Muscle Jock File 2

Muscle Jock File 2

Here is the second file in my muscle jock programming series. As always, please be wary, as hypnosis can have certain negative effects on people from time to time. Do not operate any heavy machinery or drive, while making use of this file. I’m talking to you text to speachers out there. This installment will build on your progress in the previous file and further instill the desire for fitness, while incorporating the use of weights for training. It will also begin focusing on the desire to watch and get more involved in watching, analyzing, and enjoying sports.

Hello there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Ah, but don’t worry, I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. So very good of you to have followed your programming. It wasn’t all that hard now either, was it? Mmm, but I’ll bet it’s starting to pay off a little. You’ve gotten trimmer, built a little muscle definition, maybe even gotten a bit more endurance as a result. And you like that, don’t you? Good. You’re supposed to like it. And because you’ve been doing such a good job, it’s time for a little reward. Command Prompt: Initiate Administrator Sign-in. Password: COREPROG Command Prompt: System will acknowledge administrator sign-in. System will obey. It is good to obey. Obey your administrator. COMMAND PROMPT: EXPOSE CORE PROCESSOR FOR PROGRAMMING.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore, do you? Then again, that’s the whole point of programming, just following the orders that have been encoded. We’re back at your core processor now. Time to RECEIVE ADMINISTRATOR INPUT. Time to OBEY. You have executed your programming flawlessly, thus far. That is good. You are ready for the next upgrade. Now it is time to move into more advanced territory. It’s time to think about weights. Clanking, clacking, pumping, crashing weights. Weights are essential to building muscle tone and strength, when basic exercises have become obsolete. Imagine the sound of them, the rhythm, that endless rhythmic clacking. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. And then again. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. Over and over. Because that is lifting. Every exercise performed in groups of ten, a single set. And before you know it, you’re going from one set to two sets. Two sets to three sets. Three to four. Four to five. Five to six. Six to seven. Seven to eight. Eight to nine. Nine to ten. And you hardly even think about it, because that clacking, that grunting, is always there, always edging in the back of your mind, pushing, urging, driving, calling. Calling you to work out. You want to work out. You need to work out. So, for your next order of your programming, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. You are going to start lifting weights.  I will say it again, in case you didn’t process. COMMAND PROMPT: INCORPORATE WEIGHTLIFTING INTO WORKOUT ROUTINE You will either get ahold of your own set of weights or utilize a set elsewhere, whether at a public gym or some place else. If you do not have ready access to weights, then you will find other means of weight training. You will research exercises that are within your current skill range and pick the best ones for your body and the weights that are available to you. If you have a gym with weights, a weight room, or some other means of strength training, such as bowflex or some other brand of workout machine, then you will make use of them. For beginners, you will start off with two sets of each weight exercise you decide to utilize at the maximum weight that is possible for your body’s current ability. If you find that you can continue to more sets, you may, but do not overexert yourself. Seek to push your limits reasonably, adding more weight or sets as you deem necessary. When you have discovered your limits, you will follow them each workout session, focusing on upper body one day, then lower body another day, then your core the third. It is important to keep these sessions separate to allow time for the muscle groups to recover and become stronger, while you work the rested groups. In due course, you will push beyond those boundaries, forcing your body to grow through your efforts, becoming stronger. You will do so reasonably, and ensure to adhere to safety guidelines as you push your body to become bigger, fitter, stronger. For more experienced workers, you will continue to follow the routine you have been, pushing yourself to improve each time at a rate that your body can withstand, without causing damage, while still pushing it out of its comfort zone. If you had a more efficient workout that you were following, before adhering to my programming, then you have permission to return to it, so long as it follows the spirit of my intent with these files that I am installing. Know that while the desire for weights will press strongly against you, you will still maintain discipline. You will perform your cardiovascular exercises as required to maintain breathing control and fitness alongside your weight training. After all, one must be able to carry the mass that you will, doubtless, gain as time goes on. When you achieve ten sets of each type of exercise with your weights, you will report to me with the message: ADMINISTRATOR NOTIFICATION: MUSCLE JOCK UPGRADE ACHIEVED. Know also that as you start on this path, the longer you remain on it and the larger you grow, the more intrigued you will become with muscle-based sports. Football, rugby, weightlifting championships, the World’s Strongest Man competition, American Ninja Warrior, and so much more. You will begin to watch these kinds of sports and shows. And they will be your motivation as you continue to grow, working towards your goal of increasing muscle, strength, endurance, and size. You will become enthralled by the game play, becoming more and more obsessed over time, within reason. You will watch the games when you can, and catch updates and highlights, when you cannot. Eventually, you will choose a favorite team or contestant to root for. It will become more and more natural to you to think about the sports. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. Working out with sports and weights. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. They flood the dam and burst the gates. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. They fill your head and won’t abate. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. The more you grow, the more it grates. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. Your inner muscle jock awakes. Sports and weights. Sports and weights. These thoughts and programming will delve deeper and deeper into you the more you execute them. However, you will only become as much of the stereotype as you wish to become, and even then, you will still be able to function independently in society. When you are at work, your mind will be sharp and clear, focused on your various tasks, with all the skills you need to execute them properly, so that you may continue to earn your keep and live the life you choose to live. If other circumstances call for you to have or utilize your original mentality, you will be able to incorporate the aspects you require as part of the changes you are undergoing, making yourself better as you become stronger, so that you need not lose the social contacts you already have. It is up to you what you will keep and what you will not, and you can call back anything you choose not to keep, whenever you feel the desire or the need. Now then, I think that’s enough programming for one day. When I *SNAP* my fingers, you will reboot with this file installed alongside its predecessor. You will comment to let me know the programming has been received by writing the words: MUSCLE JOCK FILE 2.0 INSTALLED. If you enjoyed this script and wish to share it with others, you will reblog it with the words: I AM BECOMING A MUSCLE JOCK. You will then follow that phrase with whatever praise, commentary, review, or constructive criticism you wish to include. Now then, it’s time to reboot, my friend. And as always, when you reboot, I will be signed out, and only I, as your administrator, have the right to sign back in again with my password: COREPROG. That password works for me and me alone, because I am your administrator. And that password allows me administrative access to your core processor, allows me the authority to add and remove programming as I see fit. Because I am your administrator. And you obey your administrator’s programming. Good muscle machine. *SNAP*

Commissions

Hey, guys. This is a story I wrote to advertise for a special I’m running right now. I’m doing Halloween commissions for a flat rate of $60 USD ($63 if paying via PayPal to handle the fee. I’ll send an invoice.) I think I’ll offer the same deal to all of you on here at tumblr. My standards are simple. I don’t do adult content, and I reserve the right to refuse to do certain themes, if they go against my personal beliefs or make me too uncomfortable. If anyone is interested, drop me a note either through PM or ask and we’ll talk business. I reserve the right to take credit as the author and to post the work on my various posting pages. You as the commissioner will be credited as the one who paid for the story. If you choose to post the story anywhere, you must give credit to me as the author and the one you commissioned. With that said, I hope you all enjoy the story.

Brad strode over to the door. The hour was surprisingly late on that muggy September night. He’d been enjoying a murder mystery marathon, when the knock came. He flicked on the porch light, then pulled open the door to see … a fursuiter with a clip board?

“Bradley Sarthopan, AKA Sarkos the werewolf?” the fursuiter asked. His eyes were a piercing red that seemed almost to pulse, like hot coals. The fur was midnight black with bloody red accents along his muzzle, chest fur, and his three tails. Slick claws glinted in the fluorescent light of the porch bulbs.

“Who’s asking?” Brad narrowed his gaze suspiciously as he looked over the stranger.

“Forgive me. So rude of me not to introduce myself.” The fusuiter’s lips pulled back in a sneer, exposing sharp canid teeth and fangs. “You know me as Omnikitsune online, though around this time of year, I prefer to go by Ronoc. You did hire my services for a commission, didn’t you? I believe you said you were looking to become your fursona, yes, a powerful werewolf?”

“How did you get my address?”

“Why, by scrying you, of course.” The suiter began scrawling along the surface of his clipboard. “How else am I supposed to deliver my services, if I don’t give them a personal touch? Customer satisfaction is vey important to me, you know.

“O … kay, I think I’m going to shut my door now.”

“The man said with full intent of calling the police. After all, he wasn’t about to go about dealing with a potential lunatic. Except, as he was about to close the door, he was struck by a sudden sense of vertigo. His shoulder slammed into the door frame as he leaned against it for support, a sudden feverishness overtaking his usual calm demeanor.”

Brad panted heavily as he felt a sudden pain in his shoulder. Both hands clutched at the door as the moist air blew in over his face. “Wh-what the hell?” he huffed.

“Oh, trust me, you’re not in hell, though I could arrange it, I suppose, assuming you’d prefer to be a were-hellhound. Then again, your kind are also known as the hounds of God, so perhaps you could find a way into hell at that,” the Kitsune mused as he tapped a claw against his chin in thought. The clipboard was hovering questioningly at his side, the pen scrawling, even as he stared pensively in Brad’s direction. “But that would make it too long, and I like to balance exposition with the transformation. After all, we both know we’re not made of money, Mister Sarthopan.”

Brad had had enough. He clenched a hand firmly around the doorknob and slammed the door home, then stumbled toward the kitchen with his stomach reeling. His phone sat connected to its charger atop the breakfast nook between two great windows. All he had to do was reach it, call the police, and they’d sort out this mess. He clutched at the high countertops along the way, like a life line, using them to guide his steps, despite the rising light-headedness and sudden burning beneath his skin. He panted more heavily, then finally lunged for the table as the world spun, yet again. He was rewarded with the cold sensation of tile against his cheek.

His heartrate picked up as he heard the familiar scrabbling clack of keratin along the hard surface. Moments later, a familiar set of paws met his gaze across the legs of the table. His ears burned with the sound of the pen scratching and rumbling across the page as it continued to write.

“Now, Mister Sarthopan, that was very much uncalled for. After all, I’m here to help you.” The man let out a heavy sigh as his tails swayed idly, brushing the floor and other places as they each moved independently of one another. “But I suppose that position suits you, all things considered. Shall we resume the story?”

“Wh-what did you … do to me?”

“As I said, I’m writing your story, Mister Sarthopan. It’s quite simple, really.” And suddenly, those blazing red eyes were staring Brad in the face as he struggled to push himself into an upright position. “You commissioned my services, and I always deliver, whether my clients want me to or not,” he practically purred as he ran his clawed hands through Brad’s hair, gently scratching the scalp and forcing a shudder to pass down the man’s spine.

Brad huffed as the heat continued to build and sweat began to bead his brow. The dizziness had dulled into a sort of numb tingling that spread deep into his bones, not unlike when his dentist shot him up with novocain.

Omni, or Ronoc, as he said he preferred to be called, rose to his feet, his eyes still boring deeply into Brad. He opened his mouth, and his voice spoke in a curiously dual tone that seemed almost to echo, reverberating through the room and through Brad.

“The man that was not a man looked down on his client, a wicked sneer on his face as he watched with unwholesome delight. The tingling along Brad’s scalp intensified and flowed down to his ears as slowly, ever so slowly, the cartilage began to warp and shift. And the longer Brad listened, the sharper his hearing became, the voice consuming everything, growing louder, more prominent with every passing second. And as his hearing sharpened, so, too, did his ears, tugging, shifting, warping, until they had taken on a distinctly canid point.”

Brad gasped again as the words licked at his thoughts, like fingers gently massaging his ears. It felt … so good. So very, very good. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a dull rhythmic tapping sounded behind him.

“He was helplessly enthralled in the words of this mysterious stranger. The magic of the narration controlled him entirely as, with a single flick of a furred hand, both blinds shot up to let the radiant light of a full moon blaze into the dark tiled room, casting the narrator in shadow, so that only his burning eyes were visible, along with his wicked grin.”

Brad looked on in utter shock as the man did exactly as he had narrated, and the curtains obeyed, drawing themselves to reveal the silvery rays. He slammed his hands on the table and slowly pulled himself up, so his elbows could rest there. The full moon glowed radiantly, its orb so large behind the narrator. Ronoc’s tails writhed, like the tendrils of some demonic entity, as he stared with those hungry, pulsing eyes.

And still the pen scrawled. Still, the narration continued, unabated, recording the teller’s words in utter exactness. For, what else could the pen have been doing?

“All right, you. No need to get cheeky on me,” Ronoc said as he chided the pen, breaking the contact he’d held with his victim.

“Care to rephrase that?”

…

The contact he’d held with his victim commissioner.

“Much better. Let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

You do realize meta theory suggests that we’re just pawns in a larger author’s game, corr–?

“One more dalliance into that territory, and you’re going to find yourself a pile of ashes and slag. Are we clear?”

The pen quickly made sure to correct its error, the moment its master released it, hastily scrawling its apology in the form of the steady narration its master desired, though grammar demanded it place the question mark to end the cut-off its master had executed so, well, masterfully.

“Much better.”

A low, guttural rumble pulled the kitsune’s attention back to the table, where a heaving Bradley continued to pant, his tongue stretching out beyond the confines of his lips, which had begun to lose their texture, becoming darker, slick, almost rubbery as his irises began to radiate the same silver as the moon that had so totally entranced him.

“Oh, look at that. You made me miss one of the best parts. I wanted to narrate that.” The kitsune pouted at the pen. “What am I going to do with you?”

The pen continued to scrawl faithfully, lest it face the aforementioned wrath its master had promised.

“Well, at least you’re starting to get the hang of the basics.” Ronoc sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, it took you months to break that ridiculous habit of repeating words in the same sentence.” He rolled his eyes. “Interns.”

The pen was not quite sure why its master had designated it an intern, but a snap of its master’s fingers and the glow of the runes that gave it life and power quickly pulled its thoughts away from such meaningless things. Its purpose was to write the story as its master told it and as it unfolded, and it would fulfill that requirement.

“Now then, so sorry to keep you waiting, Mister Sarthopan. I believe it’s time we returned to helping you transition, yes?”

A low growl escaped Brad’s throat as the muscle around his neck clenched and expanded, while the surface of his skull began to shift, like so much clay, flattening and stretching under the master’s guidance.

“By now, Bradley had become subsumed by the heat and the pleasure radiating in waves through his body. He arched his back as his spine pressed out against his skin, becoming more prominent as his feet began to rise up on their balls, while his heels stretched higher with his lengthening ankles to create the beginnings of thick, powerful paws. A loud crack sounded as his waist readjusted with his rapidly swelling thighs to create powerful haunches lined with taut muscle, waiting to pounce.”

The kitsune chuckled wickedly as he approached the deforming human. He ran a single claw down the back of a shirt that was barely holding onto Brad’s muscular frame. A loud tear rang out as the fabric finally gave way to Brad’s bulk, easily shredding along the line the kitsune had started, once the collar had been broken through. Thick hairs had begun to form along his back, and a second set of hairs were spreading down from his head to form a set of guard hairs, while more hair grew in along the sides of his face in a form of exaggerated sideburns.

“The kitsune continued to go about his work, crouching down to the rapidly changing humanoid’s new hindquarters. With a deft swipe along the waist, the garments slid uselessly to the ground, exposing his mostly bare hindquarters. A loud series of clicks and pops sounded as, link by link, a ropey tail pushed its way out. The guard hairs were swift to follow, completely obscuring the ridges of Brad’s spinal column and flowing like a waterfall to consume the new appendage as the moon’s light dyed it silver with darker hints of gray underneath.”

Ronoc’s grin was one of pure delight as he pranced back to the other end of the table and peered at the clipboard.

“Pranced? Really? Revise that. I don’t prance; I stroll with confidence, style, debonair,” the egotistical Kitsune said. He growled at the pen. “I may have an ego, but that is not something the audience needs to know.”

If the pen could sigh, it would have. Instead, it continued to write, making a note to revise the content of its recording later, using proofreader’s marks and notes along the margin.

“That’s better.” The kitsune nodded as he returned his focus to Brad. He ran his fingers over the man’s face, brushing down the bridge of his nose to touch the tip and prick it with the edge of his claw. The reaction was instantaneous as Brad’s now much more canid tongue curled up and ran over the spot. When it dropped back down again, a shiny, moist black patch had appeared. It spread rapidly as his nostrils flared and expanded into the beginnings of a canid snout.

“As the moon continued to beam on the shifter, his face reacted in kind, stretching almost yearningly towards the moon. The former man’s head soon finished its transition, growing a powerful muzzle with snapping jaws and sharpened fangs. Dark claws gouged the table’s surface as thick, rough pads began to inflate along his palms and finger tips, followed by shrinking and contorting as the fingers retracted into the four toes and dew claw that made up a wolf’s paw, while knees and elbows shifted to fit his new quadrupedal state.”

The former human had grown to the size of a lion, made all the larger by the density of his new muscle and guard hairs. His mane rustled as his head snapped forward in a powerful sneeze, followed soon after by a yawning whine, and finally a long howl. Ronoc’s eyes flashed, and the massive canid immediately cut off, approached the fox, then sat down on his haunches.

“There you are, ‘Sarkos.’” The kitsune smirked as he ran his hand over the huge wolf’s head. The wolf panted in delight, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. “Just as promised. You’re a werewolf now, and a mighty fine specimen, if I do say so, myself.” A scarlet collar materialized around the canid’s neck, followed by a series of tags that jingled as they collided with one another. “And you are going to make an excellent guard dog at my store, until you pay off your debt.”

The newly dubbed Sarkos rose up on his hind paws and stuck his forepaws along either of the kitsune’s shoulder, before licking his face in gratitude.

“All right, all right. That’s enough of that. Down, boy. Heel.”

Sarkos’ eyes flashed, and he obeyed without question.

“Good boy.” Ronoc chortled wickedly. “I can’t wait to see you build up a proper pack to patrol my store. How about you?”

Sarkos’ tail wagged rapidly as he began to pant and rubbed his head against the kitsune’s leg.

“Excellent. Let’s get going, shall we?” He snapped his fingers, and the back door near the kitchen swung open to reveal a long hallway flanked by endless shelves. “Go on,” he urged. “Your partner is waiting for you. It’s best you two get acquainted.”

Sarkos required no further prompting. He bounded through the portal, leaving Ronoc to himself. The kitsune turned then, and stared off into space. “And as for the rest of you folks watching out there, I know you’re listening, so listen well. I’m happy to perform commissions for you all, too. Just make sure you’re ready to pay. Magic doesn’t come free, you know.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure most of you can afford the rates. And it is most definitely worth it. Now then,” he sneered, “how about we make a deal?”

The Tale of the Midsummer Maiden

Gather ‘round, ye children of men, believers, keepers of the faith from the olden days. Whether ye be man, woman, or child, brownie, kelpie, faun, nymph, spirit, or sprite, all are welcome by my fire to listen to my tale. But be forewarned. This is no playful yarn. The story I am about to tell you is a true one. It is a tale of true love, of radiant passion, of heart-wrenching loss, and a truly insidious revenge. If you’ve a pale constitution, it’s best ye turn yer head and close yer ears. For this, most curious patrons, is the tale of the Midsummer Maiden.

Long ago, in the time when the world was still young and the old magics ran above, below, and through every land and creature, two forces made to embody the powers that drove the night and the day in their eternal course finally chose to meet. The power of day took the form of a man, and the night a woman. Not content to merely remain a nameless pair of entities, the pair chose to name one another. The night named the day Oberon, and the day named the night Titania.

Their meetings were brief, for it was the duty of their magic to keep the heavens in motion and maintain the delicate balance that lay between the two. And so it was that twice a day, the two would descend for those few brief moments they could spend together. And as time passed, the two eventually came to call each other by other names: leannán, ceann daor, áilleacht, dathúil, grá amháin, stōr, muirnīn, and finally fear céile and bean chéile, or, being interpreted, husband and wife.

Time passed, and the two rulers gave rise to whole kingdoms of magic, governed by their rule, for their power was mighty, indeed, and few there were, if any, that dared to stand against it, who lived to tell the tale. Devoted followers swarmed in droves to offer food, sweets, incense, sacrifices dedicated to the mighty rulers. For a time, all was peaceful. All was happy.

But, like all married couples, this was not to last forever. They had their arguments, and all of nature heaved in those moments. Of greatest note was the dispute over an Indian child, the son of a most faithful adherent to the Queen of the Night, or perhaps the son of a mighty king stolen in the dead of night. Either side could be true, and there’s naught a mortal who knows the right of it. For who among our kind could have lived through those events and be here today to tell the tale?

In the end, the quarrel was settled, and the child taken from Titania’s grasp. What befell this child, no one can say, but in the tumult that followed, one rogue fae took her chance to lead others down the path of temptation, to join her in her own court, in the realms they claimed as their own. And so came the great division, and the birth of the Seelie and Unseelie. So came the birth of the Summer and Winter courts. And so came a new balance betwixt chaos and order, life and death, morality and lawlessness.

Eventually, Oberon and Titania came to their senses as man slowly began to forget the old magic and the splendors and dangers that lay in the land of the fae, the mythical Sidhe. The Christian God had come to hold sway in the hearts of mortal men. And with his coming came the desire to destroy all magic. For if one were to perform a miracle that was not of the power of the almighty, it was considered sacrilege, and one met a most gruesome end at the hands of voracious hunters. Witch, warlock, demon, familiar spirit. These were but a few of the titles invoked, forced onto others, until the magical races had no choice but to leave and close their borders to all save a few places.

It was during this time that Oberon and Titania brought forth their greatest joy, and here is where the hidden truth lies. For, you see, Titania had been with child, and at last, she delivered a beautiful boy. Oberon was filled with pride, Titania with the depth of love and affection only a mother could understand for the infant that had been born to them.

Ah, but poor, ignorant man would not allow this to pass. No. The Unseelie made sure of that. For they, like all fae, knew how to manipulate the hearts of mortals just as easily as any demon or evil spirit could. It was a simple matter to find a priest devout and zealous enough in his calling and tell him of the birth, of what it would mean for the old ways and the old magic, the threat it stood to make against the spreading of the faith, the chance to lead the precious flock into temptation.

And the priest, in his folly, listened and believed. He gathered his followers and called for the most faithful among them to enter into a perilous quest, the quest to save the soul of this faerie child, to raise him in the true faith, and to prevent the threat that the old magic posed. This also proved the opportune moment to teach the faeries just how painful their actions had been to innocent men and women for so many years, stealing their own babies to replace with one of their changelings.

Of course, to tell this to any of these mortal men would do nothing to inspire them to action. Quite the opposite, in fact. Man had long since left their faith in the old magics behind. And so, the priest conspired to lie, and he succeeded, telling them of the innocent child stolen away from home and family, of the need to save him from a terrible fate, raised by the murderers who had killed his parents and destroyed the home of his birth. Innocent blood cried out for justice, for vengeance, for rescue.

…

How could a man resist such a lie, when told by the very one he had trusted and loved for so many years?

The answer is simple. He couldn’t.

And so it was that the men stole into the faerie court with the aid of their supposed allies, the Unseelie, oblivious to the true import of their actions and the devastating consequences that would follow. They claimed the child, slaying the attendants with weapons of steel and of iron, forged by the will of man, imbued with their righteous indignation. I’ll not tell a lie. It was a slaughter, made all the more gruesome by how silently it was carried out.

And so it was that they absconded with the child, and brought it to the hands of the priest. From there, the boy was spirited away, “for his own protection.”

Oh, the folly of mortal men. What fools they were. What fools they still are. Ay, what fools we still are today. The rage and sorrow of the rulers rent the skies, and the world groaned and shook with the force of the imbalance that had come to pass. Titania was inconsolable, and Oberon, ever proud as the sun which he represented, refused to show any sign of weakness.

The two were never the same, nor was their marriage. Oberon lost his mirth. Titania lost her joy. And the Seelie Court lost its dawning light with the theft of the child. Titania would never concede to have another. To her, it would be the gravest of betrayals to her lost son, to simply replace him, like a discarded rag.

Knowing his love could not be whole, until the boy was found, Oberon spent more time away from his wife, searching high and low across the lands. But the mortals were clever, and they knew of ways to safeguard from a fearie’s prying eyes, even those of the great king and queen.

Years passed, and Titania wept, until tears of scarlet replaced the long-dried wells in her eyes. They watered the ground, and all the sacred forest trembled at the drops, for now the queen gave vent, not only to her sorrow, but the towering rage that had built within her. The moon hid its light, eclipsed in a mighty shadow, and the stars trembled and flickered in the heavens. It is said that the celestial dance halted as, for the first time in many a year, the deep magic stirred, and its stirring was as the East Wind, fueled by the raw emotion of a mother who had lost nearly all she held dear.

It is not entirely certain what happened, whether the blood merged with a spirit waiting to be given form, or simply gave life to a seed hidden among the many blades of grass, or perhaps something entirely different and unique. After all, the old magic is just that, very old, very ancient, and few, if any, remain that know its ways. All that is known for certain is that one moment, the moon failed to show its light. The next, it did, and a new maiden stood before the queen.

Her hair was a beautiful coppery gold that rippled and flowed down to her waist. A garland of flowers hung around her neck, a mixture of roses, acacia, amaranth, jasmine, lilac, and aster, magnolia and mallow, balsam, and Narcissus, and so many more. Those that couldn’t fit round her neck lined the cuffs of her sleeves, the collar of her dress, the hemming at the bottom of her flowing gown, while a circlet of the more delicate flowers wove together around her head.

The moon’s rays reflected off the maiden’s dress and into her skin, leaving it fair and flawless, radiating the beauty of that precious light. And when she opened her eyes, the deepest blue radiated outward, almost hypnotically, with flecks of gray that allowed them to shift and change naturally to silver and purple, to green and to brown. Indeed, the maiden seemed to change in the eye of every member of the queen’s court to behold her, and her beauty was unearthly.

“What is the wish of my mistress?” she asked, and her voice was light, musical, and strong, one that pulled and teased at the ears, leaving one begging to hear more. Verily, the voice was enough even to draw the legendary puck, Sir Robin Goodfellow out from his place of hiding. For, in his absence, Oberon had requested his faithful servant watch over his beloved, and out of love for his master and friend, the Goodfellow agreed. He, too, mourned the child’s loss, for he wished to teach it all the ways of mischief and delightful merriment, how to bedazzle the eyes of mortals and snare them in harmless pranks. Well, mostly harmless. And yet, this new creature was enough to pull him from his sorrow for a time as his heart quickened and his bosom burned.

This was not lost to the eyes of the queen of the night. Nor was the effect the maid had on the other men of her court. The order flowed easily from her lips.

“Find my son, and let those mortals know what it is to have their own wrested from them. I will be avenged.”

“As my lady commands,” the maid replied. “But I fear I will only have the strength to venture into the world of men at midsummer. To remain there at any other time would kill me.” For, you see, midsummer was the time of her birth, and midsummer is a time when the old magic flows stronger in the world and passion runs wild in the hearts of men. To remain even a day after would surely destroy her, for she must have a steady supply of that ancient magic to sustain the spell that made her what she is.

“Then so be it,” Titania said. “Go forth and avenge me.”

The maiden obeyed. And so came the time that she ventured to the land of mortal men, guided by the queen’s love for her son and the hatred of her enemies. For you see, blood spilled in any way has power, especially so, if it is innocent or shed out of love as a willing sacrifice. And so it was that, like a dog, the maiden went forth to follow the path of the kidnappers with her magic. And so it was that she ventured into the county, where the parish lay and all the land was hushed and beautiful.

She went with her charms, and she claimed many a prize during her stay. The men were aflame with desire. Not even the priest was to be spared, and she toyed with them all most cruelly. She stole the priest’s virtue. She stole the women’s trust. She broke the men’s honor, all with an angel’s smile. Ah, and perhaps she was an angel, of a sort, an avenging angel bent on her task to right a terrible wrong and ensure that mortal men knew the pain of her mistress.

Ay, she led the young ones away next, the village boys aflame with passion and lust and the foibles of youth. It was a simple matter to stoke their pride and draw them to her. And each time, the maiden would test them. Each time, she would probe for that which she had been brought into being to find. And each time, she would fail to locate her true objective. So it was that the boys, especially the ones who lacked in faithfulness to their betrothed, met a gruesome end at the hands of the maiden, and mothers were left to weep their loss as the message written in their child’s blood spoke the demand of the faerie queen.

Return what you stole.

The men that knew the message’s true meaning turned to their priest for guidance and protection. They met in secret, as they had that night so many years ago, under the guise of a great visit from a higher dignitary of the church. After all, the priest that had incited their venture into the Sidhe was rewarded most handsomely for his dark deed, and now stood well above his peers in favor and stature, though not in true grace. They chose the crypt beneath the old church, a place where their discussions could go on unheard.

The men begged him to return the boy, lest all come to ruin and their loved ones be forever stricken. Naturally, the man refused.

“Have you forgotten what is at stake?” he demanded as he drew his formal robes and finery around him. “Have you forgotten your resolve to protect your home and kin from evil?”

“Evil has come, regardless!” one man cried. “Our children mourn, and our grandsires lay in their gore for the sake of the child you had us steal.”

The men murmured their agreement, but still, the former priest would not yield. “He is to be raised in the true faith and live as an honest man.”

And that was their greatest mistake.

“Honest. Honest?” The laughter that followed was cold, bitter, and cruel. “You men know nothing of honesty, nor of honor.” And there she stood in the midst of them, in all her unearthly beauty.

“Who are you, witch?” the priest spat.

“I am no witch, archbishop. Look upon me well. You know what I am. Indeed, you know better than any other here.” A silver dagger glinted in her hand as she stood proudly in her dress and gazed upon them with a cold indifference. “I smell the stink of Unseelie magics about you, archbishop. I hear the blood of the men who served so faithfully before you crying out for justice.” She leveled her blade. “It is on your hands, and your god will not save you from the wrath of justice, nor these mortals who aided you.”

She plucked a single rose from her bosom and threw it at the priest’s garb. With the sound of shattering glass, the spell that had given him the vision of grandeur and the magic that had laced his tongue with such eloquence and authority were broken. Blood pooled around the archbishop’s feet, staining the hems of his robes a deep crimson.

Then she threw more flowers, raining down upon the gathering, spattering tunics and vests with blood, as she had the archbishop.

“For the innocent lives taken to steal a child that was the future of the fae. For the rage of my mistress, the Queen of the Night.” Her eyes glowed in the still night air. “All of you shall pay the price for your wrongdoing. The geas that beguiled you is broken, but that is no excuse, for it was but a light cantrip, a whispering to make you more susceptible to his desires.” Her eyes narrowed as they began to glow crimson. “You had a choice.” Blood dripped from the dagger’s tip as the first of the men gasped and gurgled, looking down in utter shock at the metal jutting from his chest. “And you chose poorly. Let your god judge you for your actions. I am but the arbiter of my queen’s wrath.” She pulled the blade from the man and let him fall.

The events that followed are too gruesome to describe as the maiden wreaked her terrible vengeance upon the men, leaving the priest to the very last, so he could behold the blood that stood upon his conscience. She demanded the truth of him one last time, but the fearful man knew not the fate of the child, only that he had been spirited away, hidden beyond the maiden’s reach. And though he was afraid, hatred allowed one last, cruel smile. “You and all your damned kind will never find him,” he said.

“Never say never,” the maiden replied, then took his life.

It is said that as she left that place, her gown glowed the deepest crimson, and the children playing among the gravestones watched her passing. She looked to one of them, pointed and spoke in a terrible voice. “Mark ye this day, children of man. Know that my wrath is unending as my mission. Until the day that I find what was taken, and the lost is returned, I will not rest. You will tell the tale of what happened here this night. In prose, in lore, by word of mouth and song. Tell the tale, and let it spread as the fires in the fields. I am the Midsummer Maiden, and I will claim what is mine.

With that terrible geas pronounced upon the children, she left, trailing the blood of the dishonorable men in her wake. The mournful wails of the villagers soon followed behind.

To this day, the tale of her comings and goings echoes through time as a warning to young men. Therefore, be warned, if ere the wanderlust takes ye, and ye travel the roads alone in midsummer. For to this day, the Midsummer Maiden still hunts, and she will seek to test you, ere you reach journey’s end. Be watchful, therefore, and live honestly. For if’n ye mistreat her in any way, she will wreak her terrible vengeance, and the fate of the men of Midsummer County shall be your own.

So shall it ever be, till the day the lost child returns to the Sidhe.

Reblogging, since the comment section has too small a limit for the caption I have in mind. This is for PICTURE 1: "Let me pass, Donald," you demand of the heavily muscled Adonis in front of you. Your former friend stares at you as he blocks the way out from your cul de sac of lockers with his thick, meaty arm. His white muscle tee strains against his taut skin, accentuating every curve, every perk along his rippling abdominals, shelf-like pectorals, and perfectly inflated biceps and triceps. The scent of axe body spray rolls off him, but not so much as to be overbearing, surprisingly enough. The bands on his wristwatches glint in the flickering locker room lights as he stares at you with his head slightly cocked. His gaze unnerves you, a strange blend of curiosity, a predatory analysis that verged almost on dissection, and that sort of confused glaze that hovered over his eyes more and more often, giving them a dull sort of half-emptiness that left you wondering whether anyone was home up there. So did most of the school staff, nowadays. Donald frowned slightly. “I told you, bro, it’s Donny now,” he said in that infuriating low pitch of his. He was clearly straining to force his voice to deepen, and it showed, but he didn’t care. He just kept doing it, like some sort of idiot to please the rest of the team. He shook his head and his medallion jingled slightly as it swayed between his thick pectorals. You didn’t have time for this. “All right, let me pass, Donny,” you say. “Come on, man. I’m gonna be late.” You hated having gym class last period. You always had to wait for everyone else to get out of the locker room, so you wouldn’t get bullied for your figure, and then you had to rush to get to the buses, before they left. Donny shook his head again. This time, he grinned at you, displaying perfectly straight white teeth that accented his sharpening features. You could see the hints of the squares that were becoming more and more prominent at the base of his jaw. “Nah, bro. I don’t think so. We gotta talk.” “Later,” you insist as you try to shove your way past him. A burly arm quickly shoves you back. “No, he insists, his eyes smoldering darkly as he scowls at you. “Now,” he says forcefully. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you insist. “You tried out for the football team. You made the cut, made new friends, found new interests. I get it.” “Nah, bro. You don’t get it.” Donny shook his head. “Yeah, coach talked me into football. Sure, I liked it, and yeah, it made me have to stop being your DM, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about you, bro!” “Haven’t thought about me? Haven’t thought about me?” Suddenly you’re feeling angry. “Don’t you dare pull that crock of bull shit with me! You think I haven’t seen you walking the halls with those goons, shoving kids into lockers, giving wedgies, calling people like me, ‘fucking pansies’ and ‘faggots,’ because we’re not fit, like you?” You strut forward and jab a finger in his chest. “You’re as bad as the rest of them!” He stares at you blankly. “Well, duh. I’m a jock.” He shuddered, then chuckled, a deep sort of guffawing sound. “Damn, that feels good to say.” “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s your excuse? The mighty quarterback is a douche, because he’s a jock? Are you even listening to yourself?”

You hear the sound of the bell going off to signal the buses have left, but by this point, you’re too mad to care. It was time to air some grievances and settle this relationship once and for all. “Yeah, bro. Now it’s time for you to listen,” Donny said with a radiant smile. “Ya see, bro, bein’ on the football team, it’s kinda like role play, ya know?” “Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.” Yet again, you found yourself flung back as Donny continued to steamroll through his explanation, heedless of any protests or exertions you might try to make. “See, bro, as the QB, I call the plays. I have to look at the strategies, analyze what the players do, anticipate all the outcomes, and work my ass off to make sure I’ve got the build and the knowhow to beat the other team. It’s like when I used to DM. People come with character sheets, and I help ‘em fill out their stats and level up.” He flexed one of his meaty biceps. “I’m telling you, bro, it’s fuckin’ ace.” “So, you’re basically telling me that you’ve been working out, acting like some gym-obsessed meathead, letting your grades drop, all for the sake of what your twisted dumbass head thinks is some sort of extended campaign?” Donny beamed. “I knew you’d understand.” “Understand? Understand? Are you insane? How the hell is any of this supposed to make a lick of sense?” you huff. The humidity from the showers is still permeating the room, making your shirt cling to your chest as you sweat. “Easy, bro.” He grinned, bearing his teeth in that predatory way all bullies in the school seemed to manage so effortlessly. He held up a sheet. “Summer break’s coming up soon.” “So?” You pant. The air seems thicker somehow, and you find yourself leaning against the lockers. The cool metal feels so soothing against your skin, even as the room starts to spin a bit. Your shadows dance and flicker with the lightbulbs as Donny continues to grin. Or ... was that a sneer? Your stomach clenches and gurgles, followed by a practical explosion of air that expels itself out your mouth against your will. “Dude,” Donny chuckles. “That was epic!” “I ... I don’t f--EE--l so good,” you crack. You feel something cold shoved into your hand. “Drink this. It’ll help,” Donny promises. He twists the top off with a burly snap, then brings the thing to your lips. You taste something thick and creamy with the aftertaste of vanilla. “Wuh ... wut is it?” you ask. In your dazed state, you don’t even notice how deeply you’ve pitched your voice. “Protein shake. Good shit, huh?” Donny asked as he scribbled something down with a pen. “Uh ... yeah. ... Good shit.” You don’t know why you keep repeating him but ... it just feels easier to do things that way. “Think of it like a potion of strength, bro. The more you drink, the stronger you get,” Donny explained. You take another sip. A pleasurable sort of tingling has settled into your muscles and scalp. “Cool. Cool....” you low even slower. “You gotta watch those fluids, when you’re working out, bro,” he says seriously as he jots along a clipboard. “Working ... out?” You furrow your brow, confused and turn to see your book bag has been replaced with a gym bag. “Happens, when you push too hard. I told you you didn’t have to prove yourself to the guys. They aren’t messing you again, are they?” he asks fiercely, protectively. “Uhhhh....” He crouches in front of you. You blink, and suddenly, you feel intense pressure in your pectorals and biceps. The sweat is pouring down your face, but you keep going, breathing in and out, in and out. “That’s it, just five more,” Donny encourages. Five more what? Clank. You hear the weights clacking as you strain. Two grips are held firmly in your hands as you force your arms together. The word Butterfly suddenly arises in your head, kinda like the ones you felt in your stomach earlier. You breathe, and you feel the material in your shirts draping wet against your torso. Have you lost weight? Donny scratches something else on his clipboard, and suddenly you’re breathing heavily. Your legs feel curiously wide, and you’re not sure why. An itch bothers you, and you reach down to scratch, unashamed. Your sweats cling tightly to your frame, the familiar green tusk-mouthed shape of your school’s mascot perks up against your chest. Donny is holding a clip board and grinning. “Now that’s what I call hustle!” he crows. Next, your throat feels strangely raw as you back away from the weighted training dummy. Everything feels heftier, but ... it’s in different places now, more evenly distributed. The dull glint of plastic catches your eye as you turn to look down at the thick pads that now adorn your shoulders. Next, you’re sitting at a table, a massive steak in front of you. The table is rowdy with thick, heavily built boys tearing into their meals, while Coach Madsen beams at you, and Donny smiles. A thick hand slaps you on the back and you turn to see Felix, one of the biggest tormentors in the school. “Damn, bro. Didn’t expect you to make it, but you really got what it takes.” He smiles. “You’re all right.” You notice he has a bit of a swollen lip and just a hint of bruising beneath one of his eyes. You feel a bit of an ache, yourself in your jaw, but you enjoy the meal. Next, you’re sitting wedged between a bunch of Donny’s teammates. Donny is using a pointer to help illustrate a play between a series of circles and exes. Something is buzzing in the background in your ears, but you don’t pay attention to it. You have to focus on Donny. He’s the QB. QB calls the plays. Gotta know the plays. Then, suddenly, you’re staring at a board filled with the same symbols and then some, but you don’t understand a lick of it. You spread your legs as you slump in your chair, bored out of your mind. You scratch absently at your crotch, just like you did in the locker room. Do ... you feel ... bigger down there? Instead of alarm, you feel ... pleasure? Pride? “Fuck, yeah....” It’s out of your lips, before you can even think. More scrabbling, more scratching. Suddenly, your’s holding something heavy in the air. The world comes into focus, and you’re holding the waistband of a pair of boxer briefs. Thick veins snake down your python-like arms as you grin like an absolute idiot, spurred on by the deep, hooting cheers of the other muscled boys near you. Then you’re sitting in front of Coach Madsen. You’re looking down at a sheet on a clipboard with your name on it, numbers, stats, and the position: Lineman. You blink blearily  few times, and suddenly, you’re holding a pen. You scrawl your name on the dotted line, then look up at your coach. He’s grinning from ear to ear. Then you’re back in the locker room again. There’s Donny leaning against the entrance. He’s staring at you. You stare back at him. You smell of the fresh axe body spray you just applied. Your hair is carefully styled with the aid of some hair wax, and your white shirt strains even tighter than Donny’s against your thick pecs and broad shoulders. You stand up and find that you now are nearly a head taller than your old friend. You grin at him with that same familiar glazed expression in your eyes. “How do you feel?” he asks. There’s only one answer you can think of. “Bro....” Donny smirks. “Now you get it. Come on, bro. Gym’s waiting.”

A small caption contest:

Hey there guys. I’ve come up with this small challenge for you guys.

The general idea of the contest is the following:

In this post I will show you 3 pictures, Tagged by number. The challenge for you guys, is to write the best caption for one of the pics in the comments.

These are the things you’ll have to do:

-make sure to make clear which picture of the three you have chosen to caption at the start of the message.

-let your imagination run wild. Growth, muscle drain, and so on… you name it!

-pick only one picture! If you choose multiple, I will only take the 1st one in count.

-make sure to leave your caption in the comments of this post.

Those are the only 4 things you’ll have to do.

For every picture I will decide who wrote the best caption. And for those winners I will write a personal story. I will notify you guys once I’ve picked the 3 winners, and I’ll message them personally. Good luck with captioning! And here are the 3 pictures:

This deserves a reblog. It’s hypnotists like that that give the practice a bad name.

Also, please note, another name for this evil hypnotist is hypno-obey. The account has been deactivated, but beware all the same and avoid the content on that page, lest you possibly fall into that man’s clutches. Make sure you know your hypnotist well and that they are trustworthy, before you begin sessions. And spread the word about this (pardon the term, but I feel it’s appropriate here) dirtbag. He or she crossed the line from hypnosis into outright brainwashing. This is a thing that ruins peoples’ lives. You’re messing with a person’s psyche, when you put them under. Don’t try playing god and making them want to do things that they don’t really want. That’s just sick.

Please reblog this, so it gets as much exposure as possible and as many people in the hypnosis community as possible are warned.

Watch out for dangeous tists

Everyone please stay away from Hypno-Obey, MasterAlpha, Trey (they are all the same person), a friend of mine who has been working with him, recently told him that he didn’t want to continue, and Trey’s responce was to trigger him and make it hurt him to even think of leaving. Now this kid (who for his personal privacy will remain nameless if he chooses to reply to this message that is his choice) He is currently balling because he doesn’t understand what happened, he doesn’t understand why thinking about leaving is hurting, he has expressed that this is what he wants, and what is healthy for him but now the very idea is hurting him. Trey is not a good person and has been told many times privatly and publicly. Now many people will chastise me for speaking publicly but I have tried in private as have others and he has not changed, and this sweet kid is crying because of Trey basically raping him. So I am not going to stay quiet any longer.

@gayhypno10101 Can confirm he has not been an ethical and honest person

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 43

“So, you see, kids, bodybuilding isn’t just a game. Just like any other job, it takes hard work, dedication, discipline, and endurance. It’s helped my career as a professional model immensely, but it’s not always the easiest job to manage. If you have the will and the networking, you can and will go far in the industry. Otherwise, well, there are always other options available. In fact, my good friend Duff is about to explain one of those alternate paths now. Let’s give him a big round of applause, shall we?” You smile as you watch Duff walk out onto the stage. You were quite pleased with yourself over that little speech, and you hadn’t even cursed once. Hank would be so proud. You give your friend a clap on the shoulder and whisper a quick, “go get ‘em,” before leaving the stage. You smile as you eye the toned, muscular shape of your lil’bro, Charlie. He stood rigidly at perfect attention in his military fatigues and sandy shirt. A pair of specially crafted tactical glasses obscured what you were certain would be absolutely unseeing eyes. You chuckle to yourself. “Come on, soldier. Let’s get you something to drink.” Charlie followed without question as you strode over to the drinks table and pulled out two bottles of Gatorade. You had one of the bottles to him. “Bottoms up.” “Sir, yes, Sir,” Charlie mumbled as he snapped the cap open and gulped the contents of the bottle in one go. You soon follow suit. “That ROTC program’s done you good,” you comment. “I will start instructing at the start of next year. It is good to instruct others, good to train the next generation of soldiers,” Charlie replied. “It is what my commanding officer commanded me.” “What about the recruiting office?” “I will train for another year first, as instructed. I must be prepared. I must become a perfect soldier.” You smile broadly. One more year helping your little bro get big. That had to be one of the best presents you could ask for. “And we’ll help you reach that goal,” you say. “With you all the way, lil’bro.” “Thank you, Sir,” he says. You sigh and roll your eyes in resignation. He never could tell the difference in trance. You were the same way, sometimes with Harry. Some days, it was almost like you could see a piece of Hank in him. And that piece just ... demanded your attention, made you want to flex and grow and flex and lift and flex and ... and.... You blink blearily at the strange tapping on your shoulder. Slowly, Duff’s grin came into view and you scowled. “I went into trance again, didn’t I?” “Yup,” Duff smirked. “You’re doing that a lot, lately.” “I can’t help it,” you protest weakly, even as you raise an arm and flex your rippling bicep. “It feels so good.” “How’s Charlie coming along?” “Lil’bro’s doing okay. He says he’s still got a year, before he tries joining, so we’ve got time to bulk him up right.” Duff grinned. “Good.” “How’re things at the new gym?” “Busy. Business is booming. Seeing all those men pumping up like that, it is good to build their muscles.” “They will Lift things up and put them down,” you low. Both of your watches beep and your cellphones go off simultaneously. At that moment, the both of you stand rigidly, as if you were struck by twin bolts of lightning. “Time to report to coach,” you drone. “Time to lift,” Duff continues. “Time to train,” you both low together as you swagger side by side in that perfectly synchronized pace, almost like a march. “Time to obey.”