Happy New Year!! Wishing You A More Prosperous And Jockish Year : )

Happy New Year!! Wishing you a more prosperous and jockish year : )

Thank you for the well wishes. While I may not be jockish, you can expect for quite a few new updates in the future. I’ve got a new story going for our friend Coach Stone, and of course, there are other stories I’ve had on the backburner that I need to get back to as well. There will be much writing. Yes, much indeed. >:)

It was so weird. Ever since Adrian put on those shoes from check-in, things just ... went weird. He kept following the locker room, but no matter how far he went, he always wound up back at the same place: A massive floor-length mirror. The next walk he took left a tingling on his head. He frowned as he stared at the mirror. Was ... something different? He brushed a hand over the high and tight sides and felt the comforting bristles. No, everything was fine. He turned to try again. Once more, he passed through the endless line of lockers. No dice. He spun around on the poles, gripping with his hands and tensing the muscles in his arms and torso, then let go. Anything was better than repeating the same thing over and over again. Perhaps random turns would prevail better than reason. He stared at the mirror again. Had ... he come in shirtless? He couldn’t remember. It ... was pretty warm. Maybe he ... left the shirt behind? A few of the gym goers had done that. Yeah. He ... remembered seeing that. And it wasn’t like he had that much to be ashamed of. He was fit. No Adonis, but certainly toned enough not to raise any suspicion or antagonism. He furrowed his brow and stroked his beard. One more time? he wondered. Every step echoed hollowly through the vacuous locker room. His feet smacked heavily on the tile floor. His thighs felt tense as they brushed against one another and he adjusted his pace accordingly, swinging his legs from side to side in an unconscious swagger. The smacks sounded like hammer blows falling one after the other. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythm beat into his head as he counted one after the other. Suddenly he stood before the mirror again. He felt the brush of fabric falling and blinked slowly as he gaped ahead at the tall muscle man in the mirror. A camera phone was in his hand. A camera phone was in Adrian’s hand. He furrowed at the sight, then clecked the button. The flash went off. He looked down. There was the man in the screen. He looked up. There was the man staring at him again with a puzzled expression. He clicked again. FLASH His cheeks became more sharply angled, his jaw thick, his traps swollen, shoulders broad. He looked good. “Damn,” he rumbled. “Wish I could be like that.” He chuckled and flexed his free arm. The man in his way did likewise. FLASH “Huhuhuh...” That felt good. He grinned as he stepped out of the shorts and strode out in his posing briefs. The weight room was awash with swollen muscle men, each wearing a pair of bright red shoes. “Uh ... is this where I audition for the weight team?” he asked. A strange sense of deja vous struck him as a titan of a man in a straining sleeveless muscle tee grinned down at him. Hadn’t he been at the desk before? And, like ... uh..... short or ... someth..... A sudden surge of warmth filled his crotch and Adrian lost track of his thoughts. A guiding hand helped him to one of the weight machines. “Right this way, bro,” a deep husky voice assured him. Then he felt his arms tensing, felt his chest seizing, heard the weight clacking heavily behind him. One. Two. Three. Four.... His head cleared. His thoughts emptied. His mouth gaped open. All that mattered were the weights now. ... Just the weights.... He let out a husky dimwitted laugh, heedless of the pulsing glow in his bright red sneakers as his muscles inflated. “Welcome to the team, bro,” the behemoth said. Adrian grunted. No time to talk. He had to lift.

Clocking Out

Manny sighed as he input the last data from the computer for today’s sales. The department store was finally ready to close down. The long haul was over, and boy did he feel its effects. Still, they’d come out with a good profit this week, and the boss paid him well for his computing skills. Having a photographic memory certainly helped. That, and his model build. Men and women alike took one look at his garb and asked for fashion advice. Whether to flirt or out of a legitimate desire to improve their appearance, Manny didn’t know. He didn’t really care either. All that mattered was the bottom line. So what if someone wanted to flirt with him? He checked his watch. Ten minutes under time. It was a new record. He smiled as his vascular arms bunched and tensed with each fluid step he took toward the alarm system. A rectangular impression sat on the lower corner of the interface. He strode forward and jutted his left pectoral at the slot, clicking the black-and-silver badge neatly into place. He really had no idea why the company thought it was such a good idea to stick a key card in a place so-- A jolt passed through his system as his eyes went blank. “Unit 001 clocking out,” he said in a low monotone. Flickers of light emanated from the point of connection as he stood perfectly still and waited. Finally, the system let out a loud chirp and 001 disengaged. Its data port flickered as it processed its new instructions. 001 strode purposefully to the back room, where extra mannequins and stock were stored. An empty woman’s torso stood just a few feet to his side as he shoved one hand artfully into his left pocket. The face of the watch he wore on his wrist glinted in the blaring lights.He tilted his head and rested a hand on top, as if he were about to scratch. His biceps popped as the green shirt clung tightly to his frame. The sheen had grown brighter on his face as he stared into a mirror and watched his hair retract into his skull.The veins along his arms depressed as skin became pale and glossy. The softer appearance of his pectorals firmed and pushed out against the top of the shirt, while the lower end of his torso expanded to hug neatly against the sides of his shirt and show off a chiseled six pack. And chiseled was becoming more accurate by the moment. Keen features became less and less distinct as eyelids merged with eyes and color faded to reveal little more than slight depressions against an amorphous face. A few seconds later, even those were gone, and a smooth ovular shape with more defined curves to simulate a jaw line were all that remained of the former employee. The other mannequin jerked to life, strolling over with creaking joints. It lifted the shirt on 001 and tapped its back. A panel popped open and it pulled to reveal a charging cable. It strode to the nearest outlet and plugged 001 in, then resumed its position.The store owner smiled as he looked through the security feeds to watch the robot as it dropped its persona and resumed its true function. “All right, I’m convinced,” he said to a shadowy counterpart. “How much?” White teeth bore themselves in a grin. “Let’s discuss that....”

@davidphysique_

Losing Self

Look at the watch, the watch that is ticking, ticking down, down into the ages, down the corridors of time. Down. Down. Counting down.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The voice plays over the speakers as I lay on my bed, staring up at the massive mirror mounted to the ceiling overhead. It is a familiar voice, albeit a little higher range than I remember.

Deeper and deeper.

I’m clutching my shirt, keeping my watch in plain sight. My pupils are shrinking. I can see them as I watch the watch. That means it won’t be long now. Maybe a few seconds, maybe a few minutes. They’ll expand soon enough.

Tick ... Tock ....

The subtle click of my own watch’s hands seem magnified as I listen. Of course, it’s just the recording, but my unconscious mind doesn’t know that. I even went so far as to magnify the sound of the watch hand to ensure it was exactly the same.

Counting down the seconds. Counting down the moments. Counting down to that deep, deep sleep.

Tick ... Tock ... Tick ... Tock....

Whoa. That was a rush. Forgot how good this felt. I can see my lips twitching into a hint of a smile.

The sleep that lets you change. The sleep that lets you listen to my voice, listen as it whispers and fixes and repairs. You remember, don’t you? You remember what we talked about last time.

Oh, yes....

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. That little click sounds so much like a hammer, doesn’t it? The hammer of my voice, striking the chisel, the chisel that chips the stone, the stone that gives way so effortlessly under the hands of a master crafter....

Master ... crafter....

You are that stone.

I am the stone.

I am the master crafter.

Yes....

Time to sculpt, my little blockhead.

I am ready to be sculpted, Master Crafter....

Last time, we agreed you would look better with some stubble, and would maybe grow a proper beard to complement your features. Have you done this?

Yes, Master Crafter....

Good. That is good. You have modified your diet. You have changed the clothing you wear. Now is the time to focus, to focus on my voice, to focus on the instructions I am to give you next.

Focus....

It is time to move on to the next phase. Remember, you asked for this. You wished me to change you, to mold you, to remake you. That is my purpose as the master crafter. It is your purpose to accept my changes.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Now that you are trim, it is time to get fit. You will go the gym and work out three days a week to start. You will seek assistance from a trainer if the need arises. You will push to grow stronger, grow bigger, grow buffer.

Yes.

And the more progress you make, the more you will become entranced by the gym. You will want to spend more time there. You will want to continue to make progress, continue to grow. And the more you grow, the more time you spend there, the slower your thinking will become. Slower and slower, dimmer and dimmer, dumber and dumber....

Dumber....

The only exceptions to this part of your change will apply to the gym, fitness, anatomy, and other masculine things of the musclehead stereotype, including exercises, diet, plans, sports, weights, manual labor, and other affiliated items.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Your body will react positively. Your muscles will expand quickly with mass and strength. Your manhood will increase in size with the rest of you. Your voice will continue to deepen, because of the growth you will experience. And it will all feel so very good, so good to let these things happen, to make them happen, because you are being molded, sculpted by my voice, by my hammer, by me, your master crafter.

Yes.

Sculpted into a true meathead in every sense of the word.

Yes!

Good blockhead. You will not remember our conversation, only that we had success in this session. You will follow the instructions I have given you, despite not remembering them. And as always, you will have found great pleasure in our sessions. You will become a musclehead. You will become a meathead. You will become.

I will become....

Good boy. Now, it’s time to wake up. Remember, blockhead. The clock is ticking. Time to get to work.

...

...

...

Wake up, blockhead.

...

Whoa. That was ... wow. I ... I really outdid myself, didn’t I? I really don’t remember it. Haha!

Yes!

 Complete success! Can’t wait to upload this one online! ... Hmm. And maybe start searching for a gym, while I’m at it....

Desserts

Hey, guys. This here is a quick story I came up with on the fly for a story exchange between a user named Casualpatrolperfection and myself. I refined the content a little from the initial draft that I wrote in our chat room and am now ready to transfer it on to here for others to read. I hope you all enjoy it!

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. One minute, you were cringing back from some douchebag bullies. The next, Devon Capernick, Cap for short, was sitting next to you at the principal's office, while the bullies were being treated at the nurse's office. The Senior towered over you as he smiled reassuringly. The chair creaked under his weight, and you could practically hear the thick wooden arms splintering against his broad frame. 

"It's all good," he assured you. "Everything'll be fine." His face darkened. "And if they come after you again...." You could practically hear the splinters crying in pain as he clenched the edges. "I hate bullies."

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. You're sitting at the jocks' table, surrounded by behemoths of muscle chowing and joking with each other, even wrestling from time to time. Nothing serious enough to get in trouble with the aides, but enough for them to get their messages across. You note how they all keep smirking or grinning, despite the pain or humiliation that might be involved.

 Devon is smiling down at you as he watches his friends and cheers them on. He takes the time to introduce you to everyone on the team, tells them you'll be hanging with them for lunch from now on. You half expected them to want to pummel you. Instead, they grin and welcome you with hearty smacks to the back that almost burst your chest.

 You want to object to the treatment, say you're not worth it. Devon won't hear of it. He won't even let you address him formally.

 "It's Cap, bro." He huffed a deep guffaw of a chuckle. "Just think like you're calling me your captain, all right?"

 It wasn't like you could argue with him, so you did.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your gym teacher stared across at you from his desk. Cap is grinning as he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder from his place next to you.

 "You're sure about this, Devon?"

 "You bet, Coach. Lil'bro's got spark, and he's super smart."

 "I'll have to set it up with the rest of the school, but I don't see why he can't tutor you boys, if you need it." He smiled. "And maybe you can teach him a thing or two, while you're at it."

 "That's the plan." He laughed again.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Hard music thumped over the speakers of the weight room. While the rest of the football team worked on their exercises, you worked with each of them on the bits of homework they didn't understand on shifts.

 Breakthroughs were heralded with, "Oh, now I get it," or, "Dude, that's so fuckin' simple. Why didn't I see that?"

 Their enthusiastic thanks and effusive praises left you feeling warm and happy. Sure, they had a few problems with school work, but they weren't the jerks the stereotype made them out to be. They were almost like a family. It was ... nice, to be able to see that, and experience maybe just a little part of it.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Sweat beaded your brow, and your lungs felt like they were ready to explode. Everything felt so heavy and swollen. Your arms trembled as you struggled to hold them in place. Cap beamed encouragingly at you from above.

 "C'mon, lil'bro. You can do it." His strong hands grasped the bar that hovered dangerously over your chest. Together, you lifted it. He didn't make it easy, but he made it bearable. Cap, ... really was a great guy.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Practice was over, like usual. Since the team had to perform outdoor exercises, you cycled through teammates as they finished a certain number of practice runs. On scrimmages, you watched them scramble and play against each other, hard walls of muscle colliding like savage beasts.

 Now you found yourself surrounded by your friends as Cap wrapped a sweaty arm around your shoulders. You enter the locker room and pass the lockers in favor of the door marked STRATEGY.

 The chairs are soft and form-fitting. You try to decline, but Cap pushes you down into the chair.

 "You helped us with school, so I figure you can help us here, too."

 You couldn't resist his grin, even if you could break out of his grip. Still, the room struck you as oddly equipped for a strategy debriefing. Why make it so comfortable? Why the soundproofing boards? Why stack the chairs with adjustable controls to ensure everyone could see the front?

 Coach gave his usual spiel of the need to pay attention and focus on the video. Then he stepped aside and a familiar whirring sounded. Someone must have been adjusting their chair.

 Images flashed over the screen. The whirring became more pronounced. You felt a little dizzy, sort of like the room was moving. But ... no, not the room. You were. Up and down and side to side and spinning and SIDESTEP! DASH! CATCH! RECEIVE! RUN! TOUCHDOWN!

 "Fuck yeah!" the room screams. You're panting in the rollercoaster, the heady excitement of it all. What … what just...?

 And then you feel a familiar hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. "Just watch, lil'bro." He grins. That same grin. And then that chuckle. The whole room is filled with it.

 And suddenly, you're laughing, too. And it feels ... good. Words like BIG, BUFF, MUSCLE, SWOLE, and GROW, echo over the whirling sea. The churning increases, and you find it harder to focus.

 "Just a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK. Want to be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach. Gonna be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach."

 The words are like a mantra. You hear the familiar husky chuckle, and something inside just ... sort of snaps. Your mouth widens into a grin. Your teeth are bared. You laugh as everything fades into the darkness, and Cap is laughing right beside you. And it's RIGHT.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. The crowd roared around you as you hunched down and called out the secret code every quarterback seemed to know for their teammates to notify the play and run down the clock at the same time. Besides, sometimes, the lugs had to be reminded.

 You take the snap. You spot the opening. The receiver is open! You crank your arm back and throw for all it's worth. The ball hurls like a bullet. You know immediately that he's caught it. He's running. Nobody can touch him. Dodge. Sidestep. Lunge. Dash. TOUCHDOWN!

 You roar with your fellow teammates, and rush up to join your bros at the end zone. You all just scored the game-winning touchdown. Chestbumps, shoulder smacks, dances, everything breaks out in the pandemonium that follows. You turn and see Cap's familiar grin through the face guard of your helmet. He's standing on the sidelines next to coach, cheering you on. Sucked you couldn't play with him in his last season, but at least he came to cheer his lil'bro on. That's what mattered.

 Yeah....

 And you were a good lil'bro.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your thick muscular frame towers as you pose in front of the mirror. Your slab-like pecs glisten with the sweat from your hard-earned victory. You gape at it, almost in awe, but ... that's not quite the right word.

 ...

 Whatever. S'not important. Your compression pants hug tightly to the thick pistons that your legs have become through had work and intense sessions with your teammates. Big bro helped a lot with that. Then your eyes rest on the bulge at your crotch, and your gaping turns to a cocky sneer. Big bro had nothin' to do with that, though.

 You turn to the side and flex one of your pythons. You watch the bicep swell into a thick, powerful globe of solid muscle. You whisper a dull, "Fuck, yeah," at the rush of endorphins and adrenaline from the victory. A low echo reverberates through the locker room as your teammates follow the ritual in front of their own mirrors. Doesn't matter if it's creepy. You're a team. Teammates act as one unit. 'Course you're gonna do the same stuff. Your bleached hair shines in the dim lights. Your new short style helps to accent the edges of your masculine square jaw as glassy eyes stare dully back at you.

They are empty, unthinking. Just as they should be.

 “Just a big, dumb meathead,” you mutter to yourself. You chuckle and flex again. “And proud of it.”

 You grin and turn to the scrawny form of the new freshman water boy. You wrap your arm around him the same way your big bro did for you. "C'mon, lil'bro. Time to listen to Coach." The numbness in your head increases as the room starts to spin and you swagger along to compensate, like a good DUMB JOCK. Because that is what you are now. You weren't sure what you did to deserve this, but as you settle into Cap’s old chair and the STRATEGY room starts to dim, a last thought plays over your head. You’re a BIG DUMB JOCK BRO now. And even if you could, you wouldn't change a thing.

Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181232201117/endemic-evolution-chapter-4-there-you-see-its

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617378326229762048/on-further-review-of-the-original-photo-i-felt-it

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 5

Doctor Barton sighed as the man in the blue hazmat suit tapped his knee yet again. He didn’t even think about it when the muscle in his knee reacted and lifted his leg of its own accord. “Your reflexes have improved vastly from your last physical,” the physician told him through the respirator. It was almost comical how bulky the Grade A suit was. The helmet couldn’t help but remind Lee of Lord Helmet from Spaceballs The Movie. It was all necessary, though, and he knew it only too well. Lee looked down at his briefs and sighed forlornly. “I know.” A gloved hand rested on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Nobody’s blaming you for what happened. We just didn’t have enough data.” “Yeah, but look what’s happened to Simmons. He’s a completely different person now. He’s not even trying to resist this anymore.” “Which is why we have you here in quarantine. You won’t have to worry about the others trying to influence you or force you into something else while we have all the key cards.” The doctor grimaced. “What happened to Doctor Simmons is ... unfortunate, but we’ve learned from that mistake.” “Has ... anyone told his family?” “We’ve told them what we’re allowed.” “So pretty much nothing, then,” Lee muttered angrily. “It’s protocol. Until we can understand exactly what this is, we have to keep it under wraps. Do you have any idea the number of men who would sell their souls to be exposed to this kind of shortcut to a perfect body?” “Yeah, ... I know....” He shook his head. “So, any idea why the disease took so long to manifest in Simmons and me?” “Nothing concrete just yet. It’s possible the initial pathogen was specifically designed for a particular racial background, as you theorized. However, if that is the case, then this virus has proven highly adaptive and mutative.” “Have you checked his brain yet?” “If you mean Doctor Simmons, then yes, we have. His pituitary gland has mutated. The anterior gland has grown and is somehow ... well, for lack of a better word, it’s infecting the rest of the brain.” “Explain,” Barton ordered as he narrowed his gaze. “We’d have to perform surgery to be absolutely certain, but it’s evident that the gland is swollen, not unlike a tumor. However, the remainder of the brain is actually adapting to compensate for this growth, rather than allowing the extra mass to push it against the skull like a tumor. And there are no signs of cancer cells that we’ve been able to detect with the usual means. The increased size would explain a great deal about how closely knit this group of men has become and how easily those who have progressed farther are able to influence those who are not so far along. “Vasopressin and Oxytocin levels rising are among some of the earlier manifestations of the mutation that we’ve been able to document. As you know, increase those two hormones enough, and it’s a simple matter for a subject to bond to one of the other patients. From what we’ve seen, activity in the lateral orbitofrontal cortex has also been slowing dramatically within subjects.” “That’s an easy one to explain.” Lee rolled his eyes. “They’re constantly indulging their libidos. They can’t or won’t stop. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times I’ve heard someone muttering about how they need to ‘bust a nut’ or how they’d like some ‘pussy to plow.’“ He cut off his narration with a snarl of disgust as the bulge in his briefs responded to the memories. “As you can see, I am not immune to those urges either, though I have maintained strict control.” “It shows.” The doctor peered at Lee’s chiseled torso and the sheer vascularity the man had developed in his arms and thighs. “Curious that the veins are more prominent in locations where main arteries are located.” “Most likely to facilitate spread of the hormones to dull the mind,” Lee theorized. He sighed and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair. “Not to mention the rapid rate of growth in certain parts of anatomy. My body is probably priming itself for the next stage. I’ve been able to slow the process down somewhat, but not stop it.” The doctor peered at the various bottles that lay on a tray next to the bed. “And you’ve been taking your pills?” “Regularly,” Lee said vehemently. “Either these antivirals and biotics aren’t strong enough or this isn’t the result of a biological entity.” “Now you’re just being overdramatic.” “Am I? How many tests have we performed now with no results? There’s no sign of anything that could be deemed responsible. And all the while, we’re becoming more and more like walking factories of testosterone!” He slammed his fists against his mattress and took a few labored breaths. Then the breathing became more steady. “I ... apologize. The lack of progress is frustrating, to say the least, and my ... advancement in this affliction has left me in a more aggressive state of mind.” The doctor nodded behind his massive visor and turned to gather his materials, including the vials of blood he’d just harvested. “I understand. You should try to get some rest.” Lee smiled sadly after the doctor. When he heard his door close, he let out an explosive sigh. “I will, when my body lets me.” He finally released the yawn he’d been holding in and strode over to the coffee machine. He replaced the filter, opened the pouch with the grounds in it, poured, and activated the maker. Then he dragged himself back to the bed as the scent of the blend began to fill the room. He sighed and turned on the television, then scratched at his crotch, oblivious to the veins’ subtle advance with each abrasion. “I wonder how the Patriots did last night....”