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Spiral Zoom - Nimja Hypnosis

Fading out into infinity, with layers of appearing spirals.

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New Youtopia: Career Decision

The chair creaked heavily as McFarland sat down. The bright white lights flooded from the many tiles surrounding the room, leaving the occupants with no sense of time or place. Some scrawled over data pads. Others stared into the empty void and mumbled under their breaths. Others still slumped in their chairs as audio data ports plugged into their ears and filtered information directly through their ear canals.

There was little to tie the occupants together. Race, age, income. No matter the qualifier, the range was vast and diverse.

As it should be.

McFarland laid his forearms on the desk and folded his hands together. The cycle of the ventilation system tickled the mostly bare skin on the sides of his head. He had received it during his fifth visit to this room, and had been careful to maintain it every since. His beard had been carefully styled to offer the sharp angular impression that showed off his masculinity. The chain about his neck hung somewhat loosely against his chest as he hunched slightly. The green fabric of his shirt clung tightly to his shoulders and biceps.

The desk flashed its digital display as a compartment opened to reveal a pair of dark glasses.

Wear these.

McFarland took them without a second thought. Seconds later, the world was tinted as a stream of numbers, letters, and images flashed over the lenses. McFarland endured them patiently. It was not his place to question. He had learned that after his initial orientation at the facility. He had attended every class, followed every instruction, passed every test with equal diligence. It was his duty. It was his responsibility as a future citizen of The Nation to do his part and contribute, as all future citizens and new adults who came of age were required to do.

Congratulations, Future Citizen McFarland. You have faced much hardship and opposition in your quest to join The Nation. You have passed through phases, tests, and trials, each designed to hone your biological advantages and delete that which was detrimental or unnecessary. You have forsaken past ties to your old life. To family, to friends, to disorder and anarchy.

“Yes,” he lowed softly in a deep voice. A flash of memory passed through him. The guards in their pristine white uniforms. The reflective visors obscuring their faces. Surrender at the gates. Petition. The waiting room, so much like this orientation chamber, only designed for a single occupant and a few observers.

His voice had been higher then, his body frail, his clothing loose. Injections, exercises, and a strict diet changed that. They had changed many things. His voice had gone first as the injections forced the muscles in his neck and shoulders to grow and swell. What started as simple repetition soon became mantra.

You have thrown yourself into integration, into the greater whole for the greater good.

“For the greater good,” he repeated. And pleasure flowed again as he sank into that pleasant space that wasn’t quite dreaming, but wasn’t quite awake either.

Going deeper was his goal, his obsession, his duty. Every week, he would hear his voice compared with the first. Going on and on. He would listen. He would follow. And an inexplicable thrill would come over him the lower his voice became. It was pleasurable. It was good. It was for the better, because it made him feel better. It was for the greater good.

Deeper voice. Deeper listening. Deeper exercises. The ache seeping deep into his muscles. The men leading him deeper into the compound. Fitness was key. Classes were given. Holographic projections. Tactics. Arms handling. Martial arts. All vital training. Vital to grow. Vital to mold. Vital to transform.

He had been so thrilled when they presented him with his first set of clothing. No handmedowns. No wear and tear. No dust or blood. The garments were clean, pristine. And they were a perfect fit.

Fit for a growing young man. Fit for a future citizen. Fit to be worn. Fit to be borne. Fit to be torn and replaced. Fit for the cycle to begin again.

Your transition is to be commended. You have cast off barbarism for civilization, weakness for strength, ignorance for knowledge, rebellion for conformity, dissension for obedience, delinquency and disruption for discipline and control.

“Deep Control...”

And Chaos for order.

Rigidly marching. Following others. Training simulations under those flashy helmets. Exercises. Fitness. Martial arts. All escorted at one pace, one rank, one file. Guards on either side. Marching, pacing. What was first difficult became simple, routine, automatic. The pace that had been such a pain lengthened his stride as legs grew taller and thighs thickened.

The face that had writhed with anxiety over the silence soon settled into perfect angular symmetry. Silence was not to be feared. Silence was order. Order was maintained by discipline and control. Discipline and control were gained through obedience. Obedience was demonstrated by conforming to rules, schedule, and regulations, safe in the knowledge of the strength in numbers, in unity, in civilization. 

And civilization was The Nation. The Nation was utopia.

All will find peace in The Nation. All will find utopia.

“Long live The Nation. Long live the utopia...”

The tromp of heavy booted feet came to a halt on either side of him. McFarland waited patiently. He had not been given leave.

Your transition into Citizenship is nearly complete. There is one more task before you are prepared for integration and your lifelong assignment. Rise. Follow.

McFarland obeyed. The chair scraped back. He replaced it, then turned as one. Shoulders met pauldrons. Feet met floor. Tromp. Stamp. Tromp. Stamp. The trio strode past men in white robes, in goggles and jumpsuits, with scanners and note pads. Doctors, engineers, mechanics, and more waited in this room to be born, to be mentored, to be molded and integrated. Eventually, he and his escort left to pass through the maze of halls into a locker room. They stopped at a locker first.

Present tags.

McFarland pulled the chain from between his pectorals. A set of blank tags hung against his curled knuckles. He held the tags in front of the door. Mechanical arms seized the metal and pulled them to a series of lasers that surrounded the iris of the locker’s optic sensors. When the engraving was complete, the chain fell softly against his chest. The door hissed open. Seamless white shone dully in the artificial light that buzzed above them. 

Don uniform.

McFarland slipped piece by piece. He peeled off his current clothing and donned the body suit first. The tight white material hugged and emphasized every muscle, showed off every piece of tone. When he first arrived, he may have taken the time to admire the figure he now sported. But that was not the directive. He slipped the armor pieces next: boots, leg plate guards, belt and empty holster, chest plate, pauldrons, arm plates, protective gloves. But there was no helmet.

Report to mirror.

He performed a smart quarter turn and marched to the sink and the mirror that waited over it. His escort stood on either side, each before the mirrors. Red light scanned their faces. McFarland’s pupils were obscured by the reflective lenses of his glasses, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was reporting. He had reported. Now he would wait.

A new series of arms extended from the sides of the mirror. These reached for McFarland’s face. He held his ground. A warm sensation brushed over his skin as red light bathed his cheeks, lip, and chin. Hair follicles fell like snow and drifted into the porcelain, staining it black. The arms retracted, and McFarland was graced with a perfectly clean-shaven face. His jaw held the same profile as his fellows. His gaze drifted to the basin, and he watched as the hairs swirled through the water and down the drain to wash away those remnants from his old life and training.

Next came the armory. A bare hand registered on a pad to synch his DNA in the database. All armory weapons would now function for him. All ammo stores would open at his input. The stun pistol signed out by the armorer matched those of his McFarland’s fellow exactly.

“Uniformity is conformity,” he said.

McFarland’s response was immediate, and echoed in stereo with his escort. “I conform to my uniform.”

Pride swelled in McFarland as he strode side by side with his brothers. He was so close. So close now. All he required was the helmet.

They arrived in front of a reinforced metal door. The portal slid open to reveal a man with a dirt-smudged face and long greasy dirty-blond hair. His clothing was a hodgepodge of discarded materials cobbled together to create a form of cluttered trash armor. The sight was vulgar, offensive, chaotic. This was not order. This was not of The Nation. This was wrong.

The offender’s eyes widened and brightened when they saw you. “McFarland? McFarland, is that you? Damn, is it good to see a friendly face. This is all a big misunderstanding. So, do me a favor and maybe get me out of this place?”

The man’s body was lean and toned. How long had he wandered the wastes outside civilization? He had been successful enough to not be the weak, pathetic lump McFarland once had been.

“Prisoner 40612, you have been found guilty of the crimes of breaking and entering, illegal entry into The Nation, Theft, Grand Theft, Larceny, Attempted Terrorism, and Espionage,” the left guard said.

“I told you, fellahs, I just got lost. I wanted to see an old friend; that’s all. Mickey, come on, tell them!”

McFarland stared uncomprehendingly at the man. He was ... familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

The guard on the right picked up where his brother left off. “As such, you are sentenced to serve as a security conscript for a period of no less than five years, during which time you shall be rehabilitated as part of your community service. At the conclusion of your five year sentence, a review will be conducted to ensure reformation is complete.”

The sound of mechanical arms descending hummed through the air. A long silver needle you recognized only too well dripped with the solution that had helped you on your path to citizenship. A second arm descended and laid a helmet complete with visor on the table out of the prisoner’s reach. The glasses flickered again as a new message scrolled across the lenses.

Final Task: Execute prisoner sentence.

McFarland jerked into action and strode next to the terrorist. The fear and indignation in the man’s gaze gave him pause for a moment.

“Mickey, come on. You know better than this. This isn’t you. This isn’t what we do.”

The familiarity disturbed McFarland. But ... he hadn’t done anything against The Nation. He had appealed for their aid. He had come and willingly gone through the process to attain citizenship. He had found purpose. He had found unity. He had found strength.

“Easy in, easy out. We take out their central control processor and reclaim our city.”

McFarland shuddered. The voice was the prisoner’s. The grim expression in his mind’s eye. “... Reclaim....” He furrowed his brow in confusion as the beginnings of a headache jabbed between his eyes.

“That’s right. Come on, man. You remember me, right? You remember.”

McFarland laid a hand heavily on the table. The other guards’ hands rested calmly, casually on their stun pistols.

Laughter. Faces. Some blurred, some not. A city under fire. Stunned men, women, and children harvested. Stacked and dragged. The loud announcement of safety, of protection. “You are under the protection of The Nation. Do not resist. We are here to help you.” Running. Wastes. Sand, dust, cloying. Tunnels. Heat. Cold. Bunker. Shelter.

“We need a sacrificial lamb....”

“... Keep them occupied....”

“Easy in, easy out.”

“Reclaim....”

Harsh sands. Safe, clean facilities. Merciless weather. Climate control. Barren land. Flourishing greenhouses and gardens.

“Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim.”

Strength. Exercise. Unity. Brotherhood. Happiness. It was all there. Why ... why take back a city, if it already took him back? Why attack, when there is pleasure in unity and obedience? Why complain when he is fed, clothed, and trained?

...

Why destroy that? Why deny the pleasure? Why deny the system that works? Why question what is perfect?

“Reclaim what we lost.”

Lost soul. “Reclaim....” Wandering alone.

The stranger that wasn’t a stranger smiled. “I knew you could set ‘em straight.”

It is not good to be alone. “Reclaim,” McFarland said again. He stood next to the prisoner. He pat his hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezed for support. He smiled. “Brother.”

And then he plunged the needle home.

The plunger depressed. The injection flooded through the man’s neck. His eyes widened in bewildered surprise. His muscles spasmed briefly. And then the light faded from his eyes as he slumped forward in his restraints.

McFarland strode confidently to the table. He removed the glasses to reveal gray eyes that swam murkily with his expanded pupils. He seized the helmet and placed it firmly on his head. The visor booted up and soon began to pulse. The pleasure rebounded as his escort flanked him on either side. A smooth voice carried through the receivers in the helmet’s radio.

“Congratulations on your new citizenship, Private McFarland. You have been assigned the duty of Security Officer and Military Operative.”

McFarland smacked his legs together and saluted. “Orders received and acknowledged. Private McFarland reporting for duty. Private McFarland, ready to serve.”

“Welcome to The Nation. Welcome to the new utopia.”

Incubus Chapter One: The Introduction

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I could hardly believe I was finally here. One of the most exclusive male modeling agencies in the world had picked me, me, out of the hundreds of thousands of applicants to join their academy. I mean, I joined the lottery as a farce. My body is anything but model material, but the contest did say all body types were welcome to apply.

Next thing I knew, I was whisked away on a private limo, followed by a private jet to an undisclosed location. Tropical island or something like that, I suppose.The staff was surprisingly kind when they saw me. No complaints, no grimaces, all smiles. Their motto is that anyone can become a model. They just need enough time, patience, and training. And now I was going to get that and all the benefits that went with it. I was floored!

The elevator to the main office was one of those reflective metal ones with mirrors inside, probably to give models the chance to sharpen their appearance. I tried to do the same, though I cringed as I did so. My sweatshirt had been tied around my waist, and my pudge pressed against my XL black shirt as I pulled at the part in my hair to try and look more presentable.

...

I swear, everyone in that office looked like an Adonis or better. How was that even possible? You’d think someone would have been less fit, but they were all lean and cut with designer clothing that clung in all the right places.

Dennis is my caseworker. He called himself my agent, but I know I’m not exactly a marketable kind of person. He frowned at that. And the man wasn’t exactly the sort to go against. He was one of the bigger workers there. Taller, thicker muscles, all tone. In short, the kind who is very assertive while still being kind. At least, I hope the second part will be true.

“Everyone here is marketable, and you are no exception,” he said sternly. “If you want to keep up that dour outlook, you can turn right around and get back on that plane. I work with believers and doers, not do-nothings. In Incubus, anyone can and will succeed. Understood?”

Needless to say, he set the pecking order very quickly, and I obliged. “Understood.” I gulped and nodded.

“We’ll need to put you through a regimen to prep you for your first shoot, but that shouldn’t be too hard. We’ll put you with Nathaniel for a roommate. He’ll help you adjust, act as a sort of guide, give you a rundown of what living here is like.” He handed me a picture of a man with heavily rounded cheeks and a double chin. His skin was a very light tan, and his dark hair laid thin and flat against his head. “This is his before shot, just so you can have an idea of what we’ve worked with previously here. Look at him now, and you’ll understand why we say we accept any body type. He’s sort of an upperclassman in the program. Think of him as a big brother. He’ll treat you like he’s one, anyway.” Dennis smirked then, handed me a packet and patted me on the shoulder. “Welcome to Incubus, kid. You’re gonna go places.”

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When Dennis said I was going to go places, I didn’t expect a plush apartment complete with dark leather couches, lush carpet, and gigantic entertainment system. And that wasn’t counting the kitchen. Open layout, tile, an island, flawless marble countertops, the works! My jaw dropped at the sheer opulence.

It dropped even farther when I met my roommate. The Nathaniel I saw in the photograph was a far cry from the stud that lay before me now. I say stud, because frankly, there are few other words I can use to describe him so concisely. The fat from the photo had been almost completely eroded, save for a small portion under the chin that had been coated in a dark stubble that hid the chub and accentuated the blocky angular features of his jawline. Instead of pale skin, I saw a rich healthy tan that stretched evenly over his whole body. A sleeve tattoo flowed down his left arm, highlighting the curves of a large bicep with the image of a flawless gem, probably meant to be a diamond. His right leg had been similarly bedecked over the front of his thigh. I couldn’t tell if it was some sort of floral pattern or something else, but it definitely drew the eye toward his core.

Even leaned back and relaxed as he was against the leather of the couch, I could see the hints of the six pack waiting to tense into being. Both biceps were raised in a pose indicative of self-adoration or narcissism. A pair of black briefs clung to his legs and bulged in all the right places while accentuating the curves he had already developed in his thighs with whatever regimen he’d had to follow. It must have taken him years to get to this point. Was that really what Incubus planned to do for me, too?

He looked at me with sort of a half-dazed smile, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was high on something. I knew some models used drugs to help cope with the stress. If he was dosing, I definitely didn’t want to be around him. But the voice that emerged from that particular flavor of perfect was perfectly clear and coherent.

“Hey! You must be the new guy! Name’s Nate. Come on in.” He motioned with his head toward a free cushion. “Sorry I’m not getting up to greet you. I’ve still got an exercise to finish for class.”

“Is that why you’re in the nude, too?” I asked as I made my way to the far cushion and sat.

He looked down at his briefs, then back at me. “Well, not totally nude, but yeah, I guess. Part of training required me getting over my fear of showing skin, so I have to spend a minimal amount of time each day just wearing stuff like this. It’s gonna be jock straps next.”

“Seriously?”

“We’re gonna be models, bro. Kinda goes with the job description. It’s not like they’re gonna make me do nudes or porn if I’m not comfortable with it. Incubus ain’t like that. They’re just helping me be comfortable with my body as it is. They’ll do that for you, too, if you let them help.” He shrugged, then groaned and stretched as a timer went off. “That’s better.”

“What was that for?” I asked.

“Posing homework. Models have to be able to hold poses and flex on command. It’s pretty grueling sometimes. That was an endurance exercise to help me hold a pose longer.” He propped himself up on the cushion, then rose to his feet and offered a hand to me. “So, like I said before, name’s Nate. What’s yours?”

My throat suddenly felt dry as I averted my gaze. “Cole,” I said. It barely came out as a whisper.

Nate chuckled. “Yeah, you’re green all right. Let me guess, that’s the model name Incubus suggested in your packet, right?” He seized my hand and shook it. “Don’t do what doesn’t feel comfortable to you, at least not at first. Incubus pushes you, sure, but it won’t force you into something you’re not ready for yet. It’s Nickolas, right?”

“I ... like to go by Nick.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you.” His grin was so confident and reassuring, the melt you like butter and drink you up kind. If I were a girl, I probably would’ve swooned. Fortunately, I’m not. But it was comforting, all the same.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He picked up my suitcase like it was nothing and hefted it over his back to hang behind his shoulder and strain the triceps in his arm. “I’ll show you your room.” He led us down a long corridor past a vast vanity area with vaulted ceilings and more marble counter tops. Two wavy glass doors surrounded by stainless steel framing were marked A and B. “That’s the bathroom, obviously. The glass is thick and textured to keep people from seeing you when you’re in there for a shower. There’s a communal hot tub, too. Trust me when I say this, that’s going to be one of your best friends while you’re here.” He chuckled. “The other half is farther back through the third door. It sort of doubles as a posing room, too, if you want to show off and admire yourself someplace private. Most people do when they first start, myself included.”

The end of the hall broke off in a T leading to corresponding apartments labeled the same way the doors had been. “I’m B, so that leaves A for you.” The door opened on a completely blank space. The carpet was soft. A king size bed with a silver comforter and plush pillows waited. A large curtained window let in streams of golden sun to illuminate the room. A single large circular light fixture had been attached to the ceiling with a dome-like pale glass finish dyed a creamy white. A massive flat screen television had been mounted on the wall. The master suite continued in a panorama that revealed weight racks for dumbbells, multiple fitness machines ranging from steps and bike to treadmill and a total fitness gym. A large gaming laptop sat on a side table, connected to a charger.

Nate dropped the suitcase on the bed and grinned at me. “Yup. I had the same look when I saw my room. It’s all yours. You can do whatever you want in here, so long as you keep to the regimen you’re given. Personal decorations are up to you to pick. The laptop has a program that’ll let you choose your customization. Then the work’ll be done while you’re in class.” He grinned and strode to a side door with a lock in it and pulled it open to reveal more textured tile and marble to carry on the theme. This time, the colors were a rich dark green and black with white streaks. “And this is the communal spa room, complete with sauna and hot tub. Our rooms connect here, but we can lock or unlock those doors as we see fit for privacy. So, what do you think?”

Naturally, I was speechless. “I, uh ... wow?” I finally said.

Nate chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a lot to take in. They treat us well here. All you’ve gotta do is stick to the program, and you’re pretty much gonna be set for life.” He beamed that lazy smile at me again. “I’ll let you finish settling in. Then we can get a bite to eat. Hope you like Indian food. It’s chicken tikka masala tonight.” The smile soon grew into a grin of triumph. “We’re not all just dumb models, you know. A man has to feed.” He strode into the sauna to cut to his room. “See you in a few, roomie.”

I bounced in utter bewilderment as I sat heavily on my new mattress. This was actually happening. How was this happening? How long was I going to have to stay here to get those kinds of results? So many questions. And I had no idea how much time.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there before the smell of rich tomato paste and curry powder mingled with sweet onion and garlic reached my nostrils. My stomach growled and I laid my hand over it. The light in the room had dimmed to a subtle orange glow. It had to be evening. Had I really taken that long to process my current reality? Regardless, my body had spoken. For now, it wanted to eat. Questions could wait till later.

I couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at my lips.

I had the sneaking suspicion that Nate would be too happy to answer.

Johnny Diez

The School of Buff Jocks Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

“I usually game for that.”

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

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

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

“Ha-ha-ha,” I said slowly.

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

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

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

“And the dumb part?”

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

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

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

“Right back at you, dumbass.”

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

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

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

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“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What do we do?”

“Charge!”

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

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

“Thanks for helping me out, DJ.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Slater had asked.

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

“I don’t know….”

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

“Wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The combination pillow wrestling match was the stuff of legends.

Naturally, the dumbass slaughtered us all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want you to be comfortable.

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

Want.

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

Be comfortable.

Andrews knew me.

Want.

I wanted to scratch so badly.

Be comfortable.

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

Want.

He wouldn’t mind, right?

Be comfortable.

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

Want.

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

Be comfortable.

A quick adjustment. Nothing lewd. Just a necessity.

Want.

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

Be comfortable.

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

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

Be comfortable.

I averted my eyes. “Yeah, it’s….”

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

Comfortable.

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

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

Comfortable.

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

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

“There’s always time for a workout.”

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

Comfortable.

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

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

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

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

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

Jackson shrugged. “It helps me concentrate.”

“How?”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping.

“Dunno. It just does.”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Thwack!

“Guess I just—”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping!

“—Like the sound of it.”

“The batting cages?”

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack went the bat.

“Feel the rhythm.”

Crack!

“Make it sing.”

Ring!

“Eye on the ball.”

Smack!

“Just the ball.”

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

“That’s it, bro. Read it. Follow it.”

Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“J-Jackson,” he replied.

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

“Yeah….”

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

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

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

Undone

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Mature for language.

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

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

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

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

Big Bro would be so proud.

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

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

Yeah, ....

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

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

And the music kept playing.

And I kept laughing.

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

It’s natural to hang out.

Cause bros hang out....

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

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

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

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

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

The grin widened. “Nope.”

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

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

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

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

...

It became a habit.

It became more than a habit.

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

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

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

“Fuck....”

The others gaped at me.

Big Bro just grinned.

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

And that’s when it happened.

RRrrrrrrrrrip!

The shirt sleeve tore at the pit.

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

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

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

“Huhuhuhuh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dumbbell.”

“Numbnuts.”

“Dumbass.”

“Dickwadd.”

“Nimrod.”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

“Bro!”

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

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

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

“Yeah?” I huffed in turn.

“I win.”

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

“Good meathead.”

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

“That’s right. Whatever I say.”

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

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

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

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

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

Football is....

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

“Bro, you okay?”

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

...

Might have to take him up on that offer.

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

“Fuck, bro. I wanna go to the gym.”

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

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

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

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

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

What I need to say.

What I should always say.

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

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

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

Big Bro sneers. “Good little jock bro.”

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

“Fuck yeah, it is, little bro.”

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

The School of Buff Jocks Part 4

At the request of a new Patron, instead of a custom story, he desired the next chapter in this commission series to be published. In accordance with that request, I am now publishing the next chapter of The School of Buff Jocks.

If you would like to support me and my work, please join my patreon. For $3.00 a month, you get to enjoy incredible transformation, muscle, and hypnosis content. Or if you go for a higher tier, you can also get a custom story. Thank you for your patronage! Details to be found on each tier. I look forward to writing more for you all soon. Please, enjoy the chapter. Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

---------------------------------------------------------------- “Great job!”

“You’re doing great!”

“NICE AND SLOW. KEEP PUSHING.”

I furrowed my brow as I finished my set at the leg press and passed over to Andrews. “Is it just me, or does Jim sound … different?”

“It’s part of his design,” Andrews explained as he logged in. “The better you perform, the bigger he gets and the deeper his voice becomes.”

The avatar for Jim that appeared looked more like Atlas or some other giant. His skin or whatever that surface was called looked shinier and seemed to have gained more graphic definition. Had there been a patch recently?

“Welcome back, Coach Andrews. Are you ready to resume your teacher training?”

Andrews shook his head. “Another time, Jim. I’m here to work out.”

Jim nodded. “Linking to machine now. Please don’t forget to finish your module. It is important to learn and grow, so that you may better teach.”

“I won’t forget,” he promised. “Remind me when the workout is over.”

“Your reminder is set. Now let’s get to work.”

“So, when am I sup-posed to notice the difference?” I rubbed my throat and drank some of my protein shake. Those cracks were happening more and more often.

“You’re not,” Andrews said as he pushed against the press. “At least, most people don’t. Either that or they don’t care. I’m not sure which. Stone explained it to me once. It’s basically meant to help students adapt to the idea of their voices deepening as they get older. The farther along they get in their education, the bigger Jim gets, the deeper his voice becomes, and, as a result, the more natural it feels for them to let their voices drop when the time comes.”

“Because they’re talking to someone else whose voice is deepening with them?”

“Exactly,” Andrews said. The veins on his legs had begun to stand out as he continued to push. “In other words, you don’t have to worry so much about social awkwardness.”

“What about late bloomers?”

Andrews shrugged. “They get there when they get there. You know how strict we are here about bullying, Derek. We don’t like it and we don’t tolerate it in any form. We’re all part of one big team. Players who don’t understand that will either learn or get tossed out. It’s that simple.”

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

Stone’s smirk was smug as he folded a leg casually and peered at me. “Forgive me for sounding so juvenile, but I told you so.”

“Look, Mister Stone—”

“Please, call me Coach.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Coach Stone. Just because I made friends with Kyle doesn’t mean I’m over what happened to me before.”

“But you haven’t had any more of those nightmares since,” he noted. “And even if you haven’t completely overcome your past, this is a definite sign of progress. You’re beginning to see one of the most important truths any of you children can learn, the fact that people are people, and each should be judged on an individual basis, rather than being lumped into a social stereotype or clique.

“Take you, for example.” He pointed his pen at me. “You would be considered the stereotypical nerd. You enjoy things like anime, comics, manga, videogames, and other products of that genre. You do relatively well in school, and you don’t cause trouble. However, lately, you’ve also been branching out into other areas, like the gym and outdoors. And you’re comfortable wearing more than just baggy clothes. Your stereotypical nerd wouldn’t be able to do that, or rather wouldn’t have any desire to. And yet, you seem to enjoy it, or at least not hate it so violently as your stereotype would suggest.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that those stereotypes have roots in truth. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be stereotypes in the first place.”

“Perhaps, but it also doesn’t change the fact that in this case, in this time, that stereotype has yet to fully apply, and you know that and acknowledge it on at least some level. It’s that simple.”

“For you, maybe. Not for me.” I shook my head.

“Then it seems to me that the next stage of your therapy is clear. Observe. Look at the behavior of the ones you mistrust, these stereotypical jocks, and see if they really do act in the way you’ve been treated previously. If they don’t, then you’ll see that the stereotype is far from absolute, and hopefully have less aversion toward being in the same space as them on your own.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”

Stone smiled. “I think I can manage.” He lowered his pad. Anyway, that’s it for our session today. I have another appointment who should be—” A knock sounded at the door. “And there he is. We’ll pick up again next week. Don’t forget to try what I suggest, Derek. I think you’ll be surprised at what you may find.”

We shook hands, a ritual Stone insisted on as part of his attempts to bond with me. Then he escorted me to the door. You ever heard of getting caught between a rock and a hard place? Well, I got stuck between a Stone and a beef Frank. The guy had to be at least half a foot taller than me. The school’s logo strained against his swollen thigh as a pair of sweatpants clung to his legs. His torso took up most of the doorway, and his hair had been cut down to a short stubble with sharp angles that emphasized a masculine jawline and brow ridge.

“Hey. I’m not too early, am I, Coach?” His voice sounded congested, a sort of forced low that was part diaphragm and part cold, only this guy looked healthy as a horse. Hell, he could’ve been a bull with how thick that neck of his was!

“You’re right on time, Francis,” Stone said mildly. “Derek here was just leaving.”

He blinked slowly and looked down at me with murky green eyes. “Oh.” He stepped aside to let me pass. “Sorry, bro.”

“No problem.” I strode into the hall as Stone ushered the behemoth in. For such a diverse school, it seemed we were getting an awful lot of buff students on campus. I waved briefly to the office staff on my way to the main door. Tight button-up shirts strained as they waved back. Their stubble glistened under the fluorescent lights. Again, with the buzz cuts. I hadn’t noticed it before, but a lot of the staff seemed to follow that style. A few of the kids were sitting in chairs waiting for their turn to meet with Stone or some other official in the offices. Some chugged shakes. Others were running through their homework modules. Others still were reading intently.

“Got it. Finally,” one of them hissed in triumph as Jim issued his congratulations and the familiar tone of his module absorption.

One of the bigger students smiled. “If you’ve got a problem, go to Jim.” He chuckled and scratched his crotch. And like the contagion of a yawn, I felt a sympathetic twinge of my own building.

“Huhuh. Yeah, it’s good to go to Jim,” the kid replied and smiled.

The others nodded or added their own affirmations as they popped caps off their bottles and drank deeply. My brow furrowed as I thought about it. The green stuff was supposed to be for the team players, wasn’t it? So why did everyone else seem to be carrying a bottle? Even the secretaries had some at their desks.

All that drinking and gulping left me feeling thirsty. I reached to the side of my backpack for the familiar bottle. Off came the cap. Pop went the seal. Down went the drink as I walked out the door. I smiled as I scratched my crotch and my muscles tingled. I’d ask about it later. It was probably nothing. “Huhuhuh….” The anxiety left me, and I smiled as my biceps tensed and my shirt perked. The fabric slid out from under my belt as I took a deep breath, exposing skin to the cool air of the school for the briefest of moments. I shuddered, and for the first time, I took the time to simply zone out and focus on how my body felt. My legs were taut, the cuffs of my pants exposing the ankles of my school socks. The jockstrap was tight against my legs and rear, and the polo I now wore strained against my chest when I breathed. The changes had been so subtle, but now that I took the time, it was obvious. “Looks like I’m going to need a new uniform soon.”

I heard it before I saw it. The locker room door slamming open, followed by the rip of shredding fabric. A curly redhead with shamrock eyes strode bare-chested, hefting the rags of his former shirt like a trophy as he walked toward the Nurse’s office. The pump on his arms was immense. His body was built specifically to take heavy blows and never budge. He was a walking pile of meat. As for the talking, well … that was yet to be seen.

Truthfully, I don’t know why I followed him. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe I was curious. Or maybe I was just too buzzed to care about anything and going with the flow. Regardless, I trailed behind to see what came next.

My heart beat as heavily as my breathing as I waited outside the door. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to hide. Was I embarrassed? Was it something else? Finally, I heard the razors buzzing to life from behind closed doors. I don’t know if it was curiosity or what, but at that point, I just … moved. One minute, I was outside, the next I stood there in the middle of the plain tiled waiting room. The buzz was coming from one of the examination rooms. When the door finally opened, the familiar stubble of the angular induction cut stared back at me. A compression shirt had replaced the polo that had once rested on the boy’s chest, and my chest tingled at the sight of the slab-like muscle tone that stood out against the spandex.

He walked past me without a word. And, honestly, I don’t think I was in a state to say anything, myself. It was sort of like when you’re dreaming and you want to talk, but you can’t, and you have to watch yourself move around, instead. The nurse stepped out with one of the aids and eyed me carefully.

“Another one for size change.” He sighed and rolled his eyes as he picked up a tablet. “Name?”

The word released me from the spell, at least in part. “Derek Jones.” The moment I finished, my mouth clamped shut again.

“Dorm?”

“26-B.”

“All right,” he said in a bored tone. “Let’s get your measurements.”

I walked out with a new pair of pants and a bigger polo shirt. The pants hugged in all the right places without being too tight or short, but the polo felt loose and baggy. I felt … I guess almost ashamed of that feeling. It was weird.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll feel right at home in that shirt soon enough.”

I frowned. What did he mean by that? “Uh, okay, I guess.”

“Your new clothing will be delivered in the next few days with the next shipment. Let us know if there are any troubles with the fit, okay?”

I nodded numbly. My eyes drifted back to the open door. The floor was littered with curls surrounding a sturdy metal stool.

“Was there something else I could do for you?”

“I, uh, no. I guess not.” I chuckled again out of reflex. It was almost like a defense mechanism at this point. “Thanks for the new clothes.”

“You can thank Mister Stone. He’s the one funding all this.”

“You mean we don’t have to pay?”

The nurse shook his head. “No. Now how about you move along? I have the sneaking suspicion you’re not going to be the last one coming to me for a fitting today.”

Of course, he was right. It was time to move along. I’d gotten what I came for, even if I didn’t know that was why I’d come. But now I was immobilized by another question, and my head was thinking about as fast as molasses as it echoed over and over again.

Move along to where?

I didn’t know.

“Huhuh.”

Be comfortable.

Where?

I scratched my crotch.

Be comfortable.

Where?

Two hands guided me toward the door. My feet moved. My head was … full is the best way I could describe it. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think. I just … walked, like a wind-up doll put in motion. No real destination, just … moving forward.

Where?

Corridors yawned. My legs moved. Left. Right. Left. Right. I’d turn. I’d shift. I’d turn again. The question remained.

Where?

I don’t know.

Where?

I don’t know.

Where?

I. Don’t. know.

It took a while for me to realize my walking had taken on that same cadence, as if my whole body were answering my brain, shouting back in its own way together, defiant, resolute, and … something else.

I don’t know.

The question was dulling.

I don’t know.

Growing quiet.

I don’t know.

As though it had lost its voice. Or maybe lost the will to object? Or ... was it drowning?

I don’t know.

Just a fading echo, the last bubbles.

I don’t know.

The answer reverberated through my skull as the quagmire hardened and set. I was completely in my head. Or maybe I was completely out of it? Who knows? You can’t really describe it. It’s something you have to go through yourself to really get. Popular media would probably call it no-mind.

I don’t know how much time passed. All I know is that, finally, illumination struck, like a sledgehammer shattering bedrock. Like a wedge breaking open a mold to reveal something beautiful.

And it was.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know.

It was that I didn’t care.

“Huhuhuhuh….” My chest shook with the explosive force of the epiphany. The fabric of my polo brushed against my skin. The realization was so revolutionary, so lifechanging somehow, despite how simple it was. “I don’t care.” I grinned like an idiot. Or maybe like a stoner on a high? I definitely felt high.

“That’s right, smartass.” The voice was soft, gentle, … proud? My legs stopped moving. The setting sun blazed over Kyle’s face as he smiled at me, igniting his eyes with emerald lightning as the world came back into focus again. I’d somehow transitioned from the hallways to the track outside. My legs felt like jelly. And like a set of gears cleaned by WD-40, my brain cast off the rust and started to work again. I stumbled into Kyle’s waiting arm.

“Easy there, little bro.”

“What … happened?” I shook my head to dispel the last of the debris. My throat felt like someone had covered it with horse glue and squeezed it so tightly that only a straw could fit through.

Kyle shrugged. “You sized up.” Then he smirked. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I … how did … what?”

He handed me a bottle. “Drink,” he said. “You’ve been walking a long time.”

No protein drink this time, just water. But the flood helped dislodge some of the cake that had built up. My voice didn’t croak so much when I looked at him. “Why did I—?”

“You said so yourself, smartass.” Kyle chuckled. “You didn’t care.” He guided me back toward the dorms. “Lucky for you, you’ve got teammates that do.”

“What?”

Kyle chuckled again. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you to your dorm, so you can sleep. And maybe take a shower.”

“A shower?” The wind blew, and I felt the cold patches as we hobbled along. “Oh.”

“Yeah, all that walking’s bound to break a sweat eventually. Your jock is probably soaked.”

“Shut up, dumbass,” I grumbled.

Kyle laughed. “Sure thing, smartass. Sure thing.”

I didn’t realize it then, but as I got my second wind, I matched Kyle stride for stride. That lumbering swagger I’d seen on Kyle, then on the football team, on Barry the baseball player, and finally that redhead from earlier, was mine now, too.

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

“You guys notice anything kind of … weird lately?” Slater asked as he squatted under Kyle’s careful observation. The layout of the bar was designed to allow him to stand inside a sort of rectangle while the weights were stacked on either side. That way, he’d be able to bend and rise with equal weight distribution. His thighs had grown in the last couple of weeks. There was a firmness about them that I hadn’t seen before. His calves jutted with hard, tense muscle that all but consumed the fat that had once been there.

“Weird how?” Jackson was busy pumping some dumbbells to strengthen his arms and upper body. The exercise also allowed him the freedom to observe Slater as he trained under Kyle’s guidance.

“I don’t know. Just … different, I guess.” Slater shrugged. “I can’t really put it in words. Things just feel … off. Sort of snug, I guess?”

“Snug?” Kyle smirked, but … I don’t know, it felt sort of … meaner. I guess … maybe it was a sneer? At the very least, it was smug.

“Shut up, dumbass,” Slater grumbled.

“Takes one to know one, Slayer.” He chuckled. “Can’t wait to weigh you.”

“Fuck off!” he snarled. The weights crashed to the ground, and the whole gym suddenly became quiet. All eyes turned on us. Honestly, I’m not sure who was more shocked; us or them. The only time we’d ever seen this side of Slater come out was when he succumbed to gamer rage in online matches. He’d never lost his cool in public before.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

I stiffened. We hadn’t even heard him approach. Yet there he was. Coach Stone towered over us.

Kyle shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled casually. “Slayer here’s just losing his shit, because he knows he’s going to lose a bet we made.”

“Is that so?” He set his eyes on Slater and folded his arms over his massive chest. “Is this true, Slayer, was it?”

Slater mumbled as he averted his eyes. “It’s Slater.”

“Well, Slater, it appears you’ve managed to silence the whole gym. That’s not an easy task.” He peered at the rest of the onlookers and raised his voice. “All right, folks. Nothing to see here. Get back to your workouts or get out of the gym.”

Like the flick of a switch on an assembly line, the gym began to move and breathe again. It seems I wasn’t the only one intimidated by Coach Stone. Those silver eyes lingered on me briefly, passed over Jackson, then shifted back to Kyle and Slater.

“Now what, exactly, is the nature of this bet to prompt that kind of reaction?”

Slater was silent. He still wouldn’t meet Stone’s gaze.

“I bet him I could get him over 240 by the end of a month, and that if I did, he’d have to talk with Andrews about joining the wrestling team,” Kyle supplied.

“And if he won?”

“I’d have to take a cheat day and hang out with them for an anime marathon while we veg on snacks.”

“And this prompted such a reaction because…?”

“I teased him, Sir.”

Stone raised an eyebrow. “And has this teasing rendered you mute, Slater?”

“No, Sir,” he said softly.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Slater.” The rebuke was gentle, but the command was ironclad.

Slater did so reluctantly, though only just.

“Back straight,” Stone continued. “If you’re going to take criticism or punishment, you should do it proudly.” He leaned over and planted a thick hand on Slater’s shoulder. “I’m not here to punish you, Slater. No harm was done. No one is hurt. You just lost control of yourself. It happens to every boy at your age. Some yell, others fight, and some just lose themselves in a fantasy world. We all have our coping mechanisms. What matters is which ones we choose to keep and which ones we choose to replace.” He squeezed briefly and smiled. “Now I don’t want this happening again, okay? Yelling is fine, if you need to, but this equipment and the gym are expensive. And more importantly, if you’re willing to do this, then one day, you may get angry enough to hit someone with one of these weights. That’s not something I can let happen. So, from now on, for the foreseeable future, I’m going to arrange some meetings with you. Jim will alert you of the scheduled times.”

“But—”

“No buts, Slater. And I want your full name.”

“But—”

“Now, Slater.”

Slater slumped in defeat and gave up the name.

“Good. I’ll be expecting you on time in my office. Derek can give you directions.” His eyes flashed briefly as he returned to his full height. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Slater mumbled.

“And you. You’re Kyle Fredriksson, aren’t you?” Stone asked as he turned his attentions to the other party of the disturbance.

“Yes, Sir, Coach.”

“Did you push him to this?”

Kyle straightened and threw his shoulders back. “Yes, Sir. Though only a little,” he clarified. “Slayer doesn’t like to lose.”

Coach Stone turned his gaze on me and Jackson. “You two are the neutral party here. Is he telling the truth?”

Jackson nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Jones?”

I nodded. “He doesn’t usually get this angry.”

Stone nodded. “Then we’ll find out the root of that anger later. For now, carry on, gentlemen. Those muscles aren’t going to grow themselves.”

“Yes, Sir,” we all replied.

Stone turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Slater?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Next time, try laughing it off instead. You’d be surprised how much that helps.”

“Uh, yes, Sir,” he said awkwardly.

“As you were, gentlemen.” Stone waved behind him as he passed into the rows of machines and out of sight.

My whole body tingled as he walked away. I reached absently and adjusted my crotch, where the sensation felt strongest, then shuddered. Kyle grinned at me.

“You heard the man, Smartass. Grab some dumbbells and work those arms. If we can campaign together, we can work out together.

I rolled my eyes but obliged him. “Whatever you say, Coach.”

“Not a coach.”

“You’re sure acting like one,” I teased.

Slater smirked. “Point to DJ.”

“Trust me, you haven’t seen coaching till you’re working out on an actual team. I’m just teaching you how to handle it.” Kyle chuckled. “Now how about you put that snark into finishing your set?”

“You did agree to follow the routine for the month,” Jackson pointed out as he curled his weights. “Stop now and you’ll forfeit, and you’ll have to talk with Andrews about joining the team regardless.”

Slater’s lip curled as his hands clenched tightly around the bars to either side of him and he pulled the squat bar back up. “Guys, I’m not in the mood for getting in trouble with Stone again, so could you just can it about the bet?”

“Or you could try his advice,” Kyle pressed. “Trust me, it works. DJ knows.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why did you have to drag me into this?”

“Because you’re the smartass?”

That name was really starting to get old. Especially when Kyle used it for ammunition. But he did have a point. I had firsthand experience, and Slater would probably take it better from me than from the lug that was currently putting him through hell. For a dumbass, Kyle had a keen mind for strategy. I sighed, then turned to face Slater. “Look, it doesn’t work with everyone, but for me at least, it helps relieve my anxiety attacks, okay?”

“And you think I should try it?” Slater asked.

“I think you should use your own judgement.”

Slater chuffed as a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “And point for you.”

“I wasn’t aware I was playing.”

He smirked. “Didn’t you know? Everyone’s playing the game, DJ.”

I cringed. “Why did you have to bring back that accursed meme?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“And with that stealth kill, Slater the Slayer finally takes his place on the board,” Jackson said in his best impression of a sports commentator.

A weak chuckle burbled from Slater’s lips. “About time.”

“Do my ears deceive me, or did I just hear him laugh?” Kyle asked.

“Don’t push it, jock boy.” But despite his threatening tone, Slater smiled.

“Nah. I just push up, bro,” Kyle returned as he flexed his arms.

We couldn’t hold back at that point. The air filled with our laughter. Slater spread his legs a little wider and resumed his squats.

“Whatever you say, Kyle.”

Kyle grinned. “I’ll hold you to that, little bro.”

Soulless

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I used to be different than the man you see today. They say the industry changes you, and I suppose they’re right, whoever they are. I’ve been a model for ... I don’t even know how many years now. Like I said, things used to be different.

It was just one photo shoot. I didn’t expect to be such a hit. It was a million in a million in a million chance. Audition, smile to the cameras, wear the gear, sell the product, get paid in royalties. It was a straightforward business arrangement. Folks say they like to have models with a lot of heart and soul. Now that I think about it, that’s what the company said when they hired me.

My agent got the call, and then he called me. He barely kept himself from shouting as he told me the details. Daemonique was and still is one of the premier modeling brands out there. It costs a bundle and a half to even have them consider lending you their talent. Runways, photo ops, fashion articles, the works. If they looked at you, if they chose you, then you were in. You were set for life.

I was floored. Naturally, I said yes. I signed the contract and joined my fellow models in the spotlight, and my agent was offered a hefty sum for snatching me. He still lives very well, from what I understand. Daemonique poached him from his firm, something about being a, “devil of a recruiter.” We still talk sometimes, but usually it’s just when he offers me my new assignment. Sometimes, he brings new talent with him to meet me. People worship me, idolize me.

That used to impress me. Now I feel ... indifferent, I suppose. It’s ... difficult to describe. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the attention, more that ... I suppose I slide into whatever they want me to be. That’s my purpose as a model.

I remember when I was introduced to my hero in the modeling community, Nathan Bolaterro. My smile was radiant, my handshake firm and only slightly exaggerated. His smile was reserved, his bearing shifting to accommodate me.

“There are many models here,” he told me, “with many masks, many faces. It’s ... difficult to keep track of what brought you here sometimes, the ‘you’ that you put into your shoots. Make sure that you don’t lose track of it. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He looked almost sadly at a playbill with a beaming teenager wrapping either arm around another two other teens’ shoulders on stage. There were four of them, identically dressed in the traditional garb of the barber shop quartet from The Music Man. I could just barely see the resemblance between the middle left boy and the man that stood before me now.

One of the many agents that runs this place strode through the door then. “Nate, it’s time for your sports segment.”

The model swallowed heavily, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as a result. “Coming,” he said in a low-pitched tone. His gaze darted back toward that photo almost desperately. Then he turned his back and followed his handler out. I followed them into the hall, since it would be rude to remain in his dressing room.

“Do well on this one, and you’ll be a shoe-in for Soulless.” The agent grinned and thumped Nathan on the back. My breath caught at the mention of that great fashion line. Only the best of the best of the best in the agency could make it into that exalted circle.

I was confused when I saw, not a joyful smile, but a frown of unease cross over the model’s face.

The next time I saw him, he was getting out of a session for some sports magazine spread or some other campaign. His body was huge, his voice deep and dull. The familiar brand name Soulless stretched down one meaty thigh in big capital letters over the compression pants and widely across his left pectoral as he scratched the material of his compression shirt with his free hand. “You talking to me, bro?” He didn’t seem to recognize me. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. They seemed almost dead as he stared at me through the open visor of a football helmet. The angular shape of the opening gave his head an almost block-like appearance. The rich hair that had once been so carefully styled was little more than sculpted stubble now. His pupils vibrated, like they didn’t know whether to dilate or contract. Or ... maybe they were trying to, but couldn’t? “The name’s Jock....”

I still remember how freaked out I was after that encounter. My agent had to explain it to me, about Nathan’s “methods.” A lot of the models follow it, apparently. I guess ... I guess I do, too, now that I stop to think about it. There’s a sort of role that we’re asked to fill for each of our shoots. Whatever we model, the photographer wants us to fit certain ... characters, tropes, if you will. These tropes have names, and we don them as easily as we do makeup or an outfit for the cameras. Jock, Brat, Badboy, Greaser, Guido, Father, Hipster, Businessman, and so on.

It’s ... easy to forget your name when you’re in this community. You become almost numb to it. You have to, if you want to survive the media storms that follow you around. Let go of the power that name has over you, and you can usually ignore most of the reporters or rabid fans trying to get your attention. It’s a trick you learn fast in the business, once you make it big. And all Daemonique models make it big. Sometimes, when I have to sign a waiver or some other legal document, I pause and stare at the line, and I have to grope in the dark to try to find the name I cast away. Sometimes, it’s suggested that I just sign with an X, like a lot of the other models do, but I don’t want to yet. I still want to be able to keep that power of the name with me. If I stop using it there, it’ll be harder to ... to ... what? I’m not sure. Remember? Pull back? Be myself?

What even is “myself” anymore? I’m ... I’m not sure.

I’ve taken to carrying the photo that brought me to Daemonique’s attention with me. I find it ... grounding to stare at. Almost comforting, really. I talk to it sometimes, greet it with my name, almost like it’s another person. I guess ... in a way, it is. It’s sort of like a lifeline to me, a connection to the me that was before all the lights and the cameras and the flashes and masks I’ve had to don for the sake of the shoot, the product, the image that Daemonique wants me to fit.

I feel less and less like a person and more and more like some ... glorified prop, a life-sized doll that my handlers change, dress, shift, and adapt to their whims. And the scary part is, ... I’m okay with that. I ... almost relish slipping into those characters and roles now, because they fill that emptiness that I return to when I take them off. The face I see in the mirror of my dressing room is so ... alien to me now. It’s nothing like the face I see when I look at this photo. And that emptiness is reinforced whenever I get in line with the other models for our weekly assessments. There’s no real talking, just standing, waiting, moving in time as the camera shutter clicks, snaps, clacks. The model turns, the process repeats, until all the sides are captured. Then we move forward, and the next one follows. The young bloods toward the back of the line whisper and talk among themselves. I used to do that, too, to be that. Now, ... now it feels so ... unnecessary. I stand among my peers, where quiet is the norm and blank the ideal. A canvas waiting to be painted. A whiteboard waiting to be drawn up, then cleared.

...

A walking, talking mannequin.

Is that all I am now?

Is that all my purpose is?

Is this ... really what I want?

...

Does it really even matter anymore?

I feel so strange, so stripped, so ... empty, even as I stand on that line now, waiting for that photo set. I pull out my photo for comfort. That tiny spark is only so much against the yawning void that’s eaten away inside of me. A wry smile curves my lips, one of the first sincere ones I’ve had in who knows how long.

Did you know that some cultures believed that to capture yourself in a photo was to capture a piece of your soul? By that logic, every human who’s ever consumed media or pictures is a demon, or at least part demon. They consume those fragments, those pieces. And the models and actors and actresses let them. And they fill up with other things and ideas, just like I do when I’m in a shoot. They’re just as empty, just as desperate for fulfillment, a role, even a piece, a taste of the soul they used to be.

I barely even recognize the feel of the textured mat when I step in front of the camera. I stare into the lens, still holding the photo. The shutter clacks. The light flashes. My shadow is thrown up in sharp relief behind me on the backdrop. I blink. For a moment, I could almost swear that I see sharpened teeth bared in a hungry, anticipatory grin. Clack goes the shutter. Flash goes the light. Around I turn. I feel no sense of fear or worry at the sight of the horns. I feel ... nothing. I turn again and watch my shadow flash in front of me, then fade into the nothingness of the backdrop. Just a 2-D silhouette. No substance, no form, just here and gone in a flash of light and the click of a shutter.

I feel no anxiety at the sound of clopping hooves echoing in my ears as I turn again. I’m just going through the motions, following the formula. They want a blank slate. They want the empty. They want a foundation they can build and mold like clay in their hands. Malleable. Easy to shape and control. No complaints. No thoughts or discomforts. Just ... being. Just existing.

...

Empty.

I look down at my photo. There is no more thrill at it. No spark. No joy. No connection. Whatever power it held has been stripped by the camera. It is a person I do not know, a blank face in a crowd. I see no light in those eyes, no life, no ... soul, to use the company term. I see only a picture, a pointless picture.

Flash. Clatter. Flutter. Smack. The photo is no longer in my hand as I turn to face the camera again. The creature before me leers behind the camera as one final shutter goes off, one last flash. He licks his lips as his tail lashes behind him.

I turn and march as the other models before me on the line have done. Another paper is shoved at me. I do not bother with the name this time. An X will suffice.

My agent is there next to me suddenly. The soles of his shoes clunk with a rhythmic clopping, almost like hooves. He adjusts the waistband of his pants uncomfortably, then rubs at the nubs that I see growing from his forehead. He seems to be sweating for some reason. I’m not sure why as he breaths heavily. I can just see the hints of longer pointed canines protruding from his lips. He raises his phone and snaps a picture of me. I don’t blink.

“I think he’s ready, Sir.”

This time, I do blink. When I open my eyes, there is a bigger agent hovering over his shoulder. This one is like the photographer. The air smells of aftershave with a hint of sulfur as he leans down to peer into my eyes. I don’t care. I stare into an abyss like my own. This one has lights, but it it is different than mine was. It is not so much an absence of substance as a consumer of it. For the briefest of moments, I feel what could almost be considered a suction, a vacuous force seeking to draw something out of me, only there’s nothing to take. Nothing moves, nothing comes, because whatever that vacuum consumes is not there.

The grin that spreads across that face is savage and predatory. “Well done.” He lays a heavy clawed hand on my agent’s shoulder.

My agent shudders as his eyes flicker briefly and corrugated black horns slowly begin to emerge from the nubs. He licks his lips, and as he does so, flashes of his sharpening teeth appear in my gaze. He swallows and gulps, and as the pressure from what I can only assume is his supervisor increases, he hunches forward precariously on the balls of his feet as the beginnings of a tail bursts out behind him, having broken free of the confines of the seat of his pants.

“Th-thank you, Sir,” he repeats breathlessly as he stands up again. His cheeks are flushed from the sudden changes that have overtaken his body.

“Keep it up, and you’ll fit right in in no time.”

“Y-yes, Sir.” He smiles almost timidly, but there’s a hint of bite to it as his sharper teeth peek over the edges of his lips.

They motion for me to follow, and I do so without question.

“What will he, uh, it, become, Sir?”

The supervisor grins as we approach a large black door with red gilded lettering on its front in an angular archaic font that reads, SOULLESS. “Whatever we want it to be.”

The door opens, and I step forward, ready to take on whatever role my owners require. I am ready to be filled. I am blank.

“Welcome to Soulless, slate.”

My response is as numb and empty as I feel. “Thank you, Sir.”

I am nothing more than a dummy shuffled from caricature to caricature. That is my purpose and my role. When my work is complete, I am wiped clean, a blank slate again, to be molded and shaped as my handlers please. This is the fate of the soulless, and the soulless do not care.

I am Jock. I am Bear. I am Thug. I am Guido. I am Officer. I am Soldier. I am Father. I am Son. I am King. I am Peasant. I am Extra. I am everything and nothing. I am one of a legion of slates waiting to be wiped clean or filled according to our handlers’ whims.

We are legion.

We are the empty.

We are Soulless.

Credit for this image goes to Maxx114. If you enjoy this, please consider donating to my ko-fi or joining my patreon to help fund my writing. More money means more free time to write these stories. :D Thanks!

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Trapped

Ever wonder how I got this big? It wasn’t steroids, if that’s what you think. Everyone thinks that. I always test clean, though. My body won’t take any drugs that aren’t medically necessary.

Why’d I word it that way? I can’t ... really say. My tongue will get tied. No literally, I mean my tongue will try to tie itself up. The minute I say something my body doesn’t like, my tongue will—

...

...

...

You can see what I mean.

I don’t know how it happened. I just ... can’t control it anymore. I’m trapped. No, literally, I’m tra—uhhhhhhhhh.....

...

...

...

Fuck.... I ... how long was I out?

Look, let’s just say my body is my top priority, okay? I treat it right so it’ll treat me right.

You’ve heard of muscle memory and all that stuff, right? Muscles learn, and so does your body. It does things you don’t even have to think about after a while. It just ... knows that’s what it’s supposed to do.

Some folks deal with their bodies eating themselves, immune system attacking healthy cells and going out of control for no reason. My body’s sort of the opposite. It’s gone into hyper mode to make me as healthy as I can. Every impulse, every step, day in and day out, my body’s health comes first.

...

Fuck, that felt good....

Sorry, call it ... a reward for compliance.

When I work out, what I eat, when I sleep, who I hang out with, all of it is centered around my body and the lifestyle it needs to keep this shape.

Fun fact. Did you know that the brain isn’t actually a muscle? While it is an organ, the majority of its composition and cellular structure has nothing to do with any kind of physical work in the sense that the arms or the legs might. The only muscle tissue involved in the brain has to do with the blood vessels that control where the blood flows, so your brain can get enough oxygen to keep functioning. And that muscle tissue functions as an insulator and, I guess you could say a sort of control valve to the blood vessels to regulate the flow.

Yeah, it’s pretty interesting. I’m what you might call a muscle man. In the traditional sense of the word, yes, I’m talking about my muscles, but I kind of mean it on a deeper sense. For me, it’s more than just dedication to my craft. I have to build my muscles. I have to get stronger. I have to be the very best my body can be. It’s not a choice for me anymore.

No, I mean it literally. I have to do it. I’ve lost so much because of this. And I may get some of it back with the recent success I’ve been having in the bodybuilding community, but it’s never going to be the same. I’m never going to be the same.

I’m never going back to the old me.

...

...

...

Sorry, I, uh ... zoned out again there. Another one of those rewards I mentioned.

The secret to my success? It’s all in my head. I mean, it started in my traps. You see how huge these things are. And then it was sort of like a rebellion at that point. An itch, a nag. I started building to level things out, get more even. But when I was satisfied, my body wasn’t. That’s when I started noticing ... things. Things that weren’t quite right.

I was sore every day, even on my rest days. And it got harder and harder to do the things I used to to relax. Going to the movies, eating at buffets, gaming in my off hours from work. I used to have a cheap ramen diet. That was one of the first things to go. Things were sort of subtle at first. My eyes would be drawn to supplements, health foods, all the things my budget wouldn’t necessarily allow me to enjoy, but I lingered over them anyway. I’d sit there and stare at them for five, then, fifteen minutes. And I knew I couldn’t afford to get these things, but ... I didn’t move either.

It started turning into a real problem that I didn’t understand, so I finally gave in and just bought one of the darned things. And just like that, I felt free to move again. There was even a warm feeling in my chest. You know, like the kind where you just did something really nice, and you feel good for it?

Eventually, there were some things that I couldn’t push myself to do anymore, though. Once the supplement was gone, the urge was back again, that strange stillness, all while I continued to ache. I was getting some great definition, but ... I was concerned. I didn’t want to go to the doctor. Didn’t have enough to cover a visit. I was barely scraping by with my other work.

It was work, then home exercises, then shower, then meals and supplements, bed, repeat. I was as surprised as my friends and family when I logged into my social media accounts one day and saw my tags had changed. Vacant, empty stares were in every picture of my increasingly muscular body.

And I never remembered taking any of them.

I was scared, but ... I don’t know whether it was the shock or what, but ... I didn’t feel it so badly. Kind of like a jump scare, you know? There in a moment, gone the next. Instead, my heart started pounding. I felt that itch. My usual patch of floor was waiting.

...

And then I was working out.

I don’t mean I chose to. I mean ....

You know what it’s like to go through an out of body experience, right?

It was something like that, except I was still in the car, so to speak. I just ... watched.

It was the freakiest thing I had ever experienced.

And I knew I needed to see a doctor then. This wasn’t normal behavior.

I met with the doctor first, then got forwarded to a psychiatrist.

You can guess where this is going. I was given pills, told to take them, report back on how I feel in the next couple of weeks after they’ve had time to build up in my system.

I tried. I really did.

It didn’t help.

I don’t know whether they were placebos or something else, but things just ... kept going the same way. My muscles got bigger. And I got ... smaller, I guess. Not physically, but mentally. I was literally losing control of my own body. It wasn’t hurting anyone directly, but it frightened me.

I tried everything. Hypnosis, self-help books. Heck, I even checked into a psych ward to see if they could figure out what was going on with me. Nothing worked.

When I did the things myself, doctors say I was being rewarded. Dopamine and all those other hormones and chemicals shot through the roof, well beyond the norm for the average male. When I resisted, however, something ... different was discovered.

In a very real way, it was like coordinated mutiny. Bloodflow in my brain literally shifted as some of the valves tightened and others opened full blast. And as they did, I found myself being the passenger again. When I tried to eat certain foods, my limbs would go limp. I literally couldn’t even feel them. If I tried to go somewhere that wasn’t conducive to my body’s welfare, I would find myself suddenly unable to progress past a certain point. Or worse yet, jogging right past and not stopping.

I couldn’t type or write certain words or phrases. And the more I grew, the ... fuzzier things became, I suppose. When I hunch forward like this, it’s not so much a habit or for comfort as a ... friendly reminder. Kind of like My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The neck controls wherever the head turns.

I’m a pris—

...

I’m a pri—

...

I’m a pris—uhhhhhhhhhhhhh....

I’m a pristine example of the fruits of hard work and discipline.

It is my intention to continue to grow and exceed expectations in competition. It’s just a matter of listening to your body. When you listen to your body, you are rewarded by your body.

...

Yes, everything is fine now. You could say we’ve come to an understanding since then. I can honestly say this is the most pleasurable life I could ever hope to have. Some things have changed, but I’m happy. And happiness is what matters in the end. I do what my body wants, and it rewards me, just like everyone else. Now, I hope you’ll excuse me, but it’s time for me to get back to work. My body wants to break its record today at the squat rack.

Don’t worry, I just cry randomly sometimes. Don’t know if it’s something in the air or just a thing, but I live with it. Thanks again for the interview. Goodbye!

...

...

...

A behemoth of muscle and strength sits on a bench before a mirror and stares at his reflection as he reaches for two massive dumbbells.

Now, then. What do we need?

A low groan fills the room as the eyes lose focus and the tears cease to fall. Shoulders rise and fall, prompting the trapezius muscles to almost massage his neck with his deltoids and pectorals. The lips smack. The tongue lolls and lashes momentarily in the mouth before finally settling limply, meekly against the base. The breathing grows deep and steady as his cheeks flush in euphoria and the weights clank with the beginnings of reps.

WE ... NEED ... TO WORK OUT....

The twitch of a smirk pulls at his face in the mirror.

Good boy.

The eyes roll briefly.

You won’t be talking about us like that again, will you?

Another groan. The eyes grow dull in their gaze as the body continues to rep.

NO ... SIR....

Good boy. Listen to your body....

OBEY MY BODY....

I am preconditioned to expect things to turn sour if they are going well.

I have social anxiety, and it's a concern of mine that people aren't actually enjoying my company. This, among other things, can make it difficult for me to leave the house to go to an event. Once I'm out, I'm usually ok, but getting to that point can be an exercise in willpower.

If I ever left someplace feeling good, like I'd had a good time, he would make short work of it:

"Why did you do *some small gesture* when you were talking to ____. You surprised everyone and drew so much attention to yourself."

" You should stop doing *something inconsequential that I do involuntarily* when you talk to people, it makes everyone uncomfortable."

"______ didn't look like she was too happy to see you. Were you telling her about your stupid play again? You know not everyone cares about that sort of thing."

" Did you *go, do, say something fairly normal*? That was weird."

" You embarrassed me. Why are you like that? "

He begrudged me any kind of good feeling, so I rarely had one for long. Now my brain does his work for him.

I had scheduled myself a nice day yesterday and enjoyed myself. Then spent the night into the early hours writhing in misery.

I can't explain why. I just know from conditioning that I'm not supposed to feel good. So my head ensures I don't.

Good days are bad too

Noah + Oliver origin story omg

●♤ are you really that stupid? ♤●

Whumper- Oliver; mafia boss (•♤•)

Whumpee- Noah; sucky assasin (•♡•)

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️

Kidnapping, assassination attempt, nsfw whump, intimate whumper, torture, ransom money, hypno, conditioning

_________________________

•♡•

Noah checked his pocket discreetly; yep, the knife was still there. He followed behind the mafia boss he'd been working for for months. They headed down a rather shady street; dimmed lamplights, cracked sidewalks- you get the picture.

He took the knife from his pocket, starting to follow closer, closer, closer. He trailed barely a foot behind him until they reached a spot without a lamplight.

He finally dove at Oliver, aiming the knife right at the side of his neck.

Oliver whipped around and caught Noah's wrist firmly, then pinned him against the solid brick wall to their right.

Fuck.

"Ack- sir! I- I can explain!" Noah cried, letting the knife clatter to the sidewalk. He kicked his legs frantically as Oliver dragged him up the wall so that they were eye level.

"Noah, dear," Oliver spoke slow, shaking his head with dissaproval. "are you really that stupid? You think you can take me out like I'm some fucking- prey or something?"

"I'm- it- I wasn't-"

"I always thought you were a spy, this just confirms it." Oliver chuckled, pushing one hand against Noah's chest as he reached down for the knife. "Who do you work for, Noah?"

"Th-the Nameless! I was sent to assassinate y-you." Noah blurted as Oliver grabbed each of his shoulders again, the knife now pointed up at his throat. If Noah's head relaxed downwards, the weapon would be in his neck.

"That easy, huh? I don't even have to bring you home, I can kill you now, really." Oliver pushed the knife closer. Noah craned his neck away, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Nononono!" He cried, heart thumping out of his chest.

The knife never met his throat. Noah opened his eyes slowly.

"Or,

Ill give you two options, boy. You either die right here, a quick jab to the neck, or you can come home with me. I need a new pet anyways." Noah felt shivers run down his spine at the word. Pet? What the hell? What does that mean?

It had to be better than dying, right?

"So, what's it gonna be, pretty boy?" Oliver ghosted the blade across Noah's throat. He shivered at the usage of 'pretty boy.'

"The second one!" Noah squeaked out, feeling the knife's tip graze his throat. Immediately, his feet hit the ground.

"Good choice." Oliver grinned, running his unarmed hand through Noah's curly hair. "Close your eyes, this'll hurt."

Noah stared blankly at the other man.

"Close your eyes."

Noah finally listened, anxiety coursing through him. Only a second after, he was gripped harshly from the back by his hair.

His eyes shot back open. "Ow, wh-"

His head flew at the brick wall, hitting with a thud. He let out a scream, eyes watering immediatelyas his nose was nearly broken. The first hit didn't quite knock him out, so Oliver dropped him. Noah let out a cry before he hit the sidewalk.

°°°

He woke up what felt like an eternity later, dazed. He had gone blind. He couldn't see anything, regardless of how much he blinked.

Had Oliver accidently done this? Or had he skewered Noah's eyes out with a hunting knife to try and handicap him? No, nothing really hurt besides his forehead and his nose. What if it was residual brain damage from the impact?

Panic surged through his body, and he cried out wordlessly.

In his terror, he attempted to flail and found his hands were bound together. He tried his legs; the same.

Finally, he noticed the low hum in his ears and the rumble shaking his environment.

He wasn't blind, he was in a trunk.

"Help!" Noah screamed with all the air in his lungs, thrashing in the confined space.

A muffled voice called back to him, "We're almost home, love. Go back to sleep."

"G- get me outta here!" Noah cried, kicking his bound legs.

"Back to sleep." Oliver repeated more sternly.

Noah felt the car shake as they hit a bump, and as his head came down against the floor of the trunk, he was unconsious again.

°°°

Hours later, Noah awoke. He opened his eyes to survey his environment. He was in a fucking basement. Great start.

He was tied to a chair via soft, silky, black material. His hands were bound together, then tied around both of his thighs (which were strapped to the chair with a leather belt.)

Aside from the chair, the room held a mattress with some blankets, two dog bowls, a television, a leash hanging off the wall, and, opposite from him, a passageway upstairs and a closed door.

"Oliver? Boss?" He called, his voice shaking. What even was this? A setup for a dog to live in?

Footsteps thrummed slowly down the stairs. Oliver walked to Noah, grinning. "Awake already, dear?" His hand brushed through Noah's curly hair, almost soothingly.

"Oliver, what the fuck am I doing here?" Noah tried to flinch away, but was held in place by his boss gripping his hair suddenly. He only relaxed the grip and pretty Noah again when he ceased his struggles.

"Oh, that question has a variety of answers. Right now? You're talking to me and getting pet. In a bit, we're making a ransom video. And in general?" Oliver's hand trailed down to Noah's cheek. "You're becoming my pet."

Noah did his best not to react to Oliver's touch. "What do you mean by pet?"

Oliver paused and stared at him like he was stupid, replacing the look with a warm smile a second after. His hand went back up to play in Noah's curls. "It's simple, really. You live with and belong to me. I will treat you good and reward you if you comply. If you resist, we head over yonder to the cellar, " he gestured to the closed door beside the stairs, "and you'll get a punishment."

"Belong to you?!" Noah gawked, adrenaline suddenly rushing through him as he struggled at the bindings. "I don't belong to anybody! Let me go!"

Oliver shook his head, puffing a sigh. His hand pulled away from Noah. "We'll have to break that line of thinking later. For now, it's time for your ransom video."

"No. Fuck off! Let me go!" He pulled and twisted at his bonds.

Oliver walked somewhere behind him and returned with a camera and a tri-pod. "If your little organization decides they want you back, they'll pay ransom. Ill send the video to your family too. And- oh! Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend." Noah's heart sank. Oh, no, poor Aaron. His boyfriend was surely panicking that he was gone, right? Tears flowed past his eyelids. "Nobody in my family has a lot of money... please just let me go."

Oliver nodded. "A boyfriend, huh? I'm sure he misses you. Does he have good money?"

"...no."

"Then it's up to 'The Nameless' to pay your ransom. They'll surely-"

Ding!

Noah's phone chimed in his pocket.

"Oh, you brought me your phone!" Oliver grinned, reaching to pull it out of Noah's pocket. "How sweet, is this him?" Oliver asked, referring to his lock screen. Without waiting for a response, Oliver put the phone beside Noah's right hand. "Unlock it."

Noah shook his head, trying to stop his tears. No way was he going to give this creep access to his phone. "I don't want to."

"That's unfortunate. Unlock it or I'll break your fingers." Oliver prompted, shaking the phone subtly. Noah shivered and drew the pattern to unlock it.

"Let's see, what do we got here?" Noah sniffled as Oliver scrolled. "A message from Aaron? Is that your boyfriend? He says; 'are we still on for tonight? Why won't you respond to my messages?'" Oliver laughed.

"Oh, Aaron..." Noah whispered, hanging his head.

"Let's send him some pictures later! That'll be fun!" Oliver pocketed the phone and went back to his tri-pod, clicking on the camera.

"Hello, friends, family, and co-workers of Noah!" He greeted, blocking Noah from the camera's line of sight.

"Help!" Noah cried out, a sob breaking the word into two syllables. "Help me!"

Oliver backed away, revealing Noah to the sight of the camera. "I have dear Noah here with me. He reallllly misses all of you, doesn't he? Tell them, love."

"Help me! Please!" Noah cried out. "Mom! Dad! Aaron! He's gonna kill me-"

He was stopped as Oliver's thumb pressed against his tongue, the remainder of his fingers against the bottom of his jaw.

"Dont say that, honey! Im not gonna kill you without good reason! And you can go back home if they scrape together- hm, how much do you think, Noah?"

Noah shook his head as best he could in response. How much was a ransom payment even supposed to be?

"Give me a number between $250,000 and $400,000." Noah's jaw was released, granting him the ability to speak.

"Uh- uhm-" Noah looked directly at the camera. "$250,000?"

Oliver bounced his fingers through Noah's hair. "$400,000 it is! Ill expect the money by... let's say two weeks from now?"

"They don't have the fucking money!" Noah sobbed, struggling feverently. "Please let me go! I won't tell anyone!"

"Do I have to gag you, love?" Oliver whipped around.

"No, please..." Noah shrunk back in his seat, lowering his voice. When Oliver gave a small nod and approached the camera, Noah spoke again, "Aaron... I'm sorry. I love you so much..."

The camera beeped and was off. Noah cried out in despair, losing his only possible contact to the outside world. Oliver turned to him and crouched, holding him by the soft material binding his hands.

"Noah. Im going to untie you. You will not fight me, you're gonna come with me to the bed, okay?" Oliver's peircing eyes met Noah's.

Noah shook his head. "No, f-fuck off. Ill never just obey you like that..." He talked of, having a silent sob. "Oliver, they won't be able to pay..."

"First of all, you don't tell me no." A had wrapped threateningly around his throat, but didn't squeeze. "Second, what about your little organization? They're pretty rich, from what I hear."

"I- I guess..." Noah sniffled, watching as Oliver carefully untied him. He lifted his hands slowly, glad to have the movement back, and waited as the belt keeping his legs in place was removed.

"Come here." Oliver helped him up, practically carrying him to the bed. Noah collapsed into a ball, tucking his head between his knees and wrapping his hands around the back of his head.

"Shh, I know, baby." Oliver's hand settled on Noah's back, rubbing up and down.

Noah tried to ignore the way Oliver said 'baby.' He tried to squeeze his eyes closed and pretend it was Aaron and not Oliver. That he was at his apartment getting a back rub from his boyfriend. That he wasn't being held for ransom in the basement of the man he was sent to kill.

It was hard.

"Noah, its alright... I've got you." Oliver whispered, snaking his hand between Noah's chest and legs. Noah let out a feeble whine as he was forcefully dragged back against the other's chest and into his lap. "Like i said, Noah. Im not gonna hurt you as long as you don't make me."

"How do i know that..?" Noah whispered, trying to arch away from his captor. Suddenly, Oliver's arms pulled him very tight, keeping him in place. Something twitched against his rear.

"F-fuck." Oliver breathed directly in Noah's ear, gripping his hips with bruising strength. Noah whimpered as a hand moved down his thigh. Fingers brushed against his clothed cock gently.

He was beginning to finally understand what Oliver meant by 'pet.'

"No-!" Noah cried, throwing his elbow back into Oliver's ribcage. Oliver let out a grunt, leaning back for a second.

Noah took this as his chance. He rolled forward onto his hands and knees, ready to push up to his feet.

That was until a hand gripped the back of his neck. "Noah. Stay perfectly still."

Noah obeyed out of fear, hearing the dangerous edge to Oliver's voice.

"Good pet. Now, I'm not going to punish you right now. I'll save all your punishments until the end of the day, then we'll go to the punishment room and you'll pay for your mistakes. I won't take my anger out on you until then." He grabbed Noah by the armpits and pulled him up onto his knees, then back against his chest once more.

"Im not your fucking pet..." Noah spat defiantly, though he didn't dare move.

"I understand why you say this things, my love." Oliver soothed, rubbing his hand against Noah's dick again. Noah squirmed a bit, though Oliver seemed to ignore it. "You aren't used to living like this yet. I have something that might help with that."

The lights turned off and the TV clicked on and a black and white spiral began to swirl in the center endlessly.

"Were going to try some hypnotism. Keep your eyes on the center of the spiral. If you disobey, ill give you an extra whipping tonight." Oliver's free hand rested in Noah's hair, playing with it.

Noah obeyed, intimidated by his threat. His eyes settled on the screen and tried to relax against Oliver.

"You're a good boy." Oliver spoke into his ear, his voice gentle.

"Huh? Wh-" Noah began. His eyes nearly broke from the screen to look back at his captor.

"Shh, shh. Just relax and listen," Oliver interrupted. "You're my good boy. You belong to me."

Noah was made uncomfortable by Oliver's words, but didn't bother to move. He focused on the spiral and not his captor.

"My puppy, my pet... just relax, be calm...." Oliver's sentences seemed fuzzy and far away as he watched the spiral. Eventually, his vision started to blur. Noah was only vaguely aware as Oliver's fingers applied more pressure to his clothed dick. He didn't even react. Slowly but surely, his brain effectively shut off, leaving him staring doe-eyed at the spiral.

Round, round and round...

●♤●

Oliver mumbled sweet words into Noah's ear, noting the way he rarely ever responded. When the boy did respond, it was a simple "mm" in reaction to what Oliver had said.

It was going on two hours of this when Noah stirred slightly. Noah shushed him slightly, moving his hand in gentle circles against the other's scalp.

"You love it when I do this. You would do anything to behave and cuddle up next to me, wouldn't you?" Oliver peeked around to check on Noah, seeing his unfocused eyes and mouth hanging slightly open. A grin split Oliver's face at the sight.

Noah was finally behaving, how exciting! Even if he didn't know it, Noah's brain was being fed his words and internallising a great deal of them.

"My pet, you love being my pretty little thing; my object- my property. You fucking love it. Dumb little thing~"

After about another half hour, Oliver picked up the TV remote again.

"Noah, dear? Feel free to look away from the screen, if you'd like. I'll turn the TV off in a bit." His hand groped at the pudge of the other boy's inner thigh.

The boy shifted slightly in his lap, signaling his refocus.

•♡•

Noah blinked a couple times. Had he zoned out? For how long? It could have been hours. He shifted slightly against his master-

What?

Why did that thought even cross his mind? He brushed it off as an unwanted intrusive thought, sitting up.

He looked around, startled as the world spun in his vision. Toppling back into Oliver's lap, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Your eyes are gonna be weird for a few minutes, keep them shut if that feels better." The low voice cooed, giving him some comfort. Since when did his voice comfort him?

"How do you feel, pet? Any different?" Oliver prompted, resting both of his hands on Noah's sides. They moved up and down soothingly.

"No, sir, I feel fine-" Noah paused, his face heating up when he realized what he said. "I-I mean-"

"Good boy," Oliver interrupted, his hand swooping up to cover Noah's mouth. "It's working, I see."

Noah slowly opened his eyes, his vision evening out. The TV was off finally, leaving the two in the darkness.

"Whaddya say we get back you back to your cage, yeah?" Oliver lifted Noah carefully.

"Of course,

Sir."

Friend: Hey, Joey! You want to go to the new buffet after class?

Joey: BUFFET??

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

Now heading into the 2nd week of conditioning, Joey has gotten gigantic and is very slowly coming to notice it. Seeing a fully grown player from the H.U.G.E. League is one thing but becoming one is taking its toll. Being hungry all the time is a very noticeable side effect. If Joey gets any taller, he’ll be scraping his ceilings with his bushy hair! It’s hard to say when he’ll reach a more stable level of growth at this point! A lot of his college friends are excited to see him big enough to hold them in his hands.

Joey’s nearly done with conditioning and is packing to go to H.U.G.E. HQ. Thank god, the other jocks were getting really annoyed with his spontaneous erections, and finding machines stretched WAY to high or out of shape.

24/100 days of productivity

Achievements

1. Felt confident about my anatomy exam on muscles

2. Did an off campus short run for warm up + liners on the field + core

3. Crocheted a tiny scarf

Events

👕 monochrome day at school

🔬anatomy exam

🏃🏽‍♀️ track conditioning

46/100 days of productivity

Achievements

1. Led a core workout for the track team

2. Led a successful kahoot for my club meeting

3. Ate a whole sugar cookie

Events

🦉 kahoot

🏃🏽‍♀️ track

I have successfully conditioned myself to think of MDZS whenever I hear “When You Come Home” by Mree.

So... a certain former tumblr, known as Denied and Dripping, wrote me a New Years themed story and suggested I post it on my tumblr for others to enjoy. Here it is! Please like and/or reblog but do not alter the text.

——————————————————

All year long you’ve been waiting.

Every month you’ve been suffering, aching and dripping – desperate for a release that wasn’t going to come… much like you. Every month you’d been reduced to a whimpering, squirming pile of nerves. Every erotic thought sending jolts through your body, concentrating on your swollen pussy. You wanted nothing more than to grab a vibrator and make yourself cum. Hell, it didn’t even have to be a vibrator. Fingers. Dildo. Grinding on a couch arm. You craved the ecstasy of release. You craved the gushing feeling of an orgasm washing over you… but it was denied to you for twelve agonizing months. That was the deal, after all – you’d even signed a contract putting me in control of you and your orgasms for the next twelve months. For one year, I owned you.

I’d given pet names to each month. Reminders of the year-long sentence you were serving. A year of being my orgasm-free pet. Cute little names to make sure you didn’t forget the torture you were going to endure. Not that you could. Not when your pussy drooled uncontrollably down your legs by the second month. Not when you could barely feel your pussy lips because of your swollen clit by month five. Not when every beat of your heart sent your pussy into throbbing convulsions by month nine.

Juicy January was first. The warmup month. This month was only to make sure your pussy was well-lubricated for the coming year. I would sit you on my lap every night, spreading your legs with mine and tying your hands behind you. I didn’t want you interfering. I would whisper all the filthy, dirty things that were in store for you during the upcoming year. I would nibble your neck and drag my beard stubble along your shoulder as my hands absently played with your nipples. I’d pinch and tease, tugging them gently. My hands would roam up and down your sides as I talked all about how much I wanted to bury my face between your thighs. I’d drag my nails along the inside of your legs, stopping just shy of your pussy… but I wouldn’t touch it. Not the lips. Not the clit. Nothing. This month was about building the anticipation. Making you want the torture even though you knew it would be bad. After the first two weeks, we needed to put a towel under you. Your pussy would cream at just the thought of your daily “lap time”. You begged, mewled and whined for any stimulation on your pussy… but no, I wouldn’t grant it to you. I even showered with you to make sure you kept your fingers from wandering… and used the water to my own evil ends.

Frustrated February was the first bit of contact your pussy received. Your hands were tied behind you still, to keep you from defending your helpless pussy from the tortures I had planned. You were stretched out on the bed with the towel under your hips as I teased your pussy lips with a soft makeup brush. You had two sessions – one in the morning to get your pussy primed for the day and another just before bed to make sure your dreams were filled with erotic thoughts all night long. Valentines Day brought a special alteration to the deal – the first time my tongue touched your pussy. I tied you spread-eagle and licked and sucked just your outer lips for two whole hours. With everything you’d endured the previous month, this was too much for you to take. After fifteen minutes, you begged me to let you cum. When I wouldn’t, you begged me to stop until I had to gag you. With no choice but to just lie there and take it, you suffered beautifully for the whole two hours. By the end of it, you had tears running down your face from desperation. The rest of the month seemed almost merciful by comparison as I resumed tormenting your swollen outer lips with the delicate, fluffy brushes.

Month three was Merciless March, and this is where your torture was truly going to begin. Every day I slipped a dildo inside you and fastened it there was a rope harness. Every step you took tormented your pussy. Every subtle shift of your hips reminded you that you were filled because it brought me pleasure to see you squirm. Whenever you were home, you were forbidden to wear shirts – which left your breasts on display for me. I would pinch, suck and tease them whenever the mood struck me, which kept your pussy leaking and dripping down your thighs. When I wasn’t teasing your swollen, achy nipples I would dress you up in a shiny set of nipple clamps. Some days, just to be cruel, I would hang weights from them. Other days I would use the clamps like a leash as I pulled you to your knees before making you service my cock while your pussy throbbed around the dildo.

You came up with the name Agonizing April for month four. Your pussy was visibly swollen and red – three months of torture having taken their toll. Every morning you woke up and had to change the sheets if you rolled off your towel… and even some days when you didn’t. Your pussy creamed nonstop – a delicious reminder of the suffering you were enduring. I decided to make sure it lived up to its name. You were forbidden to take off the nipple clamps during the day, and were instead forced to wear your bra over them. A constant reminder of my ownership over you. Furthermore, your pussy was off limits again this month – no touching at all. I made sure you got your ‘fill’ of me, though. Every night you were bent over the bed with your hands behind your back and a gag stuffed in your mouth as I plowed your tight little ass, making sure to fill you with cum every night before plugging you and sending you to bed horny, desperate, denied and (although you’d never have said it out loud) secretly loving every minute of it.

Maddening May was the first real moment you realized how much trouble you were in. After a month of having your ass fucked to the point of soreness, you thought you were in luck when I told you that your ass was getting a break. Instead, you were mercilessly gagged and tied down to the bed while I slowly fucked your pussy every night. You weren’t permitted an orgasm. You weren’t even permitted an edge. I would spread your pussy and make sure your poor, denied clit got no contact. It hadn’t had direct stimulation since your Valentine’s Day licking. If I thought you were getting close, I would either pinch and tease your nipples while letting my cock throb inside you or I’d start madly tickling your ribs, ass, inner thighs or feet until you were far enough from the edge to where I could start thrusting again. Every night. An hour each night. You were fucked and tickled to the point of delirium and unable to even beg for mercy. Every night I would pull out and cover you with my cum – another reminder of your slavery to me. You cried and begged for an orgasm when I took the gag out, but I would only shush you and remind you that you still had seven long months to go.

Joyless June was the next month on the calendar. It was joyless, but not for me. This was the month I showed you the beautiful new chastity belt I’d purchased for you. Real steel, not the cheap leather one you thought I would buy. This one left no room for you to get any stimulation to your pussy. As I turned the key, sealing you inside, I instated a new rule. From this point forward, it wasn’t your pussy any more. I owned the key. It was MY pussy. Any time you forgot that and asked to touch “your” pussy, you would be punished. Severely. This month was about MY pleasure. Every night you would kneel in front of me and torture your own nipples while begging to suck my cock. If you begged well enough, I would grant you the pleasure of making me cum. If your begging was insincere, you were tied with your arms behind your back—my favorite position for you—and roughly ass-fucked until I filled you with my cum. You were then plugged, spanked and left to contemplate your situation. Left to ruminate on how to beg better in the future as your pussy flooded the chastity belt.

Jeering July. You were unlocked for the first time in a month and I told you that my pussy was going to get all the attention it had missed for the past month or so. Every day I would tie your ankles to your thighs, forcing your legs apart and binding your wrists to a collar around your neck. Naked, spread and humiliated, I would rest in you in my lap and spread my pussy lips. We were halfway through the year and apart from Valentines Day, I’d ignored your clit. This was all about to change. With a ballgag firmly between your lips, you were allowed to scream and writhe in frustration as I used a long, stiff feather on your defenseless clit. Every day for two hours at a time, you were tied and tortured while I relaxed on the couch. Every time you ruined a feather with the copious amounts of wetness, I teased you and reminded you that those feathers weren’t being thrown away. They had a use… you just didn’t know what it was yet. On the last day of the month, though, you learned what I had planned. You were hogtied on the floor in front of me while I showed you the homemade featherduster I’d made from the dozens of feathers you’d ruined. Your pussy juices had dried on them, making the feathers even more firm and stiff – a fact you realized when I spent almost eight whole hours dusting the soles of your bound, toe-tied feet while a low-power vibrator buzzed away in my pussy. After that, I told you that it wasn’t just your pussy – I was laying claim to your clit as well. It was now MY clit.

August came… or, as you came to call it, “Awful August”. You thought having attention on MY clit was bad last month, this month made it a thousand times worse. You were spread open every morning as I licked and sucked my helpless clit to the edge as many times as I could within an hour. After that, you were on no-touch for the rest of the day until the evening when I did it again. After that, you were bent over and fucked in the ass until I released my pent-up frustrations by filling you with cum again. You were forbidden to touch my pussy at all – I even followed you into the bathroom to help you shave, making sure your puffy pussy was left bare and defenseless at every opportunity. A few times, we played a thrilling game where I pinned you down in the tub, teasing and massaging my clit while the water rose. More than once it passed your face, forcing you to hold your breath as I edged my pussy for entertainment. Other times I’d bend you over the tub, holding your head down while I roughly fucked your ass or slowly fucked my pussy until you were on the screaming edge. Every night, you fell asleep with your hands tied to your collar and the vibrator in my pussy reminding you of your submission. Your owned state. You were mine – and you weren’t cumming until I said so.

Up next was Suffering September. I reminded you that there were four months left in the year – this one and three more. Devilishly, I also informed you that it was my goal to make you suffer as much in these three months as I had during the rest of the year. You cried and begged me for mercy, but I had none. My pussy was going to ache like it never had before. You were edged four times a day for an hour per session and never with the same tool twice in a day. Some days I used a vibrator. Other days I licked and sucked my agonized clit until you were screaming and bawling. You had to be tied down—for your safety, of course—because you tried to thrash and fight with aroused fervor. Every session ended with your face covered in tears. You couldn’t wear makeup unless you wanted to look like a trashy whore that had just been face-fucked. After every session, you were belted to keep your wandering hands from my sopping wet hole. If I didn’t lock you up, you kept trying to touch yourself – even subconsciously in your sleep. I couldn’t have that. I wanted you wet. Needy. Desperate. Willing to do anything… not that you hadn’t been that way already.

The favorite month of orgasm denial fetishists descended upon us with the first day of Locktober. You were going to endure it the same way every other chastity fanatic did – locked in your belt and on no-touch for thirty-one agonizing days. Of course, even though I wasn’t going to unlock you, I wasn’t going to let you off easily either. If I couldn’t play with my pussy, I would lay claim to your breasts and ass. Some days I bent you over the couch and tongued your asshole until you were sobbing into the pillows, pussy juice leaking out of the chastity belt and down your thighs… and then I’d lick that up too. Other days I’d spend time licking, biting and sucking your sensitive nipples or sliding my cock into your cleavage. Taunting you. Teasing you. Reminding you that fucking your breasts was just as good as fucking your pussy. Why should I ever unlock you except to torture MY pussy? MY clit? I could spend the rest of my life fucking your ass, breasts and mouth and never even need your pussy. The more I talked about it, the wetter you got. You humped the air in desperation. You begged. Pleaded. Whined. Sobbed for mercy… but you got none. You were MY slave, and I was going to make you suffer.

No-Vember is another month all denial enthusiasts know about. While I didn’t keep you in the belt, I made sure you were well aware of your predicament. Two months to go. Every day I increased your edges, licking my denied clit every morning and evening until you were a desperate, wet mess. You tried to tell me you couldn’t take it, but I ignored you. If your begging got too loud, I gagged you. You didn’t have choices anymore. You were a slave. You were MY slave. You existed to be aroused, teased and denied. Your whole purpose was to bring your Master pleasure, and if your continued denial did that then you were going to have to accept it. Nothing you could say or do would change my mind. I told you this one afternoon as I slid my cock into my pussy, fucking you slowly so as not to push you over the edge. I loved your denial. I loved having you as my slave. If it was up to me, it would NEVER end. I punctuated this statement by producing a new set of nipple clamps – this one with three ends. Your eyes bugged out as realization flashed through your mind. I clamped your nipples and then used the third end to pinch my clit, holding the hood back and leaving the little button exposed. After fucking you until I came, I pulled out and used a delicate paintbrush to tease my clit for another hour until your eyes rolled back and no coherent sounds came from behind your gag.

Desperate December was the last month of the year. Surely you could make it. You were desperate. Horny. The whole house smelled of your pussy and you were ashamed to leave. Even the slightest bit of motion caused your pussy to flow down your legs. When you did leave the house, I made you wear thigh-highs and a skirt. No panties. The chilly breezes of December tickled my pussy like the fingers of a gentle lover, eliciting such lovely moans. I also forbade you from wearing a bra, leaving your nipples to harden in the cold. You were such a delicious sight that I couldn’t help fingering you in public at every possible opportunity. In the car. While grocery shopping. A few times we used a remote vibrator. A few times I sent you to run errands with your chastity belt holding a dildo firmly in my pussy. Sometimes both. By Christmas you were a wreck – unable to focus on even the most mundane of tasks. All it took was a snap of my fingers for you to sink to your knees and open your mouth. My hand on your shoulder was enough to make you weak, submissive and obedient. It was perfect.

New Years Eve was upon us. A time when most people were rejoicing and planning their resolutions for the year to come. You only had one thing on your mind. An orgasm. You were aching for me to make my pussy cum. Once the year was up, after all, you’d fulfilled your contract. You could also tell from the evil glint in my eye that I had plans for you this evening. You knew I was going to make you suffer.

Your hands were cuffed over your head to a pull-up bar I kept in the doorframe. I admired your taut, helpless body as I used a pair of sharp scissors to cut your clothes off you. You wouldn’t need them tonight. I smirked as I threw them away, showing you a piece of paper. It was a contract – just like the one you signed in January. This one was for two years, not one. I put it on the table along with a pen, licking my lips as I turned to you. We still had several hours until the New Year. I wanted you to beg me to sign it. Beg me to untie you so you could sign your life and pussy away to me for two more long, torturous years. At first you balked at the idea, but when I knelt down and started licking my clit, you changed your tune. At first you tried to resist, shaking your head back and forth as you looked at the clock. Eight hours until New Years Day. If you could just resist, you wouldn’t have to sign. That was the deal.

It only took four to break you. Four hours of spreading my pussy lips and keeping you on the razor’s edge of an orgasm. Four hours of your brain drowning in sexual chemicals as you hung in the doorway like a tortured sex doll. Your body was covered with sweat, your hair sticking to your face as you rasped and pleaded with me for mercy. I told you to beg. To sing that sweet song for me. And sing you did – you sang like a songbird, pleading for permission to sign the contract. To give that sweet, wet pussy to me for two more years. To give yourself over to any devious torture I could imagine.

I made you wait until the ten minutes before I unchained you and walked you over to the table. I put the pen in your hand and began to finger my clit slowly, keeping you right on the edge. I slid my hard cock into you from behind, bending you over the table as I nibbled your ear. I told you how much you would regret signing the contract. How evil I was going to be. Some of the new tortures I’d come up with. If you signed it, you’d find yourself in a world of neverending torment.

You scrawled your shaky signature on the line without a second thought, pleading with me for an orgasm as my hand curled around your throat. I forced you to look at the clock as it counted down, keeping you on the edge until the last ten seconds.

Ten…

Nine…

Eight…

Seven…

Six…

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

As the clock struck midnight, I cruelly jerked my hand away and grabbed your wrists to keep you from finishing what I had abandoned. You screamed in futile rage, struggling as your orgasm was snatched away from you, your pussy spasming frantically. I had struck the edge so perfectly that your body had almost succumbed to a ruined orgasm, but not quite. I had stopped in the nick of time.

I leaned in as you cried and sobbed, still feebly struggling. “Such a pity,” I whispered in your ear. “The contract you signed back in January granted me full and complete authority over your pussy… but never once said I had to give you an orgasm at the end.” Your eyes widened in shock, horror and despair as I twisted your wrists behind you and pinned you over the couch. You could feel the cold metal of the chastity belt sliding around your waist and screamed for mercy. You humped the air, your pussy dripping on the floor as I locked the belt in place with a cruel laugh. “No mercy for you, little slut,” I growled as my hard cock entered your ass. “Now, shut up and use that hot little ass to make me cum.”

You cried and sobbed in helpless desperation as I began to fuck you, tears running down your face as your hands were pinned in the small of your back.

It was going to be a long two years.