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From DreadZone to Dread Drone

The inspiration for this story came from a piece of artwork I stumbled across on Furaffinity.net. Ratchet and Clank happens to be a favorite game series of mine for its great characters and awesome weapon choices to balance the serious with the zany humor that makes it such a lovable classic. The particular focus of this piece lies with Ratchet from the game Ratchet and Clank: Deadlocked, just after Ratchet defeated Ace Hardlight in the arena. Now his captor is trying to convince him to join DreadZone as a top exterminator to get lots of money for the both of them. Those of you who know Ratchet, know what his response would have been. That’s where this story breaks from the video game. I hope you all enjoy. :D

Inspiration Picture: 

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24311628/

Author’s Note: Regrettably, all the extra effects I placed in the original document can’t carry over into tumblr posts. If you want to see the PDF version with all the text effects, such as changig font size, etc. for a better experience, you can find it here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/24484279/

Ratchet glared defiantly up into the shark alien’s face as Gleeman Vox panted to catch his breath. For the last several months, the Lombax had been battered; beaten; shocked; stunned; shot at; sniped; attacked by zombie robots; nearly eviscerated by a homicidal alien bug; bored practically to death by a nuclear robot with image issues and only half a brain; and bombarded by a walking, talking arsenal with a thick accent; along with too many other death traps to name. And that was before he had to face off against that disgrace of a hero, Ace Hardlight. All with the barrel of a gun stuck to his head, or to be more precise, the trigger of a bomb that was currently strapped around his neck. He waved his hand in front of his nose to disperse the disgusting smell that was Gleeman Vox’s breath, before responding.

“No deal, Vox,” he said calmly.

“What did you say?” Vox rose to his full height, and furrowed his brows together in an angry scowl. His chin barely stuck out from the rest of his rubbery muscled neck, and his angular cheek bones and protruding brow cast a menacing shadow over his eyes. His flashy red business suit coat with orange accents strained against his broad, muscular chest. The flash of a gold collar shone underneath, revealing the expensive undershirt. Ratchet wouldn’t have been surprised if that really was actual gold lining.

“I’m not your puppet, Vox,” Ratchet said defiantly as he pointed a made a swatting motion with his hand, as if to smack the idea across the room. “You actually think I’d kill other heroes to get rich? You’re not just corrupt. You’re stupid.”

“Why you little–!” Vox made a series of choking sounds as he struggled between the warring desires to strangle the Lombax or to keep him alive. Finally, he regained his composure. “You just signed your own death warrant,” he threatened.

“So, we’re done, then,” Ratchet said as he continued to glare at the shark-morph. When he was certain he’d made the proper statement, he turned towards the guard bots that had escorted him so forcefully into Vox’s office. They refused to move aside.

“Oh, we’re far from done, Ratchet,” Vox purred. “The old show’s over, but we’re just getting started.”

“I said I’m not helping you, Vox. How many times do I have to repeat myself before you get that through your thick skull?”

Vox just sneered as he pushed a button on his remote. Suddenly, Ratchet’s helmet re-engaged, locking itself in place on his head with a heavy click.

“Hey! What the–?” Ratchet swore as he tried to disengage the mechanism, only to find that his release button wasn’t functioning.

Vox pushed another button, and Ratchet heard the comms system cut off in his helmet. “Restrain him,” Vox ordered.

Before Ratchet could make a move, he felt the mechanical hands Clench onto his shoulders, followed by extreme pressure that forced him to kneel as the robots held his arms behind him with his back arched. His armor took the brunt of the force, but that didn’t mean it could keep him from feeling pain. A little more pressure, and he knew his shoulders would be out of their sockets in no time.

Vox pushed another button, and suddenly Ratchet’s HUD began pulsing alongside his chest piece. The Lombax groaned as a sudden wave of pleasure washed over his body.

“You see, Ratchet, my boy, I’m not really as dumb as I look.” The shark approached, and circled the suited figure. “My people have been around a very, very long time.” He chuckled maliciously. “Some of us turned pirate, some marauders, some crime bosses. The thing about us Chondrichthians[1], though, we’re very good at getting what we want. Sure, a lot of my cousins from Galea are a bit more straightforward. They smash, then take what they want. Me? I’m not like that. I take the smarter approach.

“Wh-what is this?” Ratchet growled. The speakers in his helmet sparked to life as static played in short, dramatic bursts, whirring from ear to ear.

“You’re the smart one, Lombax. Figure it out,” Vox taunted as he circled the back of Ratchet’s suit. “Ease up a little, boys, but not too much. Remember, we don’t want to hurt the merchandise.”

“Screw you, Vox!” Ratchet spat through his speech processor. Though, admittedly, he couldn’t help but allow himself a mental sigh of relief. He could take torture. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Ah, yes. Now there’s that fighting spirit DreadZone fans have come to love so much. Such a ruthless edge. The way you dispatch your enemies is absolutely inspired, Ratchet. Your fans love it. And I’d be a fool not to admit it impressed me, too. If there’s one thing our people respect, it’s strength and ruthlessness. You have both in spades. Why a few more feet in height, a couple hundred pounds of muscle, and you could fit right in.” He leaned in to whisper at the side of the helmet. “I’ve seen how you react, Ratchet. You were born for this life. You loved taking down those enemies. Admit it.”

“Of course I did,” Ratchet grunted as he squirmed uncomfortably in the robots’ grip. “I wasn’t about to let them kill any more heroes.” Even as he said it, still shots of his battles in the arena and against the enforcers flashed across his HUD, almost faster than his eye could track. It wasn’t enough to obscure his vision, but it was a bit of a distraction. His heartrate began to pick up, and his muscles tensed as the rush of adrenaline surged through his system, alongside the endorphins.

“Ah, yes. The old altruistic hero excuse. You know, Ace was the same way when he first came to my office. So certain of himself, so assertive in the righteousness of his cause. You wana know my secret, Lombax?” Vox asked as he drew back from the suit. “You wanna know how I managed to turn the legendary Ace Hardlight into a coldblooded killer?”

Ratchet grunted angrily as the squirming intensified.

“Something the matter, boy?” Vox sneered.

“What … did you do to me?” Ratchet panted as the blood surged through his head. Or was that just the speakers? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. All he knew was the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks, and a second stirring down below that had grown extremely uncomfortable.

“What did I do to you? Nothing, really. I’ve just made you famous is all. I’ve seen the security feeds, you know. I know you always wanted to be a combatant. What were your words again? Ah yes, ‘… the fame, the money, the babes.’ That ring a bell?”

Fame, money, babes.

Want it..

Fame, money, babes.

Need it.

Fame, money, babes.

Obey.

FAME, MONEY, BABES.

Listen to Vox.

It repeated over and over at various speeds and frequencies, overlaying the static as magazine covers with his face on them, rivers of bolts, and various attractive females joined with the combat. But … was it really a recording, or was he just remembering? He shook his head. It didn’t matter right now. He had to focus on Vox. Better to make him prattle on, listen to what he had to say. Yeah, just … just listen. He might let something slip.

“Y-yeah, but … but that doesn’t mean I … not like this!” Ratchet insisted. “Come on, Ratchet. What’s the matter with you? You’re usually sharper than this,” he thought to himself, even as the light continued to flash, and the core unit on his suit pulsed in time. “Definitely sharper in the battlefield,” he thought bitterly. “If I just had my weapons….” Another bout of pleasure shot through him as he thought of his battle wrench, pounding those enemies, showing them what it meant to mess with him. Stupid rookies. Another image of an attractive alien woman with a perfect hourglass figure and beautiful lips strobed across his visor. “Then again, they’re not the only things I’d like to pound.” He gasped as the pleasure shot through his body again, harder and faster than before. He shook his head to clear it once more. That … that wasn’t him. He didn’t really think that way … did he? He growled internally. Why was the combat suit so tight? His tail was begging for release, and the soreness was killing his rear.

“This coming from the Lombax who chastised his robot buddy for cramping his style in the victory lap.” Gleeman clicked another button on the remote, and the feed for Ratchet’s discussion with Clank after taking out his first exterminator played on Ratchet’s HUD, as well as a holo screen.

“Clank, did you see me out there against that Shellshock guy? Yeah! I was all *DOOMSH. Doo. Too Too. Hiya! Who! Hwah! Oohoom!”

Clank let out a synthetic sigh. “You worry me, Ratchet.”

The victory dance cut off, and Ratchet still looked excited as he spoke to his friend, albeit in a more controlled tone. “Come on, Clank. Can’t I just enjoy the moment?”

The feed cut off, but the parting question echoed in Ratchet’s ears with the swirling in his head. He began to roll it somewhat dizzily as he struggled to focus on his captor.

Just enjoy the moment?

Don’t think.

“But that’s not … not ….” The spinning grew faster. He was having trouble piecing the thought together. “Not … everything?”

Just enjoy the moment?

Listen to Vox.

“Of course that’s everything, my boy. That last fight with Ace must’ve knocked a screw loose. Maybe you should just … relax a little bit.”

Just enjoy the moment?

Obey.

All the tension flooded out of Ratchet in an instant. His tongue lolled in his mouth as he looked with heavy lids through his HUD to the grinning Chondrichthian. A pleasurable tingling buzz filled his body as he gazed ahead, and let the room spin. He didn’t really care about the pictures anymore. He just … couldn’t bring himself to care. But … wasn’t there something … important? But … if it was important, he’d remember it, right? Besides, if it was that important, he’d have alarms going on in his head. Yeah. He should just relax.

…

Enjoy the moment.

…

Yeahhhh….

“Admit it, Ratchet. You were made for DreadZone, and DreadZone was made for you. You want it. You want to be the king of the arena, the head honcho, the main contender. And, if you just take your time to think about it a little bit, to just relax and listen, I’m sure you’ll reach the same conclusion. You don’t care who you fight. You just fight. You fight for me. You fight for the thrill. You fight, because you love to show off your strength, your agility, your power. All for the fans. All for me. Because that one fragment, that one moment, that time when you’re in the spotlight, when you’re being admired, when you are being praised, adored, worshiped. You enjoy it. You want it. You crave it.”

Must enjoy the moment.

Don’t question.

“Yes….” Ratchet hissed. Then his eyes widened. “I-I mean n–yes.” His heartrate picked up again after he heard the sudden crack. His voice. Why had it dropped there? And more importantly, why couldn’t he object? Why did he … want to … object? Did he? Well, he had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Wh-why can’t I–?”

“That’s it, Ratchet,” Vox praised. “Just keep on listening, like a good boy. Stay, and listen. Don’t move. Don’t think. Just listen.”

Ratchet felt his muscles locking in place as another thrill of pleasure flooded his system. Vox approached, and patted the Lombax on his helmet.

“Who do you obey?” Vox asked playfully.

“Gleeman Vox.” It was out of his mouth before he could even try to stop it.

“Who owns you?”

Another burst of static. Another surge of arousal. “G-g-Gleeeeeeeman …”

Vox could practically hear Ratchet’s teeth grinding as his conscious wrestled to overcome the urge to answer. “Yes?” Vox nudged.

Now Ratchet was making the choking sounds as he tried to stave off the word. Unfortunately, that was not to be. “VOX!” he finally yelled at the top of his lungs. The color on his helmet’s HUD and the suit’s core unit switched to a flashing red, and Vox’s grin widened even further as the Lombax let loose with a primal bellow of frustration.

“Oh, good boy,” Vox praised. “So nice of you to recognize it.”

Heavy breathing was all the response Vox got.

“Who cares about friends, right? All you need is your team of exterminators and the thrill of the fight.”

“N-nnnnggghhh….”

“You can’t say no to me, you know, stupid Lombax. You might as well make this easier on you by saying yes. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

The doors slid open as Ace Hardlight lumbered through the door with heavy feet. His eyes were glazed over as he stared into his rapidly pulsing visor. “Exterminator Hardlight reporting for duty, Sir,” he droned as he dropped to his knees, and stared up at Vox. Vox ran his cybernetic three-digit hand through Ace’s hair, before connecting one of its tips to the exterminator’s receiver. The effects were nigh-instantaneous as Ace slumped forward, and began to mumble to himself. Ratchet could just catch the barest hints of what was said.

“… Obey. … Must fight … Glory hog … serve DreadZone. … Protect DreadZone … Yes, Master Vox….”

“Ace was one of our first successful candidates for a real personality alteration. We tried fixing things up directly at the brain, but more often than not, that led to exploding heads. So, we tried a few … alternate methods. I meant what I said, Ratchet. I didn’t make him do anything. He accepted this all on his own.” He shrugged. “Of course, giving him the right body, that was a bit of a challenge. He fought well, but he needed to fit the part. Kids are so enamored with the idea of a big, muscular hero to look up to. And a strong, virile male almost always draws in the ladies. So, naturally, we had to give Ace the body to match.” He walked over to Ace’s back, and pulled back the suit near his jaw to expose the thicker, rougher skin. A tinge of green showed itself beneath significantly thicker hair. “It took some doing, a little genetic splicing, but Hardlight didn’t mind. He was all for it, weren’t you, Ace?”

“Yes, Master Vox,” Ace droned.

“Why, he even signed the paperwork of his own volition. We used Blargian Snagglebeast for the base. I believe you’re familiar with the species. As you can see, the Blargian DNA does the body good.” He chuckled wickedly. “Of course, it did leave a few … side effects. A skin condition, a predatory desire to kill, the drive to be the alpha, the need to show off and be fawned over by the fairer sex. It made his hair grow out a little funny, but that was workable. Added to the roguish charm for the ladies. We managed to build his IQ back up a bit, but it took us time to get him back to proper functionality. And, of course, you can see the more protrusive canines. Personally, I think he looks better that way, but maybe that’s just the predator in me.”

“H-how?” Ratchet managed to rasp.

“How is he alive? Well, obviously, the snagglebeast DNA. Makes him tough to kill. Oh, sure, you knocked him out right enough, but beasts like him are built to survive. You will be, too, soon enough. My program already has you in the red. A little longer, and you won’t even want to think about the past, about anything, but serving me and fighting to keep DreadZone alive and well.”

Ratchet’s eyes widened behind his helmet. “No–THINKING. But … but I – MUST OBEY. Get out of my head!” his mind shrieked at the invasive thoughts.

“C-clank,” Ratchet groaned as he felt a sharp prick in his armpit, followed by the familiar cool sensation of nanites at work. The same procedure was repeated in his other armpit, and near his crotch. His heat rate quickened, and his breathing became labored.

“Of course, since then, I’ve learned how to refine the process. I’ve even gotten a few … added benefits put in. You should be feeling some of the base effects soon enough. As for this Clank, well, you must be mistaken. There is no Clank.” Vox laughed as he watched the Lombax tremble in his place. The armor creaked as the flashing light continued its work. “You must be thinking of your mission engineer, ya stupid lug. His name’s Crankshaft. He’s a ruthless tactician, and one hell of a battle droid. You two hit it off right from the get-go.”

Ratchet fought this new information as hard as he could. He remembered Clank. He was a funny little bot. They’d been through so much together. Bouncy red antenna, cute little green transmitters on the sides of his head, and the ability to morph into all sorts of assisting gear, including glide and hover modes. There was no way he was going to let that little bot get lost in whatever nefarious chemical Vox was using to drug him. Well, at least he … thought it was a drug. “Thinking. Ha! Good one, Ratchet.” The thought caught him off guard. “Excuse me, I’m a Lombax. I invent machines all the time. It’s in my f***ing blood,” he thought back, only for a throbbing ache to stab at his skull. He groaned in pain as he felt the helmet’s metal starting to press against the sides of his head. But that was impossible. Did Vox do something to the suit and its parameters?

The image of the little bot in question popped up on his visor suddenly, breaking off any train of thought he might have started. “Clank!” he shouted. “Buddy, can you hear me?” A similar display had sprouted next to Vox as he watched the Lombax’s desperation with sadistic glee.

The bot was messing with a holo display in its hand. It didn’t seem to hear Ratchet, but then it turned to face the camera. Another burst of static caused Ratchet’s vision to blur as the room spun momentarily. Despite this, he struggled to maintain his focus on the screen. He watched as the image of Clank began to change. His eyes faded from green to a blazing scarlet as his green communication nodes retracted into his head. The sound of shifting servos and cranking machinery echoed as the tiny robot’s body began to expand, first bursting outwards around the central chest piece, then the right arm, then the left as his fingers and hands grew to ten times their original size. His legs and feet shot upwards and outwards respectively, followed by expanding as heavy metal plating slotted into place with bolts at the joints to allow freedom of movement and a proper march. The clatter of a shutter sounded as thick metal armor plating flushed out in layer after layer to complete the sentry unit’s massive feet.

“No, no, no!” Ratchet screamed internally. He recognized that build. He’d seen it so many times before, back when he fought Chairman Drek. The memory of blown robot parts and showering bolts sent yet another thrill of pleasure racing through him, causing him to sway as his armor creaked. Those bolts … so shiny … like his … HUD.

…

No! Can’t get distracted. He had to focus on Clank, try to help him somehow. Since he couldn’t object verbally, he did the next best thing, try to reach his little buddy. “Clank!” He panted as the shoulder pieces pressed against his back, and the lower portions of the armor strained against his waist and legs.

“It took some searching, after we pulled him out of that scrap heap from that robot factory on Quartu, but we managed to reactivate his battle parameters. Chairman Drek didn’t know what he was throwing away, when he disposed of this little guy.” Vox sneered as the swelling robot’s tiny round head began to bow outwards. Soon the mouth became distorted, then squared out into an intimidating rectangular shape as his eyes merged together to a digital display with a single glowing red optic unit, a low-hanging metallic “brow,” and a jutting metal fin on top. As a final part of his changes, his upper body expanded to the point where he stood at an intimidating eight feet tall and four feet wide. Reinforced joints bulged with extra armor plating as his servos clinked and whirred. Holsters clanked out, revealing various weapons his body had been equipped with, including combusters, a shock cannon, blasters, and other materials. “The bot’s the perfect infiltration unit. And that titan mod you installed in him? One of a kind. He must’ve nagged you for months, before you finally agreed to it. Who knew a warbot that efficient would have image issues, eh, big guy?” Vox looked back at the screen as a camera hovered in front of his face. “Crankshaft, this is Vox. Do me a favor, and state your primary objective.”

The warbot stood rigidly as a deep, intent voice replied, “Exterminate DreadZone contestants.”

Vox chuckled. “Good warbot.”

Ratchet let out a painful grunt as he felt a building pressure in his pectorals. He panted heavily through his helmet’s filters as he slammed his hands palm-down onto the floor. Another surge of arousal ran through him, and the suit got tighter as images of over-muscled troops and aliens flickered, superimposed behind the image of the warbot. “C-clank,” Ratchet cracked as his throat tightened. He clenched his teeth, and the suit pressed in further against his shoulders and torso. A vibration started running over his pecs, and he tensed as another rush of pleasure assaulted him. “B-big?” he asked dazedly as he recalled the final portion of Vox’s question.

“That’s right, ya big lug. I said big. You’re gonna be huge! The biggest attraction DreadZone’s ever known. So big, whole galaxies will fall on their knees to worship the mighty titan of the arena, the grim giant, the brilliant brute, Ratchet the Ruinator!”

A chorus of cheering fans suddenly played over Ratchet’s speakers, whistling, hollering. It took the Lombax completely off guard. His muscles tensed, and he heard the metal of his armor creaking as his biceps and triceps were squeezed like sausages. Wait … that wasn’t right … was it? Maybe … maybe the suit wasn’t shrinking. Maybe … was he getting bigger?

The moment he thought the word, a dull roar echoed in his head as his vision clouded over. Everything blacked out for what felt like just a few seconds. When he came to, he was disgusted to find himself scratching his crotch, heedless of the sneering Vox. He hastily pulled his hand away, and wiped the smile off his face, relaxing the muscles he felt pulling at his cheek bones. He was intensely grateful Vox couldn’t see him under the helmet right now.

“Getting hard to think, Lombax? You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Vox chuckled wickedly as he pulled up a holographic display from his cybernetic hand. “Heart rate is increasing, dopamine levels are heightened, testosterone is flooding through you, and the injections are working right on schedule. At this rate, we should be about ready to activate your suit’s secondary features in the next few minutes.”

“V-vox,” Ratchet growled slowly, threateningly. He shuddered at the deeper tone that echoed inside his helmet. Was that really his voice?

“Calm down, hotshot. You’ve still got your little team. I didn’t do a thing to hurt your friends, despite what you may think to the contrary,” Vox said as he rolled his eyes. “See for yourself.” He flicked his hand outwards, and a holo-screen emerged showing the bulky warbot that certainly wasn’t Clank, and … was that…?

“A-Al? But … but they said your body was damaged beyond repair!”

Al circled around in his chair to reveal that a portion of the right side of his head had been replaced by pulsing red machinery. A mechanical eye glowed the same color as binary and other information scrolled along it. He thrust his right arm forward, revealing powerful cybernetic circuitry at the top of its class, including blade attachments, a powerful laser, and connection ports for hacking and mechanical interaction. The metal joints and skeletal frame had been surrounded by a shiny metal shell that had been carved to simulate the appearance of muscle. The barest hints of wiring could be seen at the joints in the wrist, fingers, and elbow. The sleeve of his lab coat had been torn off to make room for the additional mass at the connecting socket. “Master Vox was kind enough to give me a new one.”

“M-Master?” Ratchet balked. “Is this maniac threatening to blow you up now, if you don’t call him that, too? Where’s Clank?”

“Master Vox would never do such a thing to me. I’m a valued employee,” Al scoffed as he bore his neck to reveal that he had indeed been made collarless. “And you know that’s only Crankshaft’s codename, Ratchet. I don’t know how many times we’ve been over this now,” Al said as he rolled his good eye.

“Ratchet, are you certain that you are all right?”

The voice was still menacingly deep, but the choice of words, the difference in inflection, they were dead ringers. But … how was that possible? Did Vox make a replica, like Doctor Nefarious had? Maybe … maybe he had. “How do I know you’re really Clank, and not some bum replica like Clunk?” His head spun after he finished the question, and his nose wrinkled as he picked up the musky scent of his body armor. It had been some time since he’d been able to bathe properly, after all.

“Ratchet, this is no joking matter,” Clank, now Crankshaft countered in the same serious tone he’d always used when Ratchet had gotten out of line or lost sight of the objective, like smashing Doctor Nefarious’ biobliterator to bits. That had been fun. He liked smashing things. So easy, so simple. Cracking that bucket of bolts’ helmet to make him malfunction every time he got worked up had been an accident, but he loved the results. When the chips were down, he and his trusty power wrench always came through in the end. That’s why Vox had contacted him. He saw potential, potential that had been unlocking for quite some time. A loud crack sounded as ratchet felt the edges of his jaw rubbing against his helmet. He flinched at the pain when a rapid-fire series of images showing all manner of buxom females fawning over him flashed over his visor one after the other.

A dim smile pulled at his lips as he recalled the moments associated with those pictures. Saving two galaxies, defeating planet destroyers, neutralizing an intergalactic threat in the form of the protopet, plowing through the gladiator challenges. All these things and more had led to many a night of lovely female companionship for him and for Crankshaft-errrr … Clank. Yeah … Clank. He watched as his body gradually shifted in the images. First he was a little taller, then a little wider. He watched them stroking his ears, his shoulders, his swelling pecs. Mmm, Yeah. All that fighting did the body good. He felt his feet cramming against the boots of his armor, and let out another grunt of pain. Soon enough, the Ratchet in the pictures was holding two women between thick, burly arms. He was taller than Captain Quark, with a body that put Ace Hardlight to shame. He could almost remember those delicate fingers brushing over his fur, and a pleasurable tingling ran over his skin at the thought.

“Feeling a little snug in that armor, big boy?” Vox chuckled as he rubbed his hands together.

“Bigger … better … stronger. Big for Master Vox. Will be big for Master Vox.” Ace panted contentedly as he stared blankly ahead on his knees, the pulsing of his visor drawing him in.

Ratchet groaned as a tsunami of pleasure struck him all at once. His whole body tingled as circulation began to slow, and the sensation of cold began to stretch inwards from his outer extremities. His armor creaked in protest, groaning and popping occasionally as the light continued to pulse.

“Engage phase two,” Vox said calmly. A single chirp sounded in Ratchet’s ears from the armor’s machinery, and the pressure was suddenly gone. Blood surged through his limbs, causing the Lombax to feel every quiver, every pinprick, every curve as his muscles twitched back to life.

“My … body,” Ratchet moaned. He panted heavily as the flashing lights and static continued to pulse through his brain.

“Bigger and bigger,” Vox’s voice whispered across his coms. “And the bigger you become, the more obedient you are. The more obedient, the bigger you get. Such a big, strong, powerful gladiator.

Ratchet’s brows twitched as the words seeped into his head without his consent. “S-stop it,” he slurred. He looked down in horror as he finally got to see his arms properly. The armor’s rigid metal had shifted to some form of mesh that clung to his muscles, accenting every dip and bend. He gasped, seeing how they had swollen up to at least ten times their original size. Another loud crunch, and he felt his jaw pushing forward. Two somethings brushed against his upper lip. “My teef,” he stumbled over the now much larger canines. “My mouf!”

“You’ll get used to it, big boy, don’t worry. Besides, with the money we’ll make together, it won’t matter what your face looks like. Everyone’s going to love you.”

Ratchet growled, and was shocked just how feral he sounded as his upper torso expanded with a loud crunch, heralding the sudden and painful growth of his bones to support the rapidly swelling musculature. “No!” he snarled. He tried to move, but the material on his suit suddenly constricted over his joints, locking him in place. Despite his struggles, the mesh wouldn’t give an inch, save for the growth in his muscles as the room began to shrink.

“Say it with me now, Ratchet. Big–ger.”

Ace’s body spasmed as he panted in ecstasy. He quickly responded, “Bigger,” in a vapid tone, then chuckled.

Ratchet closed his eyes, tried to look away, but the ghostly images followed him, racing through his head over and over. People growing, people changing, bigger bodies, bigger armor, bigger plating, bigger muscles, “Bigger….” Wait, did he just say that out–? He gasped as another surge of pleasure struck, overwhelming his senses. He felt a building pressure in his crotch as the hot sensation in his cheeks flowed down, and his body began to tremble as his chest heaved. Everything was tinged with red as the lights pulsed in time to his rapidly beating heart.

“That’s right, Ratchet. Big lugs like you listen. The bigger you get, the easier it is to just stop questioning what I have to say.” Vox approached, and stroked over Ratchet’s pectorals. “Hmm. Growing in nicely, aren’t they? So big.”

Ratchet gasped, both from the pleasure and in disgust at Vox’s contact. The Chondrichthian grinned up at him.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Vox laughed as he stared into Ratchet’s pulsing visor. “You were mine the moment that suit became operational.” He snapped his robotic fingers, and the bomb collar disengaged, clattering uselessly to the ground. “You never thought it was strange, how naturally the arena came to you, how exciting the combat was, how exhilarating to wipe the floor with your opponents before you slaughter them? You were so focused on your combat, you didn’t even notice the messages we had pulsing through your ears 24/7, the nocturnal injections to prepare your body for its change. And with every assault, your confidence swelled bigger and bigger, didn’t it? If it weren’t for some … interference, we could’ve bagged you ages ago.”

Ratchet grunted as he struggled to move, struggled to think. The room swam around him as the whirring in his brain escalated to a climax.

“A curious thing, hypnosis, isn’t it? You just have to find that one chink in the armor, the thing that makes something abominable pleasurable, and then twist it, so you don’t even know the difference anymore. Then you just need a trigger, the one word that makes everything screech to a halt for the one who’s keyed it for a little programming. Why else do you think I had those twits in the announcer’s box use the word so many times?” Vox chuckled. “You’re so big now, you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

Vox snapped his fingers, and suddenly Ratchet found he could move. Nearly everything had been consumed by the red, except for Vox. He felt the rage, the anger, the hatred boiling. This scumbag needed to pay. He lunged forward, tried to punch the shark in the face. He saw the fist going, felt his muscles ripple, felt the familiar roaring in his ears. It would connect. It would hurt. It would feel so good.

…

But why hadn’t he felt anything by now?

Vox stepped aside, perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. The fist hung there, as though it had been frozen in place. “Care to try again, big boy?”

Ratchet roared as he raced forward, intent to slam the shark into a fish cake as he raised his massive arms, and locked his hands together to smash. He leapt into the air. Then a sudden sense of giddiness flooded through him. The room spun. He heard the crash of double impact, felt his knees and fists make contact. He smirked. He had to have gotten him. Vox had to be dead. He looked through his tunnel vision to see the cracks stretching from where he’d slammed the floor. Then he noticed the expensive leather shoes and gold stripes on the shiny red suit pants.

“No,” he gasped hoarsely.

“Why, Ratchet, swearing your loyalty to me already? Good boy.” Vox sneered as he stared into Ratchet’s HUD, and Ratchet stared back, stupefied. “Like I said, Ratchet, you can’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what you can do, though, big boy. You can obey me. In fact, you love to obey me. Isn’t that right?” Vox seized hold of the chin on Ratchet’s helmet, and stroked it gently. “Ya big lug.”

Ratchet tensed his muscles, struggled to move, to strike, to do anything that might manage to hurt Vox. Nothing responded. He wanted to get angry. He wanted to howl, to swipe, to smash, do something. Even a few choice swears would’ve been fine. Instead, he felt … nothing. The anger was gone. The rage had disappeared. He was just … docile.

…

Relaxed.

…

So … calm….

“That’s right, Ratchet. Just stare into your HUD. Don’t think. Don’t fight. Just listen to my voice, kid. Listen, and obey. Got it, big guy?”

Ratchet could hardly focus. His chest heaved up and down in a steady rhythm. His shoulders slumped at his sides. His expanding trapezius muscles gave him less of a neck as they merged with his back and chest, making it all seem as though it were one solid muscle. One muscle … all muscle … big … muscle ….

…

Feel’s good.

…

“Big…gerrrrr….”

Why was the recording so slow?

…

Doesn’t matter. So much pleasure. Rebounding. Like getting shocked by a tesla claw, but good instead of pain.

Vox sneered. He knew he had him. “That’s it, boy. Just listen nice and close now. Listen, sleep, and obey. Just let go. Little Lombax is gone now. Big Ratchet is smashing into the arena.”

“Big … Ratchet….” The cheering crowd played over the speakers in the helmet again, calling his name. A smile pulled at his mouth as the memory of his victories returned. He flexed his muscles, bouncing his pecs, striking poses in time to the imaginary cheers as the images of the crowd appeared. The image would glitch occasionally, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. The glitches made him feel good. He scratched absently at his crotch, this time without shame as he reveled in his growing size. After all, Big Ratchet loved being big, and that included below. The ladies loved it, too.

“Big Ratchet listens to Vox.”

Ratchet’s head twitched as Vox spoke, and the glitch flashed over the screen, followed by the pleasure.

“Big Ratchet obeys Gleeman Vox.”

Again, Ratchet twitched, this time followed by a deep-throated rumble as the metallic plating on the suit rearranged itself to forge over a rock-hard six-pack. The pulsing of the lights in Ratchet’s HUD and chest piece had slowed significantly as Ratchet’s breathing became deep and steady.

“Big Ratchet must serve and obey Gleeman Vox always.”

“Must obey,” Ace droned.

“OBEY….” Came the deep, slow bassoon.

Vox grinned as the barest flicker of blue flashed across the HUD’s visor for a matter of nanoseconds, before switching back to the pulsing red. “Now you must listen to me, Ratchet. Listen very carefully. What I’m about to say is very important, understand? You have to listen to what I am about to say, and it will become the truth for you,” Vox said as he laid both hands on either side of Ratchet’s helmet and stared into the visor. Ratchet had to lean down now, to meet Vox’s gaze, despite already kneeling. He did so without question or complaint.

Crowds cheering. Cheering him on. Cheering to listen. Cheering to obey. Ratchet could hardly see anything. All was a sea of adrenaline, testosterone, and who knew what else. It was huge, all-consuming. Lost. For the briefest of moments, he saw a face, a slim girl with dark skin and feline features. She seemed familiar somehow. She was … trying to say something. He strained to hear, but the crowd was too loud. It overwhelmed her. Then she was gone, consumed by the storm. Was she ever even there in the first place? Suddenly the storm clears, just a tiny patch. He sees a familiar face. Sharp teeth flash, a slick voice echoing across the gap. The fans drive him on. Drive him to listen. He focuses on the voice, focuses on the eyes, the sharp suit. He must speak, must answer, must acknowledge. The fans demand it. “Must … listen…. Big Ratchet … listen. Big Ratchet … obey.”

The cheering intensified, washing over him. He grinned vapidly behind his visor. He could hear them calling. The louder they cheered, the bigger he felt.

“Big m̴̵̀u҉̡̕ş̀c̕҉̕͢͠l̸҉̨e̸͘ḩ̶͡e̵a̶͏̛ḑ̕̕͡ Ratchet! Big b̀͘͏̕҉r̵̶̸á͜w̶̸͠ǹ̨̕͢y̡͟ Ratchet! Big d̶̴̡̨u̷̢ḿ̵̶͞b̴̀́͞ Ratchet! Big s̴̨̢̡҉t̡͟͝u̴̢p̶͜͝͝í͏̧d́͡͏҉́ Ratchet, o̫̖̖̪̼̱̣͑̄͒̉͞ͅb̗̻͎͉̙̩̜͂̈̽̆͜ě̵̻ͧy̶̡̮̪̏s hooray! Big v̴̕͢͞͝i̷̷̕o̵̵͘͘͞ļ̶̧e͡ń̸͝҉̨t̡̡͢҉̵ Ratchet! You’re a m҉̢͜͡͠i҉n҉̨͘ḑ͡l̶̴̨e̷̕s̸͟͝҉s̶̕ ̷̛͟͠͏ m̴̛̀͟u̷͏̸͡s̴̶͜ć̵̡̛͟l̶̴̷̷͜ę̡̀́ b̷̶̡̡e͏̛à̕͝s̡͘͡͞t̸̷̡͝ hero!”

With each glitch, the euphoria jumped, and Ratchet chuckled dimwittedly to himself as he twitched his muscles, testing how they felt. With each miniature flex, another surge of pleasure followed, and his worries diminished as he stared ahead at the pulsing light.

Then Vox’s voice cut through. “This is the truth, big guy. I, Gleeman Vox, am your beloved master. Understand? You obey me without question, serve me without question, protect me, love me unconditionally. You’re my big star player, my Big Ratchet.”

The Lombax breathed heavily. The words were so hard to understand with the cheering and the pleasure, but they slowly drifted through. He shuddered as he finally understood the command. Something didn’t sit right. His stomach tightened. He groaned as a pain began to spike in his head. It hurt to think, hurt to fight the pleasure. Why did he want to fight it? Why was it so wrong to just repeat … just listen … just … let … go….

He felt something shake his head. “Listen to me, Ratchet. Obey my order. Tell me. Who am I?”

Through the haze of the pulsing red light, he could barely make out the figure of the man who had started all this. The man who he was meant to obey. The man who had given him an order.

…

Big Ratchet must obey.

…

“Mmmmmmaasssterrrrr….” It grated out so slowly. It felt almost like pulling teeth. Ratchet shuddered as he said the word aloud.

“Again.”

“Master….” This one was slightly faster.

“Once more, with feeling.”

Ratchet shuddered. Great strangled sounds gurgled out from his speakers as all his muscles tensed, and the suit constricted. Suddenly, his head drooped forward. The tension left his body. A deep sigh carried into the room as the light on the suit and HUD stopped pulsing, burning a solid red. A single chime sounded, followed by the glowing red visor looking up to stare directly at Gleeman Vox. “Master Vox,” he droned. “Big Ratchet must listen to Master Vox. Big Ratchet must obey.”

Vox sneered as the red slowly faded to a gentle orange glow. “That’s right, big guy. You’re my head exterminator now. And once we’ve got you all trained up with Hardlight here, you’re gonna send our ratings through the roof!”

Big Ratchet grinned behind his helmet as he gazed out at the arena. The sound of his adoring fans roared through his ears from the stadiums as his combat bots, Merc and Green, hovered beside him. Towering at a full ten feet tall, Ratchet dwarfed the poor things. They barely came up to his knees, if that, so he took pity on them, and pulled them up to pose for the big screen. Gotta show he’s a team player. Boss said so, and Master Vox always knew best.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as the bots’ heads pushed against his pecs, sending waves of pleasure through him, and causing a familiar swelling below. He couldn’t wait to work that pump up in the gym. Then he had the ladies after. He always liked the ladies. They made him feel good, Master’s rewards.

F̸̕͞l̵̛ȩ҉x̢͢͟͝.̶̷̨̛̕ ̵̛̀Ś̴h̡͘̕͘͢ó̧̡w͏̵̴͝ ̷̛́͝o̵̡͘f̨́́҉̨f̨̀̕͏.͡͏̶͡ ́͏̸̧̀O̵͏b̛̕͠e҉̀ỳ͢.̛̀͢

He hardly even noticed the glitch anymore, just a bug in his screen. Master Vox said not to worry about it, so he didn’t. Instead, Big Ratchet tossed the bots into the air, and instantly fell into his flex routine. He let loose a primal roar, and the cheering intensified.

“Well, Juanita, it seems Big Ratchet here has made a big splash in his premier season as DreadZone’s top exterminator.” The annoying green man made Ratchet feel angry for some reason, but he couldn’t recall why.

…

He’d think about it later. Besides, he had fans to show off to. Had to show off.

“Yes, indeed, Dallas. In a revolutionary breakthrough with reformative technology, Gleeman Vox has singlehandedly turned this former criminal into a true hero, not to mention a real hit with the ladies. I mean, just look at those muscles….”

“Um … Juanita? Juanita? … Guys, I think her processors just froze. Can … can we get maintenance in here, please?”

Ratchet chuckled. Even the robo chick fainted when she looked at him.

“Crankshaft, ya copy?” Ratchet growled as he tapped his comms piece on his helmet, subconsciously flexing his bicep as he did so.

“I hear you, Ratchet. Well done on today’s fight.”

“Got you to thank for the strategies,” he returned. “We make a pretty good team, pal.” Ratchet’s sharp ears could just pick up the sound of Clank’s servos twitching his mouth into a hint of a smile.

“That we do, Ratchet. It is time for you to report to Director Vox. I will begin broadcasting your pre-workout track, as per Director Vox’s instructions.

Ratchet shuddered in anticipation as the sounds began to filter through his HUD, and the lights began to pulse. “You’re the best, Crankshaft.” The communication cut off, and Ratchet turned, then strode out the arena to the waiting transport ship with Green and Merc floating on either side. “Boys,” he said in a dazed voice, “activate Bigger Protocol.”

The two combat bots’ displays flashed red for the briefest moment, before they zoomed up to massage his pecs and other parts of his body. As Big Ratchet dropped into his plush reinforced seat, the autopilot engaged, and he smiled as he let the pleasure take him away into that perfect empty space in his head that he and Ace loved so much.

“DreadZone Exterminator, please identify yourself,” the feminine voice of the navigation computer asked primly.

Ratchet leaned back and stretched his tree trunk legs, patting his heavy bulge, before responding as he always had, as he always would, as he always must. “I am Big Ratchet. I obey….”

[1] Since the game never specified a species for Gleeman Vox, I decided to base the name for his race on the scientific name for shark, chondrichthyes.

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

A Helping Hand

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

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

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

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

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

The rest was a heady blur.

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

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

“Let me help you.”

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

“Let me help you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never asked before.” You smile.

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

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

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

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

And killers deserved no mercy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John,” Jack said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack started. “You were awake?”

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

“Jack, are you a kingpin?” you asked.

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

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

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

“And?”

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

You waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re ... you’re sure of this?”

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

He winced slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could have.

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

You weren’t brothers.

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

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.

Credit to @brosandbiceps for this image.

If you like my writing, please join my patreon and help me to write full time for all of you. And don’t worry. The experimental hypnosis file will be coming. I just have to finish some other obligations first. But until then, I wanted to write something quick for you all to enjoy. Keep being safe during the pandemic, guys! We can make it through!

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Smug as a Thug

So, this all started one day after my shirt got torn at school. I had to go to the lost and found to make it through the rest of the day, but all they had was this wife beater, see.

The thing was old and white, the traditional stereotype you usually find for this kind of wear. It showed off my arms, and I was uncomfortable with that, because, well, you know, I didn’t used to look like this, now did I?

But no need to worry. You could say I grew to like it.

I turned it into a night shirt.

And that’s when the weird stuff started happening.

I’d always wake up all sweaty in the morning. And when I had to eat, boy did I eat. I mean, I was like a living garbage disposal! Of course, I understand why now. I mean, look at this mug. Look at this bod.

I’m a ladykiller, and I like it that way.

...

That felt so good to say. I ... I, uh ... fuck....

Damn, my voice just dropped.

It’s the shirt, see. It’s ... well, it’s gotta be. It’s changing me. But ... damn, do I like these changes. Been growin’ hair up the wazoo with these muscles. Gotta show those ladies how much of a MAN I am.

Mmmm... Yeah.

A big, burly man.

A MAN’S man.

Mmph ... been recording myself at night to find out what’s goin’ on. Turns out I’m working out in my sleep. Never heard of that before. Didn’t even think it was possible, but there it is.

And ... I look at myself in the footage and I can’t help it. I ... I need more.

I need to show off.

I need to prepare.

To prepare for....

Something.....

I, uh ... I got this necklace the other day. Thought it’d fit with the whole aesthetic of the gear, y’nkow?

Makes me look like a fuckin’ douche, but ... I like looking like a douche. I want to show off now. It’s ... It’s like I’ve been programmed to do it, if that makes sense.

Like this shirt is driving me.

Ain’t that a funny thought? Clothes making a person.

Huhuh.

Funny.

Anyway, I gotta go after I take this pic. I got class.

Well, yeah, of course I dropped out of high school. I’m talking the School of Hard Knocks.

Da boss is expectin’ me. Says I’m makin’ real progress as a guido. Don’t gotta think as a guido. Just gotta pump up and be ready to fight.

I can’t help but grin at the thought now. Boss helped me see how fun it is to flex and intimidate.

Personally, I prefer makin’ more ... intimate contact. Gets the message across a lot faster, know what I’m sayin’? There’s nothing quite like a little ... networking to grease the gears on business.

He said I could bring a friend.

Wanna come?

You just have to wear this here uniform....

Credit to @musclecorps for this image.

If you like this story, please like and reblog. And if you want more content like this, please consider joining my patreon, where you will find all kinds of transformations involving muscle, hypnosis, and other forms. The more patrons I get, the more time I’ll be able to dedicate to writing full time. Thank you all for your support!

This story was written as a gift to a close friend of mine who loves a good greaser thug tf. I hope you all enjoy it, too. Due to length, I included a read more cutoff link for this one. Please read it all the way through. You won’t be disappointed.

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My Necklace, My Chain

It’s sort of like a half-remembered dream, this old place, old life. Or maybe I’m living a dream now. Huh. Living the dream. Hell yeah, I am.

Anyway, it started off sort of weird, I guess. I was a pathetic pile of fat and gristle. No job. No future. No motivation. The world beat me up so bad, and I was just … so fucking tired, bruh. Lost my girl, lost my money, lost my home. It sucked. And I just … I wanted to end it, you know?

…

I almost did.

That’s when this guy showed up out of the blue. This guy who just … sat there and smiled and listened. He didn’t see some homeless tramp. He didn’t see a pathetic pound of flesh waiting to be roasted on the pavement under blistering sun. He saw me. And he didn’t care how I looked. It didn’t matter that my clothes weren’t washed. It didn’t matter that I was scrabbled with a thick patchy beard. It didn’t even matter how much my breath stank or how I reeked of BO because I couldn’t find a place to shower and barely got the essentials using public sinks in a restroom.

He. Saw. Me.

He introduced himself. We talked. And like a parishioner to a priest, I confessed everything. My insecurities, my doubts, my anxiety, my history, my misfortunes, my losses. Everything flooded out in a torrent. And, eventually, after all the crap was purged, we got to the good stuff, the piece of me that still dreamed. That tiny, oh so fragile speck.

I don’t know how he got it out of me. I don’t know what tools he used, or what magic he had. And … I guess it must’ve been magic, cause, cause uh.

Uhh..

Uhhhhhh……

Wut were we talkin’ bout again?

…

…

…

Right. Right. My bad, bruh. It’s … a lot easier for me to zone out lately. I do it again, just give it a minute, okay?

So, this guy. He talks to me, and I talk to him. And it’s like, … I don’t know. He just … feels right to be around. You know, like that one guy who’s always nice to everyone, and you just want to protect him because he’s so good to people and you don’t want him to get hurt? That’s what it was like for me.

And that’s basically what he did. I told him my dream. And honestly, at that point, my only dream was to get some clothes on my back, a place to stay, a meal in my gut, a chance to clean up, and to be happy.

And you know what he said to me?

He said, “All right.” He grabbed my hand, and he pulled me. When I asked him what he was doing, he just smiled and laughed. “I’m granting your wish, silly.”

“Granting my…?”

“Let’s go.” He called me by my name, added some sort of weird word at the end of it. Think it was Japanese or something. I don’t really remember. I just remember the sheen of a black duckbill flashing under the intermittent sun as the clouds scudded overhead. Still not sure how he … knew my … name……

…

…

…

The hell am I thinking? Course he knows my fuckin’ name! He’s M—m’boss. Yuh. Boss.

…

I do wut he says.

…

I do wut he says.

Uhhhh … where were we again?

Right. Right. The duckbill. The pomp. The sun kept flashing off it and his eyes when he smiled at me. Hell, when the light shone on him, his skin practically lit up under that leather jacket of his. I thought he had a fuckin’ halo or something.

I also thought the guy might get sunburnt if we didn’t get some shade, so I did what he wanted and followed. He made it clear he’d wait for me to move till I came with him. What choice did I have, make him miserable with me? I couldn’t do that to him. I’d never do that to him.

Why? Because he’s the fucking boss! He made me what I am today! He made me a new fucking man, and I owe everything to him, okay?

OKAY?

Good. Now shut up and listen.

We started in a bar first. He said it was run by some friends, that they’d hook us up, hook me up.

And did they ever. Boss explained he was treating me. My stomach growled from the smells drifting out of the kitchen. Bunch of big men sat on either side, coated in leather. Jacket, pants, gloves, the works. Must’ve been some bikers or something. I … think I remember seeing their bikes parked outside.

Fucking beauties. Harley Davidsons. The rev of those engines, the power vibrating between your legs, the air roaring in your ears, the wind in your face. I’m telling you, there’s no better feeling. Well, except maybe when I work out at the gym or do the boss a favor. Or smoking a cigar. Or flexing.

Flexing feels so good, especially when I’m doing it for the boss.

It’s good to flex for Boss.

Hmm? Being with the boss? I don’t know, it’s … kind of like a drug, I guess. He’s just got that kind of personality, you know?

Well, if you don’t, you will soon enough. He knows everyone in this city. I’m sure he’ll find you when he’s good and ready.

So, you’d think it’d just be a basic meal, right? Nothing fancy or expensive, just enough to fill me up and send me on my way. A good deed for the day, right?

WRONG!

They gave me a steak. A fucking steak! And I don’t mean the cheap cuts. I’m talking about the real quality stuff. Boss said they imported it from Japan. Stuff was like butter in my mouth, only the best damned butter I’d ever tasted in my life. I don’t really remember how much I ate. I just remember Boss laughing. And it was like I just couldn’t stop. The more I ate, the hungrier I was. I was more like a machine than a person, the way I tore through them.

And Boss just smiled and encouraged me the whole time, like it was nothing!

Let me tell you, by the time I finally came back to myself, my jaw was aching so badly. I thought I might’ve dislocated it or something. The lights had come on, and the windows were black. The air reeked of smoke as big burly men lit up cigars and pulled on their beers. I felt … I guess loopy’s the best word. My head was spinning. Or maybe the room was? I guess I was buzzed. Or maybe plastered. I couldn’t tell if the number of empty mugs were because of blurry vision or that I’d actually drank that many. The only place that seemed clear, the only spot that mattered to my addled brain, were those deep blue eyes. They glowed in the light, or at least I thought they did. Was probably the beer or whatever I drank. But damn if I cared. I felt too damn good and too damn full.

And Boss took my hand and waved at the rest of the men in the joint. All of them acknowledged him one way or another. Nods, grunts, salutes, one or two even demanded a promise out of him. Well, maybe demanded is too strong a word. No one demands Boss to do stuff. He just … does it, like, like he knows what we want, and he does everything in his power to make sure we get it, whatever it takes.

He led me to a large pink motorcycle with heart-shaped metal accents. It roared as he ignited the engine, then purred gently as he stroked the handlebars and adjusted the mirrors. Then those same hands were extended to me again.

“Hop on,” he said. I blinked in surprise, and when I asked where we were going, he just giggled and patted the leather behind him. “I told you, silly. I’m granting your wish.”

The wind that blew through my hair was neither cold nor hot. It just was. Of course, I didn’t really have my eyes on wind. I was too focused on not falling off the motorcycle. So, instead, my eyes fell on Boss’ highlights. There were blue swaths that pulled back along the sea of oil on his head. Nah. Oil’s wrong again. I mean, it was black, like oil, but it shone more like … grease, I guess. Yuh. Grease.

I like grease.

Every streetlamp we passed made those highlights pulse with a rainbow of light. You know, kinda like a raven’s wing. It was beautiful. I didn’t even notice when the wind cut out. One minute, we were cruising through the city. The next, we were outside a big apartment building. The same hand reached out to me, and I took it. My legs felt weird from straddling the bike, like they wanted to stay spread, so my walking was sort of awkward at first, but I found a stride that worked while they readjusted.

Boss just smiled and led me up some stairs.

…

A lot of stairs, actually, now that I think about it. But anytime I started to flag, he’d stop and look at me and fix me with that smile. And suddenly I could walk again. I could breathe again, and my legs, well … I guess that wide stretch was sort of useful here. Made it easier to climb.

My legs felt different when we finally got to his door. Heavy, kinda tingly. Boss just smiled at me. “Welcome, Wilbur-kun.”

The apartment was more like a penthouse. The small entryway passed into a broad living room with a large leather couch and soft plush carpet. A giant flat-screen TV was mounted to the wall parallel to the couch. A few other pieces of furniture, like footrests and some easy chairs stood at either side. A kitchen sat off to the side with two entrances on either side of a dividing wall with a big hole cut into it, so you could see the kitchen and whoever might be cooking there.

“Harley, I’m home!”

A big man with broad shoulders strode out from the shadows of a far hall. His hair was like Boss’s, but his streaks were green, instead of blue, and his sideburns, eyebrows, even his goatee was the same neon green. Might’ve been a trick of the light, but I thought I saw his eyes glowing, too, just like Boss’s did. He wore a white tank top covered with a sleeveless black leather vest that complemented his dark skin. Black leather chaps covered a pair of blue jeans. He took one look at me, then fixed his gaze on Boss.

“Another stray dog, huh?”

“This is Wilbur. He’s going to stay with us for the night.”

Harley raised a brow. “One night?”

Boss blushed. “Well, I can’t grant the rest of his wish right now. It’s late, and he needs a place to sleep….”

I cleared my throat. “I, um … I don’t have to stay, if you don’t want me to. Paimon’s been very kind to me already. More than kind, really. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

I think it’s the first time I saw anything close to a hardening in Boss’s expression. Well, hardening is the wrong word. We’re hard, so Boss don’t have to be. It wasn’t hard so much as … determined, I guess. Boss never really gets mean. He’s perfect, and I love him for it. We all do.

“Nonsense. We have a guestroom all made up for you. Dom won’t mind. He’s on shift tonight, and he’s always glad to help when I ask him. He already said yes when I called him at the bar, so don’t you worry.” He smiled again and seized both my hands in his. “Won’t you stay with us, Wilbur-kun?”

The cocked head, the smile, the shiny sparkly eyes accentuated by the blue in his sideburns and goatee. He was every trope of sweet brought into one, and I was growing a mean sweet tooth, though I didn’t know it yet. My hands tingled. My heart beat fast. I couldn’t meet those eyes, so I looked down and muttered, “All right.” I allowed myself one glance, just one.

My heart nearly stopped. He beamed at me with a broad grin that was so innocent, so pure, so … perfect. Harley shook his head, but I saw the smile curving his lips as he folded his muscular arms.

Before I knew it, I was whisked into a room that reeked with the perfume of cigar smoke, leather, polish, and a hint of cologne. A massive king-size bed lay to the side, and a floor-length mirror had been attached to one of the walls, stretching all the way to the ceiling. I was a little wary when I noticed what looked like a switchblade on a side table next to the mirror, but Boss alleviated my fears by flipping not a blade, but a slick comb.

Flick. Click.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

Flick. Click.

“Dom just really likes the aesthetic.”

Flick. Click.

A blush colored his cheeks. “So do I.”

Flick. Click.

“You don’t mind, do you, Wilbur-kun?”

Flick. Click. Flash.

I blinked dazedly as I looked into those eyes. “I, uh….”

Flick. Click.

“It’s fun, once you get the hang of it.”

Flick. Click.

“You should try it.”

Flick Click.

My fingers twitched. “I … guess I could….”

Flick. Click.

“Gentler. Slower. You’ll shake your whole arm off that way, Wilbur-kun.”

Flick. Click.

His hand was on mine. His other on my arm.

Flick. Click.

“That’s it. Relax. Let the switch go.”

Flick. Click.

“Let it go. And follow the motion.”

Flick. Click.

“Follow….” he instructed

Flick. Click.

“Good. That’s good. That’s right. It’s fun, isn’t it? Sort of relaxing.” He giggled. “Dom loves to do that when he’s fidgety. Well, that or flex. Tell me, Wilbur-kun, do you ever flex?”

Flick. Click.

I had the motion down by this point. I wasn’t sure when I turned to face the mirror. All I knew was that Boss was right. It felt good. I don’t know why, but it did. It still does. I raised my free arm and tensed the muscle there.

Flick. Click.

“Not really.”

Flick. Click.

“Don’t really got much to show.”

Flick. Click.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

Flick. Click.

My brain felt … sluggish, I guess. I felt strange. It was like that tingling had jumped from my arm to my brain. That’s why it took me so long to answer.

I’m lucky he’s so patient.

“I … don’t know.”

Flick. Click.

I took a deep breath. The smell wasn’t so overbearing now. In fact, it was almost like a meal for the nose, if you get what I mean. Sort of fruity and sort of bitter, like sweet and savory, you know? It just … worked. “I don’t know,” I said again.

Boss smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

Flick. Click.

“Yes, Sir.” The words were out of my mouth before I could even think. But that’s when the record scratched. The rhythm broke. I stared at the switch comb and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The polished wood and metal clattered over the side table as I put it back hastily. The thing wasn’t even mine. And the reaction, I mean … sure, I was grateful for his help, but he wasn’t my boss. Well, not yet. I felt … anxious, wrong. “I mean, thank you,” I said hastily.

Boss just smiled. “Happy to help. You can find the spare towels in Dom’s closet. The bathroom is through that door there. Take all the time you need, Wilbur-kun. And like I said, don’t worry about it.” He waved gently. His biker gloves were still on after the drive, and his lock glinted as he turned toward the door. “We’ll be down the hall if you need us. Harley and I like to smoke from time to time, so just follow your nose if we’re not there. I’m sure you’ll be able to find us.”

I blinked heavily. My head still felt off balance, but it was clear enough for me to at least give a proper response. “Thanks.”

And then he was gone.

The towels were in these metal baskets stacked against the wall all the way up to the rods. The whole room was massive. I felt like a kid in the adult section of the department store. Bulky leather coats and massive black boots lined the closet. Out of curiosity, I peeked into a dresser that had been positioned elsewhere. The top drawers were full of accessories. Chains, padlocks, tags, rings, gloves, brass knuckles, and more greeted me from their various alcoves and padded slots. Needless to say, there was a lot of bling.

Below that, drawer after drawer of tank tops, socks, and underwear. The smallest size I could find on average was a XXL, and there were only a few of those. This Dom character had to be a big man to fill that kind of size. I’d find out later just how big, myself. Guess the big lug must’ve been sentimental or something, though, because I did finally manage to find a large tank top to use. Then again, maybe he just used it to show off all his muscle. Boss had said he liked to flex a lot.

The shirt looked baggy when I held it against my frame, but it would suffice for bed clothes. I took it and a ratty pair of sweatpants with an adjustable waistband into the room. I breathed deeply as I braced myself in front of the door, then pulled it open.

My mouth would have dropped to the floor if it could. The bathroom was a spacious master bath complete with some of the most advanced functions I’ve ever seen on shower or tub. Bath salts, air diffusers, incense burners, and loads and loads of hair product were distributed all over the room. Body wash, cologne, loofa sponges, the works. There were jets, oils, salon-brands of hair care products. And the materials that went into the actual room itself! Incredible. I’m talking marble, swanky tile, brass fittings, the works. The room screamed fancy rich boy.

And that fancy rich boy was just outside these doors in the apartment, wearing a black leather jacket and a duckbill pompadour.

My mouth suddenly felt very dry. I smacked my lips and forced myself to move. He expected me to shower, after all. It was part of my wish. The question was, did I want to shower or bathe?

This’ll sound stupid, but I felt too intimidated by the bathtub. I mean, I was a guest. This wasn’t my home. Using all those fancy salts and oils and bubble bath or whatever left me feeling too uncomfortable. Who knew how much he spent on them? He earned the best. Me? I just was a charity case he pulled in off the streets. I didn’t deserve those things. Not yet.

So, I went and used the shower, instead. The thing had massaging jets from every angle, and the whole space filled with steam to make me feel … well, I guess like I was in my own little world. The pressure helped seep the warmth into my muscles and wash away the extra grease and dirt I’d accumulated. The body wash and shampoo smelled like a mix of cologne and fruit. I guess the closest scent I could relate to it was Old Spice’s Wolfthorn from their Wild Collection. I could almost imagine what it’d be like, too, having a mascot for that brand.

A cute white wolf with a winning smile and deep, deep blue eyes….

A dizzy spell hit me, and I struck the marble wall. The cool surface helped to shock me back to a more wakeful state. If this was how I acted in the shower, maybe it was a good thing I didn’t choose the tub. At least, that’s what I thought then.

The rest of the shower went off without a hitch. I shampooed, conditioned, and lathered my body, rinsed, and finally disengaged from the shower.

The towel I’d borrowed was more like a bath sheet. The thing draped practically down to my ankles. And it was clearly designed for someone with a much broader frame than I had. This Dom character was a very big man. And let me tell you, big doesn’t do him justice. He’s swole, bruh, like, uh … just … really big, y’know?

I strode to the mirror, where a brief search through the drawers revealed disposable toothbrushes waiting to be opened, tubes of toothpaste, and another drawer loaded with custom switchcombs, each with their own unique prints and patterns for their handles.

The brushing was no problem. I had my face dried off in no time. My beard was unruly, so I took a set of electric trimmers and buzzed it off. My skin wasn’t entirely cleanshaven, but it looked a lot better, now that I had access to the right tools.

Then my eyes locked onto the hair products themselves. And a set of neon-blue eyes gazed back at me in a way that only a wolf knew how. It was a cartoon, yet it carried the same commanding presence in that stare. His lips were curved in a smile. Hands sheathed in black fingerless gloves held a comb and ran it through a pompadour as he looked at me.

Right at me.

…

I’m not sure what came over me. All I know is that I decided to try some of the stuff. Part of it was instinct, I suppose. And part of it was … something else. Don’t question it, dawg. You can’t understand it yet. Here. You wanted my story. Now you can spot me while I tell it. Dat recorder’s still workin’, right? Cool, bruh. If you still don’t get it when I’m done talkin’, you can ask again, and I’ll explain it to ya nice n’slow.

Now spot me, bro.

So, like I said, I just … had to try the stuff. It wasn’t a lot. I didn’t drain the whole can or anything. Just enough to sort of mess with my hair, help get it more organized, you know? It was too long to really do anything major with. I just wanted to keep it from getting all crazy, jutting into corners and stuff. And, well, you can’t get much stiffer than Pomcrete. My scalp was all tingly after I finished combing my hair. I almost forgot to screw the cap back on before I left.

I got dressed in the ratty clothes and strode back into the bedroom. The mirror was still there, and though the clothes left me feeling diminished, I could still see the hint of tone beneath the skin and bone in my arms. I … may have tried flexing again. It’s … sort of addicting, once you start, you know?

Took some searching to find the laundry basket. I was half-tempted to just throw the thing on the floor, but I didn’t want to be rude. After that, I turned off the light and crept silently to the bed. I’d never slept on a king before, except maybe as a kid. The mattress and sheets swallowed me whole, and I let them.

I don’t know how long I slept. It’d been so long since I’d actually had a bed. Or at least it felt like a long time. I came to slowly, sort of like an air bubble, you know? Not really solid, kind of wobbly, delicate, and easy to pop. I felt safe, warm, and … well, kind of empty up top. I guess it’s because it felt so much like a dream, and I didn’t want it to end.

Bruh, ah’m servin’ Boss. Ah’m livin’ the dream now. Now shut up n’let me tell m’story, dawg.

…

Good dawg.

So, this incense is going, right? And I walk out of the room all tired and sleepy, which is weird, because I blacked out and I’m pretty sure I slept all through the night no problem, but whatever. I stumbled into the living room, where a good four people were standing. Two, I recognized as Paimon and his roommate. I later found out they were married. The other two, I hadn’t seen before.

One was a big guy around the same size as Harley. He had purple highlights in his hair, and the eyes to match. I could see a lot of Paimon in him, so … maybe they were like brothers or cousins or something? I wasn’t sure. Then there was this hulking brute of a man. He was huge, and I don’t just mean muscle. The guy was a giant. His brow was thick and heavy. His shoulders broad as boulders, his face rough and chiseled with a black goatee sprouting from his chin. Black sideburns streaked down the sides of his face and part of his jaw to frame his head like a cinderblock. Streaks of scarlet broke the midnight of his hair in great bands. It’s sort of a family trait to them. If you’re part of their family, you have streaks, and you have pomps.

The man could’ve squeezed coal to diamond between those pecs. Though there was something funny about his eyes. I couldn’t really tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. They sort of … mulled together into one mass. A thick cigar was clenched in his teeth as he talked to the rest of the family, and the air reeked of his blend. Another pink cigarette smoked from an ash tray, blending the gentle lull of rose incense with the starker scent of tobacco smoke. The leather of his jacket creaked as he pulled out his cigar, looked down at me, and exhaled. I nearly reeled from the dizzy spell when the smoke hit my face.

“So, ’Dis is da guy.” I couldn’t help but notice the huge padlock that dangled between his pecs on a thick metal chain as he breathed. A pair of dog tags dangled beneath on a thinner chain. He grunted.

“Ohayo, Will-kun,” Paimon greeted cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

I blinked to try to clear the fog from my brain. My lungs were processing incense, cigar smoke, and cigarette smoke. It takes getting used to when it’s all at once.

“Uh, … hi,” I finally managed to say.

The big guy folded his arms and grunted again. I didn’t know if he didn’t like me or if the whole looming glare was just his default. “M—Boss asked yuhs a question, dawg.” His knuckles cracked ominously, and I couldn’t help but notice the metal bands he wore on each of his fingers. All ten of them. “Bettuh answer.”

I swallowed heavily.

“Dom, be nice,” Paimon chided.

The sudden change in demeanor was startling. The thug snapped to attention and jutted his chest forward. A very impressive display when all he had to frame said chest was a tank top, thanks to the fact he hadn’t zipped up his jacket. The shirt strained against his muscle to be put on prominent display. His pecs bounced a few times as he saluted. “Yussuh.”

Paimon giggled. “Why don’t you go freshen up, Dom-kun? You’ve had a long night.”

“Yussuh,” he slurred again. He lumbered past me easily. His heavy boots clunked against the floor, rattling the apartment with every step. The only sign of him that remained after was the miasma of his cigar. It seemed almost to hover in my nose when I turned back to the remaining members of the household.

“So, … that was Dom?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. He’s a big sweetie under all that muscle,” Paimon assured with another giggle. “Would you like some breakfast?”

I blushed again. Everyone else was already fully dressed, and I couldn’t help but notice the distinct presence of leather in all their gear. Not unusual in and of itself. It was more the fact I was barefoot in some ratty sweatpants and an old shirt. Makes a man self-conscious, you know what I mean? “Um, … yes, please.”

So, turns out the one with the purple streaks was named Lavante. He’s sort of an adopted son for the pair. I could hardly tell the difference between them, really. Age-wise, I mean. Guess they must’ve had good genes. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. Kid had a padlock and a set of tags, just like Dom. I noticed Harley only had a chain with a ring tied to it. Lavante had size and mass from his father. That is, his bigger father. Or so the parents joked. His eyes, well, that, I’m not sure who he got it from. They were purple, but they had that sort of empty quality that invites someone to fall in and never come out again. They could be hard or soft in an instant, and there was a sort of … I guess a longing to look at them when I was eating. My gaze kept darting between Paimon’s and Lavante’s faces.

“You smoke?”

I blinked in surprise. I looked at my plate and found it suddenly empty. It was filled almost just as quickly. “Uh … haven’t in a long time,” I said. “Tried it once, got sick. Never wanted to again.”

Lavante frowned. “But you don’t look sick now.”

I shrugged. “Haven’t taken a direct hit since the first time I tried it. Like I said, didn’t really want to.” I was so hungry, but I didn’t understand why. I must have had at least four plates. Maybe, maybe more. The more I ate, the more dazed I felt. Not a bad sort of daze, just … different. Like … I don’t know. I … guess I was happy? Sort of? I guess the best way to describe it is a sort of in-between place. Not like a drug high or anything like that, but definitely not normal either. It was sort of a … I guess a dead space or a neutral zone.

Can’t remember much of what I said during that time. Must’ve said a lot, though, ’cause the clock said it was nearly noon by the time the meal was over. I’d been shoveling so much food, it was only natural when I brought my hand to my face again. My lips curved around. My teeth bit gently. I breathed, and warmth flooded my lungs. I didn’t want to cough this time. I didn’t feel sick. It smelled almost like lavender. Best way I could put it was it felt like my stomach had had enough, and now my lungs wanted something to eat, too. There was no coughing, no gagging, just … a smooth tingle.

“For a guy who’s only had one cigarette, you sure drag like a champ.” Harley was holding a lighter. He flicked the cap shut. A cigarette protruded from the corner of his mouth. Lavante smoked a purple one, and Paimon’s cigarette was the same rosy pink from the one I’d seen in the ash tray.

I pulled the thing away from me, looked calmly at it. I was surprised, but I didn’t feel that usual surge of adrenaline. My lips puckered briefly as I licked them, and my chest tingled as I breathed in the secondhand smoke the others were generating. I … I wanted more. And I wasn’t sure how to think about that at first. “I … guess I just needed the right brand,” I finally managed to say.

“Yuh,” Lavante said in a deep tone.

I dragged. My lungs savored every instant of the smoke. And then I let it go with an equally low, “Yuh…”

Harley didn’t say anything else. He just rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Paimon smiled kindly. Lavante, … Lavante sneered. And like a game of Simon Says, I felt my lips contorting in time, pulling aside to bare my teeth and match his look.

Paimon giggled in delight as I leaned back in my chair and spread my legs. I felt so good, so relaxed there. I don’t know if it was a high from the smoke, the food, or something else, but … I felt safe. I could be at peace there. I could live in a place like that. It wasn’t how I was raised, but it felt like home. Like I belonged there, could always belong there. I just had to… had to….

Had to what?

I shook my head. What … was I thinking? This wasn’t my house, wasn’t my place. I couldn’t live there!

The cigarette dropped from my lips. I fumbled, but I couldn’t catch it. The thing hit the floor and broke apart. Fortunately, it fell on tile, so the ashes were easy to clean, but the butt was ruined. And whatever fantasy world I was falling toward with it.

“S-sorry,” I said awkwardly as I stumbled to my feet. “I’ll clean it up.”

Paimon kept smiling. “Don’t worry about it, Will-kun. It happens.”

My throat was suddenly parched, probably from all the smoke. I guzzled a quick drink from the sink, then turned back to the table. “Um, where do you keep the broom and dustpan?”

It didn’t take long to clean up my mess. By then, it was time to clear the rest of the table, too, so I helped. I had to pay for my night there somehow, after all.

What happened after is sort of a blur to the extent that Paimon took me out to get cleaned up. Well, more cleaned up than I already was. We started at a barber. The owner was a big man who reeked of cigar smoke. He was a massive in every sense of the word, standing at what had to be at least seven feet tall with bulging muscles to match. His face was wreathed in gold that merged with his pompadour. Green stripes streaked on the left side of his hair, even going so far as to color part of his beard. A bold fashion statement, but this was a bold sort of man.

And one who took command in his shop.

He took one look at me, and I was in the chair with a cape tied around my body. I’d trimmed my beard just fine, but my hair was another story. Since I’d already showered before, he didn’t feel the need to give me the whole package. In his words, “This ain’t a fuckin’ salon.”

Paimon laughed and beamed that smile at me again. I could barely see it through the haze of smoke that started to fill the room. The barber wasn’t one for talking, but he definitely was for smoking. He chopped off the extra-long locks and rubbed something into my scalp that left it all tingly and cool. For such a big gruff man, his hands were surprisingly gentle. I wouldn’t say I fell asleep exactly, but … I guess my brain sort of shut off for a while. It was just so … relaxing, bruh.

He lathered up my face, anyway, and scraped the rest of the stubble down around my cheeks and lower jaw. Then he added some weird stuff to my sideburns and my chin before a hot towel treatment. That’s when I really blacked out. Next thing I knew, I was staring into the mirror while those same hands ran a comb through my much cleaner hair. Something felt … different, but I couldn’t place what. I just let it go. It was hard to think with all that stroking over my scalp, anyway.

I caught sight of a familiar cannister. A white wolf smiled up at me, this time proffering a rose while the other ran a comb through his pompadour.

Pompadour.

…

Pompadour….

Pomp. That’s what was different! The hair over my forehead swept up like the crest of some giant wave ready to crash at any second. Only, it was held together by something solid. Something thick. But … my hair didn’t feel heavy. It moved. It followed every stroke, every tug of that gentle comb. And the more it did, the more I felt that familiar high settling in as my scalp tingled. Before my very eyes, I watched the wave grow taller, thicker, fuller. And so very, very shiny.

“You look good, Will-kun.” Paimon smiled.

“He’s almost done,” the gruff man said. “Needs a little more pump.”

I raised my brow. “Pump the pomp?” It was like my vocal cords were lax. Instead of my higher tenor, they’d lowered to a baritone. I sounded like I’d just woken up. And … I guess I sort of had?

The bearded man’s lips curled into a smile. “That’s right.” His fingers and the comb raked through my hair again, and my eyes rolled in uh, … uh, … wut’s da word for blackin’ out from feelin’ good?

…

Yuh, that’s it, euphoric bliss.

“S’good ta pump da pomp,” he growled in my ear as the comb stroked my sideburns.

I shuddered. I felt so pampered, so relaxed. The smell of the cigar smoke, the aftershave, the pomade, and the undertone of leather from his extra-large vest left me feeling … well, at home, I guess.

Though, on second thought, maybe that vest was XXL? I … don’t remember. I just knew he was big, and it was big. And suddenly, I didn’t mind that I had a new hairstyle anymore.

Besides, Paimon was paying for it. Who was I to object? I mean, he said he was granting my wish, and so far, he’d delivered. So, … maybe this was part of my wish, too? It … really did feel good having that look. And my hair was so shiny. When the barber finally backed away, I couldn’t help but run my fingers through it just once.

I gaped vapidly at myself in the mirror. My pupils were a lot bigger than I remember, but Paimon just smiled as he pulled me from the chair. My chin prickled, and I scratched the patch of hair that had grown in by my cleft. He placed something in my hand. When I looked down, I saw the familiar sight of a polished switch comb. Streaks of blue and silver lit up against the black accents. They seemed almost to swirl the longer I looked at them.

“Your fingers will ruin the look,” Paimon explained. “This should let you play with it without damaging anything. Think of it as a part of your wish. You can’t have clothes without accessories.” He gasped as he looked to his watch. “And speaking of, we have an appointment to keep. Let’s go!” He beamed at the barber as he pulled my arm behind him. “Arigato, Axe-kun!”

The barber grunted and offered a two-fingered salute to the smaller man. His deep voice rumbled after us. “See you again soon, Will.”

Logic dictated that couldn’t be true. There was little chance of me ever going back to that barbershop again. But even so, part of me believed him. And before I could stop myself, a deep, “Yuh,” had already escaped my lips. I didn’t see the smile, but I could feel it as we passed the door back into the busy streets.

Two massive men in thick leather biker jackets and pants strode into the store behind us. The familiar smell of cigar smoke trailed with them, and I breathed deeply, despite myself. Their pompadours were far larger than mine and looked near the point of collapse. There’s only so much pomade can do before you have to trim yourself, you know. Then the door shut, and we were gone. My head swam with the events that had happened so far, but we weren’t done yet. And Paimon had a lot more places to show me.

Next up, we arrived in a clothing store. Paimon smiled as we strode through the entrance. The fresh smell of leather hit me like a wall of bricks. I felt that same urge to mess with my hair again but did my best to resist it. I flicked the switch comb, instead. It helped a little.

“Let’s get you some clothes, Will-kun.”

I could hardly object. Not because I didn’t necessarily want to, but … well, I just felt … I guess I was foggy up top, ya know? Don’t think much up there anymore. And … I guess things slowed down when I was with him. Every time I saw that smile, I just felt … different. That same feeling from the haircut came back again and again. And it would always get stronger.

“I don’t—”

“Trust me, you’ll love it!” He grinned. His eyes flashed. Or maybe I was just that lightheaded. Suddenly, I was sitting in a mirrored room. I … don’t remember much of what happened. There were a lot of shirts and pants. Jeans, chaps, tanks, muscle tees, boots, dog tags, chains.

And the padlocks.

Bruh, when you find that right padlock, and it just … clicks, you know it’s right. And you know you never want to unlock it again. Must’ve tried … I don’t know how many different combos before Pai found one that worked.

I wore a black tank top that hugged tightly to my chest. It was like … like I was getting a hug. A really soft hug. Every breath left me feeling the fabric as it expanded with me, then slowly retracted. It was like … well, I guess it was like it was alive, you know? The compression was in all the right places. I looked … different, but … a good different. I had this dull brown that was almost black when Paimon first found me. But when I was a kid, I had this super bright blond hair, like … the sun, basically. Platinum grade, ya know? Didn’t need no bleach back then. I was au naturel. It was funny, seein’ that same bright shine pop against m’new black duds.

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. Things were just … weird, but in a good way. I felt good. I wasn’t ripped, but the time with Paimon had helped me to see I wasn’t so bad off as I thought. The mirror only helped prove that more. The gut I thought I had was hardly showing now. It just sort of pressed gently against the waistband of my new leather pants. I could see the hints of muscle tone in my arms. Nothing big, but present, you know? Enough to show there was potential.

Huhuh. I see that potential in you, too, y’know.

The boots Paimon got me clunked heavily on the floor in a sort of march as I got used to the feel of them on my soles. A minute later, it felt … well, it felt almost like I wasn’t wearing anything, really. It felt natural to let the weight carry my legs to a heavy slam. Gotta know how to throw m’weight around, you know?

“You look amazing, Will-kun!” Boss cheered.

I blushed. “Y’really think so?”

“Hai.”

He smiled again, and I couldn’t stop myself. I zoned out again. I came to posing in front of the mirrors. Boss was clapping. Something felt off again, but I couldn’t quite place it. I kept staring as I transitioned from pose to pose. Archer, crab, and whatever other ones there might be. I frowned as my eyes fell to my crotch. That was where the feeling was strongest. Something was different down there, but I wasn’t sure what. It looked … fuller than what I was used to. Were the pants cut differently, or was I actually…?

A loud snap echoed in my ears, and I was suddenly aware of a cold and heavy chain draped over my neck and chest. A heavier blunt square object practically burned between my pecs with how cold it was. The fabric hardly did a thing to protect my skin. I almost lost control of my breathing.

“What do you think, Will-kun?” Boss asked. I didn’t even hear him sneak up behind me. He seemed so much smaller from his place next to the platform.

“I, uh….”

“Isn’t it nice?”

I peered at the lock. Its blunt edges. Its dull faded blue paint. It had been used before, worn, beaten, but still not out of commission. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of, well, me. I could … relate to it.

“I guess, but … isn’t it a little much?”

Boss giggled. “I don’t think so. Now we’re twinsies.” He raised his own padlock and chain. They glinted in the light. “See?”

The light made me blink. I … couldn’t really think of an answer, but I wanted to talk. So, uh, yuh, m’body did the only thing it could do. “Uhhhhhhh….”

His laughter flooded my ears as his hands wrapped around mine and guided them to my lock. Next thing I knew, I was staring at two padlocks. “Like this, silly,” he said.

“Oh.” I nodded. The light was duller, but it was there, hidden, deep in the faded murk of the paint. A sort of pale reflection to the brighter silver of Boss’ padlock. One that left me wanting to find the source. Wanting to delve deeper. Wanting to seep into that fog. I found myself nodding as I stared.

Flash. Dull. Flash. Dull.

Flash…

Dull…

Dim flash..

Dull….

Dimmer.

Dull………

“Will-kun.” The voice sounded so far away. “Will-kun.” It called again. I felt his hands wrapped around my forearm, pulling gently. The blue and silver fog that I’d been so focused on slowly receded. I blinked blearily as Boss came into focus. “You really like that padlock, don’t you?”

My head felt … slow, full, … Idunno, just … not like it used to be, you know? All I know is he asked me a question. And … I had to answer. I didn’t really think about the answer. I just … spoke. Was like a kneejerk reaction, you know?

“Uhhhh … yuh….”

He giggled. “I’m glad. Come on, Will-kun.” He led me by the hand. My hips jingled. A glance down revealed I’d gained more chains than when I first started posing in front of that mirror. But … the jingle was nice. Comforting, you know? Followed the beat when I stepped. It still does. I like lettin’ people know ah’m comin’.

We stepped out the store without paying. The cashier waved it off and silently passed a huge leather jacket on a hangar for Boss to carry. He giggled as he seized the hook. “Arigato!”

My heart nearly stopped from the cuteness. My breath caught. My chest lurched. And suddenly, I was grabbing my lock like a lifeline. I followed him out the store like a puppy. I wasn’t really in a state to say anything. I could barely concentrate enough to follow behind him. The clunk and the jingle reverberated in my ears again and again with every step.

But when I saw his arms start to droop, I swooped in. My hands seized the jacket, and I felt the hangar straining against the crooks of my fingers as they curled to hold it over my shoulder. I knew it’d be rude if I didn’t say anything. Heck, he might think I was stealing. I had to say something, do something.

“If you’re gonna treat me, at least let me help.” It came out gruffer than I intended, but his smile told me he understood what I meant to say. I suddenly felt very much exposed. A flush rose in my cheeks, and I looked away bashfully, then cleared my throat. “So, who’s this thing for, anyway?”

Boss giggled. “A friend. I wanted to pick it up for when he’s ready.”

“When he’s … ready?”

Paimon nodded. “Uhuh. To join our family.”

“Like the others at the apartment?”

“Uhuh. They’re just a bunch of big sweeties, like Dom.”

“Dom is … sweet?”

Paimon laughed again. “Once you get to know him.

“He doesn’t … look sweet.”

He placed his hands behind his back and sort of bobbed or rocked as we walked. You know how the upper body just sort of sways sometimes when you’re actin’ cute without trying? It was kind of like that. “Well, then, what does he look like to you?”

I was taken off guard. “… To me?”

“Yeah!” He beamed at me. “Be honest.”

I nearly stumbled. My head rang. Or … was that the dog tags and the padlock knocking against each other? Guilt flushed my cheeks this time. After all, Boss knew Dom a lot better than I did back then. “Promise not to be mad?” I asked softly.

“Hai.”

I couldn’t help myself. It just … burst out of me in a rush. “He looks like a street thug waiting for an excuse to beat someone up.”

Paimon’s smile didn’t falter. There was no hardening. His grin widened. “I know. Isn’t it great!” He giggled.

“Great to … be a thug? Or great to look like one?”

“Well, both, of course, silly. It’s great to be both.”

“Great … to be both….” I trailed in utter disbelief. He all but admitted he liked thugs. Genuine street thugs. Outlaws, muggers, the kind of guys you don’t want to run into in a dark alley at night. And he let one of them live in his house?

“Why don’t you flick your switch comb, Will-kun? You look anxious.” Snap went the comb in his hand. The tines parted his hairs like the Red Sea, and they closed up behind just as quickly.

Before I knew it, that tingle from the barber was back again. Little pricks tugged at my pompadour, pulling loose hairs back into line, stimulating my scalp, and tugging … well, it felt like they were tugging deeper, somehow, if that makes sense. You know, like when you do weeding and pull the roots out of the dirt? They pull a bunch of clods with them. It was … sort of like that, I guess. Or at least closer to it. My heart stopped thudding, and I just … sort of let it go. More like the gardener made me let it go. I still remembered what Boss had said. I still knew Dom was a thug. But … I wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t suspicious. I just … was.

“See? You’re feeling better already.”

The flash went off again. I wasn’t sure whether it was his padlock, his pomp, his eyes, or his smile. Maybe all of them at once. I blinked slowly and nodded. It was sort of natural with the heavy steps I’d been taking. I felt like a giant bobblehead, and I was stuck in yes mode.

“Uhhhhh….”

Boss giggled. “You’re so adorable when you’re like this, Will-kun.”

Another yank. Any suspicions were pulled away with the roots to clear the way for … something. I knew he’d complimented me. I knew compliments deserved a response. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” We walked on for a block or so in silence, just letting the jingles ring while I kept weeding my brain. Boss pulled out one of his pink cigarettes and lit it. He toked it for a while, then finally spoke again. “Say, Will-kun?” He breathed into the air. A breeze blew it to my nose. The response was instinctual. I breathed in as much of the stuff as I could.

I groaned out an, “Uhhhh, … yeah?” as my eyes rolled. It was like someone had just watered the bed I was weeding. Every stroke came easier as stalk after stalk pulled loose with clod after clod of wet, muddy dirt.

Spattering.

Oxidizing.

Clearing out more and more.

Leaving behind less and less.

And I couldn’t stop it. Or … maybe I didn’t want to, bruh. It’s seriously that ple-uhhhh … intoxic-uhhhhhh…. Good. Yuh, like … really good, bruh.

…

Fuckin’ sweet….

Right, right. The story. Sorry.

So, Boss is talkin’, and he asks me a question. “You knew what Dom was when you met him, right?”

I nodded. “Uhuh….”

“How?”

I shrugged. The cold leather of the jacket brushed against my bare arm, and goosebumps raised on my skin. “Just … looked like one is all.”

Boss giggled. “You took one look, and that’s how you knew. I guess the old saying is true, then.”

I … couldn’t follow that. “Wut?”

He beamed at me again. “Well, it takes one to know one, silly.”

Another click like the slot of the padlock slamming home echoed in my ears. Or … maybe it was my head? I had enough holes left for both to work. I took a moment to stretch my arms. The fabric of the tank strained against my back and pecs, and I rumbled like a bike engine. The comb flicked shut, and I put it back in my pocket. “But … ah didn’ know. Yuh told me….” My mouth and throat felt … tired, like they didn’t want to put in the effort for a whole sentence. I let it slide. I was too buzzed from the weeding.

Boss giggled. “Nuh-uh,” he sang. “You guessed all on your own, Will-kun.”

He laughed again. And my head spun as blood surged through my body. I felt … different, but I couldn’t place how. Everything hugged just right. My body was bulky and … I guess hungry is the best way I can put it. It needed something. I needed something. My free arm lifted and I clenched my fist. That good feeling I talked about before came back. Only this time, it brought its bigger bulkier brother. My skin writhed and stretched as the sleeping pythons that were my biceps surged to life. It flowed like sweat or water down to my pecs, my abs, my crotch, my legs.

“Are you hiding something, Will-kun?” Boss asked playfully.

I felt my crotch inflate, just like my biceps. I spread my legs in a swagger as the flow bulked me up. “Fuck….” I groaned.

“I’m right, aren’t I, Will-kun?”

I couldn’t really think. I barely heard what he’d said. Could hardly process. “Uhhhhh…huh?”

He laughed as we stepped through a pair of glass doors into a room filled with a haze of cigar smoke. The clank of metal hitting metal struck again and again. It rang louder than my padlock and tags ever could. We stepped up to a reception desk. Boss smiled at the guy manning the computer. Dawg had ta be almost hulk-sized. A real muscle beast in a tight tank top with a mean sneer.

“Welcome ta Dawgmaker Gym. Whadaya want?” His voice was gruff, and his scowl would’ve driven off anyone who wasn’t already used to dealing with him. He asked me. Didn’t even seem to care about Boss. Then again, Boss is a regular here, so he didn’t need to ask.

“Tank, this is Will-kun. He’s here to work off some steam.” He smiled. Tank’s scowl deepened. I felt my body tense as I shifted my weight to stick part of myself in front of Boss.

“You got a problem?” I growled. My brow furrowed, and I glared right back. Paimon was nice to me, did so much for me. I wasn’t gonna let someone try to hurt him because of me.

“Tank, Will, play nice.”

The voice was soft and nonplussed, kind as always. My shoulders slumped. The fire building in my chest died, leaving more smoke to join the gym’s atmosphere. Tank backed off and averted his gaze from Paimon’s stare.

“Sorry, Suh.”

Paimon smiled. “There. All better now. Let’s get along and give Will a membership.

Tank saluted, allowing his pecs to show off and bounce in front of Boss. “Yussuh.”

Boss giggled at the sight and blushed as Tank tapped away at the keys. I think he did everything to keep flexing his pecs while he did it. I felt my own pecs tighten at the sight. My arms felt warm, loose, and tingly. When he was done, he handed me a lighter and a freshly cut cigar he’d chopped on the desk. Then he handed me my membership card. His eyes looked kinda funny, but I couldn’t say how or why. Was probably the haze from the smoke, anyway.

“On da house,” Tank lowed when I tried to return the cigar. “Part a’da deluxe package. Give it a long drag before yuhs works out. Oh, and, uh … welcome ta Dawgmaker Gym, dawg.”

I nodded numbly as Pai-dawg shepherded me onto the main floor with the jacket still draping over my back. My fingers twitched, and my chest heaved as I breathed the smoke in while heavy punk music and a repetitive bass thudded through the space.

Everyone in the gym was big, burly, and either lifting weights or flexing in front of a mirror while they lit one up.

Even Mistuh Pai-dawg was smokin’. He looked at me expectantly. “Well, Will-kun?”

“Uh, … wut?” I asked.

Paimon smiled and extended his hands. “Give me the jacket. I’ll hang it up. You light up that cigar, okay? I know a cranky smoker when I see one.”

Cranky smoker? For some reason, that didn’t sound right, but … at the same time, I kept craning my neck toward the ceiling, as if I could make myself grow into the cloud, like some mountain. Y’know mountains make their own clouds, right? Mistuh Pai-dawg taught me that. My head felt dizzy again. My arms moved almost on their own as I handed him the jacket. I got a lungfull of smoke in return.

“See you soon, Will-kun.”

The flash went off again. This time, it repeated as I flicked my thumb over the lighter and the flint went off.

One. Two. Three times. Finally, I lit up on the fourth. It was hard to work the little wheel with such a thick thumb. Kept sayin’ I needed to get a zippo. They’re built for big guys like me. Anyway, I held the flame to the head and waited. When it was good and smokin’, I took a drag.

My eyes rolled. My head shot back. My whole body relaxed. “Fuck, ah needed dis,” I swore. Like a magnet to a charge, the smoke surrounding the room seemed to zoom at my face all of a sudden. It was just me and the mirror. The weights clanked as members grunted through their sets, and I felt a sort of rhythm to it.

Clank. Clank.

One. Two.

Clank. Clank.

Flex, you.

I dragged.

I flexed.

I breathed.

I flexed.

I grunted.

I flexed.

One. Two.

Flex. Grunt.

One. Two.

Follow through.

One. Two.

Burn away.

One. Two.

“Flex and obey….”

“Yussuh….”

Thick hands felt up my biceps, adjusted my form and stance.

“Like this, dawg.”

The smoke burned in my lungs, but it was a good burn. The ash settled in my brain. I didn’t care.

I grunted and followed the coach. A man with a shock of black hair with shiny gold stripes running through in a pomp grinned at me through his shades. His jacket looked like it would break apart any moment under the stress of his arms. He bared his teeth at me as he looked over my bod. “Lookin’ good, dawg.”

“Feelin’ good,” I rumbled back. My lips pulled back in a half-sneer, half-grin. I kind of liked how growly my voice got with the smoke.

And then he was there again. Mistuh Pai-dawg smiled as he laid a hand over my bicep and beamed at the otha’ dawg. “Thanks for keeping him company, Jackknife-kun.”

Jackknife grinned and saluted Mistuh-Pai. “S’good ta greet a new dawg.”

Mistuh Pai-dawg laughed. “Treat him nice when he starts work, okay?”

Jackknife sneered as he swaggered off. “Don’t I always?”

Mistuh Pai-dawg had ta crane his neck ta look at me. Then he giggled and turned to the mirror. “Still going to say you’re not a thug, Will-kun?”

I blinked dully. The ash and smoke had seeped from my brain to my eyes, making them cloudy and indistinct. “Uhhhh … nun-uh….” I meant to say I wasn’t a thug. ’Least … I think I did. But I think Mastuh Pai-dawg took it th’ otha’ way.

“Good dawg.”

Like the Three Billie Goats Gruff, the biggest, strongest, baddest high bucked me off the bridge and right into the rapids.

“Let’s work out, thug.”

I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. But … I tried. I wanted to. It’s just … the clanking weights. The thump of my padlock against my chest. The heavy bass beating, beating, beating into my thick skull. Tamping down the dirt. Tenderizing the meat in my head. Beating the bone into a new shape. I squatted. I curled. I hefted. I thrust.

And the more I worked my body, the slower my head moved. The duller my thoughts became. The thicker my skull. The blockier my jaw. All that dirt and smoke put a filter over the windows. I stared at myself in the mirror. There were no pupils there anymore. No definition. Just a vague sort of emptiness, like a hollow in a mountain or an attic you never visit. It was just … there. Running on autopilot. Running on fumes.

The fumes from my cigar.

Fumes of smoke … and grease.

…

And leather.

I lost track of time, of everything but his eyes, his urgings.

…

He’d cheer me on, and I would lap it up like liquid energy.

“That’s my Will!”

I grinned.

“Good dawg. Can you do more?”

“Yussuh…”

Another set. Another excited laugh. He clapped that time.

“Arms and pecs next! Pump it up, dawg.”

“Yussuh….” I grunted. I pumped, and that pump strained my skin. I could almost hear it creaking as the muscle writhed and swelled with every rep.

He hummed. “You could use some bigger traps.”

I seized a pair of dumbbells and started shrugging and lifting to work my wings and shoulders. I could almost see my Adam’s apple throbbing, pulsing, expanding as my lungs heaved and my neck thickened with my shoulders.

“Yussuh….” I hardly even recognized the sound of my own voice anymore. It was a habit, acknowledgement. Nothing more. Nothing more than call and response. The more I listened, the better I felt. I was addicted. I didn’t want it to end. It couldn’t end. It wouldn’t end. I refused to let it end.

“And a broader back.”

“Yussuh.” Again, I worked. Crack went my shoulders. Suddenly, my chest was broader, my shoulders wider.

“Good thug.”

“Yussuh….”

Veins swam up and down my arms as they strained, like worms through the dirt. Processing, consuming.

“Yussuh, what?”

“Ah’m a good thug….”

“Say it again.”

“Ah’m a good thug.”

“Again.”

“Ah’m a good thug.”

“That’s my Will.”

This time, something was different. One last shift yanked in my brain. A nail in the coffin, a compacter on the dirt, whatever you wanna use for an analogy. All I know is, he was right. I was his Will. I did wut he wanted, because he made me feel so good. If … if this feeling would never end, I’d do whatever, be whatever he wanted. The dumbbells crashed into the rack, and I whipped around to fall onto my knees before him. Even then, we still were looking almost eye-to-eye.

He’d called. The program was set. The training demanded I answer.

A good dawg obeys.

“Yussuh….”

“Yussuh, what?” he asked.

I panted. My chest heaved. My tank felt paper-thin against my chest from all the sweat making it cling to my hulking body. I was built like a beast, and I felt like a beast. A beast who’d just been given an order.

A beast who had to obey. The cigar was long gone, but he gave me another dose of smoke as he smiled at me. He brushed my sideburns with his biker-gloved hands. Another blow. Another crack. My jaw got thicker, broader. And my neck swelled to match. The smoke flooded my brain, and with it came the clarity, the answer that was so blinding I almost blacked out right there.

“Yussuh, Massuh Pai-dawg….”

I was Massuh Pai-dawg’s Will. What he wanted, I got. What he wanted done, I would get done. My skull rang with the shouts of thousands of voices all echoing the same things over and over.

Serve Massuh Pai-dawg.

Obey Massuh Pai-dawg.

Protect Massuh Pai-dawg.

Good thug.

Good dawg.

Greaser thug.

Greaser dawg.

His beautiful soft hands cupped my face. “Time to suit up, thug.”

“Yussuh.” I rose to my feet. The jacket slid easily over my body. The cold leather and the smell of polish completed the scent that I’d been craving. I turned to the mirror and took in the whole look. The dog tags flashed as I grinned and flexed both my biceps.

New words had been engraved on the tags and the lock itself. My new name was carved in black on the padlock. First tag read, Will on one side and Property of Paimon Prowler on the other. The second tag read If found, please return to this address. The address followed. A phone number was on the other side.

“What are you?” Massuh asked again.

“Ah’m a big dumb greasuh thug for Massuh Pai-dawg.”

Massuh smiled and patted my sideburns. “Good dawg. That’s my Will-kun.”

Bliss. That’s the only word for it. “Yussuh.”

Paimon nodded. “I think you’re ready now.”

My brow furrowed. “Ready?”

He giggled and led me to a door with faded paint that barely read STAFF ONLY. The door opened. A massive storeroom greeted us. Crates, lockers, loading bay, the whole nine yards was there. Impossible hulking figures laid back against storage crates or stood by a chalkboard with the layout of some sort of building. One look at them, and I knew what was up. Rhinos, wolves, lions, rats. All with hands and feet, like real people. It wouldn’t have made sense to me before, but now, now I knew who they were.

They were my fellow dawgs. I lumbered to the lockers. A mask was already waiting for me to join the heist.

Massuh smiled at me. He looked different now. He was a wolf with white fur, but I knew it was him. “I knew you’d fit in,” he said.

I blushed and grunted, then flexed to work off the stress.

Massuh giggled again. “Come straight home after, thug. Dom and I want to hear about how your first day on the job went, ’kay?”

My legs smacked together. My chest thrust forward. My arms raised and flexed as I strained every muscle in my body to give the biggest profile for him to view. The room rang with all our voices. “Yussuh!”

We were linked.

We were one.

I finally disengaged and lumbered toward the truck. The other thugs soon followed.

They all stared at me as I sat on the hump at the front of the truck’s cab. I knew what they wanted me to say. I knew what I was supposed to say. And I said it.

“Let’s roll, dawgs.” I groaned. I shuddered. And Wilbur was gone for good. My mind emptied and blended with the other dawgs as the plan echoed over and over in our heads. I sneered.

I was a big dumb greaser thug.

A proud member of Massuh Pai’s Dawgs.

And it was time to get to work.

A dull husky chuckle flooded the cab as a final parting phrase echoed across my link to Massuh.

“Wish granted.”

And now you know my story, s’time I granted yours.

Wanna Smoke, dawg?

Credit goes to @musclecorps for this image.

The following Patreon Preview is for a $5 tier story reward. If you would like to see this and other story content, please visit my Patreon and pledge. On top of the story that goes with this tier, you also will have access to my Patreon Discord, where you can meet with other Patrons to discuss stories, talk with me as the author, and even make suggestions for future stories that I can write in the coming months for your entertainment.

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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.

If you like my stories, please consider joining my patreon. For a few dollars a month, you can enjoy more transformation, muscle, and more at your fingertips with new installations and stories provided each month. -------------------------------------------------------------------

Smoke and Mirrors

Image Source: comeandtouch

It was the draft that woke you first. That, and the sensation of hard concrete pressing against your body. The world was a blur at first, and then you thought you’d gone colorblind, at least until you perceived the frames mounted on your nose.

You rose slowly, groggily. You could just see the hints of radiant light striving to pierce the shield that the sunglasses provided you as they clawed at the edges of the amber screen. Your nose was struck by the sharp smell of freshly polished leather and an all-encompassing aroma of cigarette smoke, as if the very ground beneath you had somehow been permeated with that pungent essence. You weren’t entirely sure which was worse. Your arms were consumed by the length of your new leather jacket’s sleeves. the weight of it pulled at the edges of your shoulders, draping almost like a trench coat. The amount of skin you could feel exposed to the elements around your neck and chest was more than unnerving. And as you raised an arm to adjust your glasses, you discovered two black fingerless gloves barely hanging onto your hands.

You weren’t sure whether you wanted to try to dismiss this all as a dream or face the horror of the idea that you had not only been kidnapped, but undressed and shoved into this gear for who knew what reason.

“Please, I don’t ... I don’t want—”

“Oh, you’ll want. Because I say so.”

You turned your head toward the noise and winced as dizziness struck you. When the room settled again, you found yourself staring at a scene out of a movie. Two massively muscled men in black leather jackets and pants held a diminutive figure between them. Their expressions were grim, their jaws square, and their masculine features immensely intimidating. The scruff along their cheeks, jaws, and lips only served to enhance the image. They practically screamed thug, even as the lenses on their noses blocked any attempts to read their expressions.

The man who had spoken last was shorter than the muscle men. His build was leaner and well toned, but that didn’t stop his muscles from showing under his jacket. He moved in lithely and seized the prisoner by the lapel of his leather jacket and a bit of wadded shirt from beneath that layer. Smoke wafted out his mouth as if from the maw of a dragon as he leaned closer and closer.

The prisoner’s eyes widened in horror. “I-I’m not gay! I don’t want this. I don’t want this! I don’t —!”

His protests were silenced as lips met and the one breathed into the other. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but you could have sworn you saw a shadow of stubble forming along pale skin as the man who seemed to be the boss pulled away. The prisoner coughed.

“And now?”

A rasp crept into the prisoner’s throat as he turned his gaze back on the man that had forced himself upon him. “Let me go.”

“Do you want?”

“I want to be let go,” he cracked.

The sneer that followed that response was even worse through the distorted mirror of the prisoner’s reflective lenses. The curve made it broader, wider, more sinister. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and inched a fresh butt from the box. A lighter click click clicked with each decisive stroke of the boss’ thumb. And with every false start, the two thugs jerk jerk jerked into rigid posture like a pair of automatons wound by a key. You craned your neck to get a better look as the lighter finally ignited and a flame was held to the edge of the cigarette.

A deep pull as the butt glowed a deep red, then dulled as he let the smoke churn in his lungs before breathing out. A low, deep groan sounded in unison from the two thugs as they breathed deep, and their chests thrust out even farther for an impressive display.

Another pull. Another blow. This one was followed by a subtle cough as bits of that smoke curled through the captive’s nostrils and into his lungs. The boss lunged and locked lips again as smoke flowed from his nostrils and the edges of his mouth to curl and waft around his prisoner’s face. The shadows deepened again as the smoke dissipated. This time, you were certain you saw something.

As the boss pulled away again, you were rewarded with the sight of the beginnings of a proper beard now. There could be no dismissing it with the subtle gloss that emanated from the light reflecting off the hairs. You thought you saw a hint of an Adam’s apple jutting forward from the prisoner’s throat. And ... was it just you, or did his chest look a little fuller, his jacket and shirt a little less saggy?

“What the hell?” the prisoner cracked again.

“Do you want?”

“I want to see you behind bars.” Annoyance and anger had replaced fear. “I want the police to haul you away and lock you up where you’ll never be seen again. I want to go ho—”

This time, smoke puffed briefly out the prisoner’s nostrils as more smoke was blown in through the contact. Like a balloon inflating, the man’s chest puffed out. His shoulders pulled back. His neck thickened. He struggled to crane his head back, but the boss moved accordingly to block any chance of escape while a meaty hand from one of the thugs kept him from craning too far back. The struggle caused the glasses to droop lower on his nose, revealing the wild fear and revulsion that seemed to fog over as the man continued to blow into him. The struggles lessened, and the boss pulled away again.

“Do you want?” Again the question was asked. Why? What did this man have to gain by repeating himself?

“I ... I wa ... wha ... what did you do to me?”

Boss smiled as he tossed the dull remains of his cigarette to the floor. The embers burst from the edge of the butt in a shower of sparks, then slowly died. This time, as he lit the flame again, the prisoner was racked with shudders. The prisoner’s eyes locked on his reflection in Boss’ glasses.

“Is that...? I ... I, uh....” His breathing hitched. His nostrils flared as the smoke wafted toward him from Boss’ lips, followed by a gentle push along the bridge of his nose to return the glasses where they belonged. A deep groan followed as his shoulders slumped and his hands suddenly became visible at the ends of the massive leather jacket sleeves. They, too, were sheathed in black fingerless gloves.

“Do you want?” It was almost a whisper as he breathed in the prisoner’s ear. Unlike the others in the room, Boss’ hands were bare, and he ran his free hand over the prisoner’s head, slicking back his hair as the sides of his head became more visible with a closer cut that definitely was not there when you first woke up.

The sounds he produced weren’t exactly speech, more a ragged sort of breathing mingled with the rise and fall of his chest that made him look almost as though he were growing bigger just by the act of breathing. But surely that was just a trick of the light, ... wasn’t it? “I....” He huffed as a few tiny wisps were drawn into his nostrils. Down fell the cigarette. Poof went the embers. His mouth opened slightly as his tongue licked his lips.

There was no resistance this time, just a subtle, barely-perceptible jolt as lips locked. This time, you did see a difference. Trapezius muscles swelled into prominent mounds to compliment the expanding neck. Leather creaked as the sleeves began to fill like pressure cuffs. Subtle popping cracks heralded the growth of bone as growing mass was soon balanced by increasing height.

This time, when Boss pulled away, the thugs lowered their grips. The prisoner had grown taller. His thighs and calves had begun to strain ever so slightly against his leather pants. Thick, heavy boots surrounded feet that you suspected were rapidly swelling to fit the new size if they hadn’t already reached that point. Wisps of the smoke seemed to hang around the prisoner in a miasma that sought to seep into his clothes, his very skin.

“Do you want?”

The voice that responded was low, dull, and seemingly uttered without thought or emotion.

“I want.”

Again came the sneer as he drew close. “Good boy.” This time, when they locked lips, it was not forced. Greed and passion fed and consumed as the two linked, the one providing the breath that had suddenly become as precious as life itself to the prisoner. Pecs and torso swelled and expanded. Arms became long and rippled with muscle that rose and fell with every motion in a coordinated dance. Hands cracked and burst into thick meaty mitts as the bone in his brow and forehead became more prominent. The jacket parted to reveal bulge after bulge of cobblestone abs taking shape.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Two. Four. Six. Eight.

The smoke was pouring now, out his ears, out his nostrils, out the edges of his hungry mouth as he struggled to breathe every last iota of that substance, even as it choked out every last trace of his former self to make room for the new life being forged in the image of his Boss.

When the two finally broke away, the prisoner was no longer the man he had been. He slumped forward, his head dropped low as Boss stared at him with a knowing smirk. He pulled away briefly, retrieved his lighter, and....

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Jerk. Jerk. Jerk. Jerk.

The new THUG rose to attention as his two new fellows flanked on either side with a familiar machine-like efficiency.

Boss lit up another cig.

“What do you want?”

“Boss,” the three replied in a perfect unified bass that rumbled through the air.

Boss breathed slightly, letting the smoke waft around his mouth and face, but nowhere near the THUGS.

The two on either side remained perfectly still. The middle one swayed just barely.

“And you’ll obey your boss, won’t you?”

“Yes, Boss.”

The trio breathed deeply as Boss blew a heavy cloud of smoke at them. All three THUGS groaned, then stood rigidly as the last of the prisoner’s features hardened into an identical copy of his two on either side of him. An equally sized bulge swelled into prominence at his crotch as he widened his stance.

Boss smiled in satisfaction as he looked over the trio, running his hands along their biceps and triceps, inspecting their backs and stances, their stature, everything. And all the while the trio remained motionless during his scrutiny.

“Perfect,” Boss said. “The three of you could use each other for shaving mirrors easily.” Then he chuckled. “But you know how the old saying goes,” he said as he turned to fix his gaze on you and lowered his shades to expose the eager, hungry gaze that lingered behind them. “The best things in life come in pairs.” He drew near to you, followed by the trio of THUGS as he motioned them to follow. You soon find yourself surrounded as you’re lifted shakily to your feet to stare into Boss’ face. You straighten your posture almost without thinking as the click click click of his lighter rings in your ears.

He sneers. And then he directs that question straight at you as he lights up another cigarette and takes a deep breath. The aroma of the smoke is almost overwhelming, and you’re already starting to feel a little dizzy and tingly as your fingers twitch.

“So, tell me. Do you want?”

Your lips part. Your jaw grows slack. And as you stare ahead, you see yourself in Boss’ reflective lenses. As your thoughts begin to cloud over with the approach of his mouth, one of your last free thoughts bubbles to the surface, a curiously ironic twist on what’s been happening.

It’s all really smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?

You take a deep breath without thinking to chuckle. Instead, all you get is smoke and a strangely euphoric sensation as your chest begins to balloon outward.

And it feels so good.

As your cheeks begin to prickle and your lungs begin to burn, you’re drawn into your changing reflection as much as you are the smoke Boss is pumping into you.

Maybe you do want after all....

There's nothing hotter than a thug with a body like Victor Gonzalez! So sexy and hot 🔥

Art challenge thing that took 10hrs out of my life.

1/3

2/3

Art challenge thing that took 10hrs out of my life.

1/3

Mexican thug didn't realize his sweat was leaking through. Cant tell if it's hot or effin gross. He put on a good show tho.

My new headcannon!

"I always feel bad for the thug that went to go fetch the guards. What if his dream was to sing in an impromptu bar song?"

Thug

February 2012 cover.

Fully Immersive 1

Justin Watkins was starting to get desperate.  The junior mechanical engineering major needed to line up a summer internship.  Really, he needed to have one lined up months ago.  Without one, he wouldn’t be able to finish his degree in four years; that was something of a minor miracle in and of itself, as most students in the program took at least five years to graduate.  

He never envisioned finding an internship would be this difficult, especially in his field.  But the economy still wasn’t fully back on its feet, and even the biggest engineering firms were cutting back on their internship offerings.  Even though students like Justin wouldn’t be paid, the corporate world viewed time as money, and more and more companies didn’t think they could afford the time it took to babysit a bunch of college kids every summer.

It was early May, and the spring semester had only a few weeks left.  This was a race against the clock if ever there was one.  But on this day, all Justin could do was slink his way back to his apartment complex after class and hope one of his buddies wanted to make some poor decisions involving alcohol that night.

Justin was about halfway through his trek across campus when he, for no particular reason, stopped to look at one of the bulletin boards.  It was tall and round, just like thousands of others that dotted college campuses across the country.  And like all those identical twins, this one was covered in layer upon layer of fliers and posters in various degrees of disarray, in every color of the rainbow.  But a plain white one, partially stapled over by a not-all-that-cleverly veiled advertisement for black market Adderall, caught Justin’s eye.

As he peeled back the piece of paper covering the one he’d targeted, Justin’s lungs were suddenly assaulted.  He coughed hard, turning to see the culprit just a few inches to his right: a tall, bro-ish guy smoking a cigarette.  So much for that campus-wide smoking ban, Justin thought as he less than subtly pounded his fist against his chest.  He’d hope that, and his loud hacks, would get the bro to either move along or put out the cancer stick.  Alas, his hopes were dashed.

Normally Justin would just walk away, but he wanted to see what that flier said.  Holding his breath while the fratty dude kept puffing away, Justin beheld what had drawn him to this particular bulletin board: large block letters in black against a background of white:

NEED AN INTERNSHIP?

GET ONE TODAY—GUARANTEED!

CREDITS AVAILABLE FOR ANY MAJOR!

FULLY IMMERSIVE!

ABSOLUTELY FREE!

Could this be happening? Did the random flier outside the student union really just answer Justin’s prayers? His better judgment doubted it could be that simple, but at this point, Justin had nothing to lose.  The flier had a phone number at the bottom, and before he knew it, Justin had keyed it into his phone and hit “call”.

The voice at the other end—which sounded like it belonged to a bored, middle-aged woman—asked Justin some basic questions: name, age, major.  Justin answered easily, but then the questions got a little stranger.  The woman wanted to know his race (white), height (5’9” on a good day), weight (245 lbs.), economic background (middle-class) and criminal history (none).  Justin was growing more skeptical, but rattled off the answers.  When he was done, the woman told him she had something perfect for him.  So perfect, in fact, he could start the very next day.

Justin didn’t know whether to be psyched or really creeped out, but with no other solid prospects on the horizon, he decided to be psyched.   The woman gave him an address and told him to be there at 11:00 a.m. the following day.  It didn’t ring a bell for Justin; it was in a part of town, way off-campus, where he’d never really gone before.  Probably because if it couldn’t be described as the hood, it was definitely hood-adjacent.   It also returned no results on his Google search.

More confused than ever, Justin began to waddle his squat, flabby, pasty body back toward his apartment.  Just before he arrived home, he decided he’d give this mysterious, far too convenient opportunity a chance.  Oh, what the hell, he thought to himself.  I guess it can’t hurt to see what this is all about.

“GOSH DARN IT, HURRY UP!”

Justin knew the object of his rage couldn’t hear him, but he shouted anyway.  It was 11:02, and he was still in the car.  Finally, he rued inwardly, I get an internship and I’m late the first darn day.  The traffic had been a mess ever since he left his apartment complex’s parking lot.  Adding insult to injury, his “check engine soon” light had illuminated halfway through the drive.  Justin wasn’t happy.  He definitely didn’t have the money to pay for any kind of major repairs, and he’d more than used up his parents’ financial goodwill for the semester.  All he could do was, first and foremost, hope he got to the mystery address soon.  After that, he’d turn his attention toward hoping the warning light wasn’t a harbinger of a massive repair bill.

After what seemed like an eternity, the traffic broke, and Justin was able to cruise to his destination, arriving an embarrassing but not quite mortifying four minutes late.  He double-checked the address he’d been given, and confirmed he was in the right place.  But this was a little side street, almost like an alley, and the address didn’t belong to the kind of pristine office building where engineering firms are normally housed.  Instead, the address belonged to what Justin could charitably describe as a “weathered” structure containing an auto mechanic’s shop.

Why the heck would they send me to a place like this? Justin was really confused now, but he’d come this far, so he figured he may as well see it through.  Besides, maybe they’ll cut me a break if this old piece of junk needs some work.  

Undoing the seatbelt, Justin rose from his seat and straightened his suit jacket as he closed the door and locked it.  Three or four times.  As he padded towards the shop, he felt an anxious (or terrified?) feeling rising in his ample gut.  But Justin shook it off; he had to at least figure out what was going on here.

As he approached the main door—the twin garage doors were both closed—someone emerged from it, shouting at him with a booming voice.

“What da fuck you want, vato?!”

It was all Justin could do not to run back to his car. Instead, he just froze as a tall, heavily-tattooed, dark-haired, thickly muscled Hispanic man in a stained wife beater came nose to nose with him.

Say something, Justin told himself.  Anything!

“Uh,” he began, his high-pitched voice audibly racked with fear, “I’m, uh, supposed to have an internship here…I think?”

The Hispanic dude didn’t move.  Standing a full head taller than Justin, the guy was more than a little intimidating.  Remaining deadly silent, a scowl etched into his tough face, for several minutes only added to the intimidation factor.

A few seconds later, the Hispanic dude’s expression changed from a glare to a gold-toothy smile.  “Ayy, you must be Justin!”  For the first time in what felt like hours, Justin felt it was safe to exhale.  “Welcome to ‘Sangre y Lagrimas Mecanicos’, holmes!”

Allowing himself to relax, Justin spoke up again, his voice still trembling.  “What, um, what does that mean?”

The Hispanic guy laughed.  “Deese Anglos, man, why they keep sending me deese fuckin’ Anglos!”  The guy then paused, seeming to look Justin up and down and back again.  “Ayy, I know why.”  He laughed again.  Justin was clueless.

“I, uh, I’m sorry I don’t know Spanish, sir.  I didn’t know it would be required for completion of…”

“Who da fuck ‘sir’ do you see here, homie?”  Justin was taken aback by the interruption.  “Call me Hector, man.  Hector.”  The guy swung his right arm out, palm open at shoulder height.  Justin recognized this, having seen frat bros do it day after day.  He’d never actually been on the receiving end of one, but he knew what he had to do.  Justin awkwardly slapped his hand, his own palms open, into the other man’s.  

“It’s, um, nice to meet you, Hector.”  Justin straightened out his blazer again.  “I must admit, though, I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”

Hector laughed again, harder this time, so hard he brought his tattooed hand to his mouth and dropped to his knees.  “I’m sorry, holmes, I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to laugh at you, man.  Ayy, you’ll laugh too when you figure it out.”  

Figure what out? Justin presumed that particular comment shouldn’t be shared aloud.

By now, several other men had come out of the garage to join Hector.  All were Hispanic, all sported close-cropped black hair and goatees, and enough ink to print a few thousand copies of the local newspaper.  Some wore dirty tank tops like Hector, others were in coveralls, which allowed Justin to learn a few of their names—Pedro, Jorge, Jesus.  Helpfully, Hector introduced the others within a moment—Tomas, Angel and Victor rounded out this motley crew.

Justin was a little surprised to see this many guys working at such a small, run-down place.  Heck, there weren’t even any cars in the driveway, so who knew if they were even working on anything? 

Hector broke the silence, which was growing more uncomfortable by the second.  “Aight, listen holmes, you a mechanical something-or-other major, right?  This a mechanic shop.  That’s why you here, man.”  The others chuckled, like they knew something Justin didn’t.

“You wanna learn?” Hector’s tone had gotten ever-so-slightly more sinister.  “I promise you, vato, you gonna learn.”  Now, Hector’s smile returned.  “Come with us, bro, we get you all taken care of.  First thing’s first, you gotta lose that suit, Joaquin.”

Justin was puzzled.  “Who’s…oh, I’m Joaquin?”

Hector and his crew laughed hysterically yet again.  He turned to Victor, shaking his head.  “This guy, man, this guy is the best one yet, yo.”  Hector put his hand on Justin’s shoulder.  “’Round here, you Joaquin, understand? That’s a sign of respect, homie.  Don’t make me regret it.”

Justin nodded quickly.  Hector patted his shoulder, hard, then led him into the shop, reminding him to ditch the suit jacket as he went.  What Justin—Joaquin—saw when he crossed the threshold of the door left his eyes wide.  

Cars, everywhere.  More accurately, what was left of cars.  There were piles and piles of engines, tires, rims and other parts stacked 15 or 20 feet high.  “Wow,” he said out loud, inadvertently.

Hector threw his arms wide, showing off the grandeur of his place of business.  “Check it out, holmes! Your new ‘classroom’!”

It took a moment, but Justin put the pieces together.  This is a chop shop, he realized.  I’m doing my summer internship in a chop shop!   Justin reasoned if ever he was going to get out of here, now was the time.  He turned for the door, only to find it blocked by the towering, hulking bodies of Jesus and Angel.  Justin couldn’t help but chuckle ruefully.  Jesus and an angel, trapping me in a den of iniquity.  Only me.

“Nah,” Hector said loudly.  “You ain’t going nowhere, Joaquin.  You came here to learn.”  The large man was now in Justin’s face again.  “I’m ready to teach.  And trust me, vato, failure is not an option.”

After being scared more than half to death, Hector had instructed his crew to get Justin looking like he belonged there.  They watched as he stripped out of his suit, laughing loudly when they saw his flabby, translucent midsection and thumb-sized penis.  Justin couldn’t be sure, but he suspected they were mocking him mercilessly in rapid-fire Spanish exchanges, each punctuated by hysterical laughter. 

When he was down to his boxers, Tomas tossed him a pair of dingy black jeans.  Even for the rotund Justin, they looked like they’d be about two sizes too big around the waist.  But Justin didn’t see this as the time to quibble over such details, so he put the jeans on.  They immediately sagged to the middle of his fat thighs, causing the denim to pool at his feet.  Tomas was laughing again.  “You sure you ain’t dressing like this all the time, Joaquin? You got mad swag, yo!”  That caused Tomas and the others to laugh even louder than they did when they saw Justin’s pathetic prick.

“Can you at least give me a shirt, Tomas?” If Justin had been paying attention, he might have noticed the slightest hint of an authentic accent—Mexican, to be precise—when he said Tomas’s name.  But he wasn’t, and when Tomas handed him a size XXXXL wife beater—two X’s more than Justin normally worse, and covered in grease and sweat stains—he put it on quickly.  The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him.  He just realized long ago he was better off playing along than trying to fight it.

Black socks and well-worn work boots followed, and within minutes, Justin was dressed again, though in the kind of outfit he never envisioned seeing in a mirror.  Tomas and the others applauded; Justin suspected their clapping was tinged with a good amount of sarcasm.  “There you go, mayne,” Tomas said, approaching Justin for the same kind of hand-slap-hug-thing that Hector had.   “Now you look like you belong here.”  This was Justin’s first up-close look at Tomas.  He looked a little younger than Hector, and taller—at least 6’6”—yet a little less muscular.  But Tomas’s “little less” was still darned impressive.  Justin appreciated the dude’s ample neck muscles, broad shoulders, thick chest and prominent biceps.  He didn’t  know much about bodybuilding, but he knew a bodybuilder when he saw one, and Justin was sure Tomas had been hitting the gym quite hard.  

Just like Hector, Tomas was covered in tattoos.  Justin could spot many different words and phrases—all in Spanish, though he thought he could understand one or two—along with designs of all kinds, from the macabre to the stereotypical.  There were dozens of skulls, more than a few naked women with oversized breasts, and everything in between.  The black and grey ink soaked just about every inch of Tomas’s visible caramel-colored skin, from chin to fingertips.  Justin assumed his chest, stomach, back and legs were covered, as well.  He also noticed another thing everyone in Hector’s crew had in common: their faces were all tattoo-free, except they all had at least one teardrop inked on their cheeks.  Hector had the most—Justin had counted at least a dozen—while Tomas had only a pair, one on each side of his goateed face.  Angel had five or six, and Jorge and Pedro hovered around 10 apiece. Justin presumed the teardrops somehow tied into the hierarchy of this crew, because no one had nearly as many as Hector, and he was clearly running the show.

“So whatchu think, Joaquin? You like your new look?”

Justin turned to the full-length mirror, which he thought was oddly placed in the middle of the lounge/kitchen area, and regarded himself.  He looked like the lowest of the lower class, in his disgusting top and trashy jeans.  But he also thought it made him look a little more dangerous, a little tougher maybe.  Justin couldn’t quite place it, but aside from the clothes, something else was different about his reflection.  Was his hair darker than it was earlier that day? Had he lost weight and not noticed?

Justin dismissed those thoughts, chalking it up to the massive amount of confusion his brain was experiencing.  He turned back to Tomas and nodded.  “Looks hella tight, mayne!” Justin was shocked by what had come out of his mouth.  He’d never said a curse word before—not even hell—and he definitely noticed the accent this time.  I ain’t sure what this is, he thought, but shit, the flier said  this would be fully immersive.  Guess I’m immersing, yo!

Tomas smiled broadly, exposing a mouth that had a few teeth replaced with gold stand-ins, and others missing altogether.  “Glad to hear it, vato, glad to hear it.”  The six men in the room with Justin all smiled, some chatting quietly amongst themselves in Spanish.  Now, though, Justin could decipher a few words here and there.

Tomas slapped Justin playfully on the upper arm.  “Come on, holmes, smoke break, you earned it.”

“Nah, bro,” Justin said.  There’s that accent again.  “Shit’s bad for you, man.”  And the cursing.  They must be rubbing off on me.

Tomas laughed.  “Maybe so, Joaquin, maybe so.  But consider it part of your…learning experience.”  Tomas gestured down to his waistband, and Justin’s eyes followed.  He saw two things he never expected to see on the first day of his big internship:  a pack of menthol cigarettes, and the grip of a black handgun.

  Justin was nervous.  Or at least, he felt like he should be.  One of his hands, which looked like it had gotten a nice tan over the last few hours, he held a cigarette.  In the other, a lighter.  Tomas, Angel and the rest of Hector’s crew—sans Hector himself, who’d left to “conduct business” a while back—were watching him intently, waiting for him to do something.

“Vamanos, vato,” shouted Pedro, “we ain’t got all day!”  Pedro was leaning against the exterior back wall of the shop, his own menthol dangling from his lips.  Smoke escaped his nose and mouth as he chided Justin for dragging his feet.

Justin didn’t to light the cigarette.  He knew he would cough.  He knew he would hate it.  He knew it was unhealthy, and dirty, and just plain wrong.  Which is why he was just as fascinated as the crew when in one fluid motion, his left hand put the filter of the cigarette between his lips, and his right raised the lighter and activated the flame.  Sucking in as the fire met the tobacco, Justin inhaled the mint-tinged smoke into his lungs.   

But the cough never came.  A second later, he exhaled through his nose, two large plumes of smoke jetting out from his nostrils.  Smoking didn’t actually feel bad.  In fact, it felt…good.

The crew gave him a round of applause. “Atta boy, Joaquin, you be looking more and more like us all the damn time,” said Victor in a sing-song Mexican accent.

Justin smiled between puffs.  “Gracias, vato,” Justin replied.   Where did that come from? he thought to himself.  “It feels good, yo, real good.”  

The young man’s mind was in turmoil.  On the one hand, the rational hand, he was being held against his will by a bunch of thugs, lured to an illegal chop shop on the pretense of a college internship.  They were making him do things he would never do on his own, including smoke cigarettes, a habit that had been repulsive to Justin just hours before.

But on the other hand, it all felt right, somehow.  Justin had never been an especially remarkable person.  Sure, he was booksmart, but he didn’t have many friends, his social life was nonexistent, he’d never come anywhere close to losing his virginity, and his body was certainly nothing to write home about.  Now, he had friends—vatos—and inexplicably, his appearance was changing.  The old Justin was melting away, being replaced by someone he didn’t know or recognize.  Justin was becoming Joaquin.

His rational side was terrified.  But the other part of his mind was winning out.  Justin—no, Joaquin—was committed.  

Over the next few hours, Joaquin continued to assimilate into Hector’s crew.  The vatos showed him around the shop, showed him what they did to the cars that “mysteriously” appeared on their doorstep at all hours of the night.  Joaquin was learning quickly; by the middle of the afternoon, he felt like he’d been a mechanic forever.  He knew what everything was, what it did, where it went…and how much it was worth.

The crew had taken frequent smoke breaks, and Joaquin was now a more than willing participant.   After just three hours, he’d smoked twice that many cigarettes.  He’d taken to keeping a spare behind his ear at all times, the white paper wrapping contrasting boldly against his hair, which was now jet black and very short.  After Justin’s old, nondescript hair had completely darkened, Jesus had taken him to the back and given him a haircut.  It seemed Jesus was a master barber in addition to a pretty good mechanic, because Joaquin emerged with a perfectly executed skin fade, with sharp lines at the temples that flowed seamlessly into a pencil-thin, expertly lined beard.  Jesus had also taken good care of Joaquin’s mustache, which was a little thicker than the rest of his facial hair.  Like any good vato, he thought.  After work, the crew had promised to take Joaquin for his first tattoos.  He couldn’t wait.

It was just about 5:00 when Hector finally returned.  The crew, including Joaquin, were lounging against the front of the shop on yet another smoke break.   Hector had worn a scowl when he emerged from his customized Cadillac, but when he saw Joaquin taking a drag off the menthol and pull it away with his thumb and forefinger, Hector smiled broadly.

“Ayy what the fuck is this yo!” He approached Joaquin for another handshake, and now Joaquin knew exactly what to do.  When the two finished their masculine embrace, Hector grabbed his new vato by the shoulders.  “You lookin’ real good, holmes.  I didn’t think we could make you this grimy this fast, but I take it!”

Joaquin laughed in response.  He hadn’t been to the mirror lately, but if he had, he would have noticed his teeth were now wildly out of place and stained brown, a stark contrast to the perfect chompers in which Justin had taken great pride.  “I’m lovin’ every minute of it, hermano!”

Hector smiled again, but this one had a bit of a sinister twinge to it.  “Bueno, vato.  ‘Cuz I got a new lesson for you.”  He pulled up his wife beater to reveal a pair of shiny handguns resting in his waistband.  Hector pulled out one and held it out to Joaquin.  “You ready to learn some more, holmes?”

Joaquin looked down at the piece, up at Hector, then back down at the gun as he took it confidently into his hand.  “Whatever you need, jefe, I gotchu, mayne.”

Hector put his powerful arm around Joaquin’s shoulders, which seemed to be coming in quite nicely.  Soon, he’d be just as big and strong as Hector and the rest of the crew.   Having strong guys was important in this line of work, for several reasons.  

“Good,” Hector said.  “First, let me show you something, bro.”  He motioned for Joaquin to follow him into the shop.  Joaquin took a final, double drag off the cigarette and flicked it into the street as he walked through the door, smoke still pouring out of his nose as he crossed the threshold.  Joaquin barely noticed it among all the other changes, but his walk had changed, as well.  Where Justin took short, hesitant steps, Joaquin swaggered like a lifelong homie.  

Hector led Joaquin into his private office, a small room off the main garage protected by three sets of locks.  Closing the door behind him, Joaquin took a seat on the ripped, stained chair on the near side of Hector’s cluttered desk.

The boss broke the silence quickly.  “You understand what we doing here, right?”  Joaquin nodded.  “No, I mean you understand what we doing to you.”

The new vato responded that he sort of knew what was going on, and that it felt weird at first but now, it felt awesome.  Joaquin didn’t realize he had said all that in Spanish.

Hector reached into his desk drawer and pulled out six file folders.  “Aaron Gabriel.  Jin Park.  Peter Morris.  Tommy McGinty.   George Krakowski.   Vince Distefano.  You recognize those names, Joaquin?”

“No se, hermano,” Joaquin replied.

“How about Angel Gutierrez, Jesus Pajarito, Pedro Morales, Tomas Manuel, Jorge Carneul and Victor Diaz?”

Joaquin’s heart skipped a beat. Dios mio, he thought.  They were all like me once.  

Hector continued.  “I be straight witchu, homie.  I needed a crew.  All my old vatos got themselves locked up or fuckin’ shot and shit.   Then some gringo comes to me and says he can help me rebuild my staff.  I says ‘Si, hombre, why the fuck not?’  

“But this puto keeps sending me these pasty-ass, pansy-ass frat party looking motherfuckers.  So I bust into dude’s office with my piece and ask him what the fuck’s he trying to pull on me.  The guy says, ‘Didn’t you read the sign on the door? ‘Immersive Internships.’  And then it hit me, yo.  Alls I had to do was tell these conos what to do, and not only would they do it, they’d fuckin’ become it!”

Hector went on to briefly describe what each vato had been when Hector got his hands on them. One had been a swimmer, another an honors student.  Others were just slackers—they had embraced the change the quickest, Hector said.

“There’s just one problem, yo,” he continued.  “At the end of the day, I gotta give you the chance to go back to your old life, holmes.  That’s part of the deal. You can walk away from all this, no fuckin’ questions asked.  You won’t remember shit.”

Joaquin considered what Hector had said.  He could go back to the life he’d been living all along, the buttoned-down, boring life of Justin Watkins.

“Or,” Hector said, continuing Joaquin’s thought for him as he pulled something else out of his desk drawer.  “You can smoke this blunt with me, and be my vato for life.  It’s your choice, mayne.”

The little bit of Justin that still existed in the recesses of Joaquin’s transformed brain was crying out for him to walk away.  But Justin wasn’t running the show anymore.  

“Ain’t no choice to make, jefe,” Joaquin said, brandishing the weapon he’d just been gifted.  “I wanna ride with chu, hermano.”

Hector laughed, his gold teeth catching the dim light of the lamp in the corner of the cramped office.  “I was hoping you’d say that.  Muy bueno, hermano.  You’ve made me very happy.”  Hector picked up the blunt he’d pre-rolled specially for this occasion, wrapped in the paper of his contract with Immersive Internships.  He’d figured out the trick to locking in the transformations by accident.  Hector had three or four of his interns go back to their old lives, and was growing frustrated with II.  Angrily, he ripped a contract in half and used it to roll a blunt.  Moments later, Angel—the first of his permanent vatos—had told him he wanted to stay on.  He was in the midst of his transformation from Aaron to Angel at the time, and when he took a few hits off the contract-blunt, Hector watched in amazement as the metamorphosis sped up.  By the time the blunt was out, all traces of Aaron were gone, and his body had just about doubled in size, all of it muscle.  Aaron was dead, and the very Mexican Angel was here to stay.

He’d gotten to do that five more times, creating Tomas, Jorge, Pedro, Jesus and Victor.  Joaquin would be his seventh, bringing his crew up to full strength.  Hector was looking forward to this particular change.

For his part, Joaquin couldn’t wait to seal the deal.  He reached across the desk and grabbed the blunt, brought it to his mouth and lit it.  He took three or four deep drags, holding it all in his lungs, before exhaling with the cough of a practiced weed smoker.  “Dat some good shit, jefe, gracias,” Joaquin said through a smile of crooked teeth.  Hector took his turn.  And then he watched.

Joaquin doubled over in pain as the change rapidly intensified.  He stood up as his height rocketed to a towering 6’7”.  Reflexively, he kicked off his boots as the feet inside them grew to a size 19.  At the same time, the skin all over his body continued to darken, finally settling on a mocha color that complemented his hair, which had already become an inky black.  

Hector kept hitting the blunt as Joaquin packed on muscle, pounds at a time.  His shoulders grew to the size of soccer balls, connecting to a pair of 26” biceps and a set of meaty, sinewy forearms.  Joaquin ripped off the nasty wife beater as his chest inflated, giving way to an identical pair of powerful, heaving pecs.  His nipples went from pink to dark brown and now pointed straight down at his abs, which were popping into existence like bricks being laid one at a time.  An exquisite Adonis belt pointed the way to Joaquin’s rapidly growing dick, which burst through the cotton of his boxer shorts like an actor rushing through the curtain of a stage.  It, too, became dark, growing fat and flopping around in spasms of growth.  Joaquin watched as his foreskin grew back, creating a polla that would be more than a foot long when it was fully hard.  

Next came the thighs, which looked more like they belonged to a rugby player, thick and tight with corded muscle.  They went nicely with Joaquin’s new calves, which stuck out behind his leg like someone had glued footballs to his skin.

Just like that, it was over.  Justin Watkins was dead.  Joaquin Valbuena, the hulking enforcer of the Sangre y Lagrimas crew, was born.  The new, permanent vato extended his giant hand to Hector, took what was left of the blunt and polished it off, letting the smoke waft through his thick black mustache.

“Ayy,” Joaquin said, his voice now a lilting baritone, clearly belonging to someone who spoke only the most basic English.  “What chu want me to do wit dis, jefe?” He motioned to the gun, still sitting on the desk.

Hector leaned back in his chair.  “You want some of these, vato?” He indicated the teardrop tattoos that dotted his rugged cheeks.  Joaquin nodded furiously.

Hector stood up, walked around the desk, cocked the gun and put it into Joaquin’s massive paw.  “You gonna get the chance to earn four of them tonight, holmes.”

JB THUGGIN