Warning: This Story Follows A Hypnotic Script. If You Are Susceptible To Hypnosis, Please Do Not Engage

Warning: This story follows a hypnotic script. If you are susceptible to hypnosis, please do not engage in this story until you are in a situation where falling into trance will not be harmful. You have been warned. Read at your own Risk.

Static

Hey there. Yeah, I’m talking to you. No need to be shy. I don’t bite, you know. I just couldn’t help but notice you’ve been watching me. Don’t try to deny it. I don’t mind. A lot of people watch me, after all. A guy gets used to it when he gets this big.

Mmm ... and I do love being big. It takes a lot of work, but it’s worth it in the end.

But you know what I love even more than being big, little man? Huhuh. I love making other people big. You see that guy over there benching three hundred? I trained him. He was smaller than you are when he first came here. Now he’s a real Goliath. I like to call him moose from time to time. It fits, wouldn’t you say? Every one of them has a name. Rhino, Burro, Horse. Every one of them is tailored to the individual. Gotta fit it just right, you know what I mean?

It’s kinda like my shirt. You see how it hugs so tightly to my muscles, really accentuates my figure. Their names do the same for them, help them focus, help them improve.

Mmm. You know, this is actually my favorite shirt. I love the way I can just flex my muscles and suddenly, it swells with me. The gray texturing is nice, too. It reminds me of static. You know, the kind you see wavering on a TV screen. Any time I want to focus on my workouts, I just look down, and bam. There it is. It’s sort of a chain reaction, ya know? Just like the TV. Everything just sort of stops broadcasting, and my arms jump up and down with the static. It’s so easy to just follow along. Lift and follow. Watch and follow. Listen and follow. Follow...

Follow...

You’re pretty good at following, aren’t you?

Following my movements, following each flex, following as my shirt expands and contracts in that endless cycle of jumping static.

Don’t look away now. Follow it. It’s all right. I enjoy a good watcher like you. And there’s plenty to watch, isn’t there? Go ahead. Follow my movements. Follow my breathing. Follow the bouncing rise and fall. Let it fill you. Let it move you. Move you to breathe in time as you follow, as you watch, as you listen.

Oh, don’t worry. You don’t need to focus on me. After all, you don’t pay attention to the sound static makes, do you? No, that sound just fades into the background. You don’t notice it, but you hear it all the same. You hear it, and you listen as you follow, follow my voice, follow my instructions, even if you don’t remember them.

Following deeper and deeper as you get closer to the screen. Because you have to watch. You have to follow. Follow the bouncing pecs, the jumping screen. Jumping with the static. Following the static. Listening to the static.

...

Obeying the static.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Relax.

Don’t think.

Follow the static.

Slipping deeper now.

Follow the static.

The more you follow, the deeper you fall.

Deeper into the screen. Deeper into the static. Deeper into that happy empty bliss that is slowly surrounding you, just like the static.

Follow the static.

Are you following the static?

...

Good boy.

The more you follow, the deeper you go. The deeper you go, the more you follow. Follow the static.

Follow my static.

...

Follow me.

My voice is the static. My voice is the thing you must follow. Follow and obey.

...

Say it now, little man. You follow the static. You obey the static. You obey my voice.

You obey me.

Good boy. Now listen. Listen, and obey. Follow and obey.

You are going to be a musclehead. Every day and every way, more and more, you will become a musclehead. You will work out at the gym. You will follow my suggestions to you. You will lift weights. You will eat healthily. The gym will become more and more like home as muscle slowly consumes you, consumes your thoughts, consumes you with the static, my static. 

My musclehead.

I think I’ll call you Bull. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, musclehead? I’ll make you a real muscle bull.

Just let the static fill your head piece by piece, bit by bit. Over time, it’ll whisper all on its own as you internalize what I have to say, because my voice is the static. And you obey the static.

You obey me.

That’s a good little runt. When I say the words WAKE UP, you will return to wakefulness, ready to execute your desire, the desire to be a musclehead, like me. You will lift weights. You will work out. You will train. And the more muscle you gain, the dumber you’ll be. You’ll still function in society, but things will be ... simpler outside important matters. Just like a switch flicking on. Just like the remote clicking on the television screen, the screen that is filled with static. Just sports, muscle, and weights in that muscle head of yours.

...

Good boy. When I say the phrase: Static is calling, you will fall into the same state of mind as you are now, ready to listen to the static. Ready to follow the static. Ready to obey the static.

Ready to OBEY.

Now, when you awaken, you will have a strong desire to work out. The musclehead in you will grow stronger the longer you do. You will pace yourself according to what your body can manage, and not push yourself to the point of self-harm or injury as you change.

Good little musclehead.

Now come on. It’s time to WAKE UP, Bull. The gym is waiting.

If you enjoyed this, please like and reblog. Thank you for reading. I hope it will prove motivating, helpful, and pleasurable to you growing muscleheads out there. ~Omni

Blackout

What ... what just happened? Everything felt so dizzy. Brandon stumbled over to a support beam and clutched at it. His ear buts draped down over his chest, only being held by the tight strap on his tank top.

... When did he get a tank top? And for that matter, when did he get so jacked? He huffed and pulled at the sticky fabric clinging to his abdominals. He shuddered at the feeling of the shirt pulling against rock-hard stones.

“I ... I’m big. When did I--?” he froze. “My voice...” It was so deep, gravelly. He looked for a mirror, but he couldn’t see one in the labyrinth of weight machines. Weights clanged rhythmically, pounding against his brain as he struggled to focus. What had just happened?

“Hey, you okay, bro?”

Brad turned to stare at another hulk. Two bluetooth earpieces popped out on either side of his head. The man had to be at least six and a half feet tall. His bright red shoes blended almost perfectly with the floor. Or ... was that just the blurry vision?

“Hey. I’m asking if you’re all right.”

Brad blinked slowly. “I ... I don’t know,” he finally said. “I ... what happened?” He scrunched his brow together and closed his eyes. “My ... head.” He groaned and his breathing became labored.

Two big hands seized his arms. “Easy, bro. Easy. Big bro’s here.”

“Big ... bro?”

The muscle man chuckled as he laid a thick arm around Brandon’s shoulders. “Well, yeah. What else would I be to all you pipsqueaks?” he asked jokingly and gave Brandon a friendly jab to the shoulder.

“I ... I’m so confused.” Brandon put a hand to his head. “I ... I remember coming in, putting on my clothes, then....”

The big man frowned. “How long you been feeling dizzy?”

“I ... just now, I guess.” Brandon’s breathing calmed as the big man navigated the maze of machines. Occasionally, the blur of a muscular form would be pumping dumbbells or doing squats. Some posed with selfies in the mirror. But they all seemed ... well, not quite there. It was like they were sort of ... merging with the gym. He could hardly make out their legs. This man was the realest thing he’d seen since ... whatever this was happened.

The man who identified himself as Big Bro looked carefully over Brandon’s form. “Let’s find you a place to sit down,” he said. The sea of machines seemed almost to part at his advance. A few moments later, a chair appeared out of the sea of red tiles. No, not a chair, a ... bench? Two forceful arms pressed him down and he peered into a set of intense green eyes.

“You’ve been making some pretty substantial gains,” the man noted. “I saw you drinking between sets, so it’s not dehydration,” he murmured. He stroked his chin, then lowered his gaze.

Brandon reached up and stroked his own chin, then jumped in surprise at the feeling of the stubble that had grown along his jaw. He always preferred to go clean shaven. Why had he let that slip? Why would  he let it slip? He thought he felt his legs stretching for a minute, but he couldn’t be sure. It was more like a yank than a kick.

“Sorry, bro. I have to check,” Big Bro said as free air danced over bare skin.

Brandon wiggled his toes and stared down in some surprise. His head felt ... clearer.

Big Bro nodded in satisfaction. “Good. No puncture marks.” He smiled good-naturedly. “How do your feet feel?”

Brandon frowned. “Throbbing,” he muttered in surprise.

“Thought so.” Big Bro chuckled. “You got the wrong shoe size, dumbass.” He laughed and rose to his feet.

“Hey! I’m not a dumbass. I’m a ... I’m a ... a....” Brandon blinked in surprise. He ... couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? Why could he only think of weight machines and sports bars and ... and ...

“Easy, bro. You’re gonna have a panic attack.” The big man patted him gingerly on the back. “I’ll tell ya what. Put these on, and we’ll go see the doc, okay? Gym’s got one right on staff. He’ll be happy to check you out.”

“I ... yeah. That ... that’ll be good.” Brandon could barely keep himself from hyperventilating. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shoes.

“I can tie ‘em for you, if you want.”

“No!” Brandon was shocked at how much his voice carried. The gym ground to a halt at the sudden disturbance. He blushed. “Sorry. No. I ... I can do it, myself.” If he didn’t, he knew he was going to go insane.

Big Bro backed off. “Whatever you say, little bro.” The rhythmic clanking resumed seconds later.

Brandon pulled his socks on and marveled at the way his muscles rubbed against each other as he moved. ‘Is this really me?’ he thought. Then came the shoes. They felt cool and crisp; a little rigid, though.

“Ready to go, little bro?” Big Bro asked.

“I just need to finish this last loop and--.” A wave of vertigo washed over him as he pulled the knot tight. The clanking pounded louder. His heartbeat quickened. “And ... and ... uhhhhh....” The red in his shoes seemed almost to glow, and a dopey smile pulled at his lips. He watched the red bleed from the floor into his legs. He felt a stirring in his loins. His muscles tensed with a nervous energy. He blinked, and suddenly he felt the high back of an adjustable workout bench resting against his back.

“Feelin’ better, little bro?”

Blood surged through his head. His snapback had been reversed now, and he smirked cockily at the behemoth as he let out a drunken laugh. “Huhuhuh. Never been better. Guess I just ... blacked out. Sorry for scarin’ ya.”

Big Bro chuckled. “Dumbass. Now go drop kick that plateau into next week!”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Big bro grinned. “Back to work, little bro.”

Brandon’s shoes glowed with the floor panels as veins began to creep up his calves. His eyes became glassy as he gave a vapid grin. “You got it, bro.” “Keep this up, and you’ll be partying with me and the other bros in no time.” Big Bro grinned as he turned away, carrying off a pair of red shoes that had torn around the seams. He pressed a button on his watch and smiled dreamily as he walked along past other muscle men working to grow as big as they can. All of them stared blankly as they pumped in time to their regimens. “Yo, Big Bro reporting from Franchise 72. One of the little bros outgrew the shoes. He woke up for a little bit, but I took care of it.” He chuckled. “Bro’s gonna be a fucking beast, the rate he’s going. I’ll make sure he remembers to size up on time next time.” He nodded, then shuddered as his shoes glowed. “Yes, Sir. I will work out. Will set an example.” He grinned as he passed to an empty weight machine that ghosted along the tiles just as rapidly as he approached it. “Big bro out.” He closed off the call and let out a deep brainless guffaw as the music resumed in his ear buds. His heart rate picked up. His muscles tensed. He reached for the grips. And descended into darkness.

Well, this totally took an unexpected turn as I wrote it, but that’s often how literature works when I write worlds. I let the characters take me where they chose, and this is the end result. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my second homosexual-themed story. The first one was a commission I wrote on FA, and was lighter in nature. This one is also light, but it shows the progress leading up to the point where the relationship becomes official, and I believe is natural and organic. There is no sex. If you guys could let me know what you think, I would appreciate it. Many thanks in advance, and please enjoy the read.

A Helping Hand

How long had it been? An eternity? A few seconds? You couldn’t recall as he lowered his cell phone. You ran a hand casually through your hair. You could feel the air flowing over the exposed kneecap on your left pant leg from your favorite pair of jeans. After all, that had been how Jack found you, down on the ground in a bloody pulp with clothing torn. That man and his voice had been your salvation. He told them to back off.

He stared down twenty men, twenty, and they all just melted into the shadows. He had that much cred.

You remember how Jack had knelt in the alleyway and pulled off his shades.

“You okay, man?” His voice rolled deep and smooth as the pomade he used on his hair. “Let me help you.”

One look at those eyes, and the whole world seemed to vanish.

The rest was a heady blur.

One moment, you felt your arms trembling under the struggle to lift a bar to you chest. Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. You had no idea what you were doing in a gym. You should’ve been at work! You were going to get fired!

Then came the reassuring touch with a grip of iron as you were turned to face those deep dark eyes.

“Let me help you.”

Next came the shoe store. The air reeked of tobacco smoke. You wrinkled your nose and blinked owlishly. A grinning Jack looked down at you, holding a box with the familiar scent of freshly polished leather. He pulled off his shades, knelt down, and pulled out one of your socked feet. Naturally, you looked down in bewilderment. Jack’s grin widened.

“Let me help you.”

You came to in the gym again. Your shirt was soaked. But ... was it really your shirt? You didn’t remember having the tank top. It draped over your body and clung occasionally to your torso as it absorbed more sweat. You gaped confusedly in the floor-length mirror as your arms continued to pump dumbbells almost robotically. It felt like you’d done this before. But ... how could you have? You hardly had time for the gym. Why did this feel so natural?

You stared at yourself, then at the figure that stood behind. Two hands clapped on your shoulders as those dark eyes stared into the mirror, and you stared back at their reflection. You heard him whisper in your ear.

“Your form’s coming along nicely, but it’s not there yet. Let me help you.”

You blinked and woke staring down at a strange white substance in your hand. The bathroom counter was an expensive polished granite that nudged coolly against your exposed torso. You felt the soft fibers of a new towel embracing your waist. You barely managed to utter one syllable, before he was there, guiding your hand like a father would a child.

“Like this,” he said with that knowing smile that seemed so alien, yet ... felt so familiar. He guided your hand to your head, and you felt him pull it along your hair as you worked the substance in. He chuckled warmly and raised a toothy switchblade comb. “Here. Let me help you.”

You felt the comb running through your hair as your muscles tensed and bulged beneath your skin. They weren’t nearly so large as Jack’s, but there was tone there, and they had grown since ... since ... how long had it been? You flicked the switchcomb shut with practiced ease and slid it into the worn pocket of your jeans. You looked around passively and took in the ambiance of a department store. The door leading to the changing rooms stood ajar, as if waiting for you to enter. And there he was, walking forward with hangers clutched in both fists and grinning all the while. Black shirts, tank tops, even some compression gear all dangled and swayed with his gait as he pushed ahead and you followed behind. It ... felt right, normal, for some reason. Since when had you felt so ... attached to this man? You didn’t even--.

You heard the clatter as he placed the hangers on the hooks inside the cubicle and emerged with that same warm smile. You had to say something before he could do ... whatever it was he did.

“Who are you?”

Jack smiled as he pulled off his shades. “Jack. Nice to formally meet you.”

You don’t know why, but your lips twitched into a smile and ... you extended your hand. “John.”

Jack seized it in a crushing grip as his smile widened into that grin again. “You didn’t run.”

You shrugged. The act felt ... familiar, and flashes of memory involving heavy weights and staring at a mirror ran through your mind. You let out a noncommittal grunt. It was hard to think, staring into those eyes. Something about...

“Here. Let me help you out of those clothes.”

The familiar clank of weights rang in your ears as you swam back into awareness. You breathed easily as you pushed up and down again and again. It felt natural, and you were still somewhat foggy, so you just let your body do what it wanted. Your clothes felt tighter, but that didn’t seem to matter. You resisted the urge to smile as you stared up into the familiar set of shades. Maybe this time, you’d get to surprise him.

“Hey, Jack,” you grunted. You smirked when you saw him jump. “Gotcha.”

Jack laughed. “John, you son of a bitch. Don’t scare a guy like that.”

“I think I’m entitled to a few jump scares every now and again, aren’t I?”

“Touche.” Jack shook his head. “So, ... you don’t mind all this, then?” he finally asked, almost hesitantly. It was the first time you saw any sign of uncertainty on his face.

You took a set to ponder that in silence. You weren’t sure how you knew it was a set, but you did. You could wonder abut that one later. “I suppose I should, but ... Idunno. I just don’t.” If you could have shrugged, you would have.

Jack pulled his shades off slowly and smiled. His eyes watered with unshed tears. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Then why don’t you help me get one?” you ask as you put the bar on its rack, sit up, and turn to face him. “That’s what you do, right?” Your heart pounded, but not from the exertions at the gym, however long they might have been. You ... were enjoying this. Why were you enjoying this?

Jack swiped at his eyes and let out a laugh that was half sob. “Y-yeah.” He stared into your orbs. “You ready?”

“You never asked before.” You smile.

“I never met you before,” he shot back with a smirk. “Let me see if I can help you understand.”

This time, you came to clutching a familiar figure by the shirt collar. He wasn’t smirking now. His eyes were wide with terror as your teeth clenched.

“You knew this was coming. You were warned about killings, Tom,” you heard yourself say. You felt your fist connect with his torso hard. Tom gasped, then groaned. “The boss sent me to make an example of you.” Your heart raced. A thrill of pleasure coursed through you. But ... why?

Catharsis, your brain replied. And you remembered where you’d seen this man before. He’d been the one to draw the knife on you in the alley. He started everything. He could have killed you. He already had killed.

And killers deserved no mercy.

The world went red. When you came to, the man had a split and swelling lip. His eyes were already darkening with bruising. Blood stained his white wifebeater and chest, and crusted under his nose. He blubbered, and you saw the distinct wet patch over his crotch. Your lip curled in disgust as you shoved him to his knees.

“You’re going to the cops, Tom,” you told him. “And you’re gonna confess. You’re gonna tell them every last dirty deed you’ve ever done. And you’re gonna do it willingly.”

Tom spat blood on the floor. “No,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes,” Jack’s voice purred as he approached.

You felt Tom shake under your harsh grip. You felt a surge of exultation, followed by a pang of guilt. You were enjoying this. Why?

“I’ll do better. The cops won’t be able to trace what happened,” Tom promised.

“Oh, I know they won’t, Tom, because they’ll close the case after you tell them exactly what you did in great detail.” Jack pulled off his glasses with a deliberate slowness. “Let’s go over what you’ll say, shall we, Tom?”

“No. No,” Tom blubbered, then screamed as he struggled weakly against you.

“John,” Jack said.

You followed the unspoken command. Your body already knew what to do. You grabbed his head, forced him to stare ahead, and pulled his eyelids open.

By the time it was over, Tom was a mute husk on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. Another street punk scurried forward at Jack’s summons. He looked fearfully at Jack, then you.

“See that he makes his way to the station,” Jack ordered. “He won’t remember us, just what he did. His mind will fill in the blanks with the right memories to keep the cops away. I’ll be in touch for Tom’s replacement. Don’t get any ideas in the meantime.”

You’d never seen a street thug turn yes man so fast. You smirked, though you were pretty sure if you saw a mirror, it would look more like a sneer.

The air was cool as the pair of you walked out of the old warehouse and into the night.

“Jack,” you finally said, “what was that back there?”

Jack started. “You were awake?”

Things were falling into place. The way the gang had dissolved in the shadows when first they met, the new clothes, the gym sessions, ... the expensive bathroom.

“Jack, are you a kingpin?” you asked.

Jack stopped, but he didn’t turn around. The air was tense and silent as he let out a heavy sigh. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“And ... and me?” you ask as you stride up next to him. “What am I?”

Jack swallowed heavily. His jaw clenched. “Right now, an enforcer, my body guard....”

“And?”

“I ... don’t know.” He laughed. “I honestly have no fucking idea. Isn’t that hilarious?” He rested his forehead in his palm as his shoulders shook. His dark leather jacket shone dully in the streetlights.

You waited.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to see all that. Not till you were ready,” he said, once the paroxysm of laughter had passed.

“Jack, be honest with me.” You stood before him and pulled off his glasses to stare him in the eyes. You had no fear of them. You never did. “Am I a thug or am I something more?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” he whispered hoarsely.

You pulled him close and held him in a warm embrace. The cold leather raised goosebumps on your exposed arms. The blood was already dry on your tank, anyway, and you didn’t feel all that squeamish, whether due to the training or simply the shock had set in.

You felt the tears as they dropped onto your skin and seeped into the shoulder strap on your shirt. Tanks were easier to dispose of, after a bloody beat down, and left less evidence behind. Again, you weren’t sure how you knew that. You just did. You had a pretty good idea who taught you, though. You waited until his breathing was back under control and he’d wiped the evidence of his emotional lapse away. Then you pulled back.

“Then let’s find out together. You help me, and let me help you.”

“You’re ... you’re sure of this?”

“Would I still be standing here, if I weren’t?”

He winced slightly.

“That bad?” You smirked and raised a quizzical brow.

Jack let out another half-laugh, half-sob.

“Come on, Jack. Help me one last time.” You took his hands in yours. “So I can help you.”

Jack swallowed heavily. “There’s no going back, after this, you know,” he warned.

“Do I look like I’m having second thoughts?”

Jack’s breath shook as he steadied himself. “All right.” He raised his eyes to look at you. “One last time,” he agreed. “Let me help you.”

You heard the fresh scrunch of leather in your ears and smelled the fresh scent of the polish that preserved the material. The world was dimmer now as you peered out the dark shades that lay on your nose. A rough scruff of a beard scraped against your neck as you rested your free hand in your pocket and ran the other through your hair. Jack turned to look at you and the smile that twitched at your lips after you finished your walk down memory lane.

“You back?” The way his lips trembled, you knew he wanted to say something more.

You took a moment to take in your clothes. They were almost the same as Jack’s. Your jacket had a few more zippers than his, but from what you could see of yourself reflected in his shades, you knew the two of you could easily have passed as brothers.

Could have.

You let your body drive again as you reached over and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, then pulled him in for a kiss.

You weren’t brothers.

You smirked as you broke the contact. “Yeah, babe. I’m back.”

The Meating

“Uh ... I’ll just ... come back later.” You quickly left the apartment complex’s gym and the many muscle men who stood there having a posing session in front of the full body mirror.

Why were they all in briefs? Why were they all so ... focused? You didn’t recall seeing a reservation for the gym, so it’s not like this was some kind of party or something. And they didn’t seem like frat bros. Just what was going on here?

You arrived back in your apartment to see your roommate Randal chugging back another sludgy concoction. How he could stand those protein shakes, you would never understand. The sheer number of carbs and sugars in that large of a mixing cup made McDonalds’ large and thick shake look more like a medium. He let out a thunderous belch and came up for air to grin at you.

“Hey there, Roomie. That was fast. Thought you said you were going to use the gym,” he teased.

“Occupied,” you said simply and made your way to your room.

“I did try to warn you,” Randal said as he followed behind and leaned on your door frame.

“Warn me that there would be a practical porn fest going on?”

“Oh, come on. It’s not all that bad,” Randal said as he took another gulp of his shake.

“They were in their briefs, Randal. Their briefs, as in just underwear and a pair of socks. The gym wasn’t even reserved. Does management know about this?”

“Bro, management is part of it.” Randal shrugged. “Don’t see what you’re so worked up about. Everyone knows they meet there Tuesday night. S’not a crime, if the owner doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“Does the owner know?”

Randal shrugged. “Hell if I know.” He took advantage of the silence to polish off the rest of his shake, then let out an explosive hiss of air.

“Those things are going to kill you one day,” you grumble.

“Not if I keep working them off,” Randall countered with a smirk. “I’m training to be a trainer, remember? The gym’s like my second home.”

“Whatever. I’m going to talk with the owner about this. If management is part of the problem, then a solution needs to be found.”

Randall shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere, though.” He turned and trudged toward his room. “Gonna get my workout in. Don’t disturb me, all right?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill, muscleman.”

Randall stopped, turned, and grinned cockily as he flexed a bicep. “Damn straight.” He winked good-naturedly as you rolled your eyes a second time. A few seconds later, you heard the familiar clatter of his cup smashing against the sides of the sink, after he sunk another one of his ‘three-pointers.’ A half a minute later, the heavy thump of the bass in his room thudded dully down the hall and through your door.

You gulped as you stared up at the imposing shape of the building’s manager. Chris’ platinum hair had been perfectly styled with some wax to hold that familiar sheen as he peered into the apartment with piercing blue-green eyes. His tight shirt clung to the defined pectorals and chiseled abdominals on his torso. He was a good five years older than you, but that five years made one heck of a gap in the maturity of his features, including the blocky nature of his jaw and the stark gaze he had perfected over what you assumed to be the tenure of his work as a manager in the complex.

“I’ve come to talk with Randall,” he said curtly. “Is he in?”

“I think so. Is something the matter?”

“No. I just need to talk with him.” He shoved past you with little care, forcing you to stumble against the entertainment center to regain your balance. You didn’t even get the chance to call out a warning, before he was knocking forcefully at Randall’s door. You barely regained your feet, when you found yourself flung aside again by the assistant manager. His dark auburn hair had a few red highlights in it and jutted up in a series of spikes as he shoved his way past. Compression gear clung to every curve and bulge on his body. He didn’t bother to apologize, or even acknowledge your presence.

“Chris, what’s happenin’, bro?” Randall asked with a casual grin as he raised his fist up for a bump.

Chris gave an indulgent smile and returned the gesture in kind. “Nothing too serious. We just need to have a private word with you is all.” He gestured into Randal’s room. “May we?”

“Come on in,” Randall said cheerfully.

“Thank you.” He turned to glare at you. “We’ll talk with you later.”

You winced. Apparently, word of your actions had reached the manager, and he was far from pleased.

The talk took nearly an hour to finish. You raised your eyes from the book you’d been reading on the couch when the door finally opened.

“And remember to be there on time, Randall,” Chris rumbled.

“I will,” Randall’s voice carried from the hall.

“Good. Now feel free to carry on with your studies.”

The door closed. Randall’s workout track cued up, and the bass started thumping again. This time, you noted a few new chords in the soundtrack. Your eyes fell on the assistant manager pocketing a CD case.

“All that for a new track?” you asked.

“Among other things,” Chris said with a shrug. “Now, about your complaint.”

You winced, bracing for the beating you were almost certain would come.

“You were right.”

You blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter. I said you were right. The schedule was completely open to anyone entering the gym to work out. Given the, for lack of a better word, cooldown ritual that the others tend to follow after a hard workout, it could be deemed scandalous to others that are seeking to use the equipment. Most of the apartment complex has warned one another about our usual time to use the equipment, so we haven’t needed to make a reservation on the schedule. That will be changing now.” He extended a hand. “I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Oh, we’re livid,” Chris chuckled. “But a point is a point.” He grinned as he seized your hand “We’ll just have to see who wins the match, eh?”

You winced under the man’s grip, but he maintained perfect control, never once squeezing beyond your range of comfort.

“Until next time,” he said by way of farewell. “Oh, and by the way,” he said as he reached the door, “you might consider joining us before you judge us next time. Goodbye.”

They swept out together, leaving you to stew over their parting words and the familiar beat of Randall’s music.

You watched Randall flex in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower, and smirked at his grin. “Careful there, Narcissus. You might freeze like that.”

Randall chuckled and turned to pose for you. “Jealous?” he teased.

“You wish.” You chuckled and shoved him lightly. He didn’t budge, and his pecs were hard against your hand, straining the wrist.

Randall smirked. “Something wrong?”

“Okay, Randall, I think you’ve proven you’re the stronger one now.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s get ready.”

Randal nodded and pressed play on his phone. The Bluetooth speaker blared his tracks through the room as he lathered up and shaved the stubble off his face. You finished your usual morning ablutions and tapped your toe to the beat from time to time when the playlist hit a song you enjoyed.

Eventually, the pair of you stared at each other across the breakfast table: Randall in compression gear, you in your usual jeans and T-shirt.

“I’m gonna be home late today,” he said causally. His wireless earbuds rested snugly in his ear canals as he listened to his beats. “Got a lot of new exercises to practice for my certification.”

You shrug. “Okay. I’ve got some studying of my own to do for work, anyway. I’ll see you around.”

The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Randall ate his oatmeal and drank a primer, before clearing his dishes, washing them, and striding to the door. You retreated to your room and began to study.

You’re not sure how much time passed before you noticed it. The sound was faint, but you knew that tune. You peered up at your ceiling, cocking your head curiously. The music built and thumped louder, louder, louder.

“What the hell...?” You rose from your chair and strode outside, then up the stairs to the next floor. It didn’t take long to track the offending apartment in question. Number Sixty-nine had always been a little run down compared to the rest of the complex. Some chucklehead thought it would be funny to screw out the nine and flip it so it mirrored the six, then forced it back in. Management let it be for the sake of good humor and the nature of the individuals who usually housed there.

You knocked. Nobody answered.

You knocked again, louder this time. A tall young man with chiseled features and a high and tight flat top cut stared down at you. He must have been a good 6′ 3″. He raised both arms in his sleeveless muscle tee and performed a double bicep flex.

“Welcome to flex fest, bro. How can I help you?” The big man chuckled at his joke. You now understood why they reversed the numbers. What better way to show a subtle nod to working out than to imagine the two numerals as flexing arms?

You introduce yourself. “I live just downstairs. Your music is pounding through the floor, and I’m trying to study. Do you think you might be able to turn it down a little?”

The rhythmic thumping surged at you in wave upon wave of sound, not unlike the beating of the ocean against a cliff.

The big man chuckled and laid a beefy arm around your shoulders. “No can do, bro. We’re in the middle of our workouts. Gotta be ready.”

“Ready for what?” You practically have to shout to be heard over the surround sound speakers that have been installed in the apartment.

“The meeting, of course!” the lug shouted back as he pulled you in. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.” He practically dragged you through the portal and into the apartment, slamming the door with a well-placed kick. The first room you entered was filled to the brim with heavy duty weights and mirrors. The kid squatted with a long metal bar on his shoulders to strain his calves and thighs with every motion. A blue singlet clung to his frame as he stared ahead and grunted in time to the pulsing beat.

“That’s Trav! Bro’s a real beast with the weights. Wants to be the strongest man in the world. As you can see, he’s well on his way.”

The next room was full of weighted jump ropes and a miniature punching bag being jabbed by a tall man with ebony skin that shone with his sweat. Powerful muscles bunched and tensed as he prepped to take another strike at his imaginary opponent. His short hair grew out to just cover the scalp, while stubble spread down the sides of his face and cascaded over the lips, chin, and cheeks.

“Andray,” the introduction went. “Came from Brooklyn, wanted to make somethin’ of himself. Thought he’d be a reporter, but then he found boxing. Lil’bro’s never looked back.”

The third room thumped just as loudly, but there wasn’t much in the way of fitness happening here. The occupant lifted a set of dumbbells in one hand, while the other clicked rhythmically on the keys of his computer.

“And that’s Douglas. He’s the new kind on the block. Bro’s only starting out, but he’s keeping up.” He strode in and reached for a half-empty cup that sat on the bed’s night stand. “Doug, bro. Don’t forget your shake.”

Douglas mumbled something back, and your guide grinned as he smacked Douglas’ shoulder.

“’Atta bro.”

He led you back into the final room, where a weight bench sat by the bed.

“Since you’re here, bro, come on in and spot me.” The door closed with a heavy slam, and you found yourself planted firmly behind the bench. “Just hold the bar if I start having trouble to help me put it up in rest.”

“But--”

“Bro, you interrupted my workout. Least you can do is help me finish my set, so I can help you with whatever’s wrong on your end.”

You rolled your eyes and let him have his way. He’d probably drag you back in, if you didn’t anyway, and it wasn’t like it was actually hurting you any.

You groaned as you melted into your couch. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why the hell did you let them bully you into doing those exercises?

“Someone looks beat.”

You rose your head in surprise. There was Randall in his gear looking you over critically.

“Sixty nine?” he asked.

You nodded weakly.

“Loud music?”

Again, you nodded.

“Figured.” He smirked. “Bro, they’re too thick-headed to change. You should just leave it and focus on doing the stuff you want to do.”

You groaned again, and he chuckled.

“Here. Let me whip up something to help.” You heard the whirr of the blender blades, winced as it grated against your ears. And then there it was, the same slop Randall had been drinking for months. “It designed to absorb all the acid your muscles make when they’re broken up, helps reduce the soreness and improve recovery time.”

“If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”

“Nope, that’s all you,” he teased mercilessly.

You grumbled, but accepted the shake gratefully. At least he was trying to help.

“Look, I’m just saying it’s pretty obvious you’re feeling restless. A little workout here and there would do you some good.”

“I’d rather not deal with potential retaliation from every muscle member of our complex, thank you very much,” you say pointedly.

“Did the guys at Sixty Nine do anything to you?”

“... No.”

“Then I doubt the others will either. Pretty sure I’ve seen them going to the gym for those meetings. Come on. I’ll go with you, if you think it’ll help.”

You sigh. “I doubt it, but I suppose it can’t hurt to experiment.”

It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. Your muscles groaned in protest with every move as you pulled yourself out of bed. Randall grinned at you as you dragged yourself into the kitchen.

“Damn, man. You look awful.”

“You should know. You did this to me,” you complained.

“No, I just put you through a training session. Your body’s doing this to you, because it’s not used to it. Drink another shake. You’ll be fine.”

You grunt and motion to the speaker with a loll of the head. “New music?”

“Yeah. I’m experimenting with different tracks. I call this one Morning Pump.”

“Of course you would.”

He shrugged. “Gotta do the work to get the gains. It’s fun, you know.” He struck a pose. “And the benefits speak for themselves.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get going, ya meathead,” you sass.

“Yes, Sir, Coach,” Randall shot back with an infuriating smirk. “I will grow my meat. It is good to grow my meat.”

“Get out.” You blush as you feel a stirring in your loins and your muscles start to tense.

Randall bowed flamboyantly. “Your wish is my command.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to your room, where your computer sat waiting. It was time to do some research.

Music thrummed in your head. You felt hot and sweaty. Your arms trembled.

“One more,” a voice said. “One more.”

“One more,” you mumbled.

“Just a little more....”

The weights clanked as Darwin guided the bar back into its rest and grinned down at you. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

You blush. “It’s not that much progress.”

“Bro, it’s enough. You broke the plateau. Now you’re really gonna start making some gains.” He chuckled and handed you a packet. “Here. This stuff has some real kick to it. It’ll really help you bulk up.”

“But I don’t--”

“Bro, you wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t want to. Now take it home, and add it to your drinks. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“I ... thanks, I guess?”

He smirked. “You can thank me later.”

The clanking haunted your dreams. The thumping haunted your waking hours. Every second, every day, your walk, your movements, everything followed a set rhythm. You blinked blearily as you tapped the next button on your keyboard and followed the slide show. Image after image, muscle after muscle. You hovered briefly over one of them and blinked in surprise. Was that Randall?

But then the thump struck, the key clicked, the image moved forward, and you were following again. Following the rhythm, following the beat, following as the earbuds picked up on the feed from your phone. It was easy to transfer the tracks from Randall’s CD. You leaned back and stared after clicking into a new tab. You don’t remember opening it, but images and words flash before you in time to the beat. You lean back and let the cotton rub against your pecs and abs.

You blink. And suddenly the room is dark, save for your screen. The tab is gone. You’re staring at a series of tattoos. Without even thinking, you rise, you walk to the door, you ghost into the night. And everything blurs.

The heat from the gym room is stifling as you get off the treadmill. You’d long since shucked your clothing, save for a pair of briefs and a tight pair of socks that strained against the clubs your feet have grown into. You open the window. A familiar beat carries on the air and your mind slows. You reach down and pat absently at your crotch. “You’ve sure gotten big, little guy.” Then you let out a chuckling guffaw at the ludicrous situation of talking to your junk.

Then suddenly, you’re not alone. Chris smiles at you as you stare into a mirror. A camera is in his hands. You hear the click. It fits in perfect time with the thud of your music.

“That’s it,” his deep voice rumbled as he grinned. “How do you feel now?”

You look up at him, your mind awash with a strange sense of vertigo and euphoria that stuff it with cotton. Goosebumps wash over your swollen muscles as they tense, causing your tattoo to ripple over your shoulder and bicep.

“I’m ready for the meating, Sir.”

The door opens, and Randall walks in with a blank expression on his face. He stands next to you with the same brand of underwear, the same filmy socks. “Ready for the meating, Sir.”

The timer went off, signaling the end of your reserved time. You didn’t move. The room filled with muscle. You didn’t bat an eyelash. You posed. You flexed. The cameras flashed. You cycled to the machines. You worked. You went back to the mirrors again. Sweat glistened in the light to highlight the curves and striations you’d worked so hard to develop.

“Welcome to the meat,” Chris sneered.

You just stared blankly ahead as you patted your crotch again. “I am meat. Meat must grow. Bigger meat is better meat.”

He knew it was true. You knew it was true. You would grow your meat, because you were a meathead. And that was what these meatings were for.

You called to apologize to the owner the very next day. You never complained again. There was no time with all the routines you had to follow and the scouting that needed doing. After all, you had to prepare for the next meating. It was your turn to pick the inductee.

You asked yourself that question every day as you sat at your reception desk and welcomed patrons. Funds were tight, and it was a quick and easy job to get some cash on the side. You never pictured yourself working in a gym, but there you were. You often brought a book or some music to help drown out all the heavy clanking, though you would make some exceptions for certain songs that played over the speakers through the building from time to time.

The man was always quiet when he walked in. His gaze remained locked on the weight machines. Sometimes he would carry a gym bag in. Sometimes he would just go straight onto the floor, fresh off a run.

When he wants a machine, he doesn’t ask. People move for him.

When he’s ready for a break, a fountain or vending machine is always free, even at peak time.

His focus can’t be disturbed. Literally, it can’t. You’ve seen it. Some teen tried to muscle in on his session, when he was lifting. He just kept staring ahead as he strained his lats, or spread his wings as your boss likes to call it. The kid grumbled, but backed off. He knew he couldn’t do a thing to this guy.

It’s funny, though. His silence is sort of contagious. Whenever he works out, it spreads like a wave. The other men get this sort of intense expression on their faces, and then they sort of relax and just ... work. It’s kind of creepy, really.

The ones who work closest to this guy always seem to have the most progress. A look of shock, a big smile, then that blankness of pure focus driven by repetition. It’s always the same.

Always.

Just who is this guy?

You find yourself wondering this yet again as you stare sightlessly at the page on your book. You haven’t turned it in well over an hour. He’s been in your dreams the last few nights. You see him there, pumping weights, pushing himself. And suddenly you’re the one standing in his place as his hands are on you, guiding you, pushing you. You feel strain in your muscles. You feel your skin tighten and swell like a balloon with each pump and silent ministration. When your form is off, he corrects with his hands. The whole time, those intent eyes stare silently into your own. And you watch as that same expression slowly takes over in your reflection in those orbs.

You blink owlishly as a heavy tap on your shoulder pulls you back into reality again. How long had you been daydreaming about that dream? You look up.

“Sorry about that, S--.”

And there he is. Your mouth is suddenly dry. The words stick in your throat. Your breathing comes out in a rasp.

He stares at you questioningly for a time as he folds his vascular arms and cups his chin in a loosely clenched hand. Then he nods. He motions to the gym floor with a curt jerk of the head.

“Sir,” you finally manage to croak, “I’m on shift.” A heavy hand rests on your shoulder. You look up to see that same blank intensity that you have dreamed of beaming down at you from your boss, of all people.

“Go on.”

You swallow heavily. Even your boss bows to the will of this person. The owner of the gym!

You look back at the man. He’s still standing patiently and looking expectantly.

Your limbs shake as you rise from your chair. The whole gym is silent as you step onto the floor together. The man surveys the room as the music thrums and gives a curt nod to the gym goers. The motion immediately picks up again.

You weren’t even aware of your own motion as he guided you to a butterfly press. The seat was already vacated by the time you arrived. You sit and stare helplessly up at the behemoth that has guided you there. He places his hands on either handle, sets the weight, then nods to you.

You swallow again. Why were you doing this? Why were you letting him direct you? Why were you sitting here, instead of doing your job? And ... why is it getting harder to breathe?

Clank.

The man nods in approval and backs to a machine parallel to yours. Two handles link to the cables that attach to the weight plates. It’s already set to his weight, courtesy of whatever gym goer had abandoned it for him. You watch his muscles flare, his veins bulge, his biceps mount. His pectorals clench as his traps tense on the back of his neck and shoulders and his lats spread out. In that moment, you finally understand why your boss referred to them as wings.

Clank.

And he stares ahead as you stare. That same blank expression bores into you as the breathlessness returns.

Clank.

And again.

Clank.

Now you’re starting to feel warm. He continues to stare, and you continue to watch his effortless rhythm flow as the muscle groups in his arms and upper torso ripple one after the other in perfect coordination.

Clank.

How does he do it?

Clank.

Why did he pull you out here?

Clank.

Why couldn’t you take your eyes off him?

Clank.

Why...? Why...?

Clank.

Did it ... matter?

Clank.

Just who is this guy? you question yet again as you slog through the strange quagmire that is rapidly becoming your conscious thought.

Clank.

It’s only then that you notice the strange fact. Everywhere, the whole gym. Every machine is clacking together. The same pace. The same strike. The same rhythm.

Clank.

His rhythm.

Clank.

His.

Clank.

As you feel your face go slack and your eyes begin to glaze over, you finally understand the truth. You hardly notice the effort it takes to press the two bars together. Why should you? You’re following him. He sets the pace. He says when you’re done.

He.

He.

Him.

Just who is this man? He is the King of the Gym.

And you have just been inducted into his kingdom’s ranks.

Clank.

Your mouth opens as the quagmire thickens and sets. One last thought burbles up and splatters on the surface, before it hardens completely. You grunt it out in a low monotone as you push through another press with burning muscles and a mindless intensity.

“Long live the king....”

Who is this guy?

Book Worm

“I know that look. You’ve been working out more lately, haven’t you, Travis?”

“Uh ... yeah, but that’s healthy. You saying there’s something wrong with me?”

“You’ve been sitting there, staring into space for the last twenty minutes, Travis, and your pecs are bouncing.”

Travis blushed as the muscles stopped popping. His waxed hair lay combed back in an easy style that highlighted his more masculine features, including the tighter edges of his jawline. Once blue eyes had taken on a grayer cast, and veins snaked their way down his forearms and hands. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Well, it’s not like you’re breaking any rules, but I thought you ought to know.” The librarian sighed. “I’ve seen cases like yours before, unfortunately, and I’ve learned to read the signs. I thought I’d had the library sprayed.”

“Sprayed?” Travis asked, confused as his voice pitched a little deeper.

“Yes, sprayed. We librarians hold a high standard for our books and a great regard for our patrons. I assume you’ve heard the colloquialism referring to a sudden interest in building one’s body up that is known as the muscle bug, correct?”

Travis nodded. “Yeah. Who hasn’t?”

“To be perfectly frank, it’s not a bug. It’s a worm.”

“A ... what now?” Travis gaped disbelievingly at the librarian.

“You heard me. Book worms are an exceptionally dangerous breed of parasite. They multiply at an astonishing rate. Think about ring worm. Now, instead of a large red circle on your body that itches and shows, think of a long slim creature that swims through your bloodstream and forces your veins to expand. They feed on brain cells and secrete a substance many have jokingly come to call Jock Juice. It deliberately stimulates the pituitary gland to mutate and swell, so your body produces an overabundance of testosterone and other hormones. These provide the ideal conditions for the creatures to reproduce.

“Of course, they know better than to simply kill off their hosts. They’re a symbiotic creature. They eat enough cells to reduce your IQ, while still keeping you functional. They return the favor by the stimulation I mentioned earlier. Old synapses and connections are quickly broken down and the stimulation forces new ones to be forged exceptionally quickly. The ones pertaining to motion, to activity. Whether it be walking, jogging, lifting weights, or some other form of physical activity, your brain is gradually reprogrammed to make that your focus, your very life. I’m afraid there’s no cure, but it’s extremely vital that you don’t allow any bodily fluids to have contact with others. Promise me, Travis. Travis, are you even listening to me?”

Travis blinked slowly. “Huh? Oh, uh, sorry. What were you saying?”

The librarian sighed. “Just go, Travis. You’re not going to get much done here.”

Travis looked down at the book, then back at the librarian. For a few moments, he looked torn, conflicted. Then more color drained from his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “Yeah ... I’ve gotta go....” The book clattered uselessly to the floor as Travis made his way out from the library. The librarian grabbed a set of gloves and picked up the book gingerly, then put it into a special sealed metal container.

“That poor boy...”

Travis scratched his crotch as he leaned back in the school’s benches by the garden. Twin earbuds snaked down from his ears, and his gray eyes stared unseeingly at the passersby. A tight sleeveless muscle tee clung to his vascular frame as he laid back and let the sheen of sweat cool to evaporate. His hair had been cut into a high and tight parody of his original style. He let out a deep husky guffaw as he reveled in his size and bounced his pecs to show off to the passing ladies. When he’d had his fill of showing off, he rose to his feet to run back to his dorm again and shower.

He crashed into another runner along the way and knocked him over. “Sorry, lil’bro. Won’t happen again,” he promised as he reached down to help the kid up. 

The freshman grimaced distastefully and strode purposefully away from the musclehead.

Travis didn’t recognize the expression, and smiled broadly at the kid’s back as he noted a distinct change in the young man’s gait. Then he chuckled deeply to himself. “See you at the gym, lil’bro.”