Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 36

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 36

You lumber through your apartment door with a dopey grin on your face. It feels so good to be back. The two weeks were such a blur, but it was a happy blur. And if you were happy, then there was no need to question it. Leave the money and stuff to Harry to manage. You drop your suitcases easily by the door and stomp your way to the kitchen for your protein shake and a healthy meal. You crash down into the reinforced steel chair by your new dining table and start forking your typical lunch of brown rice and chicken, while the siren call of the blender roars through your ears. Musclemen drink their shakes, and yours would be ready soon. It didn’t take long to finish. You rise about halfway through your meal, when the motor finally dies. You don’t even wait to start chugging the drink, and make your way to your chair to resume your meal. After all, muscle machines need fuel to run, to produce more muscle. You pull out your phone and check for messages, noticing some new voicemails. You stick it on speaker and continue to eat as you cue up the first. “Hey, lil’bro. Duff here. Just wanted to be the first one to welcome ya back. Been pumping at the gym a lot, since you left. The guys all miss you. Been wondering where you’ve been at. Think I had to remind a few of them a good three or four times, before they finally got it.” Duff’s dimwitted chuckle reverberated through your ears, and you couldn’t help but join in. What a bunch of dumbasses. “I’ve been making some gains of my own, since you left. Hank’s been helpin’ me out again, pumping my brain with anatomy as much as he does with lead, so I can pass my classes. Let’s hook up again at the gym for old times’ sake. Then we can hit up that restaurant for some teriyaki. My treat. Anyways, gotta go, bro. Those weights are calling my name.” He laughed a deep, husky bark of a laugh, then spoke again. “See you soon, lil’bro.” A big grin crosses your face as you think back to all those late night gym sessions with your best bro. Duff really was a great training partner. The guy would go pretty far, once he got his training certification and graduated. Then he could help build other muscle machines. You casually shovel another bite of your meal and chew as you access the second voicemail. “Kid, it’s Hank. You’d better not have slacked off during those two weeks. I’ll whoop your ass, if you did,” he growled. You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Good old Hank, always looking out for you. “No, Sir,” you mutter absently, after swallowing your food. “Anyway, the gym’s waiting for you. So am I. Don’t flake out on me. You know what’ll happen, if you do.”  Like you’d ever do that to him. You can’t help but smile at the concern you know is hidden under that gruff bravado. The man was harsh, but after all that time under his tutelage, you’d come to understand that elusive language all musclemen seem to share on a subtler level. Every word, every action held a hidden meaning. With those few short sentences, the man had communicated an ocean of questions and concerns ranging from diet to health and dedication to maintaining ties. “I missed you, too, Hank,” you say as you smile at your phone. Of course, neither of you would say that to your faces. Musclemen don’t do mushy. They banter. They bluster. Their muscles do the talking and the thinking. Every word said and not said is registered and interpreted in that secret language that’s becoming more and more natural to you with each passing day. You pop a double bicep pose and flex, grinning in that way that says, ‘I am healthy. I am happy. I am ready to return to work.’ “I want you here bright and early tomorrow morning. No excuses, understand?” You chuckle to yourself. Why put off for tomorrow the workout that can be done today? Besides, you’d like to see that stony face surprised for once, and what better way than to come unexpected? “I’ll see you then. Don’t be late.” The message clicked shut and your smile widened. You can’t wait to throw him off his game, just once. The third message had Harry’s familiar voice blaring out the speakers. “Kid, that last shoot was incredible! The camera loves you, and so did the photographers. They said you were one of their best models, bar none! I’ve got some paperwork I’ll need you to sign a little later for some last transactions and a few formalities involving finances. I’ll drop by the gym, and we can take care of it during your rest period. I’m telling you, big things are coming, kid. BIG!” You chuckle as you lift up your bicep and flex one more time, watching the muscle strain and pop against your skin. “Yes, they are, Harry,” you agree. “Yes, they are....”

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.

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! This deserves a reblog. Absolutely INCREDIBLE What-if scene. *applauds loudly* Well done, Kyraneko. Well done!

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 35

You’re a linebacker, tensing down at the starting line, just waiting for the call to crash into your enemies. Your jockstrap and cup hold your manhood securely as you feel the tight hug of the lycra in your pants and the weight of your shoulder pads clinging to your bulky frame. You’re a brick wall, and you’re not about to let anyone past you as you enter a three-point stance staring through the bars along your helmet’s guard. A few flashes later, and suddenly you’re a grinning, happy-go-lucky beach bum in a speedo. You feel the volleyball resting casually between your vascular arm and your hip as you stare into that beautiful lens and chuckle emptily at the sensation of sand between your toes. Sun’s out, guns out. It’s good to show off. Next thing you know, you’re up at bat, ready to slam into that ball as it comes flying over the plate. Your hands clench tightly to the wooden bat as your gloves creak from the pressure of rubbing against the varnished wood. A thick baseball helmet adorns your crown, with an extension of the ear to protect against any blows to that area. You can almost hear someone whispering, “Pose for the cameras....” So, that’s what you do. Because that’s what good musclemen do. And you’re a good muscleman, just doing as you’re told as the flash empties your mind more and more, making it that much easier to just ... do. One more flash, and you’re a goalie who’s just made a saving catch. The ball is hoisted over your head as you prepare to throw it back into the field. The next moment, you’re posing victoriously over the ball, with your heavy cleats resting atop the blended cover of polyester and cotton that forms the outer layer of the soccer ball. Your jersey clings to all the right places as you grin for your fans. Then you’re suddenly feeling heavier as you hunch your shoulders and clutch the rugby ball close. Your compression shorts cling to your legs and your dark jersey shines with every shutter from the camera. The game must be won, the ball passed on to another teammate. Another flash, and suddenly you’re shaking hands with a member of the opposite team. You feel the surge of anger at this, but the voice whispers again. “Sport requires fairness. You must show respect.” Must show respect. You release your crushing grip and look at him with a placid expression, neither friendly nor hostile. After all, you’re both just competitors. Then, suddenly, you’re standing holding a long metal pole with a woven net at its top. A casual glance reveals a heavy white ball that holds the container down. Your pectorals jut out against the material of your jersey as you stare with just a hint of a smile and smoldering eyes. The voice whispers praise, and you grin as your body trembles with pleasure. Suddenly, you’re back at the gym, pumping a massive pair of dumbbells and loving every second of it. Your posing strap holds comfortably to you as you shift and pose in front of the mirror, never once stopping your reps as you maintain your form. It’s so good to just lift and pump, lift and pump. Flash. Lift the weights up. Strobe. Lowering down. Flash. Up. Strobe. Down. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle to yourself as you retreat to that place deep in your mind and let your muscles squeeze the thought right out of you. ‘I’m a good muscleman,’ you think as the reps continue. ‘I lift things up and put them down.’ You come to in the gym at your living quarters, still lifting, still staring. Your protein shake is on a cup holder off to the side, waiting for you to take another chug. You chuckle again as you notice the bulge pressing against your posing strap. “Big meat,” you low to yourself, then return to your vapid gaping at the mirror. “That’s right, muscleman, because musclemen are meatheads.” “I am a muscleman. Musclemen are meatheads. I am a meathead.” “Good muscleman. Good meathead. Now get back to work.” You happily obey.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 28

“Damn, boy, you’re plowing through those weights like they’re nothing,” Hank commented as he watched you work the butterfly press. The pump from your constant lifting has inflated your shelf-like pecs into two muscular globes that strain against the straps on your tank top. “Just figured I’d put more effort into lifting, less into complaining,” you grunt back. “Better breaking my limits.” “Spoken like a true body builder.” “That’s what I’m supposed to be, isn’t it?” you ask as you flash a cheeky smile his way. Hank let out a rumbling chuckle. “I suppose it is, at that.” Then he eyed you more clinically. “You might want to consider upping a size on those clothes of yours, though. They look about fit to burst.” “That’s the idea.” “You actually want to get a public indecency citation?” You roll your eyes as you pull the arms of the machine together again. “I want to be so big that I can break out of my clothes, just by flexing. Doesn’t mean I’m actually going to try something like that in public.” “Then up your size, when you come here, kid. Those straps don’t look like they’re gonna last much longer,” he said, pointing to the thin shoulder straps that now cling to your skin, thanks to all the sweat you’ve been generating. “Gotta change the gear, when it wears out.” Change the gear. ... Like a machine. ... A muscle machine. “Yes, Sir,” you say dazedly. “I understand.” “Good. Now give me another couple of reps.” You stare off into the distance as you let your body follow its programming. The sight of your face in the mirror, so blank, so focused, fills you with a certain amount of pride. Have to execute. “Then, after this, I might just let you get back to those dumbbells of yours.” You didn’t need any more prompting. You plowed through those reps, like they were nothing. All the while, Hank watched, nodding approvingly as he smirked, just out of the corner of your eye.

Duff let out a deep chuckle as he opened his apartment door for you. “Damn, bro, you weren’t kidding about those gains you were making. Come on in! Let me show you around the place.” He wrapped a vascular arm around your shoulders and pulled you inside. A coffee table sat in front of a single long couch. Its top was made of glass, but the frame was solid metal, and shelf after shelf of dumbbells laid waiting for anyone to use beneath that innocent glass pane. The top were the lightest, the bottom heaviest. The walls had been painted a dull silver that hardly shone through the posters of body builders, slogans, and weight sets. Speakers sat in every corner of the space, doubtless connected to the TV and sound system spreading wide against the wall. The screen was positively monstrous, taking up nearly the whole side of the apartment, with the exception of the small entertainment cabinet on its left that held various DVDs, Blu-Rays, and players, including a port for i-phones or MP3 players. A heavy duty weight rack stood near the entrance to the kitchen, next to a large metal bench press with an adjustable back. The kitchen was orderly, with a veritable regiment of protein shake cups laying in wait on the drying rack for later use. The refrigerator was incredibly high-tech, with a stainless steel exterior and a freezer in a sliding drawer below. Duff grinned as he pulled open the doors to reveal stacks upon stacks of Tupperware, each filled with equal portions of lean protein, healthy grains, and nutritious greens, all labeled with specific dates and times to eat. “Only the best fuel for these pistons,” he guffawed, popping a flex and smacking his palm over the dense muscular mound his bicep had become. A brief bout of lightheadedness strikes you at the words, and you sway briefly on your feet. “Best ... fuel?” Suddenly you feel two thick hands grasping your shoulders. “Easy, bro.” They guide you to the weight bench, where they force you to sit. In your addled state, you don’t feel the need to put up much resistance. Then you taste that familiar shot of vanilla in your mouth, and you swallow. A smile pulls at your lips. “Better?” Duff asks as he crouches to stare at you. “Yeah....” you mutter dreamily. A funny little question burbles its way to the surface as you take in the spartan appearance of the room again. “Say, Duff, why’s your living room look more like a gym than a, well, you know, a living room?” You know it’s a silly question, even a stupid one, but sometimes you can’t help but ask. You’re such a dumbass. Duff let out a husky laugh. “’Cause the gym is my home, bro.” He ratcheted the back of the press up, allowing you to lean back against it as you splayed your legs wide, giving you a perfect view of the entertainment console on the other end of the room. “The gym is ... your home,” you repeat slowly. “Yeah, bro!” Duff grinned excitedly at you. “Let me show you.” He jogged over to the entertainment center, sending tremors through the room with his weight. Then he fished through his collection of DVDs, till he found the right one. In a matter of seconds, the familiar sound of clacking weights and guttural grunts tore through the air, and you started to feel lightheaded again. You look up at Duff, who’s grinning down at you like an absolute idiot. “Welcome to the home gym course for Muscle men!” a chipper voice greeted as the camera zoomed in on a strangely familiar man. He was shorter, trimmer, and his face was far softer, but ... it looked almost like.... “Hank?” you ask. Duff’s grin widened. “Yeah, bro. He used to make these custom DVDs years ago, sold ‘em to special clients.” The screen flickered briefly. “By the time this video is finished, I’ll have shown you the secret to making you feel right at home in the gym.” The screen flickered again and you blinked slowly in response. “Yeah, he said this copy was kinda damaged, but once you get used to it, the video’s fucking ace,” Duff said. “All you have to do is follow my instructions exactly. The rest will take care of itself. Are you ready? Let’s begin.” The video ran through a series of basic exercises you blew past a long time ago. The lights would flicker in the gym, and the sound would degrade sometimes as you watched, but Duff’s grin just kept getting wider the more he stared. You almost got up to turn it off, but every time you were ready to, Hank’s voice would cut in. “Now don’t you touch that button. Remember, a key part to making the gym your home is endurance.” The screen flickered again. “So, remember, keep watching.” By this point, Duff had already crouched down to retrieve a set of dumbbells, and he was pumping along. A few flickers later, and you could feel your own arms pumping in time. “And with every pump, think to yourself, the gym is my home. That’s right. Now say it.” “The gym is my home,” Duff lowed with a confident grin. “Again.” “The gym is my home.” “Again.” “The gym is my home.” Your head was awhirl as the flickers danced in your eyes. You hardly even noticed how dilated your pupils had become, how dim the lights had grown around you. All that mattered was the video. All that mattered was the gym and the pleasure the gym brought, because Hank said it did. And you couldn’t argue with him. He was right. You loved the gym. You loved the pump. Why shouldn’t you call the gym your home? “Again.” This time, instead of a murmur, you boomed in perfect time with Duff. “THE GYM IS MY HOME!” Your grin became just as wide as your friend’s as the light reflected off his luminous bristled red hair. “Good. Now that you’re home, it’s time to work out, muscleman.” The phrase crashed over you like a tsunami of bliss, and you let it pull you into that favorite empty place. Musclemen didn’t think. Musclemen listened to instruction. Musclemen worked out.