Patreon Preview - Tumblr Posts
Credit to @oregonleatherboy.com as the original source for this image on tumblr. This is a patreon preview. If you want to read the whole story, please pledge to my Patreon. For $3.00 a month, get access to exclusive transformation stories, hypnosis scripts, and other content, along with access to the Discord server to suggest ideas for future creations, both hypnotic and non, and talk with your fellow patrons and me. This story is rated mature for language.
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Pull my Strings (A Patreon Preview)
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Synopsis: What would you do if a friend of yours has changed so drastically that you hardly even recognize them anymore? Most would ask about the change out of concern. This is the story that emerged from one such confrontation.
With life-altering consequences.
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Preview Script:
You know, in ancient Egyptian culture, they used to say that the shadow was an extension of the soul, a piece of a person's kas. Why do I bring this up now? Well, bro, you asked me how I got to be like this. Before I tell you, I have to lay a little background, you know?
So, you know I'm a real party animal now, right? I fuckin' love to party.
But, bro, it wasn't always like that.
I used to be somebody, you know? I mean, like ... somebody else. Now, I'm ... well, I'm nobody, bro. Don't got any real identity of my own. I'm whatever ... this guy wants me to be.
Look, I can't tell you his name, all right? I told you, I'm not me anymore.
It started out at this party. Somebody thought it'd be fun to bring in some entertainment, including this guy who's what they call a shadow puppeteer.
I thought the guy must've been some sort of hypnotist or stage magician or something, too. Some sort of combo, you know? He started off with a basic show, using his hands, a few cutouts, stuff like that to narrate the story to some music.
Bro, I don't fucking care about the story. Sports and weights, bro. Sports and weights....
*Groan* Fuck, it's getting worse....
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Credit to @willpeter for this picture.
Parting Worlds (A Patreon Preview)
SRY BRO. HRD 2 TEYP. BIG THUMS. HUHUH. FEEL GUD THO. FOUND MY PLACE. LIVIN THE DREAM. BRO, IT'S ... IT'S.... FUCK. CAN'T THINK OF THE WORD. FUUUUUUUCK. NEVUR THOT BEIN DUM WUD FEEL SO GUD. I M BIG NOW. BIG MEAT. U WANT 2 B MEAT LYK ME, COME HERE. I'LL B WEIGHTING, BRO. DON'T 4GET. SAVE THAT 4 L8R. HUHUHUH.
Bryant looked at the last message from his old friend. Chris had included a map pin for GPS. It had been six months since he last heard from the man. Six months. His apartment had been cleared out. A missing person's case had long since been filed.
The police had investigated the site from the address after Bryant provided it. All they found was an old parking garage cordoned off by a chain-link fence. A warrant obtained using the information yielded no further results. The space was empty, the building abandoned. There was no sign of foul play. No drugs, no tags, no evidence of any prior occupation, save for what looked like a needle of some kind. Careful investigation revealed the space had once housed a tattoo parlor before transitioning to this structure. The needle was a part of a tattoo kit, probably left at the scene when the brick and mortar folded and went mobile.
So, why was he here now, listening to the echo of his own footsteps?
His eyes roved through the murky space as dim light flickered from the fixtures overhead. A few seconds later, he was standing in front of the fence. He'd seen the photos from the scene. The police made everything public after they'd finished chasing down the lead. And now, here he was.
"Why?" he murmured to himself. The officers had already tried everything. Did he really think he could do better?
The woven metal was cold against his fingers as they grasped the chain link. Black lines streaked over his skin, a sign of the time that had passed and the lack of human contact in the area. A wooden pallet had been laid against one side of the gate. A long metal chain draped at the other side, tied to the bar. Perhaps it was meant to prevent entry? But if so, someone had undone those efforts. It hissed, rattled, and clattered as Bryant slowly pushed the gate open. Its hinges creaked and squealed from disuse.
"It won't work that way, you know."
Bryant jumped in surprise and turned swiftly. The man that stood there was ... average in just about every way one could imagine. He carried an unremarkable face with a pair of shaded glasses that drew one's focus away from the remainder of his appearance while the clouded lenses obscured his eyes.
"Who are you?" Bryant finally managed to say.
The man shrugged. "I go by many names. I suppose you can call me the Gatekeeper."
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Credit goes to @musclecorps for this image.
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Chrome (A Patreon Preview)
I've always had a sort of obsession, I guess you could say. Aesthetics are a big deal to a lot of men, and I'm no different. For me, the thing that draws me most, what always drew me, was bikers. Thugs, studs, meatheads, gangsters. Whatever the aesthetic niche, I was drawn to it. There's just something special, almost hypnotic, about the purr of an engine, the roar of the exhaust. When I see someone pop a wheelie, a thrill of pleasure runs through me. And the same thought echoes in my head.
I want to be that guy.
To not have to worry what others think. To just enjoy the rumble of the engine and let that strength, that sheer masculine horsepower, flow into me as the cologne of oil and exhaust seeps into my clothes in a fog that makes men wish they could be like me. I want to belong to the bike as much as it belongs to me, to rumble down the streets, have everyone looking at us and say, Now there's a biker.
There's a biker....
A biker that wouldn't care about what others thought. A biker that would have such a close relationship with his machine that seeing the two apart for any period of time just seems wrong. A biker who is as much a machine as he is a man. Strong. Virile. Ready to rev and just go.
To trawl through the streets and let everyone know, I am here. And like a siren song, let our purring engine and exhaust seep into the neighborhoods, into the residents, into every nook and cranny as evidence that we were there. And then let that song call who it may.
And like Odysseus at the mast, they will be torn between their lives and our call. They will struggle. They will break. And then, when they finally escape to pursue, because they won't have the crew Odysseus had, they will be so desperate, so broken down, so enthralled that they will join their new partner willingly. They'll chop through a sea of blacktop with their new partners. They'll leave their old lives behind. They'll sail on their monstrous machines.
And those machines will welcome them, encourage them, until they are fit to trawl those dangerous seas with me.
And they will be.
Cliche Gym Chapter 7 (Patreon Preview)
He shrugs. “That may be part of it. I don’t know. And honestly, I’m not paid to know, so I don’t really care. What I care about is growing and helping my trainees to grow.”
“And what would you say your success rate is?”
“I’d say I rank a solid Poppins.”
“… A what?”
He smirks. “Practically perfect in every way.”
You cock your head. “Huh. Didn’t pin you for a Disney guy.”
“Most folks don’t.” He strides toward you and stares down over the shelf of his massive pecs. “So, a few ground rules. You can call me Big Bro, Bro, Sir, or Jeff. Whatever makes you comfortable. When we’re training, I’m going to push you hard. I’m not always so nice as I am in casual conversation. This is a professional relationship, and I expect you to understand that and respect that fact.
“My job is to push you to your limits and help you exceed them. We’re going to be crossing a lot of lines and breaking through a lot of barriers. You’re going to be sore and tired for the first few sessions we have. I’ll be encouraging you to push past that fatigue to increase your endurance and other capabilities. That encouragement can be positive or negative, depending on the situation. I don’t abuse my clients, and the same will hold for you. I mentor them. I train them. I push them. But I will never deliberately hurt them or you. If you turn into a zealot, I will stop you, though. There is such a thing as working out too much. I can help build your body to handle those kinds of loads if that’s the goal, but if you go too far too fast, you’ll do more harm than good. So, I expect you to listen to me and follow my instructions to the letter. Are we clear?”
“As crystal, Sir,” you say with a playful smirk.
Jeff smirks back. “Careful. That just might become a habit.” Then he turns toward the gym proper and a series of mats before a floor-length mirror. A casually waving hand draws you in tow after him. “Come on. We’ll start off with some basic warmups. Stretching, a little cardio. Then we’ll see about setting up a baseline for your plan.”
“My plan?”
“How else am I supposed to train you if I don’t know where to start?”
You look at the mats, where several men and women with varying body types are working either with dumbbells, stress bands, or just testing their flexibility. Some are watched over by muscled figures like Jeff. Others seem to be looking at their neighbors and following together. Some chat playfully or casually. Others remain stony and silent as they focus on their tasks.
“Quite a menagerie here,” you note.
Jeff grins. “Welcome to the zoo, Mister Winters.”
Jeff is definitely not the same kind of man as James or some of his other more muscular employees. His voice and demeanor may be blunt, but his whit is sharp. He might not be a bad connection to form a rapport with here. Time would tell that. For now, however, you decide that at the very least, Jeff is someone that you could grow to like. “Where’s the tiger pen?” you joke back.
Jeff’s grin widens. And then you begin.
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What a Hoot: A Patreon Preview
Please enjoy this excerpt from the full story. This can be found on my patreon in the $3 tier. Credit for this image goes to @alonso4365 as the source.
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“I need to what?” Again, that irritation struck, and Craig rubbed at his throat and swallowed. Things felt … different in there now, thicker. And was his Adam’s apple a little bigger? Was his throat swelling shut? Was he having some sort of medical emergency? Was he—?
“As in Keep It Simple, Stupid,” Lance deadpanned. “You’re getting too much into your own head. He may be acting like a jackass, but you’re acting like a dumbass right now for letting it get to you. We’ll rib you a little longer, then we can chill and enjoy the game. Stop whining and have some fun with it. Make it like that role playing session stuff you used to do back in college. Get outside your own skin for a while and just … have fun.” He reached for the soda bottle and averted his gaze to give Craig the time he needed to compose himself.
A hand grabbed Lance’s wrist just as the soda was about to flow. “I’m supposed to be your server tonight.” Craig avoided his friend’s gaze as he took the bottle gently and raised it to pour. When the fizz lowered to meet the liquid enough for Lance to take a swig, Craig returned the bottle to the counter again. “And Lance, … thanks.”
Lance patted his friend on the back. “Don’t mention it, big guy.” He frowned at the more solid thunk his patting made. “Have you been going to the gym lately?”
Craig chuckled. “Huhuh. Yeah, like I can find the time to go work out.” He smirked. “Besides, all these heavy platters, all these customers, … I work out when I work, bro.” He smiled weakly, then winked.
“Heh. Yeah, … I guess so,” Lance said, then drifted back into the living room again to join the other two.
‘Would be kind of cool, though,’ Craig thought as he pulled down another plate and opened the bag of wings to prep them for heating next. ‘Looking like one of those poster boys….’ He could almost hear those weights clanking and clacking in time to the rhythmic grunts and puffs of men hard at work. Work probably wouldn’t be enough alone to maintain that kind of figure. “Yeah, … maybe a workout wouldn’t hurt….” A big gym across the street from the restaurant, a partnership benefit for working to keep his figure up, grow bigger and stronger, burn all the excess calories….
His torso tingled as the fabric on his crop top grew more taut around his shoulders and pecs, the excess mass receding to reveal the beginnings of abs. His jaw ruffled like a deck of cards as he scratched over the bristles of a five o’clock shadow. Had he … forgotten to shave? He could’ve sworn….
The microwave beeped, jerking him from his thoughts, and he turned swiftly to tend to his duties, placing the plate on the counter to let its contents cool while he looked at the instructions for the wings.
Cliqued into Place: A Patreon Preview
This story is rated mature due to cursing. You can find the full story on my Patreon in the $5 tier. Credit for this image goes to @morphedcocks
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“How…? Why does it taste so good?” Once more, his voice cracked. This time, he didn’t clear his throat.
“Cause protein shakes’re sweet, bro.”
“Best whey to make sweet gains, bro. Huhuhuh.”
CLANK
Huhuhuh. Huhuhuh. Huhuhuh…. That same dull laugh seemed to come from everywhere.
It wasn’t funny. It was so stupid. Literally a Dad joke. And yet…. Why was his mouth twitching? Why did his jaw suddenly feel sore? Why was his chest all tingly?
“Fuck, bro. That was bad. That joke was bad—”
The creature rose from the depths like a great blue whale, its ascent slow and steady at first until it broached the surface. “And you should—” Then, unable to be held back, it bellowed like an effusive belch. “—feel bad.”
Was that … his voice? Or was it just a trick, some reverb or software in the helmet that kicked in after sampling his voice to make it sound lower in his ears? Maurice didn’t have long to think about it.
The one who made the joke smiled along with Maurice. And that smile kept on, even as he delivered his terrible counterblow. “Just for that, you’re doin’ leg lifts before we undo the rest, bro.”
Leg lifts? Really?
“That, or you can stay there and listen. We got time.”
“Listen to what—”
CLANK
“—BRO?” Maurice’s eyes widened, even as he shuddered. That … that had come out of him. But, … he didn’t mean to say it. Bro talk was for brutes like Tim and Bryce, not for—
CLANK
Not for—
CLANK
Not … for….
CLANK
…
Thump
The vibration carried up Maurice’s legs while the two big brutes looked on, their cocky smirks almost as broad as their backs and cannonball delts. Meaty veined arms folded over massive, nigh-identical chests. Their eyes were still a mystery, obscured by the visors of their own headgear, doubtless a mirror to what Maurice had so firmly placed on his own head.
He could almost hear the subtle creaking of a hinge, the tautness of a pulley as the subtle release of pressure from gravity granted a few precious seconds of agonizing buildup before the next
CLANK
Creak
CLANK
A wave of dizziness struck now. His head rolled like a buoy on an ocean swell.
Huhuh. Swell….
His breathing felt … funny, labored. And his shirt felt … tight. And kinda cold?
As the creaking built up again, he looked in an unreal sense of bemused detachment at the two throbbing masses of flesh that stood straight as a board. They looked so ridiculous, so pumped and loaded down with the sheer weight of corded mass rippling while his core burned.
CLANK
Thump
They were out of sight.
Creak
Strain. They were there again as he huffed and puffed, his mouth seemingly refusing to close, almost as if he had forgotten how….
CLANK
Thump
How to….
Creak
Pop! Pop! RIIIiiiiip!
Cold on his thighs. The pants on the funny legs were breaking, drooping to reveal the sculped flesh quivering beneath.
“Atta bro.” The twin voices rang in unison, and Maurice felt his head spin as his eyes rolled in a mix of dazed confusion and sheer, blazing ecstasy.
CLANK
Thump
Pop-Pop!
Ch-Ch-ChhhhrrrrriiIIIIIiip!
Smack-Smack!
Creak.
“UUUuuuuhhhhHhhhhh….” The groan warbled and thrummed with the steady, heavy beating of his heart hammering in his head. This time, the tatters were gone, replaced with a tight white sheath of nylon and spandex that hid nothing of the mesmerizing display of swollen pumped muscle rippling and coming to rest like the crash of waves on a shore. The tattered remnants of his now burst shoes sloughed off, leaving bulging feet and toes behind that strained against the confines of the socks that were barely holding on in the fight to keep the monsters contained. He could almost picture the state of their soles, creaking and straining, made dark by the repetitive impact against the old soles of the shoes that had once contained them.
“Fuck, bro,” Maruice heard one of them exclaim.
“Bro,” the second brute echoed.
Not bro. Something in Maurice shied away from that, cringing and whimpering. He didn’t want bro, but—
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck….” He could live with that. They’d said it so many times already, and he hadn’t been bothered by it. And … the situation did call for it, right? His head was feeling so messed up. And … he was all bound and shit, right? So he could totally curse himself out if he wanted to.
Nobody would judge him for it, right bro-ooohhhh no! He wouldn’t … fall into the brutes’ bro talk that easily. But … damn, that did feel good.
The burning in his core and thighs dulled and pulled away, retreating to concentrate in—
Creak
“Oh, Fuck,” the word drew out in another mighty expulsion. And in response, something began to swell.
CLANK
Thump
Creak
“Fuck.”
CLANK
Thump
Creak
“Fuck.”