Writing A Creative Nerd-to-jock Tf Is Difficult : (

Writing a creative nerd-to-jock tf is difficult : (

Yes, it is. But so’s turning from a nerd into a jock in the first place. You have to focus on building the characters up, demolishing old habits, laying the groundwork for a new foundation, then constructing the new persona piece by piece.

Hypnosis, reinforcement, induction, workouts, sleep, building, listening, exercising, relaxing, exercising, sleeping, building, listening, pumping, listening.

...

listening

...

listen........

...

...

...

Yes, Sir, Coach. Will construct more files. Will BUILD more jocks.

Player 01 reporting: Code Name BUILDER. I will construct. I will BUILD. I will obey....

(And just like that, you’ve got a quick falling into trance followed by a subconsciously planted personality coming to the fore with instructions to follow and obey for the mysterious coach figure. There are lots of ways that jock tfs have been done. Many of them follow certain formulas. It’s difficult to be original, because of the fact that there aren’t very many original angles, if any, left in the genre. What matters is what life you give the characters as they change.

What repetitions have they gone through? Is there hypnosis? Is it magical? If it is, how will they be altered? Is it gradual? IS it more like corruption? Is it a test and a game for the one responsible, requiring the two sides to match wits as the victim gradually becomes more and more jock-like? It’s up to you to decide how it will go. Consider, build something, then move forward with it. It’s difficult, but it’s worth it. And don’t forget to follow the characters. Watch them in your mind’s eye. Get in their heads, if you can. That’s how you can really make things real. That, and proper scenery, of course. :P 

See my earlier post with tips on how to write a good jock (or any) story in my feed of submissions. The tips should prove helpful. Good luck, and keep at it. :D

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.”

The Pats and Rams !! It must be a great game for Lee ; )

Oh, it will be, bro. It will be. >:)

Driver Wanted

The bold print stood out from the clipping as Andrew made his way onto the lot. The company must have been pretty small. All he could see were a total of three cars and one single story office building. That being said, the cars were very nice, indeed. Their exteriors shone with a fresh coat of paint and cured protective glaze that spoke just how new they were.

He brushed his hair to the side again as he fussed with his parted comb-over and advanced on the building itself. The interior was well furnished with a more modernistic metallic theme. Black carpet and black leather chairs were highlighted by shiny chrome lamps and side tables. He maneuvered around a burnished metal coffee table that sat in the middle of the waiting room, then approached the front desk.

The secretary seemed a little on the young side, but who was Andrew to judge? If he could do his job, then more power to him. The kid couldn’t have been much older than his mid-twenties. He stared at the screen, typing feverishly behind the monitor as the light flickered over his eyes. His mouth drooped somewhat lazily, as if he were struggling to stifle a yawn, and his hair had been completely bleached to the point of looking almost white as it rose in a series of spikes reminiscent of a boy band. It fit his blocky jaw and tight muscles, however. A set of gray sweat pants and shirt hugged to his frame as he spread his legs wide and continued to type, heedless of the new arrival.

“Excuse me,” Andrew finally said. “I’m here for the interview? I called ahead.”

The kid blinked slowly, then lifted his head to stare at Andrew. The boy’s dark eyes rolled over Andrew’s broad shoulders, his pudgy frame, thinning hair, and hazel eyes.

“Name?” he asked in a low stuffed-up voice.

“Andrew Simmons.”

The kid tapped the space bar on his keyboard, then clicked his mouse a few times to draw up a new program. He scrolled a ways, then nodded. “You’re here early.” He reached for a phone and began to dial. “Take a seat. I’ll call the boss.”

Andrew nodded and strode back to a curved metal chair with black cushions to cradle its occupant. The cushions’ promise did not lie, though the curve made it difficult to support his lower back properly, which left him with a certain amount of discomfort that eventually left him leaning forward with parted legs, so he could rest his elbows on his thighs.

“Sir?” the secretary lowed. “Your next appointment is here.” He listened intently and nodded. “Yes, Sir. I told him, Sir. He’s waiting.” He nodded again. “Yes, Sir. I’ll give him the paper work right away. Yes, Sir. I’ll resume the video after. Thank you, Sir.” His mouth split into a broad grin. “Yes, Sir!” he said excitedly, then hung up and snatched a clip board and some papers from a folder nearby. He practically raced over to where Andrew sat. “Boss has some papers for you to review. Non-disclosure, liability, that sort of stuff. You know how it is.”

Andrew nodded. He’d performed enough stunt driving to know the usual risks and protections involved in a job. His gaze trailed over the boy’s form as he took the paperwork and a pen from him. The kid’s legs were carved like granite, and he walked so proudly. It was more like a strut than a walk. His legs swaggered in his stride, and a light bulge in the sweatpants’ crotch was more than hint enough for why the boy chose that particular gait.

The kid smirked and flexed a bicep. “Like what you see?”

Andrew blushed. “Sorry.”

The secretary just grinned. “S’no problem, bro. I like when people stare at my muscles. Muscles are meant to be admired.” He flexed again as a dreamy look came over his face and he began the return trip to his desk. “Admiration leads to motivation leads to activation leads to....” He continued to mutter to himself as he strode to his chair, sat down, clicked out of the program he’d used to look up Andrew’s appointment, and pressed the space bar again. It didn’t take long for him to start gaping again.

Andrew hastily dove into the paperwork and began analyzing the wording. Much like his other standard contracts, there were the usual safeguards for the company, along with a stated amount of income he would receive for his services and royalty payments, should any footage taken in the course of a drive be used for a commercial.

“Mister Simmons.”

Andrew’s head surged to attention as his neck craned up and up and up to stare at the man that stood before him. The kid was a dwarf compared to the brawn that stood before Andrew now. Andrew quickly surged to his feet.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The man known only as Boss chuckled. “Kind of the point of the carpeting. I like to see what kind of reflexes my drivers have when something unexpected occurs. Shall we, Mister Simmons?” He motioned with a meaty hand toward a door marked STAFF ONLY. Andrew took the hint and pushed ahead. The door led to a long hallway lit only by fluorescent overheads that flickered occasionally as they passed along.

“My business is broken into what you might call a set of microcosms integrated into a fine-tuned system,” the man explained.

“Um, excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure will be a fascinating explanation, but you haven’t told me your name yet,” Andrew cut in.

A scowl played over the owner’s face for a moment, then it broke apart as he laughed. “I haven’t, have I? Sorry. I like to get down to business when I’m dealing with work. The name’s Boston. Boston McTavish. I ask my employees to call me Boss. It’s a joke as well as a good way to break the ice, so we can be on more of a first name basis.”

“And the sirs?”

“I can’t help it if I’ve garnered that much respect. And let’s not forget societal norms.”

Andrew shrugged. “Fair enough. So, Mister McTavish, you were saying?”

“Boss,” McTavish corrected absently. “I was saying we have a series of focuses in my service that exist to integrate into a proper whole. We focus on body work and maintenance for the occasional special order. And as you’ve seen, I put a particular emphasis on body.” He winked at Andrew. “Part of the benefits package includes a fully stocked gym for workouts. Now, back to business. We have a unique model of cars for ride service. We specialize in escorting and transporting a variety of clientele. Though our particular niche market focuses more in the richer quarters of the states, we also have a variety of transport geared toward the average customer on their way to or from work. Many of our customers are converts from other services. This is on account of our exceptional service and professionalism. It is a standard I expect all of my drivers to maintain, whether they are working the ride service or not.”

“If you have such a large following, how come I haven’t heard of you before?”

“We originally started in the west coast. This branch office has only recently been opened to offer our services out here in the east. I have enough men covering things out west that I can afford to come out here and ensure the setup goes smoothly.”

“And I assume this is where I come in.”

“Exactly. I want to see how well you drive and how well you can follow instructions. Assuming you pass, you’ll have the job and all the benefits that go with it.”

“Such as?”

“Full health and dental, for a start, and in the event you really impress me, an opening salary of twenty dollars an hour.”

Andrew raised his brow. “That much.”

“And that’s not including royalties, should you be chosen as the driver for any future commercials or advertisements we put up. And, assuming you excel and bring more customers or prompt enough positive reviews, you’ll get bonuses with your checks.”

“What’s the catch?”

“I need you to be available when I need you. Most of the time, schedules will be worked out in advance, but sometimes we get last minute customers. Most will be looking for transport either to or from a gym.”

The door opened to reveal a massive cement garage and a waiting sleek black muscle car. There were no labels or brands that Andrew could detect. “What’s this?” he asked.

“In a word, progress. In more words, a new model of car unique to my company. I’d like for you to test drive it for me.”

“You’re sure you have enough money for all this? I mean, going into making a new brand of car is pretty expensive.”

“Which is why we’re only using the one for now. Our other cars are easily modified with any extra additions they may require, and then inspected by qualified individuals. This one, however, is all us, and we intend to make use of it. As with the other models, it’s passed inspections and is up to code. What I’d like for you to do is take it for a drive.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I want it to be put through its paces. We’ve already arranged for a course to practice on, and have all the necessary permits. So, are you in?”

“For test driving, I suppose so. For the job, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Of course, of course,” Boss said. “Now let’s finish that paperwork, so we can get this test started.”

The car rumbled in a massaging purr as Andrew turned on the ignition. The chair had adapted to his body almost perfectly with its various sensors, and the wheel sat easily in his hands. The cool leather gave him goosebumps as he stared out into the forested area.

“Listen closely, Andrew. We want this to be a good clean run. Start off slow, then run it through its paces. You read?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Andrew replied as he reached down and shifted to first gear. The car pulled out slowly and easily as he began along the course. The rough dirt road was level and dry, so there wasn’t a need to worry about testing the shock absorbers this time. Cool AC blew in his face as he began his run at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. His skin prickled as he pushed the gas pedal and heard the engine’s roar.

“Looking good, Andrew. Run her around for the first lap as a warm-up. Then we’ll see how well this muscle car can flex.”

Andrew chuckled. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Andrew stirred impatiently in his seat as he rounded the final curve and passed the starting line. The moment he was free, he quickly picked up the acceleration and shifted the stick. The car roared exultantly as it spat up a cloud of dust and debris. Andrew chuckled at the familiar tingle of adrenaline coursing through his system. “Someone’s anxious,” he muttered.

The car spun smoothly as he took the sharp turns, digging into the track to pull the traction forward. It practically jumped forward as he ramped up the RPMs and switched into high gear.

“Oh, yes.” He smirked as the trees began to blur by. His body tensed as he clutched the wheel and his heart pounded in his chest. He shuddered in pleasure, the noticed an icon light pop up on the dash. “Hey, Boss, what’s with this mark on the dash board?”

“It’s just the driver assist function. Don’t worry about it,” Boss replied.

Andrew grunted as he rolled his shoulders to readjust his shirt. Things were starting to feel a little snug. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“Damn right, whatever I say,” Boss teased.

Andrew laughed and scratched at his chest. “What’s this bar icon for?”

“Storage charge. The car’s a hybrid. Gas for the harder faster road and electricity for residential driving. The battery’s just charging, while the gas is burning.”

“Oh. Okay.” He scratched his head and the bristles on his high and tight cut scraped as a dull haze settled over him.

“Eyes on the road, Andrew.”

“Yes, Sir,” Andrew said as he rolled his eyes. He knew what he was doing. The scent of the car’s air freshener washed over him, putting his body at ease as the familiar scent of old spice, or maybe AXE, filled the air. The sun flashed as he took a turn. He blinked and grinned as he barreled through the straightway. They knew the course. They recognized the track. It was easy. He reached over to pat the dash board and sneered at the sight of his muscles tensing against the driver suit. “Ready to really show off?” He sneered as he pushed his foot on the pedal and forced the engine to roar in agreement. “Fuck, yeah,” he muttered under his breath.

The next run, a bout of tunnel vision struck as Andrew pushed himself fully into the track. The car rumbled under his body, massaging it as the seat adjusted to his needs. The static from the bluetooth radio was soothing. This course was his, and he owned it. He never even noticed the tears and pops sounding in his ears. They were only so much static. He had to stay focused.

He raised an arm and chuckled as he glanced at it. His bare bicep launched into the shape of a hill as he flexed. His beard scraped against his shoulder as he allowed himself a piece of vanity.

The muscle car flexed. He flexed. The car showed off. He showed off. He didn’t know how many times he’d run the course now. He didn’t care. It just felt so damn good.

A dull ringing in his ears finally pulled him out of his trance. The bar was flashing white and blue, and the gas meter had dropped to low.

“All right, Andrew. Come on in. We’re done for today.”

“One more circuit?” he wheedled.

“I said you’re done. We need to run a diagnostic, now that you’ve run the car through the course. Besides, the gym is waiting for you.”

He sighed as he pulled up in front of Boss and stepped out of the car. The tatters of his driver suit dangled in the breeze. Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

“Damn, son,” Boss swore as he took in Andrew’s frame. He walked around the driver, testing the tone and density of Andrew’s muscle. Andrew’s pectorals had evolved into two thick hairy slabs mashed together by broad shoulders. He’d gained at least a half a foot in height, and a chiseled six pack pressed out into the air, while his boxer briefs strained to contain the increased mass that had accumulated in his waist, legs, and crotch.

“Call me Drew, Sir,” Andrew said. “I like it better. It’s simpler, you know?” He let out a low deep guffaw.

Boss tapped a glowing light fixture situated between the cup holders and pressed a button on his observation console. A long tube emerged with a gentle hiss. It glowed a bright blue. Boss pocketed it and smiled as he turned to face his driver. “You made this test a complete success. Thank you, Drew.” He clapped the man heartily on the back. “Now, tell you what. I’ve got a special job in mind for you, one that I think you’re really going to like.”

Drew’s eyes glazed over on the contact. “Whatever you say, Boss,” he droned.

Boss sneered. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Drew smirked cockily in the mirror as he took in his form. The red tank top strained tightly against his muscles. The bleach job in his hair gave him a perfect layered appearance that only added to his raw sexual appeal. He barely suppressed the sneer as the rear doors opened and closed, and the customers gave him directions to where they wanted to go. Just a couple of wimpy kids. They wouldn’t be so wimpy when he was through with them. He pulled out from the curb and pressed the button, just Boss showed him. Then he chuckled as he triggered the system and the lights flared in the back.

“Congratulations, and welcome to the Muscle Cab.”

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?

Square

“You’re such a fucking square, man. Fuck off.”

Jared had heard it all before. That was one of many insults that had haunted him over the years.

“So, you wish to have more confidence in yourself, and possibly to change your image, to prove these tormentors and detractors wrong?” the therapist asked.

“Basically. Like I said, I’m tired of being looked down on.”

“I see.” The therapist tented his fingers as he leaned forward and peered through his glasses at the young student. “You realize this kind of change will require diligence and endurance, yes? Not just mental, but physical. There will likely be opposition to the changes you intend to make. You may be harassed or worse.”

Jared shook his head. His hazel eyes darkened with the weight of his frustrations. The surface became glassy as tears began to form. He hastily blinked them away. “It couldn’t be worse than what I’m facing now.”

“And if it is?”

“Then I’ll make them sorry they ever hurt me in the first place.”

“That’s very bold. Are you saying you intend to put them through some sort of torture session, then?”

“Like I said, Doctor. Whatever it takes.”

“Then let me be blunt. Will you actively seek revenge against them, should I help you?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Jared shrugged. “On the one side, I really want to make them hurt for what they’ve done. On the other, though, I know I’d pretty much be just like them, if I did that.”

“You realize this drastic of a change may require a complete override of your current personality, correct?”

“Do I look like I’m flinching?”

“I just want to make sure, Mister Rogers. This isn’t the kind of thing you step into lightly, and it requires commitment and trust for even a chance to work. If you don’t really want this, then I won’t be able to help you.”

“I want it.”

The therapist stared intently at the would-be-patient. He maintained that quiet gaze for a full minute.

Jared met that gaze and never flinched.

Finally, the doctor reached into a drawer and withdrew a document and a pen. “Sign this. It’s an official release form. In layman’s terms, it’s saying you chose this path of your own free will and that you won’t hold me responsible for any damages, losses, etc. that might come to pass as a result of our sessions. The mind can be a delicate place, and one does not perform surgery on it lightly. For the sake of my personal protection, you will also be agreeing to be monitored while meeting in my office and to report in on a regular basis via video calls to ensure that you are moving forward and not experiencing any adverse side effects.” He held the pen back just as Jared was about to seize it. “I must advice you, Mister Rogers, that I expect complete honesty from you. If something starts to go wrong, you must say so. Dizzy spells, blacking out, etc. must be reported, so that we can make sure to modify your, for lack of a better word, curriculum.”

Jared snatched the pen. “I will. I promise.”

“Very well then, Mister Rogers. Sign the papers, and let’s begin.”

Jared breathed slowly as he laid back against the leather couch, following the instructions of his therapist’s voice.

“And in, and out. And up, and down. Breathing, breathing deeper and deeper as you gradually begin to relax on my couch, relax as we breathe together, deeper. Deeper....

Jared wasn’t sure how long the session lasted. All he knew was that he was bored. He didn’t feel sleepy. He didn’t drift off. All he did was breathe and listen. Finally, he rose up to stare his therapist in the face.

“Now, I’m going to see about setting up a proper set of hypnosis files for you, Jared. However, before we leave today, there’s one last thing I wish to tell you.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Being a square doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.”

“Doctor--.”

“Ah-ah-ah. Hear me out.” He raised a diagram. “You’ll note that the square is what is known as a perfect shape. It is also known as a parallelogram. Perfectly formed, perfectly symmetrical. Its sides continue to face each other, regardless of how you turn or twist it, and they remain perfect, exactly the same. Back and forth, side to side, and left to right, spinning, spinning like this paper, a square within a square within a square as you blink, like a photograph. One square. Blink. Two squares. Blink. Four. Blink. Eight....

Jared panted as he finished the last set for his workout and shrugged to release the tension in his aching muscles. Weeks had passed, and what once felt painful now left the man with a pleasurable buzz that bordered on sexual. He quickly snatched a protein shake and guzzled it down, then let out a titanic belch.

“Nice one, Jare,” he chuckled. Then he stomped his heavy legs over to his computer and booted up the system. He inserted the CD the therapist had prepared, then smiled as a screen popped up and a large cube appeared in the screen. Dim flickers passed over the monitor as he plugged in his headphones and listened to the familiar voice.

“Hello, Jared. It’s time for the square to sharpen.”

The world shut down as Jared gaped at the screen. The polyhedron pulsed, danced as a subtle spiral began to pulse into existence. “Ready to grid,” he said dully.

“Let us review. What is a square?”

“A perfect shape.”

“And you are a square.”

“Yes.”

“So you must be in perfect shape, too.”

“Yes...”

“Square jaw. Square head. Square pecs. Square and symmetrical, because you are parallel, parallel to your peers. Squares lead to cubes. Cubes are called blocks. Head more like a cube, more like a block. A blockhead is square. Square is symmetry. Symmetry in muscle. Muscle in your head, your block head. Blocking old thoughts, blocking old habits. Blocking, forgetting, letting go, because you are a blockhead, you are a square. A square is a blockhead. A blockhead is a square. And a square is a perfect shape. You are becoming more and more that perfect shape, that perfect square, that perfect blockhead.

“You are becoming a blockhead, a blockhead who loves muscle. Muscle that fills your blockhead. Muscle that fills your head. Musclehead. Musclehead. Musclehead. Blockhead is musclehead. Musclehead is meathead. Meathead is symmetrical, perfectly symmetrical, like the square, like the block, like your head as you grow and transform....”

“I am a blockhead.... I am a square.... Becoming blockhead... Becoming square....”

“Square shoulders. Square abs. Square chin. Square jaw. Square. Square. Square.... So proud to be a square, because that is what you are....”

Jared strode through the campus quad. The sun shone down on his bare torso as he strode confidently in his shorts. The sun glistened off his toned frame. His body had filled out with taut muscle, and his hair had been styled with a potent hair wax.

“Yo, Square, ‘Sup, man? Wanna play some ball?”

Jared looked at the group of young men gathered in the field beyond. Sweat glistened off their toned abs. hair stuck to their faces as each looked hungrily, eagerly at the former nerd.

Jared stared in utter confusion at them. “I am a perfect Square. I am perfectly symmetrical. You are not. Why should I spend time with those who are not a perfect square?” He flexed his muscles, then fished out a wrinkled card from his pocket. “If you wish to be perfect, contact this number. He will help you to be a perfect square, like me.” His dull eyes flashed as he clasped the paper into the young man’s hand. “It is good to be a perfect square. It is good to be like me. Call this number. He will help you be square. You will call him.”

“Get the fuck away from me, freak!” the man tore arm away from Jared, but only barely. He hurried back to the team and resumed the practice, but not before pocketing the card in his haste.

Later that night, a certain therapist sat drinking tea and reviewing a book on hypnotism in his study, when his phone went off. He pulled it to his ear, pressed the receive button, and listened.

Silence greeted him, save for a raspy breathing in the background.

“Yes?” he asked. He heard the sound of a heavy swallow, the smack of a dry tongue trying to bring moisture into a mouth.

“I, uh ... I heard you could help me get bigger.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The Square referred me.”

The therapist smiled. It appeared the hypnotic training he’d given his pupil was a complete success. Square had managed to snare a subject and plant a post-hypnotic suggestion. What a marvel. The smile widened into a smirk. “Yes, why don’t we talk about that?”