VIP Treatment

VIP Treatment

Michael had purchased the highest membership possible. This

Meathead Oasis

had the most consistent customer satisfaction reviews. It was ... surprising, given the shoddy appearance outside the building. Still, he supposed it was due to the nature of the trainers. Most people said it didn’t matter about the facilities, more about the person and the trainers.

The shirt they’d handed him draped like a nightgown, but they’d insisted he try it on for size, to “picture his goal.” He sighed and went along with it. They strode past all the roid bros and meatheads to a single door that led into a simple room with dark cushioned tiles and a radiator on the side to offer extra heat and induce sweating.

His trainer guided him to a large floor-length mirror.

“Now, then. I want you to imagine what you want to look like. Close your eyes. Visualize. Picture the form you want to take. Imagine your growth. Imagine how much your muscles are going to inflate as you pump those big, heavy weights. Imagine how sharp your focus becomes on those simple, repetitive exercises.”

Michael could practically hear the weights clanking as the plates knocked against one another. His muscles tensed. His breathing became sharper.

“Feel the heat, the burning heat causing you to sweat, burning outside, burning inside as your muscles continue to swell and expand. Expand as you repeat. Repeat those simple exercises, focus on simple exercises. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing. Do me a favor and repeat that for me, won’t you?”

“Weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.” Michael shuddered. It hadn’t sounded very convincing, but if this mental stuff was to help prime him for his first session, he might as well go along with it.

“Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. It’s an endless cycle, an endless spiral, and endless climb of repetition. Over and over. Just like when you flex. Because lifting is flexing and flexing is lifting. Both strain your muscles. Both push them to pump, to swell, to grow....”

Michael let out a raspy breath as his muscles tensed. It felt ... so hot.

“Flexing and growing, growing bigger, growing hotter.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed. He’d wanted to keep that aspect out of the discussion.

“So very hot. So hot, burning away all those other thoughts you don’t need in the gym as you focus on that simple repetition. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.”

Michael felt dizzy. “Wh-wha--?”

“You’re not done with this exercise yet, Michael. Repeat,” the voice ordered.

The harshness startled him. “W-weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing,” he stumbled.

“Eyes closed,” the voice snapped again. “They open when I say for them to open. We start after this simple exercise is complete, and not until.”

Michael winced as he felt to massive hands engulf his shoulders and quickly closed slammed his eyes shut. Wrinkles of stress showed on either side as his muscles tensed with the force he used to close his lids.

“Good.” The hands came off. A single pat tapped gently on Michael’s shoulder. “Now back to the exercise. It’s designed to help you relax and accept the boredom that comes from lifting. Most of our regular customers either take to it or get disgusted by the need to endure. Since you’re our VIP, we’re here to make sure you’re able to do the former, not fail in the latter.”

“But how is talking supposed to--”

“Talking alone won’t. It requires more. In fact, most serious lifters hardly talk at all during their sessions. It’s listening that matters. Listening to the clack of the weights, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the ebb and flow of strain as your muscles push and pull and swell in time. Because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“Why do you keep--?”

“Because it’s true. And the more you lift, the truer it gets. Truer as your muscles get heavier, heavier because you’re lifting more weights. Lifting more weights, because your muscles are stronger. Stronger, because you repeat your exercises. Repeat your exercises, because they are simple. Simple, because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“I ... I don’t feel so--.”

“Doing more, thinking less. Less as you repeat your exercises. Less as you repeat your mantra. Repeat your mantra and flex.”

Michael groaned. So hot, so dizzy, so ... spinny as the voice swirled in his head, swirled and repeated, repeated like a spiral.

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” the trainer repeated in his deep, smooth voice.

Repeating.

Repeated.

Repeat....

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“Now flex, and repeat.”

Michael huffed as he felt his arms raise, his biceps tense, the fabric brush against his skin as it rode up. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” Spiraling, repeating. Over and over. He ... couldn’t stop. Did he ... even want to?

“So simple to repeat. So simple to follow your exercises, follow my voice. So simple, so calm, so empty, because lifting....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.” Lifting needs doing. Doing over. Over again. Repeat. Don’t think. Repeat. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“No thinking now....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing....” His voice had pitched so much lower, so relaxed, so repetitive, so ... simple. It felt ... good. Good to relax. Good to listen. Listen to his body. Listen to the pleasure. Pleasure in simple. Simple in repetition. Repetition in exercises. Exercises doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....

“Growing as you repeat. Growing bigger. Growing stronger. Growing simple. Growing dumber. Dumb is simple. Simple is good. Good is growing. Growing through repetition. Voice growing deeper. Muscle growing larger. Thoughts growing simpler. Simple, like your exercises. Simple, like your muscle. Just like your muscle. Because muscle is meat. Simple, like meat. Meat in your head, growing with every repetition.”

Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat....

“Flex.”

Mike pulled his arms together. He felt his biceps brush against his sides, felt the fabric of his shirt rubbing against his pecs, felt the bristles of a rugged beard brushing against his neck.

“You can open your eyes now, Mikey.”

He didn’t even bother to object to the name. It was simpler. Simple was good. He opened and stared at his form with glassy eyes. Veins snaked up his arms. Swollen muscle curved and sloped in clearly defined spheres and mounds. The straps of his black tank top curved over his traps and strained against his pectorals. His hands obscured the Pass part of his shirt, leaving the VIP wide open to be read. His brow had become more prominent, his jaw thicker. His hair was a bleached blond. “You are a meathead, Mikey.” Mikey stared as he processed the information slowly, letting it fall into that spiral of repetition. “You are a paragon of meatheads, the perfect, greatest, best ideal.” Mikey continued to stare. “And that’s why you’re our VIP, our Vascular Immutable Paragon of meatheads. No one can break your course. No one can take you off your spiral. No one can prevent you from being the stubborn meathead that you are.” A smile pulled at Mikey’s face, and he let out a low deep chuckle that rumbled out of his newly expanded chest. His neck thickened, and his voice deepened even more. A bulge began to swell against the crotch of his gym shorts.“Can I work out now?” he asked in that same vapid tone. The trainer chuckled. “Yes, Mikey. Get to your exercises.” Mikey grinned. “Lifts and squats and curls and weights....” he muttered as he approached the racks.

The trainer grinned in turn. “Another satisfied customer.”

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_

THE BOX

“Something wrong, Mark?”

“Uh, ... Idunno, Coach. It was ... something. Something important, but ... I can’t really think of it. Can ... can we maybe turn down the music? Just for a sec?” “You know we can’t do that, Mark. Music keeps you pumped. Music helps you keep time and rhythm. Music is supposed to keep playing in your head to push you, to remind you.” “But ... but I’m so close....” “Yes, you are. You’re nearly ready to graduate. And you have to graduate my program to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?” “Well, yeah, Coach, but--” “No buts.” “I just ... I feel so different, y’know? Like ... Like I’m not even ... not even.... Augh. Fuck, I can’t think with those drums beating in my head.” “Mark, we’ve been over this. The drums are there to help you, not hurt you.” “But Coach, I ... I’m not ... I’m not who I ... used to be? Is ... does that make sense?” “Of course you’re not who you used to be anymore. Marcus was small, weak, pathetic. Mark is big, strong, confident.” “But--” “Look, you want to leave, right?” “Well, yeah. That’s ... kinda what I’ve been trying to do for....” He stroked his chin as his brow furrowed. “How long has it been now?” “Since you started this program, Mark. We don’t need to worry about the numbers. Besides, you know how easy it is for you to zone out when you count.” “S’not my fault....” the big man murmured. “Of course it isn’t, Mark. Of course it isn’t. Do you really think you’re the only one who has trouble with that? All your classmates did, too.” “They ... did?” “It’s perfectly natural to fall into that drumbeat when you’re doing your reps.

“One, two, three, four.

“Counting, beating so very steadily. Steadily through your head in that tribal thrumming. 

“Five, six.

“Repping up. Pumping up. Counting up as you fall into rhythm, fall into the beat, fall into that thrumming pumping rush as the drum beats with your heart and surges through your head to cloud it, making it so easy to just ... zone out as you count.” “Seven ... Eight....” Mark breathed heavily as his mouth began to open loosely. “Zoning out all except my voice, except for your training, because my voice is part of your training, and your training is part of my voice. They are one and the same. And it’s so easy to zone out because you’re a bit of a dumbass, aren’t you, Mark?” “Nine ... Ten....” “Say it, Mark.” “Eleven.... I’m a bit of a dumbass. Twelve....” “Tell me, do you believe that, Mark?” “Thirteen ... No. Fourteen....” “How come?” Marcus continued to count between comments. “Because I used to be smart,” he droned in a deep vapid tone. “No, Mark. Marcus used to be smart. You’re not Marcus anymore. Marcus is packed away in the box. All his bad habits are packed away in The Box. All those nerves, all those fears, all those worries are packed away in the BOX.” “Yes,” Mark acknowledged. “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir ... Coach,” Mark sighed. “Suspicion, fear, and paranoia go where?” “... In the BOX.” “Questions to my authority?” “In the BOX.” “Thoughts outside the gym, weights, sports, and this program?” “In the BOX.” “That’s right. They go in the BOX. The BOX is where they belong. The BOX is for smartasses and smartass thoughts. Marcus was a wisecracking, disrespectful smartass. He didn’t understand the value of hard work and exercise. He thought it was wrong to be strong, wrong to build muscle, wrong to build your body, wrong to obey me, wrong not to think. He mocked those things. You’re not in the box with him, so you’re not a smartass, are you, Mark?” “No, Sir.” “So, since you’re not a smartass, then you must be a dumbass.” “Uhh....” The numbers had long since trailed off. “You know I’m right, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes. Coach is always right....” “That’s right. And my logic can’t be denied here. You must be a dumbass. Say it, Mark.” “I must be a dumbass.” “You are a dumbass.” “I am a dumbass...” “Just a dumbass jock.” “Yes...” “Tell me, Mark, where is the BOX?” Mark pointed down to his waist and crotch, where the word had been emblazoned in big black letters on the waistband. “That’s right. All of that goes into your body, into your muscle, into your meat.” “Yes, Coach....” “Good. Have you packed all those things away now?” “Yes, Coach.” “Is the BOX full?” “No, Coach. It can still hold more.” “And you know what goes there now, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes, Sir.” “Good. You can wake up now, Mark. And remember: What’s in the box is junk. And you have a lot of junk. Your junk is always growing, just like you. A growing, dumbass jock waiting to build more jocks for me.” Mark blinked slowly as his eyes came back into focus. “Uh, ... sorry, Coach. Must’ve zoned out. What’d you say?” The coach chuckled and flexed his massive muscles. His short blond flat cut shone in the gym’s lighting as he folded his arms over his black sleeveless shirt. “I said it’s time to get back to work, dumbass. You’ve got catching up to do if you’re gonna join your friends in the field.” Mark grinned and saluted. “Yes, Sir, Coach Stone!” “Good. Now get back to work. I want you to pose in front of a mirror like the cocky jock you are for at least five minutes before you get back to your weight routine. Am I clear?” Mark nodded and swaggered away to stand in a booth. The bright blue light of UV lamps soon buzzed to life as he continued to pose in his tight briefs and his gaze became distant again. Stone smirked as he pulled up his tablet and scrawled a few notes with his stylus. “Algorithm test successful. Median brainwave attunement achieved followed by synchronized sweeps for respective targets. Note to self: Consider investing in individual recyclable system designed for each subject....” He stroked his stubble on his block-like jaw and nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the best means to speed things along.” He walked off, leaving a command in his system to alert Mark when it was time to get out of the tanning booth and back to work.

Schools of Thought

“I don’t know, man. Things have just been feeling ... off lately, you know?” Dennis said as he leaned back on the comfy bed. His black briefs hugged perfectly to his frame, accentuating the well-toned muscle he had gained. “Off...?” Devon asked as he leaned against the door frame with his hands behind his back. His muscle was not so fully developed as his roommate, but he had definite tone. His neon orange briefs hugged tightly to his waist as he stared ahead. “Yeah. I mean, it’s cool and all getting this sweet deal for college, but ... don’t you find it strange how much things have changed?” “Not really.” Devon’s eyes took on a dreamy look as a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “I like the new us.” “Don’t get me wrong. I like being stronger, too. I mean, this is the fittest I’ve been in like ... ever. It’s just ... Idunno. I never used to like being like this, you know?” “Like what?” “Half-naked. I mean, we’re lounging around in nothing but a skimpy pair of underwear for each of us. The old me would never have done that, but now it feels ... wrong, somehow, not to.” He reached down to brush his abdominals gently. “You know what I mean?” “Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” Devon replied in that same distant voice. “I spoke with Coach Sanders about it earlier today.” “Coach?” “Professor Sanders also runs an independent sports team. He prefers for those who work with him to call him coach. He has asked me to do the same.” He stared off into the distance again and silence filled the room. “So?” Dennis asked. “So ... what?” “What did he have to say? About your question.” “Hmm? Oh, oh, the question. Yeah....” He blinked slowly. “Coach said it’s ... sort of like going to school. A ... school of thought. And he said everyone’s got ‘em in their heads, sometimes multiples. Things we didn’t used to like or want suddenly become more desirable, while the old stuff just sort of falls away. It’s kinda like ... uh ...” He furrowed his brow a moment, then sighed and relaxed as the bulge in his underwear grew a little larger. “Like goin’ from primary to kindergarten, ya know? Stuff changes. You move up in grades. One minute, you’re readin’ books on physics and chemical engineering, the next you start doing a little research on the side about personal fitness. Then you start going to the gym, try new techniques, locate more lit, study it, apply it. “Soon you’re studyin’ more fitness than physics. The only compounds and reactions you’re thinking of are newton’s first law as you’re pumping those weights and formulae for supps and shakes. And ... the more you think about those things, the less likely you’re gonna go back to those other places, those other schools, ya know? And ... and you don’t want to.” A doltish grin spread over his face. “I don’t want to.” He chuckled and his voice cracked, then dropped. “I don’t wanna, bro.” “Devon? You okay, man?” Dennis asked. Devon let out a dull, dimwitted chuckle. “Yeah, bro. I’m fine. Just goin’ over today’s lesson.” “Today’s ... lesson?” “Yeah, bro. In my school. You know, the school of thought? You’re goin’ over yours, too. Can’t you tell?” Devon shuddered and finally ran a hand up and down his own abdominals. Then he paused, turned, and flexed a bicep in front of his roommate. “Yeah, Coach. I get it now... Gotta get swole ta pay the toll.” “Devon, what’re you...?” “Just listen, bro. Can’t you hear it?” “Hear what?” a low flush had begun to color Dennis’ cheeks as he felt a strange heftiness between his legs. “The bell, bro. Coach’s voice. He’s calling.” He grinned as he laid back against the wall again. “He said you were falling behind, bro.” “Devon, what are you talking about?” A strange sense of dizziness had begun to settle in Dennis’ head. “You’re not making any sense.” He shook his head to try to dispel the cobwebs, only for a sloshing sort of hiss to stream into his eardrums. He panted as he felt a warmth spreading in his chest and his pectorals began to bounce, first one, then the other in perfect time. He sat up straight and rested his forehead against his palm. “I ... I don’t ... what ... what’s going on?” Devon walked over to the desktop at the far wall of the room and accessed it. The camera flickered to life as the screen booted up. He typed into the system rapidly as the loud hissing became worse and worse. He strode back to his place and grinned at Dennis. “Just wait, bro. You’ll get it soon.” Dennis tried to rise, but stumbled almost immediately and landed back on the mattress again. He struggled to rise and just managed to prop himself up on his elbows when The screen began to flicker and a pulsing spiral materialized and started to spin. “Hello, boys. School is now in session. Time for role call.” Devon’s shoulders slumped against the door frame as he gaped at the screen with dull, unthinking eyes. “Devon Bryant, Jock Bro Number Six. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” Dennis groaned, tensed, then ultiately slumped as his eyes locked on the screen. “Dennis Mallard, Exchange Student Number Seven. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” “And are you ready to transfer permanently to my school yet?” “No, Sir, Coach.” “I see. Let’s see what we can do to fix that. I think we’ll start on your language next. After all, how you practice is how you play....”

Dennis groaned as he rose from his bed. The room was warm and inviting, and he reveled in that dull, mindless state that follows all after a long sleep. That is, until the sudden throbbing in his skull struck. “Fuck,” he grated as he rubbed at his temples, and then his eyes. “The hell happened last night?” He felt a brief stirring in his loins and patted the bulge pressing against the crotch of his briefs familiarly. “Sleep well, princess?” Devon taunted from his place in the door frame. Dennis glared at his roommate. “Fuck you.” Devon just grinned. “Come on, bro. S’time to get ready to work out. Dennis rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” “Oh, and Coach wants to talk to you later. Something about catching you up after that stomach bug you had.” He smirked and flexed. “You wouldn’t get sick if you worked out more, like me.” “Yeah, yeah.” Dennis waved off the criticism. “Just tell me when the hell he wants me there already.” He drank the substance Devon shoved in his face and shuddered as he felt the familiar surge of energy. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor and Devon was counting down. 10. 9. 8. Deeper. 7. 6. 5. 4. Can’t stop. 3. In the rhythm. 2. Following the beat. 1. ... “Time to be a bro, little bro.”

Update and WARNING!

So, I conferred with a professional friend of mine, and he confirmed that YES, it was TREY who tried to put me under, assuming I’d been hypnotized before and could easily be triggered again. Obviously, he did not succeed. But be warned, guys. That’s a new name he tried making now. The tumblr account was deactivated, but it’s clear he’s still up to his old tricks. I repeat. Beware of Trey. BEWARE Alphapuphypnous or whatever other pseudonyms he’s taken on. He is a manipulator, an opportunist, and a selfish minor with no morals. Or it’s possible he may now be legally an adult. Either way, BEWARE OF HIM! DO NOT LET HIM HYPNOTIZE YOU. If someone sends you a hypno gif immediately in a message, don’t let it get to you. Type as fast as you can and get it out of your message box feed so you’re not staring at it. Then call him or whatever other person may be on the other end out. Be hypnotized on your own terms, not someone else’s. And don’t let a hypnotist change you any farther than you yourself wanted to be changed in the first place. Hypnosis is a great tool, but it can be dangerous in the wrong hands. Trance responsibly.

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.