet scent of fresh grass, and your stomach rumbles at that smell. Actually … you’re pretty sure you feel … four rumbles?

“Good cow.”

Euphoria rushes over you again and the confusion is gone. You chew the grass with thick, flat teeth, grinding it to paste and swallowing happily as the green leeches out of your eyes to be suffused with a rich dark brown. A light tingling near your rump is the only source of discomfort as the image of the farm’s brand engraves itself harmlessly on your flesh. You low gently, and the herd responds to your call. It is questioning, suspicious. They don’t know you yet. But that is right. You must earn your place with them.

Suddenly, the woman is standing in front of you, pail in hand as she smiles at you. “Go on, then. They’re waiting.”

You blink a few times as you look at the kind smile with innocent, unthinking eyes. You approach her, nuzzle her hand briefly, then turn and lumber your way across the field.

The woman smiles as you walk off and she whistles pleasantly to herself as she pulls out a fresh insulated container from behind the stand to dump your milk into it. “Score another for the herd.” She smiled then as she flipped her phone open and hit the speed dial. “Yeah, Jack? Tour went off without a hitch. This one’s a real producer. You still looking to add some studs to your herd?” She nodded at the response. “Yeah, I’ve got plenty of wet cows for the season. I’ll see about having your breeders ready, after the next tour.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 30

You strode confidently through the doors to the warehouse with Harry by your side. The man was positively beaming. Must’ve been having a good week. You grunt and shrug. It’s not your concern, anyways. Your concern lay ahead, past the sea of flashing strobing cameras to the waiting Fängsla. His broad shoulders and wide grin were the same as ever, and you can’t help but grin yourself as you feel your muscles tense and flex in anticipation. Soon you would be able to pose for the camera. And it always felt so good posing for Fängsla. “You are back!” Fängsla greeted cheerfully. He eyed you up and down. “And you have grown.” “It’s what they hired me for,” you return as you clasp the man’s hand with your own and feel the forces of his grip grapple with your own. Something about the contest filled you with an inexplicable thrill. You held that grip for a time as Fängsla peered deeply into your eyes. Then he nodded and he released his grip. “You are comfortable now, yes?” You grin as you pop a flex. “Perfectly.” “That is good. Go get changed. I will finish last calibrations.” You nod and make your way to the table. As had been before, the underwear sat waiting in a variety of sizes. Your eyes wandered over each of them, until they fell on a unique posing strap with bold capital letters on its waistband. DJUR You don’t even hesitate. You seize the strap and make your way to the changing room, your head awhirl with the giddiness of that familiar emptiness you’ve come to enjoy so much as you listened to your recordings and grew. You grunt again as you toss your clothes aside in a crumpled heap and step out, wearing the new garment. Harry whistled in surprise as you tromped over to the blank white background screen and stood at attention, waiting for Fängsla’s guiding touch. “Excellent!” Fängsla praised. “You have grown so much in all the right places. You are ... what is the word? Fantastic!” The cameras began to flash, and you smiled that dimwitted grin you’ve been practicing so much with your selfies. “Good. Good! Now show me dum. Show me korkad. Remember, you are djur.” Flash. “A djur does not think.” Flash. “Muscle thinks for him.” Strobe. “Muscle thinks for you.” You grin vapidly as you enter pose after pose, completely shameless over your body. After all, you worked hard to earn this muscle. It deserves to be shown. It wants to be shown. Muscle thinks for you. You turn to your side and pose, heedless of the swelling fog and tightening pouch. Muscle wants to show off, so you want to show off. Flash. Show off. Strobe. Listen to muscle. Flash. Obey your muscles. Strobe. Because that is what djurs do. Flash. “Djurs like you,” Fängsla’s voice echoed faintly through the fog. You look eagerly into the camera lens as the next flash blazes into your retina. Your pupils can hardly keep up. Shrinking and growing, pulsing in time to the constant input. The lights and the breaks blur together in an endless cycle of pleasure as you flex and pose on command, running that program, executing the orders, both from input and from your own muscle memory. “Because that is what you are becoming.” Flash. Becoming. Strobe. “More and more.” Flash. “Every day.” Strobe. “Each time I see you.” Flash. Your head is reeling. You let out a husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuhuh....” “More muscle, less mind.” Strobe. “Because djurs only care about their muscles. Brutes must grow.” Flash. “You must grow.” “Grow....” Strobe. “Because you are djurisk, brutish. But you are not true djur yet.” You frown at that. “Wadaya mean?” you slur. Flash. “Simply I do not believe you are djur.” Fängsla shrugged his shoulders. “You think too much. Djurs let muscles do the thinking, bodies do the talking, yes? You do not do this. It is shame, really.” A low growl rumbles out your throat as you glower at the camera. Flash. “Good! Good! Show me anger. Show me fire! That is muscle talking. Much better!” Fängsla praised. Strobe. “Muscle must control brain. Muscle must fill head. That is how you become djur.” Flash. “Muscle....” Strobe. “Proud muscleman does not think. He acts!” Flash. Doesn’t ... think.... “Show me muscleman. Show me djur. Be the muscleman. Be the djur!” Strobe. Doesn’t ... think.... Flash. Listen........ Strobe. Be the djur. Flash. “Yes, Sir.....”

Your head felt sorta funny as you left the changing room later that night. You could hardly believe that you’d taken the whole day to pose for this session. Fängsla grinned at you as you emerged in your Underarmor shirt and compression gear. “You are very close,” he praised. “I am sure bosses will want you to shoot commercial soon.” You sway briefly and broaden your stance to steady yourself as you massage your temples with your mitt of a hand. “Shoot the wh--? Oh, right. Yeah. The commercial.” You look back at your now much shorter agent. When did he get so tiny? ... Does it really matter? “Harry, how’re we doing on that, uh ... that ... you know.” Man, is it hard to think. “The timeline?” “Yeah, that,” you utter in a low, husky voice. You want to smile as it vibrates your vocal cords, but you’re just too tired to. Maybe that’s why you’re not thinking straight. ... Yeah, that’s gotta be it. “Smooth as a whistle. Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ve been keeping tabs on things. All you gotta do is keep doing what you’re doing and pick up when I call you. You can leave the rest to me,” he promised. You sigh in relief. That was a major weight off your shoulders. Though, speaking of weights.... “Thanks, Harry. Think you can drop me off at the gym? I need to lift things up and put them down.” You didn’t mean to say it, but a wave of euphoria sweeps over you, the moment the phrase is out of your mouth. You’re so caught up in it that you don’t even notice the broadening grins on both the men beside you. “I look forward to next visit.” Fängsla smiled as he clasped your hand once more. “By the way, I like new haircut. Is very Maskulin, very ... butch is the word, yes?” A dull tingle of pleasure prickles through you, emanating in waves from your chest and crotch. This time, you do smile. “Thanks.” “It is my pleasure. The look is good on you. Good luck. Next time we meet will likely be last, but it is always pleasure having you as subject, yes?” You chuckle at the broken English. “The pleasure is all mine, Fängsla.” “Come on, kid. Let’s get you to that gym,” Harry said. You turn respectfully, albeit a tad eagerly to avoid being noticed as your pecs begin to bounce in anticipation. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Time to go home.

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.

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.