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The House of the Rising Guns

“You think he’s gonna come out?” the first of the bullies asked.

Grant rolled his eyes as he folded his toned arms and stared at the white door. The old house had been abandoned for years, and they’d seen to it that their little freshie would be scared out of his mind, thanks to all the little surprises they’d cooked up. “Little nerd probably cried himself to sleep last night.” He strode out to the porch and thumped heavily on the door. “Yo, Jackson! You can come out now!” he shouted.

The door slowly creaked open to reveal the barest trappings of a cloth over a long rectangular surface that most likely was a mirror. Grant’s eyes widened when a wall of muscle lumbered out onto the porch, instead of the weak asthmatic he had come to enjoy teasing. The brim of the boy’s cap cast a shadow over his chiseled square jaw, and a sleeveless tanktop that read FOX with a fox head next to it on its front had replaced the hoodie he’d worn the night before.

The muscle man’s arms rose in a double bicep flex to expose the patches of hair that had grown out his armpits. The bullies watched in awe and surprise as that hair lightened before their eyes from a dark auburn to a bright gold. Veins snaked out over the sculpted curves and ridges of his arms, while his pectorals and lats bulged and expanded in the morning light.

He didn’t seem to recognize them as he looked down on the bullies. “’Sup, bros?” he lowed in a deep stuffy voice.

“Jackson?” Grant asked disbelievingly.

“The one n’only.” He let out a low deep guffaw as he posed and flexed in front of the boys. “This place is fucking ace! You guys should totally join me for my morning workout. They’ve got a whole gym in here! Treadmills, weights, rowing machines, the works!” He groaned in pleasure and rolled his eyes. “And the kitchen! All the supps a bro could ask for. You’ve gotta come see, guys,” he gushed.

“Come ... see....”

Jackson recoiled as he felt one of his possy shoulder past him to step heavily onto the porch. The kid’s eyes were glassy as he stared into Jackson’s own, and he swayed on his feet.

Jackson sneered. “Knew I’d get at least one of you to wanna come.” He clapped his thick hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Welcome to the House of the Rising Guns, bro.”

Grant gaped as he watched the shirt starting to ride up on his former crony, followed by the sound of creaking denim. The kid’s arms rose to mirror Jackson’s.

“Sun’s out, guns out,” he said with a chuckle.

“That’s right, bro. Come on in. Let me give you the grand tour.”

Grant gaped after the pair as the door creaked shut with a heavy slam.

After three solid minutes of gaping and running through the conversation in his head, he finally managed to say, “... What the fuck just happened?” He scratched a pectoral absently as he turned to his remaining two underlings. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. The other two nodded numbly as they strode away from the building. They didn’t notice how tight their shoes had become, nor the way their shirts had begun to cling to their torsos.

Jackson smirked as he watched them depart from behind one of the tinted windows. “They’ll be back,” he said to his new companion.

“Bro....” the other replied as he pumped a set of heavy dumbbells in either hand and watched his shirt slowly get torn apart in the process.

Jackson chuckled. “That’s a good little bro.”

Get Bricked

You didn’t believe him when he first approached you in the gym. You thought he’d misspoken. Most of the guy in the gym did, actually, and Marcus was the biggest of the bunch.

“Let me help you,” he’d said. “Work with me, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll really be bricked.”

“Uh, don’t you mean ripped?” you’d asked.

Marcus just smiled as he motioned to the weight bench.

It came in little stages. A few reps here, a bit of cardio there. And all the while, Marcus would babble on about his work routine, his diets, the focus it required, the diligence, the ability to be absolutely unyielding in every respect. It got kinda repetitive, so you just sort of grunted and filtered it out as you worked.

For a time, things were pretty cool. Your grades were up, your concentration was better than it had ever been before. You’d learned how to filter out things you didn’t want to listen to or focus on, thanks to all that practice with Marcus in the first place. And it goes without saying that your body was toning nicely. Things were pretty great.

Then he suggested you spend more time in the gym.

And before you knew it, you’d already grunted and nodded along like you always do. His grin was massive, and the workout that day particularly vicious. Your arms felt like they wanted to fall off. You were so tired that night, you didn’t even want to so much as think about your homework.

So you didn’t.

It was the first time you deliberately chose not to work on an assignment you knew was going to be due the next day. It wouldn’t be the last.

The workouts were killers, but you couldn’t help but smile weakly at Marcus when you’d managed to push through another plateau. The guy was just so enthusiastic and charismatic. He’d flex whenever he got really excited. You couldn’t help but wonder if the muscle was part of it all in the first place. Could it really be that simple to gain such confidence?

...

It had been so embarrassing the first time he caught you posing in the locker room mirrors. But then he just chuckled and popped a little flex of his own.

“Like this, bro,” he’d said. You spent the next half hour practicing poses in the mirror. The way the light reflected off his skin, the ripple of the raw muscle beneath the flesh, the way the veins accented the primary locations. It was almost a form of poetry.

You practiced those poses every day from then on at home in your closet mirror.

Then came the party. Marcus insisted you attend at his place for a premier football game, just a close gathering, some of the guys hanging out. You were flattered, but you hardly felt prepared for that sort of thing. Sports had never really been your forte. But Marcus insisted. Time and place.

It was inevitable for you to follow.

You’re still not exactly sure what happened that night. Things are sort of hazy. You arrived on time, but none of the other guys from the gym were there yet. Marcus just chuckled and said they’d be along soon. Then he wrapped his huge arm around your shoulders and led you to the huge leather couch in front of a gigantic flat screen TV.

One minute you were watching the screen. The next, you were standing at the door with your iphone in hand and the rest of the gym goers smacking you on the back.

“I want you to listen to those tunes, bro,” Marcus said seriously. “No skimping out. Every day for your warmups, every night when you sleep. Got it?”

You nodded numbly. And for some odd reason, you chose to run home that night, rather than calling a cab.

It got a lot easier to understand the guys at the gym after that. It didn’t take all that much, really. You just had to do a little research on football and some of the other sports they liked. If you didn’t know about something, you’d ask one of them, and they’d be able to explain it in perfect detail. You were shocked. The guys weren’t dumb. They just specialized. Tony was football, Mikey weights, Alphy diet and nutrition. They became your gurus, all while Marcus continued to push your limits with his routines.

You nearly threw it all away when you got your report card at the end of the year, though. C in almost every course. That wasn’t like you. How were you supposed to get into college like this? It hurt to go and tell the news to Marcus, but you knew you had to.

Then came that hazy period again. You’re not sure what was said. All you knew was you needed to keep going. The gym made you happy now, surprisingly enough. And the guys, well ... you’d become sort of like a unit. You couldn’t picture doing anything without them around anymore.

You got yourself a tutor, and he helped you to pass. You didn’t like that your GPA had dropped so much, but it was better than before.

You hardly pay attention to the teachers now, though. It’s all just so ... boring for you. You’d pass the time by doing mini-flexes and running through some of the games you’d caught the other night in your head.

You still remember the first time you chuckled. It had been so easy. It just sort of burst out of you like a belch. You flexed. You chuckled. You flexed. You chuckled. You flexed....

Most of your games moldered in the dust now. Madden, EA Games, sports, those all were used well enough. After all, you had to have something to play with your bros from time to time.

Then they finally invited you here, to this place. The rough stone blocks behind you were a light dull gray. Daylight streamed over it, highlighting the muscles that now stood out from your sleeveless shirt.

The response was automatic. You raised your arms and flexed. You admired the light as it played across the flesh, casting it shadows that flowed over the curves and bends like a work of art.

You smirked.

You sneered.

You were a muscle god, and you liked it that way.

School? Screw it.

D&D? Bro, you were living that dream. No need to play a barbarian with these guns.

Your future? ... Why think about it? Your future was here with your bros.

Class? ... Class made your head hurt. Whatever. If you pass, that’s all that mattered. You couldn’t get banned from the gym. S’where you and the bros hung out.

You stare into Marcus’ face as he grins triumphantly at you.

“So, how does it feel to be bricked?”

The words flow out of you as easily as if you’d been cursing your whole life. “Huhuh. Fucking sweet, bro.”

And it was. The gym is your life now. The gym and your bros. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Want more transformation stories? Please, consider joining my patreon to support my creative endeavors. On top of seeing more of my works before anybody else, you’ll also receive other benefits, like offering suggestions (at least one of which I’ll use each month, provided it doesn’t go against my rules/principles), receiving a free short story written by me for you, role playing, conversation with me via Discord, and coaching on how to improve your own writing style.

The Game

You’ve heard of video games and drinking games, but bro, you haven’t lived until you’ve played the lifting game. It’s so fucking addicting!

How’s it work? You’ve just gotta join the Gaming Gym, bro. Dumb bros keep saying muscleheads and nerds can’t get along. That’s bullshit. Got recommended to this place by one of my bros, and I’ve never turned back. They’ve got this sweet gaming room. Tabletop, cardgames, videogames, consoles. You name it, they’ve got it. There’s just one rule to get in. You’ve gotta spend at least a half hour doing fitness. Cardio, weights, doesn’t matter as long as you put in the work. And they have the best fucking save system! I don’t know how they do it, but there’s this reader they put in at all the game consoles. You just insert your membership card, and it’ll pull up your save files for whatever game you’re playing, no questions asked. I don’t know what kinda deal they had to pull with the manufacturers to pull it off, but bro, it’s sweet.

The lifting game? Oh. Oh, yeah! Huhuh. Sorry ’bout that, bro. Kinda nerded out for a second there. I can be kind of a dumbass like that, sometimes. The lifting game’s got its own space aside from the rest of the gaming room. There are stations all over one of the walls, and it still has lines. The name says it all. It’s a game about lifting stuff.

Hey, don’t knock it till you try it! It’s harder than it sounds. You know VR, right? S’kinda like that. The more points you earn in the game, the higher your rank gets in the gym, and the more benefits you can earn, like VIP access to some of the games, special training programs, free health drinks from the bar once a month (or even once a week, if you’re really good), that sort of thing. It takes some getting used to at first, but bro, once you get into it, you won’t want to stop.

Don’t believe me? I used to weigh 130 when I started here. Now look at me. I’ve more than doubled that weight. I fucking love to lift, bro. And it’s all thanks to that game.

What’s my rank now? Bro, can’t you tell? I’m an NPC!

Well, of course we’re gonna have gaming references for ranks! It’s the Gaming Gym, bro, where you come to game and gain!

Come on. Let me give you the tour. Nah, bro. It’s no trouble. After all, I’m the welcoming NPC.

Gotta give those tutorials, m’I right, lil’bro?

This deserves a reblog. What an excellent beginning of a deeper introspection to his original meathead tattoo story. I can’t wait to see where it goes. Well done, BODriver! Well done!

It was a stupid dare, and you were a dumbass to go through with it… But college is the time to do stupid shit, right?

“Are you serious?” said Rhys, giving your unassuming, un-inked body a once-over. “Sorry, I don’t touch the face, neck, or hands unless you have at least a few pieces already. And honestly, you’re gonna have a hard time finding any artist who would.”

“Wait,” said your friend Jake, who was sitting beside you. “Would you change your mind if we told you it’s for a dare, and he’s gonna get it lasered off after a month?”

“That makes it even worse, dude,” said Rhys, as he started getting up. “I’m serious about my art, and I’m not gonna purposefully give someone a tat he doesn’t really want—”

“—How about I throw in an extra two thousand above your normal fee?” said Jake, nonchalantly.

Before Rhys could even protest, Jake threw two thick stacks of 20s onto the table. You saw the tattooist mouth something in bewilderment before he sat back down. After a few seconds of pondering Jake’s offer, he looked back at you.

“You and your friend have more money than sense, but I need a new set of tires, so… I’m just gonna take this,” he said.

“Oh it’s all Jake’s,” you replied.



“Just to make sure I got this right… You want a thumb-sized tattoo—chosen by your bougie friend—right on your forehead… And you don’t want to see it until it’s done?”



“That’s right,” you responded. Nerves had your stomach feeling all knotted up, but in your head you knew Jake’s crazy shenanigans always turned out fine in the end. College had been a blast ever since Jake had entered your life.

“And even though you’ve never gotten a tattoo before, you’re gonna be fine with the pain of me repeatedly jabbing needles into your face, and you promise that you’re not gonna bitch out?”

“I promise.”

Rhys sighed.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But if your friend asks me for any hate symbols, I’m gonna kick his ass. Also, he can’t ask for any colors since those are harder to erase. And I’m diluting the black to about a 75% grey. And I’m using a light touch. It’ll start fading right away and probably end up looking like shit, so don’t you ever tag me or this place in any pics online, and don’t tell anyone I did this for you.”

“Deal,” said Jake, before you could respond. “Now let me show you the design…”

After looking at whatever was on Jake’s phone, Rhys quickly led you and Jake to the back and sat you on a chair. After disappearing for a few minutes, Rhys came back with a stencil.

The first 15 minutes of inking felt like an eternity. You focused on keeping your breath steady as the searing pain and the buzzing of the gun pounded your skull. You remained silent as you listened to Jake and Rhys chat on how exactly did you end up in that tattoo shop, on the last Sunday before classes started, with this crazy idea.

Jake, being his over-talkative self, started by explaining how, way back last year, he’d gotten himself an entire house right off campus, where he’d first met you during one of his infamous keggers (the next of which Rhys was totally invited to, by the way). It didn’t take long for Jake to bring you into his crew, and take you on as his next “project.” To like, get you to come out of your shell. Eventually his housemate would move out, which was a bummer, but that meant the room was wide open for you this year.

And it was yesterday morning while you were moving in, when another of Jake’s friends mentioned the new tattoo removal clinic that had opened over the summer. And you guys were curious about it, even though no one in the group had any tats. (But Jake totally would’ve tatted up by now if his dad wouldn’t disown him.)

So you volunteered to get some ink. And not just anywhere, but right on your forehead, and you’d keep it there for four weeks until you started getting laser treatments to get rid of it. Cuz you’re crazy like that.

Wait, was that really how the conversation went? You could’ve sworn it was Jake’s idea…

Jake—being in his “comfortable” financial situation—would pay for the tattoo, and then for the removal. And if you went about your college life without covering up the tat or holing up in your room while you had it, you could choose any tattoo that would stay on Jake’s ass until graduation. Sure, the whole plan sounded like something straight out of Jackass, but college is the time to do stupid shit, and maybe this shit could get you famous on Youtube or something.

You broke your silence by telling Rhys you needed a breather. The pain had been making you clench all over.

After Rhys stepped out of the space, Jake took out a pair of wireless Beats from his bag.

“Hey, champ, you did great. You’re a beast,” Jake said, flashing a mischievous grin.

“Thanks Jaker. I had no idea it was gonna hurt that much. I was afraid I was gonna move… What’s that for?” You pointed to the headphones.

“I just remembered I brought these, so maybe you should listen to that playlist you like so much… You know, to distract from the pain.”



“You mean your weird take on ‘lo-fi chill beats to study and relax to?’ Don’t get so full of yourself, I don’t like it that much, haha.”

“Woww…” Jake pulled back his wavy dark brown bangs as he feigned offense.

“That hurts, bro. You know how much of my heart and soul I put into updating my playlist… Actually, I’m not at all hurt cuz I know you’ll beg me to put it on for you, and you’re gonna love it and thank me for its healing power—”

“—OK, OK, that’s enough. Just put the headphones on me. My hands are all clammy and gross.”

“Sure thing, bro,” said Jake, with a strange twinkle in his hazel eyes.

As soon as Jake sat back down from putting the headphones on you, you saw Rhys return, donning fresh gloves. You closed your eyes as the familiar music enveloped you. It was the soundtrack of the many late nights you spent with Jake in his room. Sometimes you really did your studying to it. But other times, you’d *relax*, talking with Jake about everything and anything, but mostly you and the potential he saw in you. Listening to the playlist often took you back to the first time you’d met him, during that fateful party almost exactly a year ago.

He’d been standing out on the balcony, watching the full moon. You’d asked him what he was listening to, and with a smirk, he’d wordlessly stuck both earbuds into your ears. At first you were confused by the silence but then you picked up on the beat… And the two different voices, split between both ears:



“Trust me,” sang the left, with heavy distortion.

“Lose control,” sang the right, sounding slowed down.

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.”

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.” The music started to speed up.

“TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL. TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL…”

This song always took you back… But this time, as you were listening to it in the tattoo parlor, something was different. A third voice, evenly spread to sound like it was stalking you from behind:

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“You are the meathead,” the voice approached closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.



I AM THE MEATHEAD, you replied with the whole of your being, before being awoken by a hand tapping your shoulder.


“Hey, wake up, Champ,” Jake said as he took off the headphones. “You’re all done.”

You were confused.

You’d thought the tattoo was gonna take at least an hour, but after just one song on Jake’s playlist, you were done already. At first you were tempted to feel concerned, but you remembered that Jake had said it would distract from the pain, and he was right. He was always looking out for you.

“Well,” said Rhys, handing you a mirror. “What do you think?”

You looked at your reflection. There, right in the middle of your forehead:

🍖

The meat emoji. A cylinder with two ends of a bone sticking out of it. Really? You were surprised, but relieved that it wasn’t something obscene or gross. Little did you know that it unlocked the next phase of Jake’s plans for your development…

Since I couldn’t get the old post uncensored, here’s the story again with the same image, which is CLEARLY FINE with tumblr guidelines. Hopefully it won’t get flagged this time.

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Off The Record

Day 1:

Well, here’s day one of my voice journal. I’ve officially been processed and am now a part of the new exchange program between Earth and Braün. My quarters have been set up, and I start my job tomorrow. Since I majored in biology and health sciences on Earth, I’ve been tasked with working at a gym with Braün trainers and dietitians to gain a better understanding of this world’s nutrition and eating habits. Since our two worlds are integrating at such a rapid pace, it’s good for Earth to know what Braünies like and vice versa. I can’t wait to see all the different kinds of cuisine this world has to offer. Who knows? Perhaps some of the food here will have unknown benefits for humans back on Earth. I suppose time will tell. Regardless, it’s definitely exciting.

Day 4:

I’ve gone through orientation and training. The boss has me working the bar for now. The healthy snacks they serve here are really high quality. Fruits, vegetables, smoothies, shakes, all designed with a healthy body in mind. You won’t find any artificial flavors or preservatives here. And they produce all this quality sustainably! I don’t know how they do it! Boss says it’s cheap manual labor from other worlds. Apparently, Earth isn’t the first planet they’ve had contact with that had people who wanted to work here. Go figure. I wonder what happened to them. I asked, but the boss just smiled and said they were around.

Day 6:

I’m really feeling the effects of this world now. I don’t know whether it’s radiation, gravity, or something else, but my body is swelling like there’s no tomorrow. I’ve gotten more than a few compliments from patrons on the changes, and my locker has been equipped with a scanner to check my measurements and dispense a uniform accordingly. I suppose after so many worlds with this effect happening, the Braünies have turned the effects into a system of sorts, or rather have formed a system around the effects. Smart planning on their part.

Day 12:

Can hardly believe so much time has passed. You’d think I would have gotten bored with my job by now, but it’s actually really engaging. Boss gave me some schematics highlighting Braünian anatomy. The similarities between our two races is astounding, though it appears that they have a more advanced culture from an intellectual standpoint. The average  Braüny brain is positively overloaded with furrows, and their neurons fire off at an exceptionally faster rate than the human brain can. It’s fascinating watching the file in slow motion.

Not only that. It’s clear that they have vast differences in their anatomy when it comes to certain glands found within the body and their digestive processes. They are literally able to eat anything they wish and burn the good fuel, while purging the excess. Their livers have a far higher tolerance than the human equivalent and purge the toxins via their sweat glands and other natural means. They can even spew these toxins as an emergency function the way we sometimes spew spit when we hit the gland under the tongue just right, albeit with more force and volume than we generate.

Their pituitary glands are larger than ours, but their skulls have developed in such a manner that this doesn’t prove a hindrance to overall brain function. As a result, these people are able to build muscle and libido at a startling rate. No wonder they look like Adonises. The natural radiation that emanates from this planet’s core has an effect akin to steroids. It forces the body to engage in a rapid form of evolution and regeneration of tissue, be it plant or animal. Think Darwinism at a highly accelerated rate. In short, this planet is a gold mine for anyone looking to heal or recover from serious diseases. The radiation not only kills cells that are cancerous and destroys decaying brain tissue, but forces the body to create new and stronger variations, based on the original template. Apparently, the majority of this world’s vast economic income is a direct result of this natural benefit, though they guard their planet’s ores religiously. They won’t suffer anyone to mine or trade in their minerals, save through the strictest security channels. I can’t really blame them, given the results I’ve seen in my own body over these last couple of weeks. It’s positively fascinating.

I can’t wait to learn more.

Day 20:

I’m so full of energy today. I think I’ve grown a good few inches, and my casual wear had become tight. It won’t be long before my old clothes from Earth are completely useless. Boss and others have noticed and compliment me regularly on my progress. It’s nice to be appreciated. I admit, I’ve been catching glimpses of myself in the mirror on the sly. I’m still not used to the spandex that I have to wear, but it’s not quite so embarrassing to me as it was when I first had to don the material. The rapid growth in tone and mass has certainly helped in that regard.

Day 25:

I’m starting to wonder if the gym owner is using me for eye candy. I’ve seen more than a few customers leer at me on the side when I’ve been making shakes. Nobody’s flirted with me or touched me inappropriately so far, but I wonder how long that might last at this rate. Thank goodness for security cameras. If anybody does try something, I should be able to substantiate my claims.

Day 30:

I’ve brought up my concerns with my boss today. He was actually surprisingly understanding about it. He promised to have a talk with the patrons and put me on towel duty in the locker room in the meantime. I didn’t realize there were so many patrons here. Practically every hamper was full. I suppose it makes sense, though. A lot of people would probably come her to take a short cut to get in shape. Gyms are probably some of the most lucrative businesses a person can own on this world.

I admit I haven’t had much time to focus on my own body yet. There hasn’t really been much of a need with how things have been going, but I can’t help but wonder what might happen if I put in the effort on top of my usual work.

Day 40:

I tried a workout on my last day off. The difference is ... well, it’s incredible. I must have gained at least a good two pounds of muscle mass. The euphoria is incredible. I’d almost go so far as to say orgasmic. Could the radiation be effecting my brain chemistry? Maybe I should get a scan done....

Day 50:

Finally got the results back for my scan. The difference from my arrival to now is night and day. My body is raging with hormones. It’s almost like I’ve entered into a second puberty on overdrive. My pituitary glands are swollen, which explains the minor headaches I’ve been experiencing. Boss has given me a few days off to rest and adapt. Apparently, I’m experiencing their version of The Bends. Parts of my body are essentially pushing too quickly for the rest to catch up. I’m on strict orders for bed rest with no physical exertion of any kind for the next week, until things balance out again.

Fortunately, I won’t have to spend my enforced solitude in complete boredom. Boss was good enough to supply more files on Braüny anatomy and their typical dietary habits, as well as historical documentaries and videos about their cultural and technological development. He’s even got some audio files I can listen to if my headaches become too strong to focus on a screen. What a kind man.

Day 60:

I tried Belaragna today. Think of it like a sort of lasagna, but instead of a meat sauce, there are thin strips of meat cooked within the layers, and the pasta is made from a local vegetable that looks like a potato. Its texture changes in the oven when cooked to become exactly like the stuff from home. It’s incredible! And the sauce! Ohhhh, it is the nectar of the gods. Organic’s got nothing on this world’s produce. Rather than the usual tang you find in tomatoes, this one has a mellow fruity flavor that’s been augmented with a hint of vinegar and dill to pickle it before it’s blended and reduced to a base. This thing is a balanced meal in and of itself.

And then the smoothie! I don’t know how they got it so creamy and smooth, but the drink washed down my gullet before I could blink. I find myself wanting more, and my stomach agrees. Maybe there’s some sort of natural oils or something designed to speed metabolism?

Day 75:

Two and a half months already gone. Time flies way too fast here. I’m learning so much, though. It seems as though the planet was originally colonized by an advanced civilization a long time ago, but something happened to them, and they essentially were wiped from the planet. Eventually, the Braünians evolved from the primordial chaos. There are many instances of slavery throughout their history, but over time, the Braünians appeared to gain the upper hand. These people are exceptionally skilled at adaptation to the point of exceeding the most brilliant minds of their captors within a generation or two and then using that knowledge to free themselves. This pattern of conquest and conquered has repeated in an endless cycle, until the more modern era, where this race decided to start their own exploration and to offer their home world as a gift to others, rather than leave it open to be conquered. After all, if one has many who are interested in protecting the investment this world has to offer, it is far less likely for an enemy to try to take over. It really is a genius strategy, all things considered.

Eventually, they got an intergallactic treaty signed to the effect that they are to be considered a neutral world in which any race may take shelter for healing, training, etc., within reason. No war would be tolerated, however, and any found to be breaking the edicts of this rule would be punished harshly. When they discovered Earth and how readily we adapted to things on this world, of course they were ecstatic to have us. In a way, I suppose we’re kindred spirits. Humanity has faced their own struggles in this regard among themselves over the last several millennia. It’s ingenuity that allows a person to overcome those kinds of troubles and rise to a new plane, or plateau, if you prefer.

Oop, gotta go. Boss is treating me to dinner tonight. He wants to hear what I think of my studies so far.

Day 90:

Time has been passing so quickly! I feel like my brain is in hyper drive. I keep sopping up data and figures like a sponge. I’ve never felt so sharp before. I ask more questions, and Boss keeps offering more material. At this rate, I’m going to need to apply for authorization for membership at the local archives. Boss couldn’t have offered more encouragement if he tried. I love his attitude.

Day 120:

It took a while, but I finally got authorization. It’s astounding how many people were waiting in line. Based on the clothing they were wearing, they were contract workers, like me. I suppose they wanted to find out more about Braün, too. The way some of them limped away, though, I’m pretty sure not everyone was accepted.

I have to access the data in these specialized booths. Kiosks is more accurate, I suppose. I’ve also been given what equates to a data holder arm guard for my forearm. It communicates with the system for me and shows my progress on each of the media. It even has reminders for due dates to return to the kiosks by. Useful little gadget. Love the voice recognition software, too.

Day 140:

I’ve just come across the information on the power supply for this world. Apparently, they use all manual labor to produce it. The men must be absolute titans to be able to endure that kind of abuse for such extended periods. Boss tells me they perform in shifts, so there’s no abuse, just productivity. I still find it odd, though. Then again, with the sheer volume of production this world has in produce, etc., I suppose they can afford that kind of burden without having any major loss. Still, to produce enough energy for a whole world, these people must be beyond anything a normal person could produce.

Day 160:

I caught some customers salivating while I was making their drinks. Maybe they had too much to drink the night before? It helps having a better understanding of Braüny anatomy. Still, I never expected to draw so much attention from customers. I mean, I know I’m stronger now. I’ve been taking a few selfies to document my changes as I grow, but still....

Day 170:

I’ve been reading into how physical exertion affects the body on this world. The cellular reproductive rate makes it so a person can exercise almost every day without fear of the usual slow aching recovery back on Earth. I’ve begun salivating a little more often myself, lately. I wonder if my body is developing a similar system to purge itself of toxin buildup. If so, it could explain some of the more *ahem* aesthetically pleasing changes I’ve experienced. My body can grow uninhibited by the lesser technologies and additives Earth provides. Mmm ... wonder how I’ll look in a couple more months.

Day 180:

Decided to visit a power station today and get to know some of the providers. The lunch room is public territory for visitors and workers alike, so I had the opportunity to approach a few of the men and ask about their experiences.

From what little I was able to get out of them, the work and pay are, “Good. Paid to work out. Living the dream.” They aren’t very big on talking. They hardly seemed to recognize me, really. I suppose they’re just a tight-knit group. Their eyes are glazed over when they look at most of the room, but when they lock gazes with another worker, it’s different somehow. It doesn’t matter what race or species they are. They each seem to communicate on a different level. Perhaps it’s some form of tech they’re fitted with to make the job easier as they cooperate with one another? After all, if they all work together to provide the power, then that means they would need to be able to work in unison, right?

I asked one of the newer employees. He hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of the group yet, so he was more talkative, albeit not quite so helpful. “Uh, ... I guess,” was about all I could get out of him before he took a massive bite out of a burger or patty of some sort. “We just ... sort of do it.” I still remember that guffaw of his. “I don’t really know anything. Just, ... lift n’work. Huhuh. Lift n’work...” I didn’t get much farther than that. One of the behemoths in a larger uniform sat down next to him, and I vacated the vicinity. I noticed a close form of body contact, though, and the two shared their laughter as they ate and conversed about their weights and other duties. I suppose the titan must have been his supervisor or trainer or something. He even shoved another tray full to the brim with food in front of the guy. He didn’t even question it, just dove right in.

I admit, I can sympathize with their need to consume so much food. If they work all day while their metabolisms continue to burn hot, it only makes sense that they’d need a massive amount of calories to fuel their bodies. I’ll also admit, seeing them eating filled me with a certain amount of hunger pains, myself. Maybe I’ll sneak in a few shakes while I’m at work.

Day 195:

Harvest season is coming up. Boss says it’s a time that everyone on the planet enjoys. There is little information on the database about it. Some sort of festival is involved for native culture only. Not even naturalized citizens are allowed to participate. I suppose it has to do with the planet’s heritage. Clients have been pretty tight-lipped when I ask them about it at work. On the plus side, at least we’ll be getting more food soon. I can’t get enough of this planet’s vast and rich abundance of produce. It’s incredible!

Day 210:

I appear to have developed either a photographic or eidetic memory. Travel guides, encyclopedias, history books, science textbooks. It keeps flowing in. I visit the kiosks more and more often. Some days, I don’t even leave the booths. My head keeps clinging to more information. I can name diets, diseases, treatments, natural remedies, battles, conquests, technology, fitness, chemical formulae, important historical figures. So much. So, so much. How far will this go? I ... I don’t want to risk breaking my brain. But ... I can’t seem to stop. I ... I want to listen. I want to learn. I need it almost as much as I need the fourth meal I’ve added to my regimen.

What is happening to me?

Day 230:

I feel so much heavier lately. It’s like the more I absorb up top, the bigger my body gets. My libido is through the roof, and everyone seems to notice. It’s making me exceedingly self-conscious. The scanner in the locker room provides me with new clothing, but I can’t wear anything else now. I can only wear my uniform, because of how quickly I outgrow things. At least the computer on my arm still fits. I guess its designed to adapt. Good thing, too. My voice is so low now! The voice recognition must take a sample from me daily.

Boss has me working out on the floor. I suppose it makes sense. I seem to be bigger than most of the patrons now. I give them the drive to push forward with their own progress. Cleaning the equipment and floors is simple enough, and I usually finish the job quickly. Towel duty is a real chore, though. I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I’ve had to run to the laundry chute and back again.

Things are getting snug behind the drink bar counter, but many patrons still prefer me and my service. I think it’s more my body that must draw them, though. Maybe humans are more attractive for some reason? I don’t know. At this point, I could probably take any one of them on, if they try anything funny, so I let the looks slide.

Day 250:

I’m up to five meals a day now at at least double portions from my original state. At this point, I feel closer to the incredible hulk. It’s so hard to sit there and tend customer orders by the counter. My body wants to move now. I’ve started using the equipment after closing. It’s the only way I can fall asleep at night anymore. That, and the surround sound my bedroom provides.

Day 260:

I’m so tired lately. It’s hard for me to focus some days. I have to read over lines a few times now, before I can get the information to sink in. Not that there’s much more I really have to study on the planet. My body continues to weigh me down, yet there is pleasure in it. The bigger I grow, the more compliments I receive, the greater pleasure I feel. It’s almost like a chain. Almost as if I’ve been ... programmed ... that... [DELETE FILE: Y/N]

...

...

...

Y

Day 265:

I’m the most popular employee at the gym. Everyone keeps wanting me to serve them. I’m not sure why. Boss just tells me to go with it for now. He’s sure things will die down eventually. I’m not so sure, but he is my employer, and I’m under contractual obligation to serve him and this place for the next year and a third.

The way they chug down their drinks, you’d think their lives depended on it. Boss has to shoo customers away from the counter. It’s sort of funny, in a way, watching them act like that. I don’t know why, but I’ve come to like watching them. They seem so greedy, almost desperate. I’m not sure why.

Day 270:

Harvest is in full swing. The Braünians are all out in force. I remember having to call the police once, when someone plastered a new arrival on the ground at the park. I tore that sucker off the kid and glared him down. He looked high or drunk. It didn’t take long for the authorities to sort things out and cart him away. Since then, Boss has been more protective of me. He says I painted a target across my back when I called that mobber on his BS. Not really sure how or why, unless the guy was part of a gang, but since Boss is Boss, I kind of have to follow his policies as he sees fit, provided they don’t breach my contract. He spots me now, when I work out. Then I do the same for him. I guess it’s cool. He has this weird sort of snort when he breathes in, says it has to do with part of his anatomy. Was that the weird flap I saw without a label on that anatomic diagram, then? I suppose it must be. No other explanation I can think of.

Day 280:

Oh, the pump feels so good. I love my job so much. I don’t know what it is. I just feel ... Idunno, euphoric? It’s so easy to just relax around these people now. I know them by name, and they love hanging out with me by the counter, when they can. Sometimes I just sort of lose myself when I’m making a shake, you know? All that sipping and snorting sort of falls by the wayside and I’m just ... there, you know?

It’s a weird feeling, but ... I like it.

Day 290:

Chowing down more food than ever. My body just won’t stop. It’s like I’m not even driving anymore. I read, but I just get so ... sleepy. It’s like the words don’t even matter anymore. I listen, but the sounds sort of pour through my ears. I guess my brain finally had enough soaking. Needs to be squeezed.

Yeah.

Squeezed. That’s funny.

Huhuh.

Day 300:

Boss pulled me aside today. Told me to take a break. I’ll take that break, all right, break that plateau I’ve been stuck on all week. I’m not done growing yet, not by a long shot.

Oh, that felt so good, just to say it. You can’t even imagine how it feels when it actually happens. I eat, and I grow. I eat, and I grow. I eat, I work, I grow.

And it just ... feels so good.

Day 310:

Bros, I ... I’m so big. So fuckin’ heavy. Can’t ... can’t stop ‘mirin in the mirror. I look back at my old photos and I’m like, who’s this fuckin’ twig, bro? It’s like ... like it’s not even me, y’know? Like ... like, uh ... out of body ... dream ... uh ... you know what I mean, right, bros?

Huhuhuh ... Sorry. Been kinda ... spacin’ out like that lately. S’like ... Idunno, like my thoughts just ... aren’t there anymore, y’know? S’like, all my thinking’s just ... swirling and blending and sucking right out a straw. Hey, just like those shakes i make! Huhuhuh. Yeah. Just like uh, like uh....

...

...

Oh, hey, Boss. ‘Sup? Nah, just finishing my voice journal. S’all good. Nah, I’m finished. Ready to work out?

Sweet!

Day 311:

Got some new bling on my duds today. Big ol’ black n’yellow buckle. Boss says it’s sort of like a weight belt. Keeps an eye on my body, makes sure I don’t overdo it. Like I could overdo anything with guns like these! Still, gotta do what boss says. You know how it is. Told him I didn’t wanna, but he just told me to wait n’see. He kinda stressed the first one a little heavy. Not sure why. Thought he might’ve had a cough or somethin’. He just said forget about it, so that’s what I did. Still kinda weird, though.

...

...

...

Pun...

Oh my....

Huhuhuhuhuhuh-- I’m such a fuckin’ dumbass!

Day 313:

Walked past the embassy today. Saw a big picture of me plastered next to this wimp of a kid. Thing was labeled Before and After. ’N I’m just like, Bro, is that even me? Like ... there must be some kind of mistake, right? ’Cus, like, I don’t remember ever bein’ that small. S’gotta be like, for uh, .... wadaya call it, a comparison. Don’t even look like me.

Huhuh. Yeah. S’not even me. ... Not even me.

DELETE FOLDER: PROGRESS PICS? [Y/N] Y

Not even me....

Day 320:

I keep wondering where all m’bros went. Bar’s so quiet. Boss said harvest’s over, so things’re gonna be sorta ... empty for a while.

...

I like empty.

It’s good ... to be ... Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

“Good boy. Just relax and let me finish those last few drops of knowledge.... Mmm, what a fruitful venture you were, little tree. You’ll do very well at the power station, won’t you?”

Huhuhuhuhuh.......

INITIATE ADMINISTRATOR OVERRIDE RESET: [Y/N]

Y

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Day 1

Hello, Planet  Braün! ....

Freedom

I’d put in my time, followed every exercise, modified my diet, changed my schedule, altered my social life. Anything it took to get the body I wanted.

Anything.

I worked till my muscles were sore. I pressed until I was ready to drop dead. Eventually, my body just went sort of ... numb. Then I’d push it to the next limit, and my body would ache again. I learned to love that ache. I yearned for it. Whatever it took to carve my body into that perfect bodybuilder shape.

I’d look into a mirror to check my progress, and I would laugh. I used to motivate myself with speeches or the occasional affirmation. Eventually, those would shorten to a few words. Then grunts and growls. I would flex and watch the veins rise from my skin, then bare my teeth. It became about power, strength. The bigger I got, the better the high.

I wanted, needed more. I was willing to do anything.

And then I found it. You’ve heard of Fight Club. Well, this place follows the same premise. A friend, ... well, more like a packmate, really, showed me where to go. Sort of an exclusive club, he’d said. A place where we could really beast out.

I’ll tell you what, that place taught me the meaning of being a big fish from a small pond swimming to the ocean. The men there worked with only one thing on their minds, getting as big as they could possibly get. This “friend” introduced me to the system. All I had to do was work out as hard as I could and grow as big as possible. Cameras would cover everything I did, but sacrificing my privacy seemed a small price to pay for the promise of greater gains.

The place was run almost like a kennel or a prison yard. I’d get my own cell with a twin long bed and a connecting bathroom. A thick metal plate door provided the entrance to my own private gym for the days I wanted to work alone. The walls were lined with mirrors, so I could watch myself grow.

There were only a few rules in the place. No fighting among the builders, and make sure to be in the cells again by lock-up. Meals were provided to us, and we were instructed to finish every piece of them. Sports drink powders and formulas of every kind were available for us to use. I can still recall that incredible sensation of gulping a whole bottle full without breaking a sweat and getting back to work.

The highs I got from those pumps, the sheer power and rush of endorphins. I’d never felt anything like it.

The first few days were a struggle. I had to prove myself to the rest of the workers, show them I was serious about making the gains. It took time to get to their level, but I was determined. The music helped. They’d play things over the speakers. I’m not sure what they were, but they got me riled up every day. That music filled my ears and I was awake like that. It set my pace for morning prep. I showered to it, brushed my teeth to it, got changed to it. Then the track would change, the locks on the doors would disengage, and I would file out to join the others.

Half the time, I couldn’t even recall what food got put in front of me during my workouts. I just wolfed it down and got back to work. I became a creature of habit. I grew as large as the others, and I reveled in that fact. The thought of steroids did cross my mind, but I found no negative effects, whatsoever. No mood swings, no frailties, and best of all, no *ahem* shrinking body parts.

Someone would take my clothes and clean them for me, then return them again. It was a continuous process. I’m still not sure how the laundry crews kept everything straight, but they did. Not that it really mattered, once I shredded out of my old clothes. Once that happened, I really became one of the pack. I got my own set of gym clothes and shoes, just like the rest of the guys. And the bigger I got, the less my shirts seemed to cover. To this day, I still prefer tanktops to anything else. But can you really blame me for wanting to show all this off?

Anyway, you know that numb feeling I mentioned before with my body? Well, the brain sort of functions the same way. If you do the same thing long enough, it’s sort of gonna get bored and shut off, because there’s no stimulation for it, or at least minimal stimulation. That’s the best way I can describe what happened. My brain decided to switch off for a while. It went numb, and my muscles did all the work for me.

I don’t know how long it lasted, really. I just know that when I came to myself, I was this giant of a man with a masculine beard and a perfectly sculpted body. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. I had everything I wanted, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a different desire. I wanted to show off. I wanted to actually interact with friends, family, people.

You’d think the men at this facility should have counted, but they don’t. They didn’t. Not because I worked with them every day, but because they function on a different level. Their brains were numb, like mine had been. I still remember when I chose to leave. And you know the funny part? The door was never locked. I tested them. None of them were, not really. Maybe they were engaged just before wake-up or something, but it seemed that was all part of the training regimen.

I’d approach a cell and I’d see what, for all intents and purposes, was an animal. Some would ignore me in favor of flexing or sleep. Others would come to the door and glower at me, as if I were some sort of threat. Half the time, I felt my body want to rise to the challenge. But I didn’t want that. Not anymore.

I’d gotten what I wanted. I still remember the shock on the attendant’s face when I approached the stairs that led to the exit.

“They won’t accept you out there, you know. You’ll just be another mindless meathead to them.”

I hesitated for just a moment, but then calm took its place. I’d done my time. I’d gotten what I wanted. If hypnosis was involved in the club, then I guess my subconscious decided it had had enough. I don’t know. All I do know is I smiled at him and responded, “Then I’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

I’m not a meathead, and I’m not some dumb animal. I was once, probably, during my stay there. But I’m not anymore. I’ve worked hard to show that to everyone I meet, and I’m happy where I stand now. I’m a certified trainer with a steady income and a gym that I love, helping customers that I have great personal relationships with.

Is it hard? Of course it is. I usually work out to blow off steam and let my stress go. But I’ll tell you what, it’s worth it. Every second is worth it.

I’m not some dumb animal. I’m a human being, and I’m glad to be a properly functioning member of society.

Looking back, I’m sure you’re wondering if I would make the same decision to leave again, if I had the chance to go back.

I don’t even have to take the time to wonder about it. I’ve had plenty of time to go over it all.

My answer is yes.

Pavel Fedorov

Please support me by donating on my Ko-fi or Patreon.

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Undo

Richard tapped frantically at the keys on his laptop. The apartment was calm and quiet. His roommates were out partying up at a D&D session, so he wouldn't have to worry about any interruptions for the next few hours. It had been like this for the last couple of weeks now. He’d either retreat to his room or work in the living room. Occasionally, he’d sneak to one of the school’s recording studios after hours. A procedure like this needed all the finesse he could conjure. Fortunately, nobody seemed to question him.

The device chirped as he slammed the enter key and ran the newest soundbite through his program to check for any errors before adding it to the track’s layers. His head whipped back around his shoulders for what had to be the thirtieth time as he turned to face the hall door behind his desk. A subtle creak of the floorboards, the heavy thump of footsteps in the apartment above, any number of noises had set him off. This time was no different. The portal yawned into the dark stillness beyond. Once again, no one was there.

It still didn’t make him feel any better. “Almost over,” he breathed in a low whisper. He shook his head and grit his teeth. “How could I be so stupid?” He reached for his water bottle and squeezed a stream of liquid down his throat. Adrenaline had dried the passage, and he found it needed almost constant lubrication if he breathed through his mouth. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself in this state. Pressure never was his thing. He gasped after satisfying his craving and worked to moderate his breathing in an attempt to calm his heart. “Just a little longer and it’ll all be over. Then you can fix this mess, undo what you did, and everything will be back the way it was.”

Richard stiffened when he felt a sudden weight clap down on his shoulders. Thick veiny hands stretched on either side of him. His throat closed to the barest hint of a passage. The lubrication he had only just applied vanished.

“Watcha workin’ on, bro?” The deep voice resonated through Richard’s chest as thick sculpted arms freshly pumped from a workout bent on either side of him. He could hear the heavy breath, smell the overpowering scent of Old Spice body wash mixed with AXE body spray. They gripped tighter than the hands and left Richard’s head spinning.

“Dick, ... I wasn’t expecting you,” he croaked, then cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It’s been awhile. We hardly see each other anymore. I’m always working out, and you’re always nerding it up. Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to be with the guys tonight, roomie?” A heavy hand slammed a music player on the table, then raised itself slowly to clap the shoulder again, this time in a companionable pat. 

“Special assignment,” Richard muttered. He eyed the player on the desk. “You been, uh, listening to your tracks?”

“On loop, bro! I can’t get enough of ‘em!” Dick’s diaphragm heaved with a deep dull laugh that left Richard’s frame bouncing like a pogo stick.

“You mean you don’t take any breaks?” Richard squeaked.

“Just when I sleep. Why should I, little bro? You know what that chick said in Hair Spray (though I think Hair Gel would’ve been a better name). You can’t stop the beat. Those tracks just leave me so fuckin’ pumped! I mean, sure, it was kinda weird at first, but now I don’t know what I’d do without ‘em! I mean, look at these guns!”

“I’m looking,” Richard said weakly. His face had gone pale.

“Seriously, though, thanks for making so many for me. I know you said it could bruise my brain and all that if the same stuff kept going all the time, so having all these different things to listen to really helps. And, I mean, variety is the spice of life, am I right?” Again, he chuckled.

Richard hunched and waited for the storm to pass. “Right....”

“So, what’s this one about?”

“I ... guess you could call it a biography of sorts? It’s a track that’s supposed to cement an identity, you know?”

“Bro, you wanna clone yourself? That’s sick! Who’s gonna be the subject?”

“I don’t know about cloning, exactly, but ... yeah, I suppose it might have a similar effect. Cementing a mind doesn’t necessarily have to involve turning it into something else, though. It could also be used to fortify a person’s subconscious and make them more confident in their current state. Think of it like an armor of sorts.”

“So, you mean like football pads?”

“Exactly. They shield a person from an opponent trying to tackle their subconscious into submission. Do it right, and it can even reverse the effects of previous trances.”

“Damn. You’re smart, little bro.”

Richard’s shoulders started to ache. “I try. Did, uh ... you want to listen to some of what I’ve got so far?”

Dick peered at the file and whistled. “That’s a lot of layers, bro.”

“I wanted to make it iron clad. I’m not gonna make you sit through the whole thing, but here.” Richard highlighted a clip and clicked the play button, and the recording began to play over the speakers.

I am Richard. My name is Richard. Richard is my name. Richard is smart. You are smart. Richard loves hypnosis. You love hypnosis. ... Love recording ... Listen ... Deep down ... Study ... Sleep ... Repeat ...

The snippets flowed like a babbling brook with the tones that Richard had chosen, leaving only fragments, but the few that could be made out pressed a shudder through Dick that forced Richard to vibrate with him.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” Dick swore.

“You’re biased. You’ve already heard my voice. It’s easier to drop you in trance with it.”

“So? Bro, you were able to put me in trance, me. I mean, sure, it’s easy now, but you and I both know the first time took, like, what, uh.....?”

“Three months, approximately,” Richard supplied quickly. The soreness was spreading into his neck and a little down his biceps now. He rolled them uncomfortably. “Uh, do you mind?”

“Oh, sorry, bro. Had a killer workout. Hardly even feel anything now, ya know? I just ... lift. It’s what I do.” The weight lightened as Dick adjusted his stance and he sighed. An odd tingling spread over Richard’s shoulders as Dick’s fingers started kneading the flesh.

Richard shuddered in response. “How are you doing that?”

Dick huffed that same chuckle again. “Been taking a few classes on the side. Figured if I’ve got the bod for it, might as well learn how to use it and take care of it, right?”

Richard moaned. “Massage therapy?”

“Yup. Clients are butter in my hands.”

“I ... I really shouldn’t.”

“Relax, bro. You earned it.”

Richard’s eyes rolled as his muscles went limp. He didn’t even notice the computer chime. He smiled as he came out of the treatment to behold a snarl of anger that practically jerked him from his chair before a hand forced him back down. And then he heard it:

You are not dumb ... Work your brain ... Brawn to brain ... Nerdy Dick ... You are not a jock ... Not a dick ... Wake up ... Go back ... Go back....

Richard swallowed as the deep bass reverberated, until a heavy finger clicked forcefully on the mouse to pause the track.

“I trusted you,” Dick said in a husky voice.

“This isn’t the real you, Dick,” Richard objected.

“And whose fault was that, I wonder?” Dick roared. The wood on the desk creaked under the force of his fingers as they clenched the edge. “I gave up my friends, my major, my life for this. And just when I’m finally settling down, when I’m enjoying myself more than ever, when I’m happier than I’ve ever been, built a new life with new friends, you go and decide you can play god and tear it all down again?”

“It’s not real,” Richard said weakly.

“It is to me!” The desk leg creaked ominously under Dick’s heavy blow. “You think getting my head shaved was a dream? You think Duke isn’t real, that Travis is some kinda mirage, that Coach Sorensen didn’t offer me a place on the team? I fucking brought them to the apartment, introduced them to the guys, went out and got fucking drunk with them! Those happened. Those are real. My time in the gym was real!” He flexed his bicep and smacked the dense mound that had risen out of veiny flesh. “And this,” he said as he struck it again for emphasis, “is real.”

Richard shrank into his chair as best he could.

“You said I would have the power. You said that I would get to choose. You promised.” He jabbed his finger into Richard’s chest. “Well, I decided, bro.”

“Dick.” Richard’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Please.”

“Nah, bro. I’m in charge now. You’re done.”

Richard panted in the still air. Something was pushing against his chest. It felt so tight. “N-no,” he rasped. His voice cracked.

Dick shook his head. “Say it with me, little bro. ‘Nah, bro.’”

“N-nnnnnnnahhhh....”

Richard clenched his teeth. The room spun. His shoulders felt cold. Something brushed his scalp.

“You’re just a big Dick,” the deep bass said in a cocky tone of smug superiority.

The retort rose hotly in his chest, before he had time to stop it. It blew out from his diaphragm with the force of a conflagration, but it flowed smoothly, naturally from his lips, as if he’d been saying it for years. “Nah, bro.”

A vapid grin pulled at his lips as he opened his eyes. The small chair creaked under its owner’s bulk. That dull, familiar ache coursed like a drug through his arms, chest, and sides. Today was upper body training, and it had felt so good. He took a shuddering breath and moaned at the feeling of fabric brushing up a perfect set of well-carved abdominals. The tight hug of his black tank top complemented the familiar brush of rough fabric from his snapback. Thick arms as broad if not larger than footballs rested lightly on the wooden desk. He took his time to admire the masculine appendages, the huge mitts that his hands had become, the prominence of his veins against the muscle he’d worked so long and hard to grow beneath.

“I’m me.” He laughed exultantly. “I’m fucking me!” He whooped as if he’d just seen the school team score the winning touchdown. “I’m big fucking Dick!” He pumped his arm and danced in the chair. Then the computer monitor caught his eye. The program was still open. He reached for the lid and rested his massive palm on the now-familiar indent where he had laid it so many times before during his transformation. He loved sports. He loved weights. And he loved dominance. And now he’d just come off the ultimate domination by asserting himself against his old personality. He could leave it at that, delete the file, close the program, never think of it again.

“Or....” A smirk pulled at his lips as he looked over the laptop’s files. He still had the old copies of the recordings from his metamorphosis. It wouldn’t be that hard to record over the pieces that needed changing, and the walls were thin. He should be able to mix a few tracks. After all, even jocks and meatheads had fun with programs like garage band. The smirk turned into a sneer as he pulled out the mic and finished recording the beginnings of a new track. “Wuddup, Bro? Welcome to Jock School, where meatheads rule and bein’ a jock is fuckin’ cool. Huhuhuhuh....”

Pressure

Peer pressure is a powerful, albeit subtle thing. Much like temptation, all it takes is a nudge, a little poking and prodding. And then, the results speak for themselves. One person starts something. And then it spreads. It spreads, because a person thinks it’s, “cool,” “hip,” “modern.” There are many more such names and titles given to various acts. And that person performs the action and spreads it to another. And that one to others. And that one to more, until a whole new phenomenon is born. But what would happen if, for just a moment, that pressure had more than the power to push a person toward what is deemed a social norm? What if, for just an instant, it had the power to alter the very fabric of reality?

Picture, if you will, an open park, or perhaps a campus quad. Somewhere that teenagers and young adults go to blow off steam and simply be themselves. There are many that would seek to mind their own business, of course. Just enjoy the day, get some sun, read a book, play on the grass, maybe eat a meal in peace on one of the many public benches that may or may not dot the area.

Now, let us consider this principle in action. It is not unusual for men to remove their shirts on a warm day. Be it summer or spring, many who are fit and unashamed of their bodies remove their shirts to simply enjoy the sun and try to cool off at the same time. Perhaps there is a game going on. Perhaps it is football. Perhaps it is soccer. Or any other number of field sport. However, as men are wont to do, there is a simple way to tell apart the teams. Perhaps you are familiar with this system. It is a well-established social norm, after all. The shirts and the shirtless.

All it takes is a lost teammate. Perhaps someone needs to go home. Perhaps a player is tired and needs time to rejuvenate. Regardless, the call is made. The team is imbalanced. And this must be corrected.

A pair of young men are relaxing on a nearby bench. One is busy adhering to yet another form of peer pressure, the need to graffiti.

It is a harmless enough pastime. Indeed, for many, it is fun to add to what others have left before, almost like a message in a bottle. The anonymity allows one to be cruel or kind, base or lofty. The end result is still the same. The bench is defiled, the message carved.

“Why do you do that?” the first boy asks. His white shirt reflects the sun’s rays, offering a slight relief from the relentless sun.

The second one shrugs in his black shirt as he carves away at the table with a sharpened rock, or perhaps a pen or marker of some sort. “Why not?” is his response.

And the first has no reason to raise. After all, his friend is not the first, nor will he likely be the last to leave a mark on the table.

And then the boy in the white shirt is noticed by our players. The sun’s rays reflecting off the fabric draw the eyes of the competitors. A representative is sent.

“Bro, come play ball with us.”

It is a simple request. A prodding. But our young man is uncertain, nervous, and intimidated by the size and fitness of some of the other players.

“We really need someone to help the team,” the delegate says. “C’mon, bro. It’s easy. Promise.”

The second push. Another nudge.

“I don’t know....”

“Nah, bro. It’s all cool. Come on. You’ll fit right in.”

Cool. You’ll fit right in. Small words, spoken so casually, but that carry such heavy weight at times.

Authority. Confidence. Assurance. Persuasion. Coercion. These concepts, so easily interchangeable, simple to flip, like the sides of a coin spinning on its axis. They flip. They fold. They merge. They join as one voice becomes two becomes four becomes many.

A cacophony.

A barrage.

A call.

Invitation has deformed into a ringing summons.

Request contorted to belligerent demand.

“Be cool, bro.”

“Loosen up.”

“Have some fun.”

“Join us.”

“You know you want in.”

“C’mon, bro.”

“Team needs you, bro.”

“You have to.”

“You need to.”

“Let’s play.”

“Take it off, bro.”

“Don’t ruin the game, bro.”

“Don’t make a mistake.”

“Don’t be that guy.”

“Come on.”

“Come on!”

“COME ON!”

Perhaps they cheer him on. Perhaps they jeer him, instead. Regardless, our young man has a choice to make. Will he accede to the pressure, accept, and receive the gratification of this horde? Or will he reject it and face the consequences of potential social ostracization?

Reluctant to offend either party, and rendered immobile by the pressure exerted by such an exuberant summons, our hypothetical man is at a crossroads and frozen in the grip of indecision.

As is often the case of those still in development, he seeks council from one who is not subject to the pressure for guidance.

Our second youth shrugs disinterestedly. “Whatever.” He returns to his graffiti without a second glance. He is too busy to care. What started as a reply to a chain message has degraded to lewd doodles and the beginnings of curiously angular and curved letters. It is almost as though he cannot stop.

The pressure resumes once more. “See? He’s cool with it. So, whadaya say? Join us?”

The cracks develop.

“I ... guess....”

The web spreads as the cracks extend and deepen.

“Then what’re you waiting for? Take it off, bro.”

The shirt begins to slide.

“Promise not to laugh?”

A few grains begin to fall through.

“Bro, relax. You’ll just be another player. One of the guys.”

Just another player.

Our peer smiles.

One of the guys.

The shirt pulls up.

Cheers abound. Positive reinforcement. A veritable tsunami of approbation.

“One of us! One of us!”

Barriers shatter. The flood breaks through.

The shirt slides off like a cocoon to reveal toned muscle. The hints of abdominals press under the skin as he bends, while the beginnings of a treasure trail thickens to become more prominent. Tight muscle flows over the hints of ribs as his arms stretch high. Two massive slabs of muscle drop down in the form of well-defined pectorals as he lowers his arms. The white fabric waves in his hand in limp surrender. His biceps and triceps ache to pump and flex with the flow of blood. His smile widens into a grin that’s indistinguishable from that of the player that’s invited him.

The shirt is cast aside on the cement that supports the picnic table, and the pants creak briefly under the increasing muscle mass in his calves and thighs.

“Let’s play, bro.”

The player grins and seizes his new teammate’s hand in a forceful grip that causes both of their arms to strain as veins stand out from flesh. “Atta bro.”

The new player joins the peers that have crushed him into their mold, none of them the wiser for it. But what of our second subject?

Let us see what peer pressure has done to him in the course of his former friend’s transformation.

The rock has shifted into a sharp metal edge. The wood yields easily to his efforts as the dark handle rests easily in his palm. His black shirt lengthens into a baggy dark tee. Once-folded cuffs unfurl and lengthen along his pant legs as the cut widens and slumps. He pauses briefly as an unfamiliar weight drags in the pockets of his pants. He reaches and feels the cling of saran wrap. Something feels ... off, but he doesn’t check what it is. Instead, he returns to the table. He had to finish. Had to leave his mark.

Cotton boxers peek over a waistband pulled deliberately low. His head tingles as the beanie on his head tightens and takes on a dark gunmetal-gray. As if in retaliation to the marks he has left, dark ink begins to scrawl its way across the backs of his hands. Thick muscle cords up his forearm, then inflates along his biceps and shoulders as they broaden. His eyes glaze as the light behind them dies, leaving nothing but dark emotionless shadows.

The fabric in his shirt perks against swollen pectorals, then slumps again as it expands. He cracks his neck, revealing a binary code engraved on the left side. A dew rag peeks out from one of his other pockets as a counterweight appears on his other side. He pats the pocket briefly. His fingers reach inside and brush the hard metal barrel, the textured synthetic material for a firm grip. The click of the safety flicking off and on again puts him in a haze as he widens his legs in a relaxed, albeit aggressive stance.

He flicks his knife shut and looks over his work. MACHINES stares back at him. “Damn straight,” he mutters in a deep bass. He watches the game idly, occasionally glancing at the bathrooms nearby. The dropoff is waiting, but he needs the all-clear first.

His phone buzzes. Sorry, bro. Can’t make it. I’m sick. This text is followed by a puking emoji. He smirks. Police were on the prowl.

He taps his package again. The deal will have to wait.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the territory he’s marked for the gang. He smirks and pulls out the durag.

After all, nobody said he couldn’t do some recruiting.

He sneered and cracked his knuckles.

All it would take was a little pressure.

And so, you see, invitation, coercion, cajoling, deriding. In the end, they equate to the same thing. Pressure exists all around us.

The question is, what will you do when it comes for you?

Can you resist?

Will you even want to?

Is it even your decision to make?

I doubt it.

Oh, there I go nudging again.

But then again, I’m not really sorry for it.

After all, I can’t wait to see what mold you become, my little canvas.

Mmm ... don’t disappoint me.

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Stripped

You’ve heard of carjackers, people who steal your vehicle for themselves or chop it up, strip it down to the bare essentials. Well, that’s what happened to me. Only, it wasn’t my car that got stripped. Nah, bro. It was me.

See, I used to be smart. Honor student, high grades, above average. I was gonna go places, do things. Important things. Things like running a business or saving the world, maybe winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

Yeah, I know. The way I look, the way I sound, that ain’t no college student. That’s just a big burly meathead who spends all his time in the gym, right?

Well, it’s true. That’s what I am now. But that was after I got stripped and had to be built from the ground up. You see, that’s what this gym specializes in, bro. It makes its patrons up right. You want the bod, gotta take the mods.

Don’t get me wrong, bro. I love what I am now. Mmm ... shedding those smarts, the effort I put into my studying, all of it, was just ... euphoric, man. It was like the best pump I’d every had in the world. I signed the papers, started working out, and it just ... happened, you know?

First thing to go was my alarm bells, that feature that goes off if anyone tries to break in, you know? No radar either. It made me feel relaxed, at home. I didn’t feel scared of anyone anymore. There was no need to, no matter how intimidating people got here. Then they gutted fuel injector, my engine, and headlights. It made me docile, compliant. I was stuck in neutral, the only way for me to move, because my drive wouldn’t work. There weren’t no more lights on upstairs. And that was all right by me. I kinda couldn’t really care either way then.

They tore off my wheels, ruined my suspension, and cut my brakes. And I let them, because I coudn’t do anything else.

Then they really got to work.

Situps, pushups, chinups, weights, cardio, presses, squats, the works. I couldn’t stop. I had no breaks. They were building me from the ground up.

Suspension came first. My legs bulked up into thick, veiny structures able to take heavy blows and support most any burden. Then came the arms, my guns. Pumping up the muscle, increasing my vasculatory capability. My wheels were put back on, and I ran mile after mile. New kicks, new socks. Pounding away at the endless track. I did what I was told, because, bro, I couldn’t think. I was just a pile of meat, bones, and the bare essentials.

Then they really started on me. Fuel injectors gave me the boost I needed to really rev my metabolism. It roared with my surging bloodstream. New, powerful engine, so many cylinders, pulsing, thrumming, pushing me to improve, to rush forward full tilt. And I obliged.

Pistons pumping in order. One two. One two. One two. Bang. Bang. Backfire. Purring. Showing off. A new hood ornament was installed with my new hairstyle. Pomade does wonders, sort of a wax, instead of a proper gel. Kind of like the wax on my outer shell after the paint. Mmm ... paint, just like my tan. Huhuh. Looks pretty good, don’t it, bro?

They didn’t put in the alert system again. Don’t need it. Bro like me, we don’t need to be aware of anyone else. Everyone else should be aware of me! Like I said, used to care about that, but not anymore. Feels good to just ... rev. Don’t think, just do. You know?

Mmm. Stick shift. New chassis. Streamlined performance. Power. Yeah, I’m a real muscle car, aren’t I? It’s what I was remade for, to show off, to pose and flex. I’m like a living mascot. They finally put in the brakes again just before I collapsed from exhaustion. But by then, I was already hooked, bro. I came back as soon as my body could. And look at me now, bro.

Huhuh. Look at these guns! Look at this body flex! Listen to my engine ROAR!

You’d better be amazed. That’s what this place is all about. That’s why it’s called Full Throttle Gym. And bro, you’d better be ready, because we’ve been stripping you for the last ten minutes. Time to take out that radar, bro. You think I’m huge? Just wait till you see what they’re gonna build from you. Starts with a T and rhymes with bank.

Trust me, little bro. You’re gonna love it.

S’right, bro. Let it go. Time to work out. Let’s crunch that old frame into shape and start building that armor plating. No dread, all tread. Full fu**’in speed ahead!

Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh......

Corrosion

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You’re probably wondering why I brought you here, huh, little bro? Abandoned property, lots of old steel and iron girders. Looks pretty solid doesn’t it? Kind of like me. Now, see, the reason I brought you here is ‘cause I want to explain about some of the changes I’ve been goin’ through. Why I haven’t been studying so much, why I’ve been going to the gym, why I’ve been hanging out with new friends.

See, it’s all right here. And no, I’m not talking about me or my body. We’ll get to that later. Look behind me. Look above me. Look at these girders. What do you see?

Look closer, man, come on!

There! That’s it, right there! That’s what I’m talking about. Look at how that metal is peeling, curling, stripping. It’s losing its color, its shape, its cohesion. It’s corroded. Now, you see, little bro, corrosion happens when metal gets exposed to the elements for too long. Open air eventually leads to oxidation, which leads to the metal breaking down and flaking away, degrading until it finally snaps. It can take a long time, sometimes. And other times, it’s quick and easy. It all depends on the exposure, the stuff you throw at it, you follow me?

Well, bro, if you look carefully, you’ll see all those curls and shavings look an awful like like the furls we’ve got in our brains, y’know? Rain, sleet, hail, snow, wind, repeat. Everything bashes against these girders until they start to break down. And that’s what happened to me, bro.

My brain couldn’t take it anymore. I started to break down. Honors classes, grades, college, no electives, no room to breathe. Study, study, study all the fuckin’ time, bro.

Relax. No one’s here to hear it. It’s just us. But bro, that’s what was going on. That’s what was happening to me. I was tired of it. My brain was breaking down. My brain was corroded. And just like these girders here or the ones on a bridge, I needed a break and I needed a repair.

I looked up how they do it, you know, repair these things. I haven’t lost all my smarts yet, you know. I just ... put ‘em in other things. Anyway, first step is to cut off traffic flow. Anything that puts stress over the girders while they’re being repaired is a big no. So, that’s what I did. I shut down. I stopped trying to impress the honor society and my parents and whoever else was hanging my future over my head to bludgeon me. I needed to just let go, y’know?

Damn, did it feel good to let go.

Now, like I said, that’s just the first step. Shutting down won’t stop corrosion. It just lets you take a load off and prep for what’s to come. Don’t give me that look, bro. Listen. This is important. You’ve gotta listen to me.

Step two, bro. Now, this is how they wrote it, not me, okay? The bridges have gotta get jacked, bro. That’s the next step. Listen, bro! You promised me you’d listen. You follow me? Good. Listen. Step one. Step one is to let go. I had to let go and focus. Focus on me. No other voices. No other distractions. Couldn’t let the corrosion get worse, right? Now step two follows step one. I had to get jacked up, like the bridge, ya know?

I had to go to the gym to get jacked up. Step two. Jacking up. Step two. Pumping up. Step two. Lifting up. Step two. Listen up. I jacked up by working out. Working out to step three. ‘Cause step three is nearly the same. Step three is so much alike. Step three is cutting out the bad stuff. Cutting out the corrosion.

Step two: Pumping Up and Working Out.

Step three: Cutting out.

The corrosion has to go. First, I cut out junk food. Then I ran step two again. I pumped up. I worked out. Then Step three. I cut out academics. That’s right, bro. Cut it out.

And bro, it felt so fucking good to cut it out. I relaxed. I stopped caring about those stupid grades and professors. What mattered was me. What mattered was my structure, my integrity, my security. Being secure in my body, secure with step two and step three.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting studying.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting tutoring.

Working out. Pumping up. Cutting homework.

Bro, it felt so, fucking, GOOD!

I listened to my body. I let go of my stress. I jacked up my body by working out. I cut out the corrosion.

Step one....

Step two....

Step three....

Are you listening?

Good. Remember, you promised to listen.

You’re starting to get it now, bro, aren’t you?

I can tell.

Step four is easy. I was already doing it, and I didn’t even know it. Can you guess what it is, bro? Nah, I can see you can’t. Don’t worry, bro. I knew you were feelin’ the same. Mom n’Dad’ve been giving you the same treatment since I stood up to ‘em. I know. S’why I wanted to show you, to tell you, to make you understand.

And you understand I needed these steps.

And bro, don’t take this the wrong way. I think you need these steps, too.

I know, too much information. You feel like your head’s all fuzzy. That’s the corrosion I was talkin’ about. Just keep listening. Keep following me, following my voice.

Good little bro. You can get pumped while we talk. Go on. I don’t mind. Try it. Jack up, bro.

Step one....

Step two....

Step three....

Step four: Welding new steel in place.

Or in this case, new material for the brain, little bro. New information, like the stuff I’ve been telling you. Step one: shutdown. Step two: jacking up. Step three: Cutting out. Step four: Welding new stuff in.

And you know the best part, bro? I’d been welding the whole time. Look at me. Listen to me. The new stuff was working out. The new stuff was new exercises. The new stuff was new diets and routines.

And new friends.

So what if my new friends are jocks?

It’s a natural fit for a jacked up bod. A jacked up bod needs a jacked up jock and a jacked up jock needs a jacked up bod. It’s a natural fit for a bro like me, little bro. They’re my stiffeners, you know, the secondary support. They keep me straight. Straight in form. Rigid structure. We hold each other up, ya know?

They get me so pumped, so jacked up! I’m telling you, bro, I’m ready for another step four. This time, I’m going all the way with a new sport. Bros want me to play football. And I gotta say, I want to, too. I mean, the weld supports the beam, right? And the beam supports the weld. A stiff hard beam built to take heavy loads. A big buff team built to take heavy blows. I’m gonna join the football team, little bro, be with my new friends. It’s where I belong. I fit there.

What’s Step five?

Well, bro, once the weld is done and set, that’s kinda it. Step five is when they lower the span back onto the girder again. The load comes back. Only this time, you can bear it, because you’re stronger.

Stronger, like me.

I said no to Mom and Dad because I’d had enough. I still have to fight with them. Still have to tell them to back off and let me be the new me. But I’m strong because of these steps.

So what if I’m a jock bro? There’s nothing wrong with that. What matters is being happy and doing the weld right. Understand, little bro?

Huhuhuh. I thought you might say that. Sure, you can come with me to the gym next time. I’ll show you the ropes.

Let’s get you jacked up.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 1

Ladies and Gentlemen, Jocks and Muscleheads, Bros and Bruhs, it is my distinct honor and pleasure to present to you the long anticipated sequel to Real Men’s Journal and Of Spies and Muscleheads, the School of Buff Jocks! This story is being written on a commission basis, so give thanks to @muscle-jock-bro for footing the bill. And if you want to ease the amount he’s paid for you all to enjoy this, please feel free to throw a few dollars his way. As usual, I am currently open for commissions. Just message me if you’re interested or email me at Omnikitsune@gmail.com with the subject: Commission Inquiry. And if you wish to support my writing, please feel free to donate via my Ko-fi or Patreon.

Now, please enjoy. The other parts will be coming shortly.

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Stonewall Prep Men’s Academy. You hear words like that, and you’d expect some sort of boarding school for boys or something like that, wouldn’t you? And I suppose it still is. Things are just … different than they used to be. I’ll tell you what, though, we haven’t had to worry about big fights or fancy things like detention and suspension for a long time. Matter of fact, we have one of the best reputations as a no-nonsense school since the business was bought out by its current owner. It used to be called Stone Bluff Men’s Academy, but I guess Coach Stone preferred something stronger.

Can’t say I blame him. It feels so good to be strong. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The name’s Derek. Derek Jones. My friends call me DJ. I’m … sort of a big deal. Folks around the country call me Big DJ. Can’t say I hate the nickname. Feels kinda natural, actually. And, I mean, look at me. I am big. Thing is, I wasn’t always. Nobody is, I suppose. Not at first.

I used to be more of a nerd. Videogames were more my thing. The closest I came to sports was usually with EA Games’ Madden and other sport franchises. That and Wii Sports. I used to have a lot of gamer friends, too. We’d laugh, sass around about things like anime and other common interests. Then things started to change after summer break one year.

Guess that’s where I’ll start, since I’m supposed to tell my story. And, well, my story is the school’s story. I was sitting with a couple of my old bros, Jackson and Slater. We shared classes, had a lot of the same interests. It was a good match for us. And since the prep school allowed for electives to travel in the same circles, we got at least a couple of periods together each day. Being in the same dorm helps a lot for hanging out after, too.

To say we were surprised by our teachers’ appearances was an understatement. Every one of them was ripped. Not in the steroid sense of the word, but we could tell they’d all lost weight, and their new clothes highlighted the tone they had developed over the break. The school’s headmaster was, by far, one of the biggest changes. The man used to be heavyset and overweight. Now he was broad in all the right places. I mean, the man was built like a tank!

The opening assembly gave us a proper explanation.

The headmaster stared at us with flinty blue-green eyes as he spoke over the pulpit. Even without the speakers, his voice probably could have projected to the back of the hall.

“Welcome to another year at Stonewall Prep Academy. Some of you are likely confused by that name, considering the moniker our school has borne for so many years. It has recently been brought under new ownership, however, with new management as a result. There are to be no major changes in your curriculum, nor your daily lives.

“Your schedules will remain the same, save you should choose to alter them. However, the new owner has insisted on a higher budget to pay for greater resources to be utilized by our student body. As a result, the school will be undergoing certain renovations over the course of the year.

“Our computer lab will be updated with the latest in technology to give you all the best chance at learning both digitally and physically. As an additional investment, each of you will be given a personal computer that is to be returned to the school at the end of the term.”

The room was filled with excited whispers at that news. Our own personal computers. There were so many things we could do with those. Stream shows, play videos, post memes. And we could write letters and emails in our rooms instead of having to dedicate time at the computer lab to do it. It was perfect!

“Now, boys, settle down.” The headmaster smiled. “The best is yet to come. Since so many youths are full of nervous energy, our school’s new owner has insisted on donating a heavy portion of his own money to renovate and expand our fitness program, including giving new machines and equipment to allow maximum efficiency for you students and any sports teams. Living conditions will also be improved in due course on a person to person basis. The transitions in your rooms will be simple and swift, so you needn’t fear not having a place to stay. The changes will be superficial at best with updated furniture and amenities. We expect you boys to do your best during this year and immerse yourself in the spirit of health, wellness, and education that this school is meant to embody. With that being said, it’s time to adjourn for a meal. Then you will have free time to prepare for school tomorrow. To all new students, your schedules will be in your dorm rooms, and teachers will be standing by on the first day to help guide you to your classes across the campus. Welcome to Stonewall Prep!”

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Mister Andrews was my teacher for World History that year. The man was a big medieval buff in both senses of the word. He even kept a suit of full plate armor on display in the classroom to show off his dedication to the time period. I heard he used to joust and play tourneys at Renaissance Fairs before he taught at the school. As a result of his hobby, he always kept a solid frame stacked high with muscle mass, particularly in the arms, shoulders, and legs. His stomach had grown over the last few years of teaching as age caught up with him, but whatever he’d done over break had nuked the fat into nonexistence. A thin green froth coated his lip as he switched between greeting students and taking a swig from an intricately carved tankard portraying a knight charging into battle on his horse with sword waving dramatically in front. I figured it must be green tea. I’d heard the stuff was good for cutting fat, and it explained a lot about his sudden change in form.

His deep voice rolled over the class in a no-nonsense tone. “All right, boys, bros, and men, listen up. I’m Mister Andrews. For those of you who intend to participate in wrestling or football this year, you can call me Coach Andrews. I don’t do roughhousing or fighting in this class. You will pay attention, and you will learn. If you do anything to disrupt the other students or my lesson, you will be punished as I see fit. History is no joke, and I intend you boys to take it seriously.” He drained the rest of his stein and slammed it onto his desk. The resulting sound echoed like a gun shot in our ears. “I hope we understand each other.”

Needless to say, Class was quiet and very attentive on its first day of the term. We received our syllabi and were given a general overview of what to expect for the course of our lessons. It took every fiber of willpower I had not to cheer when he said we wouldn’t be doing any papers this year. Like every teen, I hate writing essays. When the period ended, and it was time to clear out to our next classes, I approached Coach Andrews and smiled.

“Glad I got you this year, Mister Andrews.”

Andrews grinned. “It’s been a while, DJ. How’s the gang?”

“Gallivanting as usual, Sir. Were you still planning on DMing this year?”

“With sword and daggers bared,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hope your party is ready. This year’s campaign, or campaigns as the case may be, are going to be a lot harder.”

I grinned. “I relish the challenge.”

“I would expect nothing less of our Half Orc Paladin.” He smiled. “Now you’d better move it. I won’t be held responsible for you being late to your next class on the first day. You can’t exactly use being a new student as an excuse, now can you?”

I laughed and offered a casual salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Andrews smirked. “That’s my soldier.”

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I couldn’t help but cringe as the scream rent the air, followed by a cascade of sobs. The hardwood floor of the school’s basketball court was now watered, not only by sweat, but by the tears of the goalie that bawled his eyes out as he clutched his crotch. Well, more held his hands gently over it. My grip tightened on my lacrosse stick as Coach Johnson lumbered forward and offered a consoling hand over the kid’s shoulder. The man was about six-foot-three and carried enough corded muscle to show more than his job was fitness. The offending ball now wobbled guiltily on one of the floorboards as he spoke in a deep, soft, and reassuring tone.

“Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths,” he coached. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The teens that had once been so competitive now averted their eyes as Johnson levelled his dark green gaze on them.

“Mister Larson.” The deep quiet tone carried louder than any shout or beration as he looked to his fellow teacher. “Help the boys put away their equipment. I think we’re done for the day. I’m going to help Kyle to the school infirmary.”

Mister Larson nodded as the wails and sobs gradually faded to that hitching hiccup you get when you’re in the limbo between a full-on bawl and silent tears. No man would dare to criticize Kyle for it. Several of us swallowed heavily as our gazes trailed to our own crotches. That could have been any of us, and that was a sobering thought.

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Jackson winced after I gave them the downlow on what happened in gym. One of the first things we’d done was download Steam onto our new laptops and start playing League of Legends. His black hair had that sort of shine that drew the eye and made most people jealous. How he did it, I still don’t know. He doesn’t either. Guess he was just lucky.

“Sucks to be him,” Slater said as he unleashed his character’s highest tier attack on the enemy hordes. His red hair had been cut to short bristles. He preferred high and tight to the longer bowl cut of his younger days.

“Seriously, man?” I asked.

Slater shrugged. “What? I feel bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna cry a river for him. We’ve got our own stuff to worry about.”

“Either way, I’m pretty sure lacrosse is going to be off the table for a while,” Jackson guessed.

“I feel sorry for the one who did the deed. I know it was an accident, but man, did you see the look on Johnson’s face?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s pretty much screwed,” Slater agreed.

“Or he’s just going to have to apologize. It’s not like he’s going to get expelled,” Jackson said. Then he double clicked his mouse and smiled as his avatar wiped out mine and Slater’s.

“Really, man?”

Jackson shrugged. “That’s what you get for putting me on the other team.”

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Coach Johnson and Mister Larson both stood in front of the mass of students. Their voices rebounded from the tiles of the locker room. Larson raised a bundle of straps with a single green pouch high into the air.

“As of this day, all students are required to wear one of these at all times during gym class. For those students who are unaware, this piece of equipment is known as a jockstrap. It’s designed to support your crotch while playing sports.”

Coach Johnson picked up the narrative and raised his hand into the air. A hard curved plastic insert rimmed by what looked like rubber glinted in the light. The dull gray and black were emphasized by hints of bright green to complement the theme of its paired jockstrap. “This is called a cup. It’s used in most heavy sporting events to protect your crotch from heavy impacts. As you can see, this one is designed with shock absorption, shock transfer, and ventilation in mind, including a gel perimeter and inserts to keep impacts from cutting into your skin. All students are required to wear their cups with their jockstraps in order to participate in fitness activities. This is a safety measure to protect you from future harm. We expect each and every one of you to wear them and take good care of them.”

The two taught us how to insert the cup into a pouch and how to ensure a proper fit. I felt silly and embarrassed by the bulge it left in my pants, but the assurance that I wouldn’t end up in a crumpled ball on the floor helped mute that part of me, even if it couldn’t be totally silenced. At least they didn’t force us to just wear the straps alone. Of course, we were teenagers, so at least a few of us had to make the joke about what we were packing.

Huhuh. If only we knew.

“Jocks and cups will be dropped off in each of your rooms this evening,” Larson said. “You’ll be expected to take good care of them and place the used straps and cups in designated bins for washing. Your surnames will be sewn onto the straps inside the waistband for identification and delivery.”

We played for the rest of that period, though the pain Kyle had experienced was still fresh in our minds, and I’m pretty sure most of us weren’t really putting our whole effort into the game. Our heads were somewhere else.

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Somewhere else. That was the answer we’d received when we asked about Kyle. To be more precise, they’d said he was somewhere else getting treatment. The ball must’ve hit harder than we thought. I was biased then, and angry from past bullying. I thought about those stupid dumb jocks and my blood boiled.

I slaughtered in Call of Duty that night.

Later, we had Trig. Mister Dale had just polished off a blended green shake, probably one of those new kale smoothies, or so I thought at the time. He’d grown, just like the other teachers, and he exuded a confidence that I had never seen in him before when he addressed us. Had the teachers all been using the new gym equipment or something over the break?

Mister D’s voice rolled over the classroom in a wave. “Trigonometry, in many ways, has a heavy impact on us and the way we live. Combine it with the laws of physics, and you can predict almost anything. For instance, how many of you have played air hockey before?”

The majority of us raised our hands.

“How many of you have ever watched the puck in action as it slides over the table?”

Again, everyone raised their hands or nodded they had.

He drew a straight line, followed by two exact angles with the aid of a ruler. “One of the basic premises of trigonometry is angle in equals angle out. If you don’t get involved with friction, spin, or other factors along those lines, the bare essentials lead to this inevitable conclusion. If you strike the wall at a certain angle, the object will bounce off at an equal angle. Hence the ricochet we see in air hockey. Or, for those of you who are gamers, the unique bounce of the ball in Pong as it strikes your paddle.”

He smiled at us, despite our lack of enthusiasm. “Likewise, the same can be applied to philosophy and psychological development. Set a person on a particular course, account for various outside factors like environment and personality, let them collide with an obstacle, and see how they bounce back. In a nutshell, that’s basically life, when you think about it. Release.” He pointed to the first angle. “Strike.” He indicated the axis. “Bounce.” He pointed to the second angle. “And repeat. We may not always get the desired outcome at first, but by repeating the motions, one can eventually analyze a situation, figure out the proper factors, and ensure a means to achieve the desired outcome every single time. Ballistics experts use trigonometry on a regular basis as part of crime scene investigation to gather evidence. Now, then.” He pulled down the projection screen and shut off the lights, so a presentation could begin. “Let’s talk about how we calculate these angles.”

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“Homework sucks,” I groaned as I leaned back in my computer chair.

“At least it’s easy stuff for now, DJ.” Slater pointed out as he clacked on his laptop’s keyboard from my bed. “It could be worse.”

“I suppose.” I sighed. “Least we’re not in the hospital.”

“Relax, Derek. It’s not like Kyle’s never coming back.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just don’t really like thinking about it, you know?” I winced and cupped my crotch.

“Yeah,” the others agreed softly. We spent the rest of the time focused on our various assignments. The trig program was pretty easy to follow through on. The exercise module ran sort of like a Prezi slide show. The line would trace and pause at a unique plane, and we’d have to figure out the angles. Wrong answers would generate a new problem as my point of view spun in reverse from the screen, following the line of trajectory. The more correct answers I got, the closer to the end goal I would descend. It wasn’t so bad as far as game designs go. Basic, but entertaining enough to keep the attention. And using games to teach always seemed a better way to go about school to me.

Module one was a breeze. Two and three took me a little more time. A slim amorphous figure voiced a chipper, “Congratulations,” as it flexed at the end of each one. The metaphorical walls and ricochet spun and drilled into the character, causing it to pulse and vibrate until the module had been absorbed. Then it flexed. The barest hint of definition could barely be perceived on its arm. “We’ll be fit for triggernometry in no time.”

I rolled my eyes. Cheesy one-liners for motivation and a mispronunciation. It was pretty obvious to me where this could end up going. The curriculum was the same for all of us, so we helped each other with our homework, then pulled another game night.

We had no idea what was coming.

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When Kyle finally came back to school again, we hardly recognized him. The pudgy boy had lost a lot of weight and gained in muscle and tone. The glasses he’d worn were nowhere to be seen, and the square block of his skull was much more prominent, now that the fat had been trimmed away.

He became a monster in Phys-ed. And Coach Johnson became his mentor. First term flew by, and he threw himself into every exercise Johnson put us through. He wasn’t the only one. The teachers all were growing. Their shirts were tighter, their figures trimmed. Whatever plan they were following sure seemed to be doing them good.

And surprisingly enough, the program was working. The more homework we aced, the bigger our seamless avatar would grow and the higher our overall performance would become in class. Sometimes, he’d be running a track. At other times, he’d be lifting barbells or performing chin-ups. The animations were so cheesy, we couldn’t help but laugh, but the results spoke for themselves.

I particularly enjoyed the English exercises. Synonyms, antonyms, imagery, symbolism, punctuation, structure.

I was a stickler for structure.

I am a stickler for structure.

Because structure is order and order is strength.

And a guy’s gotta play to his strengths, right?

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Second term is where things started to get … different. The renovations were well underway, and most of them had been finished over the break. It’s easier to work when things are empty. Lets you focus more.

My room smelled of rich pine, thanks to an air freshener that had been plugged into the wall outlet. Not my favorite smell, but I wasn’t about to complain. The bed had been replaced with an extra-long full-sized mattress that gave more support. The mattresses were Sleep System brand, so you can understand when my eyes bugged out at that. These things promise a perfect night’s sleep, and they’ll adjust to your frame automatically to help you sleep longer and better.

And trust me, they work. I love that bed more than I love being home with my family, if you can believe it.

Changes were even more prominent in the mess hall. Stainless steel and chrome shone brightly along the passenger lines. The kitchens, or what little we could see of them, had been decked out with brand new equipment. The food smelled and tasted AMAZING! I’m talking meatloaf, steak, mashed potatoes, tamales, pretty much anything you could name, they had. Not all at once, mind you. The cafeteria still followed a set meal schedule and menu, but the quality was and is out of this world!

The headmaster and teachers were all wearing compression gear with the school’s name and mascot on it. He told us we’d be able to wear school gear now to our other classes if we wished, provided it remained within proper dress standards. Our new “casual” uniforms were waiting for us in our dorms later that night. Me and the guys had a little get together to have some fun with the new gear.

I pitched my voice low and pushed the air out my mouth for greater effect as I flexed in front of the new floor-length mirror that had been installed in my room. Jim, the golden flexing fitness avatar, was showing off the goods on my left pec. His waist was obscured by a stone wall, while the words Stonewall Preparatory Academy stood out along the wall’s face.

“Check out these, guns, bro,” I lowed as I fixed my friends with the most vacant expression I could manage.

Jackson chuckled. “At least we get new clothes out of it.”

“There is that,” I conceded.

Not one to be left out on the fun, Slater smirked and popped both arms into the air in a double bicep flex. “It’s workout time, bruhs.” Jackson and I laughed as he got down and actually did a couple of pushups to hype up the act.

“Behold, Slater the Slayer!” I crowed.

Slater smirked as he got back to his feet. “Not a bad name, ‘bruh.’”

“Fuck, yeah,” I guffawed.

“Fuck, yeah,” they repeated.

We all laughed again, doing our best to push through that deep dull bass as we continued our antics.

We had no idea the seeds we were planting that night.

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Ever the lazy kids that we were, a significant portion of the school began to wear the gear, instead of their usual uniforms. I mean, come on, the stuff was comfy and easy to switch into on short notice if you were running late. What teen wouldn’t use that as an excuse to sleep in a little longer?

This, in turn, led to some developments that our teachers definitely didn’t approve of. Students were coming in late. Once or twice over a long period of time is fine, but when it becomes consistent across multiple students in a classroom, discipline has to be enforced.

And boy, was it.

One early winter morning, five boys came careening into the classroom with panting breath. Andrews was just explaining about Greek culture in ancient times, and we were about to focus on Sparta when we were interrupted. Andrews fixed them with a cool gaze.

“Boys,” he greeted them. “Late again, I see.”

“S-sorry, Mister Andrews,” they said in a low and garbled murmur as they averted their gazes and shuffled toward their seats.

After they’d gotten everything ready on their desks and were about to sit down, Andrews raised a staying hand. “Actually, boys, I’d like your help with a demonstration. Come back up here, will you?”

The kids blushed as they approached the front of the classroom again.

“Now, boys, the headmaster and staff have been talking. We’ve noticed a disturbing rise in the number of children who haven’t been making it on time to class. Not only does this indicate an unprecedented amount of slothfulness, but it also reflects poorly on us as your temporary caretakers. As such, a new mode of discipline is to be implemented, starting today. All boys who are late to class will pay a penalty.” He turned to the boys and grinned. “And you five get to demonstrate that penalty today.” He pointed to the floor. “Now drop and give me ten pushups.”

“Ex-cuse me?” one of the boys asked hesitantly.

“You heard me. Drop and give me ten. Don’t move quickly enough, and I’ll up it to fifteen.” He folded his vascular arms over his chest and frowned. “Now, gentlemen.”

The exercise took particularly long for one of the students, since his arms were basically like twigs. Andrews finally had to allow him to do baby pushups on his knees, instead of using his full body weight.

“Thank you, boys,” Andrews said as he ushered them to their seats with the wave of a hand. Then he fixed the rest of the class with a piercing glare. “And to anyone who gets any ideas about teasing these gentlemen for doing the honorable thing and not complaining, I’ll be happy to show you my personal training course for bullies. As it stands, I expect to see you five here in my classroom after the school day is over. We have a lot to discuss.” He turned back to the board. “Now, then, back to the Spartans.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Damn it!” I swore. My die rolled a two on the table, and Andrews shook his head.

“Language, DJ.”

The gentle whirr of the projector as the game map shone on the screen demonstrated my character’s current predicament. A large Yuan-ti stood next to my character, and I had rolled to avoid being snared by its coils.

I sighed. “Sorry, Mister Andrews. So, what’s the damage?”

He rolled his dice and spoke. “The Yuan-ti’s coils wrap around Lathrok and hold him tightly. Lathrok takes two points in constriction damage. The serpent sneers and blinks as his eyes begin to pulse. He’s preparing to dominate you and will make the attempt on his next turn.”

“Uh, guys, a little help?” I pleaded of my party.

“Our hands are full, Derek. Sorry.” Slater shrugged apologetically to me. “Dealing with an army of thralls is no easy task.”

“Much though I hate to suggest it, it might be better for the rest of the party to retreat for now and try saving Lathrok later,” Jackson noted.

“Seriously, guys?”

“Given the overwhelming number of thralls we’re dealing with, it might be our only option, unless you want all of us to lose our characters with no chance of saving you,” Slater said. “By the way, I’m using my breath attack to clear a path, Mister Andrews.”

“A shrewd strategy,” Andrews praised. He took a deep drag from his tankard, and a button popped off his dress shirt to expose a little more of his chest beneath. We knew better than to comment on something like that in the middle of a campaign. “Let’s see how it works out for you.”

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“All right!” Jim cheered in my ears as his helper screen popped up on the interactive gym. “Time to up those weights. Let’s see how it works out for you!” It seemed that the teachers were going to insist we interact with the program every chance we could get.

“If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

Granted, the fact it was there to monitor and help transition for the workout equipment was very useful for most of us. Whenever we reached a plateau, Jim would log it in the system and trigger the machines to create a more challenging workout. I … wasn’t a big fan of this, if I’m going to be honest about it. I didn’t like working out back then. But since it was part of a grade, there wasn’t much I could do, other than let things take their course.

Kyle blew through his exercises like a machine. Rep after rep, set after set. He’d bust them out, guzzle his drink, then get back to work. When others asked him his secret, he just shrugged and said, “I just do it. I got tired of being scared and taking hits, and I did something about it.” Then he’d turn and get right back to work. It was no wonder he turned into such a hulk with the way he attacked the program. His version of Jim was jacked as all get-out. I mean rippling musculature the whole way through. Either he put in a lot more time on the modules or he was in advanced placement, because assuming the avatar followed the same principles ours did in their programming, that size shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, he might have worked on the modules while he was away to help pass the time between physical therapy and whatever else he did.

Either way, the irrevocable social laws of teenage dynamics began to set in, and in no time at all, everyone wanted to hang with Kyle. Spotting, eating lunch, whatever. The guy couldn’t seem to catch a break. It was no wonder he asked to join the lacrosse team. At least on the field, he could get some rest from all the people clawing at him and actually work off some steam. His coaches made sure of that.

It took five rounds of grueling physical exercises to finally get the hordes to back off. The coaches even got a couple of recruits out of it. It was pretty clever, honestly. I mean, making us do the fitness would test our limits and let them see exactly who would be the best students to scout for the sports programs.

Fortunately, I wasn’t among those students. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter in gym class during the weightlifting segment. The butterfly press was one of my greatest enemies, and Jim knew it. Every time I was on that thing, he would correct my form. He still does sometimes, but not too often anymore.

“Derek, your form is off again, big guy.” The monitor flashed to reveal a diagram complete with drawn lines and arrows to direct me and ensure I had a proper visual of the form I needed to use. “Raise your elbows to adjust your trajectory and put the emphasis on the proper muscle groups.” I grit my teeth and bit back the curse burning in my throat.

“Someone looks angry.” The recently promoted Coach Larson folded his arms and nodded at me as I growled through the next press. A tablet was clasped in one of his hands. “Good. Use that to push through the exercise. You’re a growing boy. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t show any aggression.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“No problem.” He strode up to the side of the machine and spoke into his tablet’s mike as he accessed the equipment. “Hey, Jim?”

“Yes?” the AI querried.

“Add another set to the end of Mister Jones’ routine today. Faculty disciplinary action override.”

The weights crashed as I let go and my eyes bulged. “What?”

“Teacher Identification?” Jim asked.

Larson tapped a code into his data pad, and a chime pinged as the data was submitted. “Okay!” Jim said in a chipper voice.

I wanted to scream, but I really didn’t want to have any more fitness added to what already left my body feeling like frozen molasses in the morning. I didn’t know how I managed to pull through that. Honestly, I was so angry, I hardly paid attention to anything till I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder. Kyle’s blocky features stared at me. His brow furrowed in concern, and his short flat top buzz cut flashed white gold under the gym’s lights.

“Hey, it’s, uh, … Derek, right?”

“DJ,” I snapped.

“… Okay, DJ, then.” The fact Kyle stayed calm instead of getting offended probably saved me that day. “You know class is over, right?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

He gripped my wrists and pulled my arms gently off the press. “Class is over, man. It’s been over for the last hour.”

“Congratulations! Way to go! I’m really im-pressed with your progress!” Jim continued to heap praises and cheesy one-liners. His arms and chest had gained significant definition. Mine, on the other hand….

Let’s just say it hurt to breathe, and my arms felt like they never wanted to move again, now that they were resting on my lap.

Kyle laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wanted to snap at him on instinct, but I managed to keep that part of me in check. Kyle wasn’t the jock stereotype I’d had to face growing up. A few months ago, he’d been a lot smaller and a lot less fit. This wasn’t getting picked on. This was someone concerned for my health. I nodded. “Yeah, I … sorry. I don’t know what happened.” My whole body tingled, and the hairs I had on my arms were standing on end.

“Come on. I know what you need.” Kyle smiled and hoisted me out of the chair like it was nothing. Then he guided me to the coaches’ office. The place was more like a lounge than an office. Maybe even a locker room with how much square footage it had. Fridges, freezers, first aid and medical stations, scales, this place had the works. Kyle easily pulled open one of the fridges and broke the seal on a plastic bottle filled with green liquid. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It’s a protein shake. It’ll help soak up all the acid your muscles are producing, so you can recover faster from today.”

“Is this … okay?”

Kyle shrugged. “Coach said I could if I needed it. Right now, I’d say you need it more. If they ask, I’ll just tell ’em what happened.” Then he guided me into the locker room itself. “What you need now is to chug that shake and take a shower. Cold water works better, but anything’s better than nothing. Trust me on that.”

“That, and the fact I’m a sweaty mess?”

“Well, I suppose there is that, too.” Kyle grinned, then looked at his own drenched compression shirt. “You’re not the only one. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

I shook my head numbly, then took a swig of the bottle. It was only then that I realized just how thirsty I’d become. The whole thing was drained in a few seconds, and I chased it with several mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountain after.

“Well, that sucks.” He shrugged, then led me farther back into the lockers, where the tile opened up into several shower stalls, each cordoned off by a shower curtain and bearing identical mounted dispensers. Shelving units laden with freshly folded towels stood in front each entrance. “Don’t know how the school afforded it, but these things are legit,” Kyle said. “Jets and an overhead designed to get a full body wash. Seriously, man, you’ll never want to shower anywhere else after you try it. And after the workout you just had, you’ll definitely need it. Turn on the massage setting. Trust me, you won’t regret it.” He grinned and patted me on the back as he traversed to a neighboring stall.

And he was right. I didn’t regret it. That stall left me feeling higher than a kite after it was done with me. I managed to move my arms enough to engage each of the dispensers and get a proper shower in. Then I just let the massage do the rest. Kyle was already gone by the time I finished, but he gave me a kind goodbye before he smacked down the tiles to get changed and go to his dorm. So far, it seemed, Kyle was actually going to be one of the good ones out there. Maybe he would be able to break my idea of the jock stereotype.

Maybe.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 2

Click for Part 1

Part two of commission story for @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love for his patronage! :D And if you feel so inclined, please feel free to fund my creative endeavors by joining my Patreon or by buying me some Ko-fis.

Thanks again! :D

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That night, I dreamed about a lot of things. First, I slid down the spiral from trig, bouncing from point to point like a ping-pong ball as I jerked along the axis of the slide, until I landed in the soft goopy mess of Jim’s body. I struggled and clawed, but my body just sank, and my arms still ached from the press. Darkness consumed me as I went under. Light finally came through a window, where I watched myself standing in front of a mirror. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jim’s voice came out instead.

“Great job! Time to flex!”

My dream self grinned and raised both his arms to pose in front of a mirror.

Once again, my mouth opened. Once again, Jim’s voice spoke. “Looking good, big guy!”

A deep throaty chuckle reverberated in my ears. “Thanks, Jim.”

“Any time,” I said. “If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

I watched helplessly as my dream self inflated inside the gym uniform. Shoulders broadened; neck thickened; and biceps, triceps, and flexors twitched and expanded with every breath. Shelf-like pecs pressed in slabs against the tight material of the compression shirt.

The laugh reverberated through my little space again as I watched, and a smile pulled across my face. Seconds later, I was staring at my new muscle self in the mirror, still grinning like an idiot. My eyes strayed to the screen where Jim flexed at me, the screen I had once been trapped behind, speaking as the program. The screen was filled with rippling liquid gold now, and that gold spilled in a waterfall from the screen as Jim spoke again. “Go to Jim. Listen to Jim. Go to Jim. Go to the gym. Lissssssssssssten….”

Tight hands. Gold coils wrapping my broad shoulders, pinning my arms. Scales that rippled and spun in accents just like the slide at the beginning of the dream. Pulsing eyes drawing me into pulsing liquid gold. Or were the eyes the gold, too? I suppose it didn’t matter to my dream self, so I guess it shouldn’t matter to me either. All I know is those eyes, pools, whatever they were, were waiting for me. Waiting to claim me as Lathrok had been claimed in the campaign.

And I watched helplessly as my dream self let them.

“Let’sssssssss go again….”

I fell through the coils. My world spun, and I was on the slide again.

I don’t know how many times I went through that dream before I woke up. All I know is when I finally did, it was dark, I was cold, and I was covered in sweat.

I wished I could have used those showers again.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Two weeks of the same dream. By this point, I felt so shot, I didn’t even bother to protest when Andrews looked at me. I knew what was coming. My arms pumped slowly and steadily till I reached ten, then fifteen, then twenty. The phantom cheers from Jim echoed and swam in my head with Andrews’ voice. I barely understood what he was saying.

“With the influx of sports activities, we’ve noticed a certain pattern of decay in the school’s overall academic performance.”

He frowned at each of us. It took everything I had, just to keep my head from hitting the desk.

“As a result, each of us has been tasked with informing you boys that all sporting and extracurricular activities will be barred to any student who doesn’t meet the proper standards.” He spread his legs wide and leveled a flat stare at us that smoldered with foreboding.

Again, I was too out of it to really notice or care. Hell, at this point, I couldn’t even tell what was dream and what was real. There were several objections from the class, but Andrews’ voice cut through them all easily.

“If you boys don’t like it, then change your performance. Use the tools we’ve given you. Do your homework, focus on your projects and assignments. Get the jobs done. You choose your actions. You don’t get to choose the consequences for them.”

To this day, I still can’t tell you what Andrews said after that. I blinked once, and class was over. I had just enough awareness to gather my things and shuffle toward the door, till Andrews stopped me and pulled me aside.

“Derek, are you okay? This isn’t like you.”

His skin seemed to pulse and writhe as I looked at it. With every second, the muscle he’d built seemed to strain against the spandex. I looked at him, and I saw the phantom of Jim’s placid featureless face flowing over my favorite teacher’s.

“Oh, no. Not again.”

If Andrews asked what I meant, I didn’t hear him. The world faded to black, and I was gone.

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I came to in the infirmary. No nightmares this time. Once more, it was almost completely dark. The smell of pine mixed with the familiar scent of cleaning supplies. I had to grip the sides of my bed to be sure I wasn’t about to go for another ride down that horrific slide. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind it so much now, but back then, that thing was effing terrifying.

“Thirty students pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Thirty!”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. Was that … Andrews I heard behind the curtain?

“Calm down, Tobias.” This was a voice I didn’t recognize. The range was far deeper than anything I’d ever heard before. It rolled smooth as silk, but with the inexorable force of a tidal wave. Whoever was speaking was used to control.

“How can you expect me to calm down when my students are being driven to this state by your program?”

A dim light shone on my curtain. The two must have been far enough away that whatever source they were using wouldn’t disturb the room’s occupants.

“You’ve seen the results for yourself, Tobias, and I don’t much like your tone. You and I both know not all minds are the same. Some stimuli clearly had a negative effect on these boys. That’s why I asked you and the rest of the school staff to call me in the first place if you noticed abnormal behavior.”

“Some stimuli? Just what, exactly, is so stimulating for my students, Mister Stone?”

“Please, call me Coach.” I could picture the man shrugging his shoulders. “Given how you’re reacting, you’d think I’d done something to one of your sons.”

“Those boys are my sons.”

“And you think I don’t care about them? Tobias, you ought to be ashamed. These boys are the future. I’m not about to risk that, let alone the lawsuits that would rise if a parent thought I was doing something illegal.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Doing something illegal.”

Stone tsked. “I’m providing advanced tools for education and development, Tobias. That’s all. Now, why don’t you go get some rest? You’re tired and tense. If you can’t sleep, go blow off some steam in the gym.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with these kids.”

“Then we’ll go together. Leave the nurse to handle this. They should be perfectly fine after a good night’s sleep. Come with me, Tobias. I insist.”

Andrews was silent for a while, probably chewing over what Stone said. Finally, he spat out a, “Fine.”

“Tread lightly, Mister Andrews. We don’t want to wake them. You and I can air our respective grievances and rebuttals outside like real men.”

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I missed the next morning’s meal at the mess hall. The nurse insisted on checking each and every one of us for vitals and signs of recovery. Once we had a clean bill of health and were properly fed, we were released to our classes with strict instructions to alert a teacher if we started feeling any more fatigue or other problems.

The look of concern in Anderews’ eyes was mirrored by the intensity of his grip as he squeezed my shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

I gave him my assurances and thanked him for caring. I mean, the guy kinda went full on papa bear in the infirmary. That meant if there was any teacher I could rely on to be in my corner, it’d be this guy. That day, we went over the origins of the Olympics and the various traditional sports that were practiced in Ancient Greece. Of course, wrestling and track were two of the major ones. Interesting fact, the strongest man in Greek Myth’s real name was actually Heracles, not Hercules. Hercules is what the Romans called him. Guess it goes to show the eggheads in Disney can be kinda stupid, too.

He had Jim show us clips, reliefs, and footage from some old Olympics games to show us how the sport and various events evolved from when it first started. We’ve come a long way since then. For one, we don’t compete naked anymore. I’m a lot more comfortable with my body now, but even I wouldn’t do something like that. Every once in a while, I’d twist my back on my chair to stretch. Some of the guys were practically salivating over the footage. Others rolled their eyes or scratched their crotches.

In other words, it was another day of classes in the life of bored teenagers. When everyone filed out to go to their next classes, Andrews pulled me aside. He looked hesitant, which was a strange sight to see in a man who had always been so confident in the classroom.

“Is … everything all right?” I finally asked.

“There’s … someone who wants to meet you. He arrived after he heard about what happened to you and the other boys that were in the infirmary.”

“He scares you that much?”

“Who says I’m scared?”

“The student who’s known you for over a year?”

Andrews chuckled. “Touche. Look, I just don’t like him all that much. He says he means well, but I’m not so sure he does. Just … promise to come to me if he does anything strange, okay?”

I nodded. “I promise. So, what, is he going to take me out of one of my classes or something?”

Andrews shook his head. “I’m taking you to him. He wants to interview each of you one on one. I’ll be there as a second adult to keep an eye on you.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Andrews smiled.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

As you can guess, meeting Coach Stone for the first time was … interesting, to say the least. The man had to be one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in my life. He dwarfed me and Andrews both with his sheer size, not to mention the tightly cut muscle mass that pressed against his suit and dress shirt. The collar button had already flown off by the time I arrived. The man was a walking, talking oxymoron. His brutish masculine features and brawny musculature were emphasized by the tight platinum haircut he sported to accentuate the blunt square shape of his face. His eyes were a bright silvery gray with flecks of emerald. They shone with a bright alertness and a scrutinous intensity as he stared me down. I suppose sized me up would be a better phrase, given what eventually happened.

His voice was just like I remembered from the infirmary, only this time, I had the full effect of his body and gaze to go with it. He motioned to the chair after the usual introductions and pleasantries. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Am I your first student of the day, then?” I asked.

Stone shook his head. “No, but you are an interesting case. I wanted to hear from you and the others personally, rather than relying on separate accounts. On top of my degrees in physical therapy and other such fields, I also have a doctorate in psychology and psychiatry.”

“Aren’t you a little young to have all of those?”

Stone chuckled. “When you’re as smart as I am, you find shortcuts to get certified.” Then he leaned in closely and whispered loudly. “Between you and me, I’m not as young as I look.” He winked and pulled back.

“Is there a reason you’re trying so hard to put me at ease?” I asked. I wasn’t about to play games.

“If I’m going to give you a proper analysis, I need to see you in a relaxed state.” Stone shrugged. “Was I laying it on too thick?”

“Just a little.”

“Then I guess we should start by saying that whatever is said within these walls will remain completely confidential, save for extreme cases that may require contacting your family members directly. We can be alone or not as you wish. The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain the cause of the affliction you boys experienced, so I encourage you to be honest with me.”

I shrugged. “You could’ve saved a lot of trouble by just asking. It’s no big deal.”

“Then here’s my question. What caused your exhaustion?”

“Recurring nightmare.”

“About?”

“Crazy stuff all jumbled together.”

“I need specifics to compare cases. If there’s a common thread, I need to know, so we can address it.”

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“As I said, it doesn’t go beyond these walls. If you don’t trust me, trust Andrews. He knows I’m a man of my word.”

“He also doesn’t trust you.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I overheard your argument.” I shrugged. “Something about stimuli?”

Stone sighed. “Look, the long of the short of it is that developing minds react differently to different situations, hence my broad use of the term stimuli. Jim is designed to help and assist the students here as they study and grow, just like any other computer program uses a mascot, whether it’s Freddy Fish, Treasure Mountain, Clue Finders, or something else entirely. However, there are times where a developing mind can interpret these characters and conflate them with subconscious issues. Whether this be anxiety, anger, or something else, they contribute to the overall mental health of a patient. If you help me analyze your dream, you’ll help me to understand how best to keep this from happening to you again. So, will you help me to help you and your classmates?”

I looked to Andrews, and he nodded subtly.

I sighed. “Fine. Here’s how it went.”

Stone took notes while I described the dream. He frowned as he reviewed the contents, then finally asked, “Are you afraid of jocks, Mister Jones?”

I shook my head. “Afraid isn’t the right word.”

“You hate them, then.”

“Most, yes.”

“Because?”

“Because almost every one I’ve come across has been nothing but a bully who likes strutting his stuff and being an asshole.”

“Derek,” Andrews said reprovingly.

“It’s fine, Andrews. This is therapy. Let the boy vent. Tell me, Derek. What happened?”

The session took an hour, maybe a little more. He never said in exact words what was wrong with me, other than the possibility of what equates to a mild form of PTSD. Basically, changes in the school paired with the algorithm to cause growth in Jim’s avatar and the push in fitness combined with my own angry reaction from dealing with people who always thought might made right. In a way, Stone seemed almost sympathetic. Then again, sympathy is a far cry from change. It’s more like putting a band-aid over a cut, then putting the person right back into a room full of knives.

“If it’s all right with you, Derek, I’d like to meet with you once a week to check up on you. I intend to make similar appointments with the other boys as their cases require. Assuming our sessions don’t yield any improvement, we’ll take steps to remove you from any potential triggers to this condition.”

“There’s no way I’m stopping D&D,” I objected.

“And no one said you would have to, Derek,” Stone said mildly. “That’s merely as a last resort. As I said, let’s take things one day at a time.” He lowered his notepad onto his desk and nodded. “I’d say that’s a good starting point. For now, Mister Andrews will guide you to your next class. Notes will have been recorded to help you catch up with the time you missed, and you’ll be given an excused absence. I’ll see you next week. And remember to alert us if you start having these troubles again.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I found a mini-fridge in my dorm room later, completely stocked with familiar green drinks.

Just in case. See you around!

~K

The note was obviously from Kyle. As for the fridge, my guess is it was part of the new additions for our rooms. Pretty smart, when you think about it. It would allow us to have something cool and refreshing to drink during late nights. I popped one, just to help with some of the lingering aches of the last lifting segment from gym class. Then I pulled up Jim on the computer.

“Hi, DJ, let’s get to work.”

And we did. Teachers had a special file sent over to help me cover what I’d missed in class. The real test for whether I’d have that nightmare again would come soon enough.

I wasn’t looking forward to it.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The familiar roar of victory bellowed across the school grounds as Kyle sunk yet another goal. He’d grown into a real tank, and all his teammates with him. Their bodies steamed in the cold winter air, but they didn’t seem to mind or care. Broad swollen pectorals thumped into each other as the team performed chest bump after chest bump. Veins stood out on their calves and arms from the intense running as they navigated the opposing team’s defense. Their lacrosse sticks waved in the air like barbarian clubs as they signaled their dominance and their victory to the crowds.

When the game was ended, I led Jackson and Slater to the locker room, where a grinning Kyle greeted us with open arms.

“You made it!”

“Saw the whole thing,” I said. I allowed myself a small smile. Given the help Kyle had shown me before, it would’ve been rude of me not to.

“I’m telling you, when I’m on that field, it’s like I’m a totally different person, and I love it!” He chuckled.

“You’re definitely different than you were at the start of the year,” Slater agreed.

Kyle winced. “Yeah, that … wasn’t very good.” The shadow passed, and his smile beamed as he straightened again and patted his crotch. “Got protection now, though. And I think that hit did something to me. I mean, look how big I’ve gotten!” He popped his arm into a flex to show off a swollen bicep. “It hurt like hell, but I think that may have been the best day of my life.”

“And it gave us one hell of a captain,” Jackson contributed.

“Hell, yeah, it did,” Kyle agreed. “Fuck, yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!” rebounded back as teammates cheered, hooted, and hollered from their places by lockers or back at the showers.

I cringed. “Anyway, thanks for the, uh, gift.”

Kyle beamed. “You been drinking them, then?”

“Not often. Just … for emergencies, you know?”

Kyle nodded. “I get it. Got to play it smart, conserve your resources.” He nodded. “Speaking of which, word on the street is there’s a D&D club? You guys wouldn’t happen to know who I should talk to about that, would you? It’s been a while since I dusted off my old character sheets, but I kind of miss it.”

“What class do you play?” Jackson inquired.

“Used to play a dragonborn necromancer. That character was OP as fuck when I finished leveling him.”

I cringed again. “… Yeah, you’re gonna need to make a new character if you want to join the campaign.”

“Who’s DM?”

“Andrews.”

Kyle smirked. “Figures. That guy’s a tactical genius on the field. He’d know how to run a campaign no sweat.”

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Andrews was all sweat when he burst through the door. His face was flushed, and his compression gear hugged even tighter to his frame as a result of the intense workout he’d doubtless run from to get to the classroom.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said quickly. “Weight training today.”

Kyle grinned. “Took some time to get in a session yourself, huh?”

“Can’t expect the teams to put in the work if I don’t,” he said by way of explanation.

Kyle nodded. “Lookin’ swole, Coach.”

Andrews smirked and flexed one of his biceps. The fabric looked more like a blood pressure cuff than a sleeve. “Swole and in control. Now let’s get up to speed.”

Kyle’s new character was discovered in the slave pens of a compound outside the main temple that was their party’s destination. He was being enthralled with Dominate Person and in the middle of being garbed in new armor when the party struck. Once they killed the caster, the spell was broken, and Kyle’s barbarian was freed to reap his revenge. In exchange for saving him from that fate, he was honor bound to help them deliver my character from his own enslavement and kill the Yuan-ti’s leaders in their temple.

The final boss was a real pain, the Anathema. Think of a huge serpent over twenty feet in length with burly arms tipped with three-fingered clawed hands and six heads atop its torso. Six heads means six chances to target someone with a charm.

Unfortunately, we failed miserably. All four of us were ultimately defeated, enthralled, and disarmed. In time, three of us were sacrificed to their demonic god. My character was forced to watch the proceedings with a smile on his face as the others were led to their gruesome demise. Yuan-ti are subtle creatures. They knew how to make the altars seem like beds or examination tables to their thralls. It was a simple matter of ordering them to lie down and close their eyes.

My character’s new master took great pleasure in experimenting with its new toy, altering his mental state and twisting him into a variety of forms and classes by convincing him mentally that he was those things. A full-blooded Orc with no signs of his human half remaining. A ruthless barbarian with an almost animalistic bearing. A loyal pet at its master’s side.

“And so, Lathrok Stormhammer lost his mind and his very soul, the last of his party to survive, and the first of many in his order to be controlled. Through him, the dreaded Yuan-ti infiltrated the city and gradually dominated its denizens until none remained to stand against their empire and their ambitions. Thus began the Yuan-ti campaign for their god to conquer not by the sword, but by cunning, by whispers, by secret combinations. And their demon god was most pleased.” Andrews looked around the gathering of stonefaced youths. “I did warn you the campaign would be harder. I don’t want any complaints.”

“So, what now?” I asked.

Andrews smirked. “Well, assuming you’re done playing the good guys, I thought you might like to try playing for the other team next. The Yuan-ti have a long way to go before their plan succeeds, and they could use all the help they can get in their campaign.” He extended a sheaf full of character sheets and smirked. “What do you say? Wanna join the team?”

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“Are you insane?” I practically spat in Stone’s face when I met in his office again.

“Analysis indicates at least a part of this issue you faced revolves around muscle and sports, most likely a primal fear instilled as a result of a past trauma you faced,” Stone noted coolly as he peered up from his clipboard. “If you want to avoid enduring this recurring nightmare again, I strongly recommend you consider joining a sports team and living the lifestyle, at least for a time. It would dispel your suspicions and address the concerns that are clearly lying beneath the surface, including a fear of becoming the very stereotype you seem to despise so much.”

“I’m not going to join a sports program!”

Stone shrugged. “That is your choice,” he admitted. “But I can tell you now that the better option would be to face and overcome your stigma, rather than allow it to fester. Such feelings have an intensely negative impact on social and mental development.”

I twisted and adjusted my position in the chair for what had to be the sixteenth time.

“You know, I’m not going to judge, if you need to,” Stone cleared his throat, “relieve yourself. I’ll even look away if it makes you feel better. Or you can excuse yourself to the bathroom and we’ll resume afterward.” He shrugged. “I want you to be comfortable in my office.”

“I’m good. Really.”

Stone narrowed his gaze. “No, you’re not.” He lowered his clipboard and handed me a pass. “Go. Take care of whatever you need to and come back after. I can wait.”

“But—”

“I said I can wait.” Stone practically lifted me out of my chair. “Now go. And don’t be ashamed to ask to leave if you need to again.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he opened his door. “Come back soon.”

My whole face felt like it was on fire when I was practically propelled out of the office. It took all my will power to keep my composure. When I got into the bathrooms, I rushed to the nearest stall and locked it. The relief when I finally got to scratch myself was beyond anything I’d ever felt before. For a moment, there was just mindless bliss. And in that fleeting moment, I think I understood, at least a little, how Kyle felt when he flexed his muscles after a long workout. That same almost explosive relief after the fact.

The words slid easily from my lips. “Oh, fuck, yeah….”

My voice echoed only slightly before the words faded into silence, a lone cry in the wilderness. I’m not sure what it was, but I think part of me felt incomplete somehow, almost guilty at how paltry the words sounded. The other was mortified I’d even dared to utter them. I quickly shook my head and readjusted my jock strap. Gym was next period, so I’d decided to just wear the thing for the day. It might have been a trick of the light, but the pouch looked … fuller as I reinserted the cup that would protect my groin and complete the look.

I washed my hands for extra measure, then opened the door and barely evaded getting bowled over by one of the upperclassmen. His eyes were desperate, almost glazed as he adjusted his crotch. The stall door closed. And seconds later, I heard the same haunting words in a far deeper and resonant voice.

I left quickly, but those words echoed in the cavern of my brain for the rest of the day like some ghostly knell.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 3

For those who are joining the story late, here’s the link to Part 1

This series is brought to you  by @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love.

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The gym was practically full to bursting when Kyle pulled me in after him. The weight of his arm around my shoulders was basically the equivalent of a headlock. To be honest, I almost dropped my gym bag. He was a lot heavier than I’d thought. Jim’s constant praises echoed through the air as he complimented or corrected the lifters.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” I asked.

“Because I needed a lifting buddy and you needed a break from school.”

“I usually game for that.”

“I know. But this is something different. Besides, you know how much smarter a person can be when they actually balance fitness with their schoolwork? Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.”

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this.”

“Don’t you mean strongarmed?” He smirked.

“Ha-ha-ha,” I said slowly.

Kyle’s smirk widened as he deliberately pitched his voice lower and duller as he tried to make his eyes lose focus. “Nah, bro. You got it wrong. It’s huhuhuh.” He scratched his crotch with his free hand and led me on.

I rolled my eyes. “Careful, ‘bro.’ Keep acting the part, and soon you’ll be it.”

Kyle shrugged his broad shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind if I did. Do I really look like the kind of guy who’d be a jerk just because he’s got big muscles?”

“And the dumb part?”

Kyle shrugged again. “Don’t feel stupid yet. Honestly, it’s more like a culture than anything else.”

This time, I smirked. “Can’t have culture without a cult.”

Kyle laughed and gave me a gentle bump to the shoulder with his fist. “Smartass.”

“Right back at you, dumbass.”

“Did we just come up with nicknames for each other?”

“Don’t push it.” He looked at me expectantly, and I sighed in defeat. “Dumbass.”

Kyle grinned as he leaned in closer. “Let’s get to work, little bro.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What do we do?”

“Charge!”

“Now get out there and make those Gunners run!”

The stampede out of the locker room shook my whole body as cleated foot after cleated foot trampled across the tile. The whole team was built like tanks, and this was just the Junior Varsity! Half of them were already nearly as tall as I was, and they still had a couple of years to grow. I hefted the bottles of sports drink in their carrying cases, and Andrews held the door open for me as he had for his team.

“Thanks for helping me out, DJ.”

I shrugged. “No sweat. Fair’s fair. If this’ll help speed us closer to getting our campaign going again, you bet I’m going to help.”

“We really do appreciate it, though,” Andrews said. “The team needs boys like you, too.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, pretty sure they don’t.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Andrews smiled gently. “By the way, is that a little growth I see in that bicep, or am I just seeing things?”

“Totally imagining. You should probably go see Doctor Stone, get your head checked.” I smiled playfully at him.

His smile tightened. “Yes. Maybe I should. Think you might have a few minutes to talk after the game?”

“I’m pretty sure I can spare the time.” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Andrews shook his head. “Later,” he insisted. And then I felt his broad hand shoving me out the door. “We’ve got a game to play.”

Andrews transformed into another person on the football field. His gaze was intent, his bearing cool and calculating. I felt like I was dealing with a military commander, rather than the teacher who had been my friend. The coordination between the offense and defense left them functioning like a well-oiled machine.

And I was the one providing the lubricant. Seriously, I felt like I was running the whole time to keep up with all the guzzling the players were doing with the drinks. Bright green streams poured into their mouths and down their bobbing throats. And the sheer aggression they showed left me cringing as I relived some of my worse moments from growing up.

By the time the game was over, I was a sweaty mess that matched the team. I had to steal a couple of swigs, myself, from time to time as I raced to restock the water coolers and bottles for the team. We slaughtered the opposing team, allowing them only one touchdown for the duration of the game, while we scored seven.

The team was showering and getting changed while I worked to clean out the coolers and bottles. I noticed Andrews approaching out of the corner of my eye, but he got intercepted by Stone before he could reach me.

“Excellent game, Tobias. As usual, you’ve performed very well. Congratulations.” The big man squeezed Andrews’ hand in a tight grip as he clapped Andrews’ arm with his free hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go.”

“Mister Stone, I appreciate the need, but my team—”

“Can finish cleaning up just fine. They know the routine by heart, and this really is very important.”

Andrews sighed. “Can I trust you to finish cleaning up, DJ? Coach Dale will help you get everything where it needs to go.”

I nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to the extra time I’d waste, but like I said before, I owed him, and Andrews doesn’t ask favors lightly.

The jocks were actually really helpful. They didn’t expect me to pick up their slack. They cleaned up their towels and other gear, put them in the proper hampers, and even went so far as to help move the baskets to the washroom. When everyone was finished and dressed in their regular clothes, we shared an order of pizza, compliments of Coach Stone for a job well done. When I sat down on the wooden benches, my arms and legs felt almost swollen in a way. They twitched with energy, and for once, I was ravenous. Meat lovers and supreme both fell to the powers of my jaws. And rather than criticize me for it, the team actually cheered, like it was all some sort of game.

“Damn, bro, did you see this guy hustle?” Kenny Yates was the biggest player on the team, with a voice to match. “Bet he could put Patters to shame.”

I shook my head at the praise, first because it didn’t suit me, and secondly to save my bacon, in case Kenny’s comment offended Ryan Patterson, the wide receiver. “I’m not really the sportsy type. I’m just doing this for Coach Andrews, because he asked me to.”

The whole team smiled knowingly, and I started to fear for my life. The only reason I was able to stay calm was because Dale was watching us so closely. “See? Already running plays for him.” A hefty arm wrapped itself around me and wedged me against Kenny’s bulky frame. The guy could’ve been his own personal space heater. “Just gotta bulk up a little, and you’re ready to charge.” My head swam at the attention. The action reminded me only too well of Kyle and his happy-go-lucky attitude.

“Damn, Kenny, let him breathe. You’re gonna choke him,” one of the others hollered, which prompted a round robin of laughter that spread like a chain. Or maybe a circuit? I guess either could work for an analogy.

Kenny was actually blushing when he took his arm off me. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m fine.”

I’d said it to be polite, but … I was surprised to find I actually meant it.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The blowback from the work was remedied with the aid of Kyle’s drinks. That stuff is seriously some of the best I’ve ever tried. I don’t know what’s in it, but I perk up hard core when I drink it. I gave some to Slater and Jackson to help them out, too, since they’d been called to help with some of the other sports events that day.

Kyle took one look at them after the fact and said those fatal words. “Okay, bros. That’s it. You’re coming to the gym with me.”

“Why?” Slater had asked.

“First, because you clearly need training if you’re hurting that badly after helping out. Secondly, because it’s relaxing. And third, because it gives us a chance to hang out in more than just D&D or gaming.” He smirked. “When I’m done with you, they really will call you Slayer.”

“I don’t know….”

“Bro, trust me. One month, and the gym’s gonna feel like your home away from home.” He smirked. “And you’re going to love every second of it after.”

“Wanna bet?”

Kyle smirked. “Sure. If I get you over 240 by the end of a month, you talk with Andrews about joining the wrestling team.”

“And if I win, you have to break that strict routine of yours and spend a day marathoning anime with us. Unhealthy snacks included.”

Kyle grinned. “You’re on.” Next, he turned to Jackson. “You wanna get in on this?”

Jackson shook his head. “Someone’s got to be there to referee.”

“Good. You can work on dumbbell curls while you watch.”

I chuckled. “Kyle, you’re incorrigible.”

Kyle smirked, then let his face go slack as he gaped at me and pitched his voice low. “Uhhh, what’s incorrigible mean?”

That earned him a pillow to the face. “Quit it, dumbass,” I said playfully.

He smirked as he pulled the pillow away. “Take it easy, smartass.” He pulled back his arms and bared his teeth menacingly. “Let me show you the benefits of working out at the gym personally, little bros.”

The combination pillow wrestling match was the stuff of legends.

Naturally, the dumbass slaughtered us all.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I stood in front of Andrews as he leaned back on his roller chair in the Coaches’ joint office. I hadn’t been in there since Kyle brought me back after that first workout session went overtime. The traffic running through the locker room felt more like rush hour on the freeway when I weaved through the crowd. Boys waited patiently by the shower stalls or passed one another on the way in and out.

“Busy out there today, isn’t it?” I asked.

Andrews nodded. “It’s becoming an almost daily occurrence.” Then he smiled. “It’s good to see so many boys dedicated to getting fit.”

I eyed his chest. The shirt he wore was straining heavily. I could actually see the jutting of his pectorals and the ridges of his six pack. The tension of the sleeves over his biceps looked like they could give at any moment. “And teachers?”

Andrews laughed. “And teachers. So, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

“What you wanted to talk with me about. You said you wanted to talk after the game, but you didn’t leave the office when everyone cleared out.”

“Oh, that.” Andrews rose to his full height and laid a hand over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder. Had he always been so tall? “Don’t worry about it. I had some concerns over your meetings with Stone is all. He cleared things up for me after our talk. This school couldn’t be in better hands.” He smiled. “But since you’re here, how about you join me for a little workout? I want to run some ideas by you for a campaign I’m cooking up, and I think best when my body is working out.”

I felt that familiar itch building again. The nurse had explained it was just a part of puberty that all men had to bear. That didn’t mean I liked it. And it was so hard to pay attention when an episode came on. Stone’s words came back to haunt me.

I want you to be comfortable.

That was at Stone’s office. I didn’t know what to think of him yet.

Want.

But this wasn’t Stone’s place. This was Andrews’.

Be comfortable.

Andrews knew me.

Want.

I wanted to scratch so badly.

Be comfortable.

Andrews dealt with boys before. He was a coach. It was normal for him.

Want.

He wouldn’t mind, right?

Be comfortable.

He was a friend. He’d understand. “I, uh….” My fingers twitched.

Want.

I wanted him to understand. I wanted not to be judged. I wanted not to have to ask to go to the bathroom every other period, just because of this stupid fucking itch!

Be comfortable.

A quick adjustment. Nothing lewd. Just a necessity.

Want.

One wasn’t enough. Locker room was full. No bathrooms. No privacy.

Be comfortable.

Screw it. I scratched. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but it was worth it!

“So, that’s why you’ve been running off to the bathroom so much.” His voice was soft as he looked down on me.

Be comfortable.

I averted my eyes. “Yeah, it’s….”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Andrews shrugged. “You’re teenagers, and you have needs. Stop worrying so much about what other people think. If you need to scratch, you’re not about to be sent to the headmaster’s office.” He smiled.

Comfortable.

“I … thanks.” My cheeks were still flushed, but at least the heat was receding.

“Any time.” He led me toward the locker room door. “Now, let’s get to that session, so I can discuss my idea.”

Comfortable.

My back straightened. My shirt stretched just a little as my chest inflated with air. I smiled. “Yeah, I think I have some time.”

The clack of weights and the rhythmic thump of heavy feet on treadmills struck in time to the music that played over the speakers when we finally entered the gym.

“There’s always time for a workout.”

Andrews grinned at me. And, honestly, I couldn’t help but grin back. I just felt so…

Comfortable.

“Yeah.” The chuckle was more of a hiccup than a proper laugh, a sort of a catch, like you get just before you sneeze, only in reverse. It felt weird, but … also kind of good, like I was pushing out all the anxiety I’d had balled up in my chest. I stopped, frowned, tried again, and I felt even better after. A giddy sort of high settled in, and I could hear the rhythmic whirring of the blood rushing through my ears and body. If this was the reason why jocks laughed the way they did, I was sold. I would never make fun of them for it again. This time, when I scratched, there was no fear, only reward as I finished my reply. “I guess there is.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The rhythmic chunk of the throwing arm was quickly answered by the reverberation of metal or the heavy popping thwack that resounded as a bad throw from the machine struck the ground or the back of the batting cage. Things were warming up at last, and the sheer motion of the sequence was, well, mechanical. Kind of should’ve expected that, since there was a literal machine at work for the practice. A stonewall baseball cap on our heads kept the sun out of each of our eyes as we sat on the bleachers and worked on our respective homework assignments.

“Ivan Petrovich Pavlov is one of the psychological giants of the nineteenth century. Thanks to his research, humanity came to understand the scientific and psychiatric principle of the art known today as conditioning,” Jim explained in a chipper voice. “He is, in fact, the twenty-fourth most cited psychologist of the twentieth century. This theory has been applied in a variety of means and places, including educational classrooms, phobias, and various behavioral therapies.”

“Remind me why we’re out here again?” I asked as Jim droned on through the module.

Jackson shrugged. “It helps me concentrate.”

“How?”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping.

“Dunno. It just does.”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Thwack!

“Guess I just—”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping!

“—Like the sound of it.”

“The batting cages?”

“Yeah. The ball, the bat, the vibrations, the sun on your face.” He leaned back and spread his legs to emphasize his point. “It just feels … better, you know? Sort of like a dance. It just beats stuff into your head.”

Kyle grinned. “I can totally relate. I feel the same way when I’m lifting weights. If I have a problem, I go to the gym. A good workout always helps me, well, work my problems out.” He smiled and flexed one of his arms to show off the swollen bicep. “Good for the bod, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Slater rolled his eyes. “We get it. The gym is your happy place.”

“You’re just mad because you’re sore,” Kyle retorted. “If you’d just drink those shakes I gave you, you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“I’m not the one who agreed to the bet,” Kyle pointed out, then chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a meathead of you yet.”

“In your dreams, ‘bro,’” Slater sassed.

“That’s big bro to you,” Kyle countered.

Jackson continued eying the cages. Jim was long since forgotten by all of us. Or rather, none of us were paying attention to him. If he were alive, I’d probably have felt bad about it, but since he was just some computer program, we just let him run his mouth. We could go over the module again later. After all, if you have a problem, go to Jim, right?

“You know, you could always just go and try one,” I noted. “It’s not like they’re the sole property of the baseball team.”

“I don’t know….”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bleachers. He stumbled but managed to catch himself as I dragged him behind. I guess you could say since overcoming that one hurdle, it felt easier to do things like this and not be afraid of a bad outcome. “Come on. I’ll start up the machine. You get a bat and helmet.

The first impact was enough to jar the bat out of Jackson’s hands. He looked like a living tuning fork the way he shook after he took the shot.

“Maybe try turning down the speed a little?” he asked as he nursed his hands.

“Rookie mistake.” I turned in surprise. I hadn’t heard the player approach. His shoulders were broad, his arms swollen and pumped after what I assumed was a session in one of the other cages. Bro had a blunt face with a thick brow and smooth dark skin that shone under the sun. “Your arms aren’t built to handle that kind of blowback yet.” He nudged me aside and shoved his fingers over the console. The whirr of the belts lessened as their speed slowed. “Try it now.”

The difference was night and day. Jackson started landing hits. He managed a few good pop flies, though most of them were fouls. The player shook his head in disgust and stomped into the cage after the cycle wound down.

“You’ve got it all wrong. Wrong stance, wrong grip, and definitely the wrong break.” He wrapped his arms around Jackson like a father would his son and adjusted Jackson’s grip and stance. “Follow through. Don’t break your wrists until the last possible second.” He nodded to me to start the next round of shots.

Crack went the bat.

“Feel the rhythm.”

Crack!

“Make it sing.”

Ring!

“Eye on the ball.”

Smack!

“Just the ball.”

The bat rang again as Jackson struck a solid blow that arced into the netting above.

“That’s it, bro. Read it. Follow it.”

Smack!

He let go of Jackson’s hands and whispered in his ear. “Crush it.”

Jackson was a tuning fork again. Only this time, he didn’t drop the bat. The ball drove straight for the machine with a resounding crack! Fortunately, the machine was heavy duty metal, so it could take some blows, and the netting took care of the rest. His mouth dropped open at the result, then broadened into a manic sort of grin. “I … I did it.” He laughed. “I did it!” The exultant whoop carried far over the school grounds.

“Not bad.” The player smiled and nodded as he folded his arms. “You’ve got potential. But if you really want to beat that ball up—” He raised both arms in a double bicep flex. “—You’ve gotta get jacked, son. Huhuhuh.”

Jackson scratched his crotch and stared almost hungrily at the player’s arms.

He smirked. “If you want to be more than just the water boy, meet me here after school tomorrow. I’ll make a player of you yet.” He hefted a bottle and guzzled its contents. A small stream of green liquid dribbled down the side of his cheek, and he wiped it after. “Come dressed for the gym and ready to sweat. Understand?” His gaze hardened. “Be ready.”

Jackson nodded. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed. The jock chuckled and clapped one of his massive hands on Jackson’s arm.

“Name’s Barry. My bros call me Bruiser.”

“J-Jackson,” he replied.

Barry smirked again. “Good name, bro. See you soon.”

“Yeah….”

The jock walked away with a measured swaggering sort of gait that showed off just how taut the muscle was around his legs. It was evident he could do a lot more than just crack a ball open. His whole body was built for the field, whether it be running, throwing, or hitting.

When my friend didn’t move, I finally walked over to check on him. “You okay, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” he repeated again in that same faraway tone, then shook his head. His gaze came back into focus as he concentrated on me. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get back to that homework.” He rubbed the bicep Barry had touched as I shut the pitching machine down and returned the gear. Then we walked back to the bleachers. We’d put off our assignment long enough. It was time to go back to Jim.

Undone

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Mature for language.

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I’m sharp. Folks used to say I was the nosiest boy they’d ever known. I’d ask so many questions I could probably annoy the devil himself into letting me into heaven, just to get me to shut up. I’d look at things, wonder how they work, break ‘em apart in my head, then put them back together again. You know, sort of like an overhaul or a restoration. Which is why I knew something was up with my BIG BRO when he started skipping classes.

Sometimes, ... well, it sounded almost like there were two people living in his room, if you get what I mean. Sometimes I’d be talking to the old Big Bro, and he’d be bright and cheery and talk all that psychology bullshit. Other times, he’d just eat and drone about how he needed to go to the gym.

Fuck, even mentioning it’s getting me all pumped.

Big Bro would be so proud.

Anyway, yeah, Big Bro started bulking up hella fast. Like, he threw everything into getting jacked. Bro got so swole, he got recruited personally by the school’s football team. It was just like those machines I used to mess with. He just ... changed, built his bod into a fucking machine, even got to change his voice. It’s a lot deeper now. He likes to go by Dick, says it makes him feel more like a man.

Gotta say, when I look at him now, Richard definitely doesn’t come to mind. Bro got hella huge hella quick. Now he’s just a big dumb Dick. Huhuh. 

Yeah, ....

Anyway, bro got into all this really loud music. Like, it kept blasting through our doors, and I guess it was okay after a while, cause he figured out how to keep it muffled n’stuff, but ... Idunno. Guess it’s sorta weird.

He stayed nice, though. Bro never insulted us or hurt us, well, except when we were messing around, talkin’ shit. And we’d just sort of throw back and forth like that. Nerd, jock, bro, geek, musclehead. It was sort of like a ritual. And we’d just smile and laugh about it, each calling the other the opposite of what we were.

And the music kept playing.

And I kept laughing.

I mean, our rooms are right across from each other, so yeah, it’s sort of natural that we hang out.

It’s natural to hang out.

Cause bros hang out....

One day, he caught me doing some of my home exercises. Family sent me a new challenge to help build core strength. It’s too easy to build up that freshman ten into a twenty and grow from there, if you know what I’m saying. This was something to help keep it in check while I worked on projects and homework.

Big Bro just smiled and was like, “Dude, just come to the gym with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Too much work man,” I replied. And I felt almost ... bad telling him that, but it was the truth.

Big Bro grinned. “This weekend, then. You, me, the gym. Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

“You’re not gonna let me back out of this, are you?”

The grin widened. “Nope.”

-------------------------------------------------------

The rhythm at the gym is sort of addicting. Weights just clank and clank and clank, and the body drives, and you can just ... zonk out, clear your head, you know? And it’s so damn easy. First time we went, we spent an hour there. An hour, and it felt like thirty minutes.

Big bro chuckled. “Told you you were a musclehead.”

“Shut up, nerd,” I shot back. “Don’t expect this to become a habit.”

...

It became a habit.

It became more than a habit.

When I started growing, Big Bro took me into his room, showed me some of the stuff he likes to use to help him grow, build his strength. Promised it’d do the same for me if I just listened, bro. 

And I don’t know what it was, but ... I did listen. I listened to my Big Bro, and it was like ... Idunno, like someone turned the knobs in my brain, switched the radio frequency, you know?

I still remember the first time I dropped that shaker cup I’d been using in the kitchen. The word slipped out of my mouth before I could even think. I ... hadn’t been doing much thinking in the mornings, anyway, really.

“Fuck....”

The others gaped at me.

Big Bro just grinned.

Money changed hands in front of me, and all I could do was stare as I picked up my drink and guzzled it. I knew the money was about me, but for some reason, I didn’t--no, I couldn’t care. I had a schedule to keep. I shuffled, nah, more lumbered, I guess. I throw my weight around a lot now. Anyway, I grabbed my gym bag and raised the shoulder strap.

And that’s when it happened.

RRrrrrrrrrrip!

The shirt sleeve tore at the pit.

And like my reps at the gym, I couldn’t just stop at one. My brain acted on a signal, like someone clicked a remote or something to start me up.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

I remember my chest shaking, sort of heaving at the sight. I was crying for some reason, but I didn’t get it. My chest stuttered and shook. My room was a mess from all the sleeves I’d shredded.

“Huhuhuhuh.”

A heavy hand clapped my shoulder. “That’s it, little bro. Let it out, meathead.”

I didn’t understand what he meant then, but the exchange was so common, so deeply ingrained by this point, that I responded without even thinking. “Turd.” It was the first time I’d used that insult. I don’t know whether I even meant it. I usually called him a nerd. Big Bro calls it a ... slip of some kind, some fancy German name or whatever.

Instead of getting mad, he ... sneered. “Shithead.”

And I went. Names I’d heard in the locker room when we changed. Pieces from videos he’d shown me with his teammates messing around. All those deep voices stabbed into my brain like a bullet in a gun barrel.

And I fired as soon as I was loaded, all cylinders. “Fuck face.”

“Dumbbell.”

“Numbnuts.”

“Dumbass.”

“Dickwadd.”

“Nimrod.”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

I don’t know how long we kept shouting that word. I just ... couldn’t say anything else. Couldn’t think anything else.

Before I knew it, we were wrestling on the floor, crashing into my bed, the desk, the wall. My chest heaved when he finally pinned me. My shirt was in tatters.

“Little bro?” Big Bro’s voice was husky as he breathed in my ear.

“Yeah?” I huffed in turn.

“I win.”

“Yeah, bro.” I breathed hard against the carpet. My chest pushed me off the floor, despite the pressure Big Bro placed on me. “You win.”

“Good meathead.”

I was too tired to care. “Whatever, bro.”

“That’s right. Whatever I say.”

-------------------------------------------

Big Bro said a lot. Not in words, but in actions. And me? I followed. We spend a lot of time in his room now. I like the music now. Big Bro gave me a copy to blast in my room. It annoys the hell out of the other apartments, but we keep it in the hours, so they can’t do shit to us. Been seeing a few more of them at the gym lately.

I shaved my head down to stubble. Just feels better that way. I wear mostly tanks now. And pants, well ... pants’re interesting. Let’s just say Big Bro’s not the only big dick around the apartment anymore. Got me some ink on the shoulder. Makes me look more badass.

I step out of my room after another runthrough of the track. My head’s nice and fuzzy, and I’m buzzed, like when I hang out with Big Bro and the team at the bar. I’m still not as big as he is, but I’m stacked, and I’m still growing.

Bro says I should try out for the football team. I don’t really know. I mean, football is...

Football is....

Football is an awesome sport for a meathead jock to play. Meatheads should love football. Meatheads should play football. Meatheads should--

“Bro, you okay?”

I blink. My hands are clasped over my belt buckle. I feel the pressure of my bulge against the crotch of my pants. Bro offered me a jockstrap to hold things in place. Promised me it’d feel better than boxers or briefs.

...

Might have to take him up on that offer.

Big bro’s tank strains against his pecs and traps. His scalp is shaved, like mine. His skin is smooth, like mine. His arms are like pythons, and I find myself wanting that the longer I stare at them. I want those veins. I want those muscles. I want that strength. I want. I want--!

“Fuck, bro. I wanna go to the gym.”

Big Bro chuckles. “What about your meeting with the school councilor?”

“Fuck that shit, bro. I need to work out!”

Big Bro grins at me and fishes a jock strap out from his pocket. The plastic wrap is still on it. I reach for the material, but he pulls it away.

“Ah-ah,” he teases. “First, what are you?”

The buzz is still heavy. The need is still there. And I know what he wants me to say.

What I need to say.

What I should always say.

My eyes are hooded as I respond in a low, dull voice. “A big dumb jock bro. A big dumb jock bro needs a big dumb jock to hold his meat.”

Big Bro grins. “That’s right. Good little bro.” He hands me the jockstrap. “Jock like you shouldn’t be in engineering....”

“I belong in the gym and on the field with my bros.”

Big Bro sneers. “Good little jock bro.”

I nod. The tears stopped a long time ago. A dazed smile pulls at my lips. “Besides, being a jock is fuckin’ cool.”

“Fuck yeah, it is, little bro.”

I nod again, like a beefy bobblehead. “Fuck, yeah....”

Credit to @viralsmorphs for this awesome photomanipulation. Please go to his blog for more great muscle morphs. He really does high quality stuff

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A casual note. Tumblr deemed the reblog I initially captioned for this story as inappropriate and adult. They still haven’t told me why/how they reached that conclusion, other than to look to the guidelines. I have asked in a reply to the email from the team responsible, so I can get specifics on the ruling (and thus avoid another offense). I still haven’t gotten a reply from them back yet. I’m not sure if they’re going to give me one.

So, I’m going to use another image instead to get my story out and modify one or two minor pieces of imagery as a result of the different image. The original post will stay for now, but I will eventually delete it after Tumblr gets back to me. If they don’t, I am going to be very pissed.

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Pothead

You pissed off the wrong gamer, Teabagger.

Nick chuckled as his avatar squatted repeatedly over his latest kill.

Whatever, pothead. Don’t get salty, just because I’m the smarter player.

The response was witty, stinging, a perfect way to end a perfect match after a sore loser tried to nose in on him and his record. In the digital battlefield, it didn’t matter how strong or fast you were. What mattered was knowledge, cunning, and strategy. Here, he could be merciless if he wished without consequence. No bullies to beat on him to nurse their bruising egos and insecurities. No catty popular girls to mock him for being who he chose to be. In this place, at this time, he was the alpha. He ruled the roost. And he would make sure that others knew it.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

The changes started small at first. A few flickers on the screen, a few angry comments, and the beginnings of what he knew would become a great rivalry. He shot his opponent and followed his ritual. When his opponent shot him, the retort came in the chat.

Who’s the pothead now, bro?

It was laughable, really. And soon it became a sort of a dance. Nick couldn’t help but laugh at the language that flowed over the chat whenever he took out another player.

#^$*ing Teabagger, man!

Bro, come on!

Just got #&$*ed by the Teabagger. Talk about necrophilia. Creep.

Hacks. I call hacks!

He scratched his chest that night. It was sore from the gym time with his new personal trainer. Pushups were no joke. It was a wonder his arms were still working well enough to play, but they were.

“Sucks to be you,” he’d said, then smiled and kept going.

-------------------------------------------------

“Keep going. You’re doing great.” The month had flown by, and Nick was surprised at just how much better he felt as he pushed against the floor. His arms still strained with the rest of his body, and his heart raced, but it was easier, and the praise and support was surprisingly enjoyable after all the years of abuse he’d faced in his younger days. “You must be keeping up with those home exercises I gave you.”

Nick smiled. “Yeah, I am.”

“Feels good to just focus on the body sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Whoa there, partner. Let’s not be too hasty.”

The man chuckled. “You’ll get it eventually. Come on. Time to work that core.”

---------------------------------------------------

Nick smirked as the screen flickered with another message:

Teabag or D-bag?

Totally both.

Yes.

Definite yes.

Behold, the two parts of the whole.

Gonna put a hole through his head any minute now.

Nick rolled his eyes and swiftly typed into the message board.

In your dreams, @ M3ath3ad. Hope you’re ready to eat your words.

By the time the match ended, he’d earned MVP. His rival had ranked top on the other team and even hosted the match.

Hope you’re having fun, Teabagger.

Nick smirked.

You bet. Where’ve you been?

A smirking emoji appeared on the screen, followed by:

Taking a little time off. You know what they say. A watched pot never boils.

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He never got an answer.

------------------------------------------

“It’s boiling in here. Why’s the heat have to be so damned high?”

The trainer chuckled. “Not the heat. It’s you. I told you I’d work you hard, didn’t I?”

“No way it’s just me.” Nick grunted as he pushed through the end of another set with the bench press.

“Maybe you should wear something a little less concealing next time, then. It wouldn’t hurt you to use a tank top, you know.”

“Not really my style.”

The trainer shrugged. “Styles change. So do bodies. Yours might benefit from a little change. Show off some skin, bro.”

“Bro?”

“Figure of speech. Besides, you’d be surprised how addicting it can be, once you start using it.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

The trainer sighed. “In one ear and out the other....”

---------------------------------------------

In one ear and out the other, ‘bro.’ Nick typed victoriously as he finished yet another headshot in M3ath3ad’s avatar.

Dude, not cool.

Really, man?

Why are we still putting up with this asshole?

Because I’m an actual challenge?

The chat was silent for a while.

Everyone’s thinking it. I’m just saying it. ... “Damn it, I hate it when he’s right.”

Bold of you to think he’s a he.

Nick chuckled. Let me stop you right there. I’m totally a he. He leaned against the wall and stretched from his bed. Much though he hated to admit it, his trainer was right. He felt better with less on.

...

Less on.

...

Less on.

The screen flickered. A bout of dizziness struck. “What...?”

The countdown started for the next round. The screen flickered again as the map loaded.

Time to teach you a lesson, Teabagger.

It was Rival. And once again, he was playing host.

Less talk, more action.

The smirk appeared on the chat again, the herald to their ritual of tit for tat. The match would feel wrong without it at this point.

Simmer down, Pothead. Don’t want you to boil before I school you.

Ooh, burrrrrrrrn! Brawn-E typed.

Dem’s fightin’ words! Mu$cl3Mann added.

This is gonna be good! Br4h-n said.

The timer counted down. The match began. The dance began anew.

------------------------------------------

“About time you took my advice.”

Nick’s abs burned as he thrust forward on the chest press. The weight dug into his core and back with every curl. “Shut up,” he grunted.

“You’ve carved a pretty good figure, actually,” the trainer continued heedlessly. “You take well to workouts.”

Nick shrugged. “Just part of the day. I just do it.”

“Without thinking?” The trainer smirked.

“Don’t push me, ‘bro.’“

“Isn’t that why you hired me in the first place, ‘bro?’“

Nick grit his teeth. “All right, you got me.”

The trainer smiled. “Good. Now let’s see what else we can get.”

----------------------------------------

Lucky shot, bro. Don’t get used to it.

Nick frowned as he glared at the message box. Emoji after emoji poured in. Some shocked, others cheering, others popping streamers and so forth.

Ding-dong, the witch is dead!

Nick’s chest huffed in frustration as the kill cam replayed his death. A sniper had just barely managed to get a head shot off a corner of an exposed piece of wall.Two straps perked against his chest as the cotton brushed gently over his pecs. He scratched a pec, then adjusted his crotch. All the work at the gym had upped his metabolism, and with it his testosterone levels. Increased aggression was only natural.

“Never again, bro,” he muttered darkly. “Never again.”

------------------------------------------

“Looking good there, stud,” Nick’s trainer complimented.

Nick thrust himself into his work as sweat streamed down his face, neck, and chest. He walked with a broader step now to keep from putting too much pressure on his crotch. Clothes felt tighter than they had been before, and others had begun to notice his changes. It was nice to receive such gratification, but frustrating to lose it in the one place that had mattered to him for so many years.

So, he did what came naturally. He took it out on the weights.

“Bad time?”

“Don’t wanna think about it,” Nick snapped back.

His trainer shrugged. “Okay, then don’t. Focus on your body. Focus on the weights. Let’s break that plateau today.”

Nick nodded. “That’s not all I’m gonna break,” he growled.

---------------------------------------

That night was a slaughterfest.

Damn, bro. Someone’s steamed.

Teabagger’s bringing it!

%*#&!

Nick sneered as he took out each of his enemies and initiated the same ritual. “That’s right. Nobody talks $^&* about me and gets away with it. I’m a one-man army.” He crept into a door and laid a claymore, then scratched his crotch. “You ain’t got the balls.” He chuckled as he camped in a corner by the stairwell and waited. The claymore went off, followed shortly by several kill shots to the torso as he took out the raiding party. Exultation surged. “Fuck yeah,” he growled. A predatory pleasure ran through him as he chuckled. “Fuck, yeah.”

-------------------------------------------

Nick swaggered confidently into the gym. His grin was wide, his shorts tight in all the right places, and his tank top holding against his torso in just the right way to show off the burgeoning muscle that now surged with the pump of his jog to the gym.

“Someone’s smug today.”

Nick grinned. “Got a lot to be smug about.”

“That you do, Nick. That, you do. Ready for your next session?”

“More than ready.”

“Then let’s go, bro.”

“Can hardly wait, bro.” Nick grinned.

“You really do love arm day, don’t you?”

“What can I say? It’s fun to flex.”

The trainer chuckled. “Yeah, bro, it sure is. Ready to get in the zone?”

“Huhuh. You know it.”

“That’s the spirit.”

---------------------------------------

The screen flickered again over Nick’s computer display. The chat room lit up, and he smiled as he strode confidently to his bed in his sweats and XXL shirt. His biceps strained against the fabric, and he sneered at the feel of the pressure. He could conquer in and out of virtual reality now.

Guess who’s back, &$*#ers.

Oh, snap, it’s Teabag!

Bro, where you been?

Nick chuckled. Life comes first, man. You know that. I had some training meetings I had to attend. Not exactly a lie. He’d let them draw their own conclusions. But now I’m back, and I’m ready to pwn your asses.

Big talk. Can you back it up, bro?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Game cued up. Rival hosted again.

Hey, can you guys talk after this match? Got something I need to say.

Nick raised his brow. Not about to complain, are you?

Nah. I’ll leave that to you, ‘bro.’

Are you mocking me?

Would I do that, pothead?

You’re gonna get it.

Bring it on, dumbass.

Nick grit his teeth. Oh, it’s on.

The match was glorious. Nick sneered as he watched his final kill tab play across the screen. They had reaped the whirlwind. And he was fierce, indeed.

Remember your promise. No complaints, he typed quickly.

The familiar smirking emoji passed over the window with a flicker, and Nick smiled. The repartee was sure to follow.

No complaints. Just concern. I think a few of us are getting a little too hotheaded. It’s time to let off some steam, bros.

Nick’s hands dropped to his sides. He gaped at the screen as his mouth hung open ever so slightly.

Cameras on, please.

A window opened in the screen, divided into a series of boxes. Second by second, they flicked on to reveal another muscled man in underwear staring ahead. Then another, and another in varying states of dress. The message box stayed open above the windows and flickered with another message.

Let’s go, potheads. Time to pour.

The men stood as one. Their cameras adjusted. And then they began to speak. Nick couldn’t hear the words, but he knew them well, and he knew that they knew them, just as he stood with them. Their voices were one, one voice, his voice, their voice, one voice. They were one.

“I’m a dumbass meathead, tall and proud. Growing my muscle is what I’m about. More and more, my meat drives me about, tips me over, and dumbs me down as weights drop in and smarts drip out.”

Good Meatheads.

Nick did what came naturally, having finished the ritual. He righted himself, raised an arm, and flexed his bicep into his handle. His abs tightened and took on more definition as he breathed deep, then did as the song suggested and let his meat drive. “Huhuhuhuhuh....” His body moved on its own as his hands navigated the options in the video game and adjusted his user name. Then he typed into the chatroom as he stared into the camera with dull glassy eyes.

Meatbag reporting in.

The teabagger was no more.

Credit to @willpeter for this image.

This story will have hypnotic themes in it and guiding a character into trance. If you trance easily, make sure you aren’t doing anything that could put yourself or others in jeopardy before reading.

If you like this content, please help support me by joining my Patreon. For just $3.00 a month, you get access to unique story and script content that you won’t find anywhere else on my webpages, along with the privilege of helping to recommend ideas and themes that I will incorporate in later scripts via the Discord Server.

Help me reach a high enough monthly income, and I’ll be able to post more content on a regular basis both here and there. :D

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Lea-durr-ship

(Disclaimer: This story and its title is not made to target mentally disabled individuals. The term “dur” has been associated with people who have moments of lapse in thought, make silly or “stupid” mistakes, and a general pop culture reference to lack of intelligence. Please, do not use this term when referring to mentally disabled individuals. Thank you.)

The camera flickered on as James finished setting up his laptop. The bars, suitcase, and other miscellaneous items and weights were still sitting on the floor behind him, waiting to be unpacked. As per his hypnotist’s instructions, he had stripped to show off the progress he had made in developing his body. They would continue their sessions, despite the work he had to do.

“Good afternoon, Jamie.”

James never let anyone call him that, save for his hypnotist.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

The screen mirrored James’ body as he stared into the camera.

“I see you are settling in.” The screen remained dark for the other end of the call. His hypnotist preferred to work with just his voice.

“Yes, Sir. I admit that I’m a little nervous, though.” James raised his arms and flexed to show off his progress. Veins snaked through his arms like roots. Apart from his head, he was perfectly smooth.

“Oh? And why is that, Jamie?”

James shuddered. “I ... I have to take charge. I’ve always been following other people. Doing work to hand up the chain. Now, I have to be the one to lead.” He paused to swallow. Silence followed.

“And?” the voice prompted.

“I’m scared, Sir,” James finally admitted.

“Flex for me, boy.” It wasn’t a request.

James shuddered and did as he was commanded. The screen flashed over his glasses as the camera refreshed and the lighting adjusted on his monitor.

“Follow as you flex. Follow your progress on the screen. Follow and listen to my voice as you flex deeper. Deeper and deeper...”

James shuddered again as his underwear tightened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Very good. So, you are afraid to lead, yes?”

“Yes.” James transitioned into an archer pose.

“Good boy. It is good to acknowledge fear. it is good to understand that it exists. It is natural, just as natural as my voice in your ears, my voice guiding you down, down, down into trance. And you like that, don’t you, muscleboy?”

James groaned as he transitioned to a new side pose to show off his legs and lats. “Yes, Sir.”

“Such a good muscleboy.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Good muscleboys listen. Good muscleboys obey. Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to obey? Are you ready to prove you are a good muscleboy?”

The room fell away. All that mattered was the voice and his body on the screen as he pitched his voice lower. “I am a good muscleboy. Ready to listen. Ready to obey.”

“Good. Now listen, muscleboy. Listen deep. Listen well. Listen, and obey. Any time you are afraid, you will flex. Flexing will calm you. Flexing will give you confidence, as it gives you confidence when you flex for me. Flexing puts the fear into your muscles. Flexing clears your mind. Flexing allows you to focus. Focus on your tasks. Focus on what needs to be done. Focus on what I or your superiors tell you. And your muscles will burn that fear away just as easily as they burn calories. It is a natural process. Natural to be confident. Natural to let it go. Natural to burn it away.”

The more James flexed, the more relaxed he felt. He smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

“But all things that burn leave something behind, don’t they? Chemicals, smoke, exhaust. Isn’t that right, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And exhaust must be vented.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will vent that exhaust, that excess, by laughing. A simple laugh. A deep laugh. A dull laugh. Blunting your fear. Blunting your worry. Blunting, so you can think clearly and calmly. And you’re feeling very calm right now, aren’t you, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re burning that fear and anxiety with every flex, great or small. You acknowledge that there is risk, but that risk holds no power over you to keep you from doing your job, because you are burning the fear, burning the anxiety, feeding the machine that you are to work clearly, efficiently, and well. Now, be a good muscleboy and expel that exhaust.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy,” the hypnotist purred. “Again.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy. Doing just as you’re programmed. So simple. So calm. So relaxed. Don’t you feel silly for all that fuss now?”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir.”

“So silly. So dull. So stupid. But that’s all right. There are leaders, and there are lea-durrs. Both know how to lead. Both can be intelligent and efficient. Both can be charismatic. One of them just needs a little ... encouragement sometimes. Encouragement from people like me, to help them see how silly they are to be afraid. To help them let go of that stupidity that cripples them and holds them captive at crucial points. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud to acknowledge that you needed help and sought it out. Proud ... to be a lea-durr. What are you?”

“I am a good muscleboy. I am a lea-durrr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durrr.” He laughed and laughed and laughed as he continued to flex for his hypnotist.

“Good muscleboy. I expect a report from you as soon as you finish your first day on the job, understood? You will call me and report, muscleboy.”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir. I am a good muscleboy. Huhuh. A good muscleboy is a good lea-durr. I will lead. I will obey. Huhuhuhuh.....”

“Good muscleboy. Now get that workout equipment set up. I want to watch you lift today.

James grinned. “Yes, Sir.” He laughed as he got to work. A glassy look began to filter over his eyes. “I am a good muscleboy. I obey.”

Credit to @bennymueller404 for this image. Please consider contributing to my patreon. For just $3 a month, you can get access to stories, scripts, and other content that you won’t find anywhere else. Plus, it will give me the financial freedom to give you more stories and scripts, assuming I can get enough of you guys to subscribe. Even a dollar a month will help. Thank you again!

And if you can’t donate on a monthly basis, I have Ko-Fi for one-time donations of any value you see fit: http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

~Omni

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01000010 01100101 01100011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101

People say diligence and practice always pay off.

And they’re not wrong.

Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.

Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.

You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.

Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.

I’m here to build muscle.

...

I’m here to build.

...

I’m here to build....

And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.

It’s become my routine.

My set routine.

My subroutine.

Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.

Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.

Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....

I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.

It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.

This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.

These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.

The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.

I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.

A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.

You follow it.

You mimic it.

And, eventually, you become it.

We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.

Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.

Over and over.

Again and again.

We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.

“’Sup?”

That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”

Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...

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My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110

Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.

In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.

I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.

I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.

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Am I a machine?

...

Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.

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The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.

Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.

It’s all up to you.

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Y/N

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The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.

“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.

“And integration into the system?”

“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”

The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”

Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”

“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.

Credit to @bodriversblog for this incredible image.

If you like my work, please support me on Patreon, so I can continue to write stories and scripts for you all. For just $3 a month, you can have access to muscle, hypnosis, and other transformation content and even make suggestions for future stories you want me to write for the next reward on the Discord Server. Other tiers are also available with different rewards. Check it out.

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Deducation

I watch from the other side of the table. He’s been staring at that screen for hours. I can’t help but smile as he shifts slightly and rolls his arm to expose his new tattoo. All that time at the gym and the supplements he’d been using were really paying off. His pectorals tensed and pushed the sleeves of his tank top forward, giving a view of the crevice forming between the two growing slabs of muscle. I was so proud of him when he came out with the cap on this morning.

My little beta tester was becoming quite the alpha. I’d decided to call the program Deduction. The game itself was simple enough, designed with a premise to focus on deductive reasoning. The longer he played, the more challenging the deductions would become. With every correct answer, he would progress. With every wrong answer, he would face subliminal suggestions and reinforcement. I still remember the first time he blanked after getting the wrong answer.

“Maybe you should go to the gym, instead.”

The insult had been included as part of that subtle push, a sort of mocking from the antagonist in the game. What I hadn’t expected was for him to actually respond at that moment.

“Where are you going?” I’d asked him mildly.

“I’m going to....” He frowned. “I’m going to....”

“The gym?”

The way his gaze just ... glassed over, that sensation of watching it come to pass. It was ... incredible.

“That level was too hard. I should go to the gym, instead.”

And he did.

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It got easier and easier to trance him over time. His sense of competition, that need to prove he was better than a machine or game, drove him to keep playing.

I tweaked the insults and subliminals with each “new iteration.” And he attacked it with the same zeal he’d come to develop toward his breakfasts.

“Too bad, ‘bro.’“

“Not ... even ... close.”

“Perhaps you should apply yourself in ... other fields.”

“I’d hoped for brains, not brawn.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Can’t you even read?”

“Are you slow in the head?”

“Leave the thinking to the smart ones, you lumbering brute.”

“Honestly, Chief, such sloppy work. Perhaps it’s time to trim the fat....

More insults, a “demotion” cutscene involving a hypnotic pattern in the background as the chief spoke the dialogue and the text scrolled by. All tools to help push my beta tester deeper and deeper.

And all the while, he kept growing. Muscle and tone replaced flab and fat. In a very real way, I was putting him through a mental version of the detraining principle, a rule in the fitness world that essentially states if you don’t use it, you lose it. If you don’t continue to train those muscles and parts of your body that have improved, then you will lose the benefits you gained. It’s also known as the reversibility principle.

“I think it’s time for a different sort of uniform. Don’t you?”

I still remember when he almost smashed my computer. I had to get in his way to calm him down. “Bro, stop!”

“He insulted me!”

“He’s a computer generated character! You want to smash something, go change and smash some weights, instead!”

He grumbled, but he followed my advice. I’ve hardly seen him out of his “bro” gear since.

“Congratulations. You finally solved something. I suppose it’s time to get hard.”

I nearly spat my drink when I saw him flex his biceps and retort, “I already am.”

Then came the suggestion I’d been waiting for. He was chewing on his oatmeal as part of that morning’s breakfast, looking thoughtful with his brow scrunched. He swallowed, then said, “Hey, bro?”

I shuddered at the low pitch he’d developed recently. I admit I was surprised, since he usually didn’t interact with me much during his breakfasts anymore. “Yeah?”

“You think maybe you could, uh ... include something else in the game?”

I was intrigued. “Like what?”

“You know how there are all these interactive parts to video games now, right?” He gulped another bite of his oatmeal, then belched without shame. “Why not make something like that for parts of the game? You know, like when breaking into a room or doing something that needs heavy lifting, maybe something for when you have to run? Something that’s ... idunno, active?”

“Active?” I repeated.

“Yeah, like ... you know, to let me move. It’s always solving combinations or following equations or something like that. It’s too slow. There’s just not enough action in it. It’s....”

“Yes?”

He sighed. “Bro, it’s boring. I feel ... idunno, sort of numb up here when I play.” He knocked the side of his head, and I barely suppressed the urge to smile.

“And do you have any suggestions?”

He blushed. “Idunno. Maybe, ... maybe a gym?”

“I can try something like that,” I admitted. “But I don’t have that kind of equipment to synch to my computer. Any levels or portions I design for a gym setting would have to focus on something else, perhaps on hand-eye coordination. Tapping the right key at the right place, that sort of thing.”

“If you could, that’d be great. It’ll make things more, uh ... uhhhhhhh....”

“Diverse?” I suggested. This time, I did smile.

“Yeah, that.” He gobbled down the rest of the bowl and chucked it into the sink, filled it and the pot he’d prepped the meal in with water, then raced toward the door. “Thanks for listening, bro. Gotta get to the gym, bye!”

He was still embarrassed, and I found that especially cute.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

His laughter permeated the room after he’d been playing the new level mechanics for the last half hour. Well, at least on this particular session of the new level. It was deep and low, just the way I like it.

“Fuck, bro. How long’ve I been spelling swears and curses?”

This time, I allowed myself to smile. It was perceived as a joke, after all, juvenile humor. And I knew to act accordingly. “You’ve been spelling more than that, but I’d say you’ve been doing that for ... well, ever since you started testing the level, so I guess about a couple of weeks now?”

“Damn, bro. That’s just ... fuck, damn....”

“Ass?”

He looked at me. I looked at him. And we both broke down into a fit of laughter.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, he swore again.

“Bro, this ... this game’s like a fuckin’ drug, man. How long’ve I been playing?”

I glanced at the stopwatch by my table. “Four hours.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. “This game is--”

“--Ready to lose again, my little henchman?”

His body became rigid. His chest heaved, lifting his shirt over the toned abs he’d been developing. He rose, and I took note of the growth he’d experienced in his legs and glutes as he turned and strode back to the computer again.

Eat, workout, shower, computer, eat, computer, workout, shower, eat, computer, and repeat.

And all the while, he kept growing. The bigger he got, the more relaxed he became. I watched a former valedictorian descend into the depths of the mental doldrums, and he was perfectly content to stay there and focus on his need to improve.

And I was only too glad to help him redirect that need toward his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I helped him change his major just last week. Exercise sciences are far better suited to how his mind runs now. And he seems content with that. He’s still determined to beat the game, though.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The latest deduction was more of a pattern. He has to list the alphabet. By now, he’s been conditioned to be triggered every time he reaches the letter D. His eyes become hooded. His breathing slows. His face goes slack. And I get to enjoy watching every second of it.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The timer goes off. The laughter filters through the speakers. His chest shakes with it as he shifts easily from his sustained pause to follow that track with his husky, “Huhuhuh....” Then he blinks slowly at the instruction.

TRY AGAIN

He clicks the button. The system cues up the level again. The process repeats a few times, and I just enjoy watching him fall again and again. I snap a picture. He’s too focused on the screen to care, tapping one meaty finger over each key and shoving it in time to the screen’s prompts.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhmb....”

“What was that?” I ask. A smile curls as my lips part to bare my teeth. I’ve been waiting for this moment.

He turns to me, looking away from the screen for the first time since he started this morning. He blinks slowly, as if he doesn’t quite recognize me or where he is. And then he speaks in that slow, dull tone that I’ve come to love hearing. “I am A Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m a Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Whose Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro are you?”

“Yours, bro.”

This time, I let the sneer come. “Good jock boy.”

The trigger was sent, and he reacted instinctively. Laughter burst from his chest like the retort of a cannon. “Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh.......”

On further review of the original photo, I felt it was too risky to show the whole thing. The image was still chaste in nature, but it did show a clear outline of what lay beneath the fabric, even to the extent of showing some veins against it. I wasn’t comfortable with that, so I cropped the image.

Credit goes to @musclecorps for the original image. Thanks for posting images that inspire me to write, man! :D

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Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181323718642/endemic-evolution-chapter-5-doctor-barton-sighed

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617475185126277120/credit-to-asianhunks-x-for-these-images

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 6

“That’s right, Rante. No shame in taking a selfie. You earned that body. Flaunt it, little bro.”

The camera shutter went off. A grin spread over Rante’s face. “Damn,” he swore.

“See? Told ya. Feels pretty good, don’t it?” Kyle’s deep bassoon carried from the bedroom.

“I ... I didn’t even notice,” Rante said as he stared at his phone’s screen.

“Kinda the point, bro,” Kyle pointed out. His blond hair glinted in the light from the room’s fixtures as a football game on demand played in the background. “The more ya get swole, the more your meat gets swole. Malloy said not to question it, so I don’t.”

“Uh ... question what?” Rante asked.

Kyle chuckled. “Exactly, bro. Feels good being so thick and heavy, don’t it?”

“Yeah ... good....”

Kyle sneered as he walked in behind the doctor. “We’ll have you in proper gear in no time, little bro.” Rante’s breathing caught, and his eyes rolled briefly as he felt the presence of the towering muscle behemoth that Kyle had become. The man stood a full head taller, and his broad shoulders were nearly as wide as the doorway. Thick, beefy white arms dwarfed Rante’s toned and shredded ones. The doctor’s core flexed almost instinctively.

“Easy, bro. You don’t gotta show off around me. I know how it feels tryin’ to grow.” He chuckled. “You’ll be just fine. You just need a little more time at the gym is all.”

“A little more time....” Rante echoed in a distant voice.

“That’s right, little bro. Gym’s the place to be. Malloy wants us to be there.”

Rante let out a low moan. “At ... the gym?” he asked dazedly.

“S’right, little bro. At the gym. The gym is where we belong.” Kyle’s hand clapped firmly on Rante’s shoulder.

“Where we belong....” The cell phone clattered to the floor. Rante’s pecs bounced back and forth, back and forth. His arms twitched and tensed. His pants finished falling to the floor as he turned and stepped out of them in nothing more than his boxers. “I must go the gym. The gym is where I belong.”

Kyle grinned. “C’mon, little bro. I’ll show you the way.”

Rante followed shamelessly behind. He strode past the doctors in their hazmat suits. He strode past muscle men and meatheads and jocks and whatever other names he had once called them. That didn’t matter anymore. They were all going to the same place, after all. He paused briefly to stare at a much smaller Asian man. Rante furrowed his brow at the sight. He looked ... familiar. More big men in suits stood around him, and they looked to be reaching for tasers. Rante shrugged. He didn’t care. He locked eyes with the man and spoke. “You comin’?”

The man shuddered, but shook his head wordlessly, albeit weakly.

Rante shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he grunted. Then he lumbered after Kyle like a wayward puppy. Gradually, the thump of his feet on the carpet was joined by another pair, and then another, and another. Muscle touched muscle. Meat pressed against meat. Men marched together as the familiar warmth flooded their bodies and a mind-numbing pleasure surged through their brains.

Two behemoths pulled open the doors to the facility. The air was filled with the grunts of hard labor and exertion. When they passed through, Kyle turned and grinned. “Welcome home, bros.”

Rante didn’t think, couldn’t think as the words passed from his lips, and he knew they were true. “The gym is my home. I belong in the gym.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. He wasn’t sure who started it. All he knew was that his chest was heaving, and the room was suddenly echoing over and over with the sound of dull vacuous laughter. They crashed together like ice in a blender. Different tones, different pitches, different voices. But slowly, they homogenized. High voices dropped. Low voices extended the length of their guffaws. Once weak and timid laughter pressed effortlessly out the diaphragm as the men engaged their cores

...

And let the meat do the work.

The piles of muscle by the door grinned knowingly at Kyle. Kyle made no effort of hiding his response. “Come on, bros. Let’s work out.”

Credit to @asianhunks-x​ for these images.

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

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 7

Lee breathed deeply as he stood in the pool and let the water lap over his body. The daily meditation allowed him a certain amount of peace as he dealt with the rapid rise in his libido and overall physical enhancement. He’d tried multiple things to slow the disease or whatever was at fault for the metamorphosis taking place. Burgers, fries, fried chicken, candy, gourmet desserts. No matter how greasy or fattening the food he ate, his body never once put on so much as an ounce of fat. No. What grew was far worse for his condition.

He braced himself as he brought his fists and thumbs together. The muscles in his arms and pectorals tensed. He forced the shudder back, using the cool waters in the pool to mitigate the effects of the increased blood flow he’d been facing. Unfortunately, the water was losing its edge of late. If anything, it felt more like his body was adapting to the cold, maybe even enjoying it. He hardly flinched when he entered the pool anymore.

Malloy had been more than accommodating when the doctors requested Lee be given permission to have exclusive use of the facility at certain times during the day. He was given three half hour intervals in which to use the facilities, meditate, and otherwise endeavor to calm his mind.

“Anything for my little bro,” Malloy had said.

Lee shook his head. “I’m not your little bro,” he muttered.

“Doctor Barton?”

Lee looked to the attending staff member and smiled tiredly. “Sorry. I was just thinking about Malloy.

“Sir, it’s best not to do that.”

“I know.” Lee shook his head. “Sometimes, the mind does things you don’t want it to, and you have to rebuke it like you would a child that pushed the rules too far.” He sighed. “How much longer do we have before we need to leave?”

“About another five minutes or so, Sir.”

Lee nodded. “Any more progress?”

“None that I’ve been told, Sir.”

“Frank, please stop calling me Sir. I’m not the head scientist here.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but until you’re completely gone, you’re still technically one of our senior staff. Protocol dictates I address you as such.”

“Screw the protocols.” The waters churned as his legs thrust through them like oars breaking a current. He seized a proffered towel as he emerged. As usual, the fabric had been exposed to a variety of treatments to ensure it would kill or cleanse any foreign substances and bacteria. The speedo was easy to pat down, and he quickly transitioned to his arms, legs, and torso, rather than allow that particular piece of anatomy any potential edge in his struggle.

“I can’t, Sir.”

“Why?” Lee snarled. Heat surged through him almost instantly, and he swore.

“Because forming any sort of attachment to the patients may be an invitation to join them. I’m sorry, Sir. Really, I am. But this is an order from the top. Until we identify the culprit for this transformation, we have to keep as remote as we can.”

Lee was still angry, but he knew better than to allow that anger an outlet. He closed his eyes, concentrated, breathed, and pushed it into yet another box to store with the rest of the emotions he’d packed away. He couldn’t afford to let them out. Not if they exacerbated things. And from what he’d seen in the other patients, that’s exactly what would happen if he didn’t keep control. “Any results from our other tests? Nanoscopes, spectrometers, anything?”

His wet feet smacked heavily on the tile of the indoor portion of the pool as they strode to the exit and the waiting escort. A set of sound cancelling earplugs and muffs awaited him, along with a blindfold and a draping bathrobe to obscure his body and its changes. If the patients couldn’t see his changes, they often left him alone, rather than egging him on. The blindfold and sound tech were extra precautions.

“Nothing yet, Sir. I’m sorry. We’re still not any closer to finding out what causes this.”

He shrugged the robe into place and bound it. “Any effects on lab animals?”

Frank shook his head. The hazmat suit crinkled as his torso twisted ever so slightly.

“So that means either this disease effects only humans or it’s not a disease, as I postulated in the first place.” He frowned. “Have you considered a low-level EMP? If this is caused by something mechanical rather than biological, it might neutralize the effects on me and provide a means for us to treat the initial stages, if not the latter ones.

“I’ll take your suggestion into account, but it’s going to take some doing to convince any of the higher ups to use that kind of tech when we haven’t found any evidence to back it up.”

“We haven’t found a biological one either,” Lee pointed out. “And we’ve run almost every test we can think of. Occam’s Razor seems the best bet. If it’s not biological in nature, then there has to be a mechanical aspect somewhere. We just need to find it.”

“And if it’s not there?”

“Then the worst case scenario is I get exposed to harmless radiation. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been right now, despite my efforts not to be. I’m pretty sure I can take it.”

The blindfold was placed, the sound gear applied, and Lee was led back to his room, as he had been for the last several weeks. When he had been safely conducted, he removed each to face his team once again. “Do your best to get approval, Frank. Time is of the essence.”

Frank nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He frowned behind his face shield. “You should get some rest. Your eyes are getting baggy again, and the irritation is back.”

Lee sighed. “I guess you’re not the only one who has to see what he can do.”

“Insomnia again?”

“The price of resistance.” Lee chuckled. “I’ll be okay, Frank. Don’t worry. I’ll sleep tonight. You just focus on getting that approval. And report back to me in the morning.”

“If you’re sure....”

“I am, Frank. Thank you. All of you.” He handed the gear back to the men. “I’ll see you all in the morning for the next round of examinations and results.”

Then he closed his door and strode to his bathroom. True to Frank’s word, his eyes were puffy, and red veins of irritation scrabbled in intricate cracks along his sclerae. He sighed in resignation and turned to the shower. It was more of a short rinse with shampoo to lather up his hair and clear out the chlorine, followed by a quick shave. He knew what he needed to do. He just really hated to do it.

He turned off the water and toweled down, then strode into the bedroom to change into a new pair of underwear. Then he flopped onto his bed and pulled out his laptop. The light of his lamps filled the room with a cheerful warmth that raised goosebumps on his skin after the cold shower he’d taken.

“All right, I’ll let you have this round,” he said to his invisible opponent as he settled onto his bed and leaned against the pillows and cushioned headboard. The familiar tone of the computer booting up met him, and his fingers flew across the keyboard as he cued up the website on the hotel’s wi-fi.

His heart thundered as he typed in the address and was met with the familiar sight of a broad football field banner with two goal posts on either side.

Fantasy Football: Build Your League. Place Your Bets.

His fingers clacked rhythmically over the keyboard as he reviewed the stats of his roster and assigned the various players their roles for the duration of the season.

His typing gradually slowed. His eyelids finally began to droop. His head lolled. Occasionally, the phantom of music soundtracks would drift through his ears, as though some video were playing. Yet he found none, neither ad nor recap video.

As the darkness encroached beyond his ability to push it back, Rante’s deep bass lowed through his consciousness.

You comin’?

Suit yourself...

You comin’?

Suit yourself...

You comin’?

Suit yourself...

The familiar call of the quarterback from the last game he’d watched on demand rang through his skull.

Hike-hike!

Suit yourself...

You comin’?

Just before he lost all consciousness, a new voice emerged with a final edict.

Suit up, bro....

A low groan escaped Lee’s lips as he drifted, finally, into blissful slumber with the ghost of a fully uniformed football player hovering under his eyelids, the final shutter click of the night. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

He never noticed the stubble growing back.