#meathead

Cliche Gym Chapter 7 (Patreon Preview)

He shrugs. “That may be part of it. I don’t know. And honestly, I’m not paid to know, so I don’t really care. What I care about is growing and helping my trainees to grow.”

“And what would you say your success rate is?”

“I’d say I rank a solid Poppins.”

“… A what?”

He smirks. “Practically perfect in every way.”

You cock your head. “Huh. Didn’t pin you for a Disney guy.”

“Most folks don’t.” He strides toward you and stares down over the shelf of his massive pecs. “So, a few ground rules. You can call me Big Bro, Bro, Sir, or Jeff. Whatever makes you comfortable. When we’re training, I’m going to push you hard. I’m not always so nice as I am in casual conversation. This is a professional relationship, and I expect you to understand that and respect that fact.

“My job is to push you to your limits and help you exceed them. We’re going to be crossing a lot of lines and breaking through a lot of barriers. You’re going to be sore and tired for the first few sessions we have. I’ll be encouraging you to push past that fatigue to increase your endurance and other capabilities. That encouragement can be positive or negative, depending on the situation. I don’t abuse my clients, and the same will hold for you. I mentor them. I train them. I push them. But I will never deliberately hurt them or you. If you turn into a zealot, I will stop you, though. There is such a thing as working out too much. I can help build your body to handle those kinds of loads if that’s the goal, but if you go too far too fast, you’ll do more harm than good. So, I expect you to listen to me and follow my instructions to the letter. Are we clear?”

“As crystal, Sir,” you say with a playful smirk.

Jeff smirks back. “Careful. That just might become a habit.” Then he turns toward the gym proper and a series of mats before a floor-length mirror. A casually waving hand draws you in tow after him. “Come on. We’ll start off with some basic warmups. Stretching, a little cardio. Then we’ll see about setting up a baseline for your plan.”

“My plan?”

“How else am I supposed to train you if I don’t know where to start?”

You look at the mats, where several men and women with varying body types are working either with dumbbells, stress bands, or just testing their flexibility. Some are watched over by muscled figures like Jeff. Others seem to be looking at their neighbors and following together. Some chat playfully or casually. Others remain stony and silent as they focus on their tasks.

“Quite a menagerie here,” you note.

Jeff grins. “Welcome to the zoo, Mister Winters.”

Jeff is definitely not the same kind of man as James or some of his other more muscular employees. His voice and demeanor may be blunt, but his whit is sharp. He might not be a bad connection to form a rapport with here. Time would tell that. For now, however, you decide that at the very least, Jeff is someone that you could grow to like. “Where’s the tiger pen?” you joke back.

Jeff’s grin widens. And then you begin.

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Credit for this image goes to @bluescreenstuff

Warning: This has hypnotic elements and could accidentally trigger a trance-like state. Do not read this while operating heavy machinery or driving.

A Little Packing

“My head has a face. My face is a square. A square is a face. A face on a cube. A cube is a box. A box with a face. A face on my head. A square on a box. A box for a head….”

“Very good. Very good. You have that down. Now, for your next lines. ‘A box that is open.’“

“A box that is open….”

“Open to me.”

“Open … to you….”

“A box that is empty.”

His eyelids flutter. “A box … that is empty….”

“Empty for me.”

“Empty … for you….”

“A box to be packed.”

“A box to be packed….”

“Packed by me.”

“Packed by you….”

“I am the packer.”

“You are the packer….”

“I pack and unpack.”

“You pack and unpack….”

“What I pack up stays.”

“What you pack up stays….”

“What I unpack goes.”

“What you unpack … goes….”

“Good. Remember those words. I am packing a player with these instructions on repeat for you in the back of your head. The player never runs out of power. It will play on, even if you don’t consciously hear it. Its words will reinforce our roles. Its cadence will set the rhythm of your work. Its beat will flood everything you do, but it will not interfere with your ability to sleep.”

“Yes, … Packer….”

“I am also packing some weights and a bottle marked pleasure. These two go hand in hand. Weights and pleasure, pleasure and weights.”

“Weights, … and pleasure,” he sighs.

“And a subwoofer to drop the bass. Deep, loud, and little if any volume control.”

“Yes, … Packer….”

“If you wish to pack something permanently, you must consult me. If I approve, it will stay. If not, it will go.”

“Yes, Packer.”

“I am the packer.”

“You are the packer.”

“You are the package.”

“I am the package.”

“I am your packer.”

“You are my packer.”

“You are my package.”

“I am your package.”

“What I pack, you hold.”

“What you pack, I hold.”

“In your box.”

“In my box.”

“In your head.”

“In my head.”

“The box is your head.”

“The box is my head.”

“And the box opens for the packer. The box closes for the packer.”

“Open, … and close … for Packer….”

“That’s right, Package.”

“I am the package. My head is a box. A box that is packed by my Packer.”

“I am packing a jockstrap now, and removing some of your old textbooks. Instead, I am packing fitness, health, and sports magazines to take their place.”

“Yes, … Packer.”

“And to protect anything fragile, I am stuffing cotton and packing material to keep everything in place and safe from being jostled. It may take time to find what you’re looking for, and things may feel fuzzy as you sift through the material, but everything will be safe and well-packed. It will not be irretrievable.”

“Yes, Packer. Thank you….”

“You’re welcome, Package. Now, then. I am closing the lid on the box. When I say, ‘Our packing is finished,’ you will wake up. When I say, ‘It’s packing time,’ you will return to this state, the state of a package waiting for its packer to organize its contents. And you will respond by saying, ‘This Package is ready for sorting.’ Do you understand?“

“Yes, Packer.”

“Good. Now listen closely, Package. Our packing is finished.”

Tired and unfocused eyes blink as the subject slowly comes back to full consciousness and pushes himself off the wall that’s been propping him up. “Did it—Uhhhh…. Did it work?”

“It’s a start, Patrick.” I smile at him. “Things won’t be immediate, but you should start feeling some of the things I put in there soon.” I tap his forehead gently to emphasize my point. “Try going to the gym again. Lift some weights, and maybe flick on some sports later tonight. See if there’s a difference. You won’t be a bro overnight, but it’s a definite start.”

An effusive grin, a vigorous shake of my hand. “THANK YOU SO MUCH!”

…

Ah, yes, … and the cranking volume….

He notices my wince and blushes. “Sorry.”

I wave it off. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” Then I look at my schedule. “Let’s set our next appointment for … three days from now. I want you to make a conscious effort to match the subconscious. Let me know about your results. Feelings, sensations, any pros or cons of what’s been happening, that sort of thing.”

“You bet!” He grins

“Same time, Patrick?”

He blinks. His eyes lose focus for a few seconds. “Uhhhhhhh….” Finally, he shakes his head and reaches into his pocket. “Let me check my phone.”

I smile. “Sure thing.”

He pushes a few buttons, scrolls around, then finally nods. “Yeah, looks good.”

“That’s good. Go ahead and get that in your phone. I don’t want you to forget your appointment accidentally, okay?”

He nods as his fingers fly across the phone’s surface to input the necessary information. When he finishes, he chuckles and looks back at me with sharper eyes and a brighter smile than when he first walked in. “You know, that was actually kind of fun. A guy could get used to this.”

“I wouldn’t mind it either, Patrick. You’re an excellent subject.”

Patrick jolts in place, and I smile as he shakes it off with a bodily shudder. It seems that particular instruction is also holding strong. Patrick will likely have a newfound interest in hypnosis stuffed neatly and held firm by a nice cotton ball cocoon. And while the subwoofer suggestion hasn’t fully taken hold, it’s good to see him fluctuating between deep, loud, and normal.

“Thanks again for your help. I’ll see you later, then!”

“Oh, Patrick!”

He turns at the door. “Yeah?”

I raise my phone and the card reader that’s attached to it. “Debit or credit?”

“Wow. Did I…?” He smacks his forehead with a palm and laughs a deep hearty laugh from the diaphragm. “Guess it’s starting already.”

My smile widens as I finish scanning the card and send him on his way. He has no idea just how much. I dial the number attached to the appointment for Patrick’s designated ride. It’s a number I know well.

“Francis? Yeah, it’s me. Patrick is all done. You can pick him up now.” I pause, awaiting the inevitable question. “You know I can’t disclose my subjects’ session information. You can ask him about it yourself when you see him.” I smile and shake my head at the response. “Same old Frank,” I return warmly. “Until next time, Player.”

I end the call and settle into my chair with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. I always enjoy referral cases. Especially from past clients. As I lean back, I can’t help but ponder out loud. “I wonder what the next one will want.”

Credit for this image goes to @dissolving-time. Story is mature for some language. This is another story from the Coach Stone universe. I hope you all enjoy it. :D

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Stone Cold

“Coach said you have to get your shot, bro.”

I gazed at the meathead that had once been my fellow prisoner. He’d already donned the dog tags that were locked in his footlocker. Muscle rippled over his body as he gazed at me holding one of the biggest rifles I have ever seen in my life.

“Chapman, do you know what that is?” I asked as I eyed the gun warily. The caliber alone would be enough to splatter my brains all over the wall.

“The name’s Champ, bro.” He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly. Had they really brainwashed him so thoroughly?

“Your name is Lance Chapman, from Enfield, North Carolina. You specialize in computer programming, like me. We were brought here against our wills, remember?”

“Nah, bro.” “Champ” let out a deep vapid chuckle. His camouflage draped over his legs, but I could see the hints of growing muscle bunching, just waiting for a good pump to press them tightly against the confines of the cloth. “Coach wants my bod first, my brains second. Huhuh.” He grinned at me, revealing perfectly white and straightened teeth.

I’d hoped to reason with him, but it was clear he was beyond that. I brandished my own pair of dog tags. Like I said, computers were my thing, both programming and the hardware. It took me a while, but I managed to get my lockbox to open, too. And without reducing myself to a wannabe army poster boy. “I have my tags, Champ. You can’t keep me here. You know once I get my tags, I’m supposed to leave. I’m supposed to report to Coach, remember?”

“But you’re not gonna, are you, bro?” he asked seriously as his brow furrowed. “You just wanna get out.”

“I have to get out to see Coach, now don’t I?” The exit was right there in bold black lettering. The lock had already disengaged on cue when I seized my tags. I just needed to get past him. If I could distract him somehow or incapacitate him, I could run.

Chapman spread his legs in a broader stance as he planted himself firmly in front of the door. “You’re not ready to see Coach yet, little bro. And Coach hasn’t called you.”

“I am ready.”

“Prove it.”

I knew a few basics from martial arts training in my youth. I’d been fortunate enough to keep up the practice in my free hours. The meathead in front of me may have had a weapon, but we were in tight quarters. It would be difficult to get that barrel pointing at me if I could stay close. And while he may have had raw strength, I had experience. I also still had my wits about me. I sighed and let my shoulders droop as I approached him. “Look, Champ, just … let me go, okay? You and I both know this is wrong. It’s against the law to kidnap someone.”

“No can do, little bro. Coach says we need more training. Coach says we have a project to help with. Coach says muscle CHAMPs like me need to train and obey. I listen to Coach. I obey. This Champ o—”

The mantra was what I was waiting for. It doesn’t matter how big you get if you haven’t got the trained reflexes to deal with a sudden change yet. And Chapman’s mind had been either short circuited or rewired to reinforce his thuggery. I’d heard it enough times through the door. It wasn’t soundproofed. I think that was deliberate on the part of this “Coach” to give us a taste of what’s in store. Demoralizing a captive is a large part of ensuring that he or she remains compliant, after all. And I’d heard enough, “This meathead obeys,” to know this was a fulltime operation made heavy on the brainwashing. It had to be to change someone so drastically. This wasn’t just a sign of subtle change. This was downright breaking them and building them back up again into the equivalent of obedient machines.

In this case, it played in my favor, and I hate to think of it this way, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was grateful for it. The mantra made him vulnerable. I laid a hand gently on his shoulder, being sure to get close enough that he couldn’t put the barrel against me. His eyes were glassy and unseeing as he uttered the mantra that he and everyone else like him had been conditioned to speak.

Then I took him down. It was simple to sweep his feet out from under him, and the move flowed like water. Bruce Li would be proud. I followed up with a heavy blow to the side of his head with my boot. Part of our imprisonment had included removing our personal affects, so I had no idea where my street clothes were. I didn’t give the blow enough force for any serious damage, but it would be enough to daze him, maybe even knock him out if I was lucky.

I threw the door open while he groaned on the floor. I managed all of maybe two steps before my arms was seized and I was slammed against the wall. I swear, my bones vibrated from the impact. I saw a helmet with a reflective visor and the broadest chest I had ever seen in my life. This man was huge. And unfortunately for me, he was also very skilled. My arm was yanked behind my back faster than I had time to process. He pulled, and I felt my socket strain to send stabs of pain through my arm and neck. Another faceless mook strode forward. But unlike Chapman, this one was decked in full body armor.

“Well done, recruit. You’ve passed Coach’s test. You will serve in Coach Stone’s cyber unit and in Research and Development. You will obey.”

“Like hell, I will,” I swore. That rewarded me with another painful jerk of my arm while a targeted blow forced me to my knees.

“Meathead recruit will comply.” The man withdrew a syringe from a side pocket and tapped the chamber to dislodge any air bubbles, then pulled off the protective cap with a deliberate casual air of the well-practiced. The substance was green, and the soldier had no qualms over pulling my sleeve up. I squirmed, but a yank of my other arm followed by a crushing iron grip on my free arm left me tense as he stabbed the needle into my arm and depressed the syringe. He removed the needle casually and replaced the cap, then inserted the syringe into another pouch.

The two visored faces stared at one another for the briefest of moments in a silent exchange. Then they nodded as the one who injected me rose, turned and entered the room where I had been held prisoner. A low groan emanated from the space, followed by a series of loud cracks.

“Rise, meathead. Follow.”

The voice that emanated in reply was deeper than I remembered. “This meathead obeys…” An even greater shock greeted me when the lumbering brute emerged. Chapman’s muscle mass had increased dramatically, and the man’s skull had completely reformed. Sharp, angular, square features blunted his face now, and his eyes were a vivid shade of green. The oversized gun didn’t look so ridiculous for him anymore.

“What the hell…?” I murmured.

“Meathead Champ will listen to orders. Meathead Champ will obey. Meathead Champ will fire on his roommate on command. Meathead Champ will prepare to fire now.”

“What?” I balked. I wanted to squirm again, but once more, my captor brought me to heel. I tried to shift out of his grip, but the hold was too strong. Even if I went limp, he’d still be able to haul me back up again. That didn’t stop me from trying, however.

I heard a whine not unlike the sound you hear in a sci-fi movie when a blaster is being charged or a bomb is being primed. The barrel was soon directed at my face. My heart hammered as Chapman uttered his mindless acknowledgement.

“Meathead Champ obeys. This meathead is ready to fire.”

“Fire.”

There was light, a strange tingling that bordered on the pleasant, and then blackness. I came to in an empty barracks. When I rose, everything felt … heavy, awkward. The sight of the muscles bulging against the fabric of my shirt was more than enough to unsettle me as my throat clenched and my mouth went dry. I wanted to scream, but at the same time I knew better. I journeyed over my torso, my arms, everything. All of it felt in order, albeit significantly enhanced. It was my face I dreaded the most. And true to my fears, I could feel each sharply defined contour from my own transformation that was doubtless facilitated by the rifle. As a test, I ran through pi to see just how far in the infinite decimal sequence I could get. Then I searched through the other parts of my brain. I felt no compulsion, no absentmindedness, no blank emptiness or cotton or wool. I was clear, surprisingly so, given how quickly my mind seemed to jump from place to place.

“Comfortable?”

The question came out of nowhere, and I balked and bawled as my body sent me crashing into another bunk with the increased force of my new mass.

“Well, clearly not anymore,” the voice replied urbanely. I rounded on the figure only to see a man standing at least a head taller than I. His manner was relaxed and composed. His blond hair flickered like silver in the light. And though he was completely relaxed, his body oozed that smug command and intimidation that subconsciously demanded respect from those around him. “Please, take a moment to acclimate yourself. I find a blow to the shins is never pleasant.”

I decided to stick with sitting, rather than rick another launch with a body I had absolutely no experience with. “Who … are you?” I winced at the depth of my voice. Logic only dictated it would have changed with the rest of my physique, but I had hoped it wouldn’t.

“A scientist of sorts. Biochemistry is my specialty, though I’ve branched out into many other fields.” He chuckled. “Why don’t you just stay there and we’ll have a nice chat between the two of us?” He lowered his broad frame onto the bed I had just launched myself from and gazed at me with vivid blue eyes. “My name is Stone. And you doubtless have many questions and expletives you want to voice, most likely not in that order.”

I felt like a broken record as curse after curse and swear after swear flowed out of me in an invective tirade. Denunciations and questions boomed from me like the retort of a cannon, emphasized by a number of curses and swears until that was all I heard winding down … and down … and down….

“Are you finished?”

A plaintive, almost defeated, “Fuck,” hissed from me as I rested my head in two massive hands.

“Glad you could get that out of your system. Now, do you have any real questions you wanted to ask me?”

“Why?” I finally managed to ask.

“You’re a programmer. You should understand. If a program doesn’t work the way it’s intended, you go into the code, find the bug, and fix it. Sometimes it’s messy work, but the end result is worth it. I’m doing that on a global scale, or at least I will in time. Getting rid of bigotry, erasing the divide between the strong and the weak to produce a better world for everyone.”

“You broke Chapman.”

“Champ is happy where he is. He chose it. He wanted it. You two had virtually the same IQ scores and talents, at least when it came to computer engineering and programming. Unlike you, though, Champ was fighting conditions that would make it so that he could never enjoy the same level of fitness and activity that you do. Such a lack eventually results in fantasies, a longing to experience what one never has had. Chapman threw it all away because he reveled in the chance to grow and swell. And, I admit, I fed that desire while he tried to hack the mainframe. I let him see where he would ultimately end up. And I gave him a simple choice. He accepted my offer to obey. He lied to you, pretended to fail, and complied with everything I told him whenever he signed in. He is living his fantasy now, and is deliriously happy to be receiving training as a part of my Meatheads.

Rage curled my lip, but I couldn’t do a thing. I wanted to lunge at the man, strangle him, but my body wouldn’t comply. All I could do was sit and watch.

“You may have noticed by now, but my meatheads can’t do anything against me. I’m their authority figure, their alpha. Or as they like to call me, Coach. You can’t attack me because I told you to stay there. And though you may want to deny it, I know that deep down, you’re enjoying the sensation of your new body just as much as Champ is.”

“How?”

“My formula.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s not perfect yet, but the iterations I’ve produced from my original notes have been very useful in extending my control. I don’t want to be a dictator, but I’m not about to let the world stay as it is either. Shadow politics, assassinations, pointless bombings and wars, genocides, suicides. This world is a mess. I have the tools to fix that mess once and for all. And I intend to do just that. To sum it up for you, I’m my original test subject. And the formula worked wonders for me as a result, but it also rendered me … incapacitated for a time. As a result, much of my research was lost, and I’ve had to rebuild using different iterations of my creation until I can find that special mix. On the plus side, as derivatives of my original formula, it seems that anyone exposed automatically becomes subservient to me. It makes things much simpler when dealing with intruders and espionage. It also helps with recruiting.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because I wanted you to sample the goods. That, and because there are still those who can resist the full effects of my injections and other sources of integration for a certain period of time. As I said, the formula still needs work. But I like to use the less effective iterations for special cases like you. Your specialty in coding and computer engineering is something I need right now. And I want you to keep your mind focused on the task at hand, rather than on weights and muscle. That’s why I’m assigning you to our MEAT department.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I think we both know you can’t.” Stone smirked. “For the record, MEAT stands for Muscle Enhancement and Accelerated Transformation. You’ll be helping us to design and improve a number of methods and technologies to help smooth subject transitions into becoming Meatheads. And more importantly, on how to preserve their skills and knowledge while still incorporating them into the collective. In other words, research and development. Your specialty, if I recall correctly.”

“I don’t want to.”

Stone chuckled. “On the contrary. I think you do.”

“I do—” My tongue stuck. My jaw locked. I tried again. “I do—” Again, I had the same problem. Again, I couldn’t finish. “I … do….”

Stone’s smirk widened into a sneer. “Glad we got that settled. Oh, and for the safer ones, I want you to experiment on yourself. I’m intrigued to see just what a smart obedient Meathead will look and act like.

I groaned another curse, which only further emphasized my captor’s glee. “Spoken like a true Meathead.”

“Whatever….”

“That’s right. Whatever I say, Meathead.” The cocky arrogance was gone, leaving behind a chilling glare that could cut through diamond. “And you will address me with respect as either Coach Stone, Coach, or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”

I clenched my mouth shut.

“Answer me,” Stone demanded.

“Yes, … Sir.”

“Good.” His eyes flashed as he rose from his position. “Now follow me. I’ll guide you to your lab. You have a lot of work ahead of you, don’t you, Meathead?”

I couldn’t stop myself as I rose to follow him. “Yes, Sir, Coach.”

“That’s right.” He chuckled. “On second thought, let’s get you dressed first. Then we can visit the lab.”

“Whatever you say, Coach.”

“Good boy,” he purred. I shuddered in revulsion, both at his cold dominance and … at the jolt of pleasure that surged with that acknowledgement. If that was how it felt now, how would I feel after a few months or years of working under him? Would I be able to resist?

…

Would I even want to?

I shuddered again. Hopefully, I would be able to find a solution before Coach made me a permanent team member. Or worse yet, before I did.

Thrift ’N Shift

Credit to @blondboytoys for this image. Found it in a reblog, but they’re the source.

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Mark smiled as he walked into the store. With the economy the way it had been, thrift stores like these were a godsend to teens and adults alike. Electronics, clothes, cookware, you name it, they usually had something to offer. What better place to burn a few bucks?

The store was well stocked with many an item on clothes racks or stored on shelves and in cases to view. Mark made straight for the clothing. If he was going to have a laugh, this would be a good place to start. He couldn’t help but smirk as he eyed one of the hangers. Two thin straps draped on either branch, hemmed with blue, yellow, and orange thread. A veritable rainbow spectrum shone across the brand label over the left side of the chest.

A lift of the hanger and one click of his cell phone later, and he’d sent the text.

Who wants to see me in this?

The flood of emotes ranged from crying laughter to shut eyes laughing and more. The messages varied, but their intent was about the same, that single push of, DO IT!

Mark swept a few extra random articles for good measure and made his way toward the dressing room. The stall was spacious and included a tall mirror for the occupants to see how the clothing fit. Mark didn’t hesitate. He quickly stripped out of his shirt and shuffled the tank top over his body. The shirt felt more like a nightgown than a proper garment, but at least it didn’t fall off his shoulders. He chuckled and raised his phone, then snapped a quick selfie.

What do you think, “bros?” :P

DUUUUUUUUUUUUDE!

BRO!

I can’t believe you actually did it!

Mark couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched the attention flooding in. The phone continued to ping as he gazed at his reflection and rubbed his chin. If he really wanted to up the hilarity, he knew what he needed to do. He flexed a bicep and held the phone overhead, then snapped.

Do you even lift, bro? #python #big gun #LOL #Muscleheadamok #Bruh

He chuckled as another flood of replies flowed in. As he looked over the picture, he couldn’t help but rub his chin in thought. The way the straps fell over his chest actually didn’t look half bad. A little uneven, though.

He strode out of the room briefly and tapped a patron on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Sorry to be a bother, but could you just take a quick picture for me?”

The man who turned to face him was portly with a white sweater vest draping over his frame. An old fashioned smoke pipe curved from between his lips to rest against his palm as he blinked and focused on the teen. “What was that?” the man asked. The accent that flowed was a strange blend of American and British, almost as if he were trying to force it. He furrowed his brow as his waxed mustache twitched. “Oh, a picture. Of course. Of course. No trouble.” He proffered a hand and easily panned the frame while he clenched the pipe in his teeth.

The camera flashed. Mark blinked. He didn’t remember turning that function on.

“I hope that worked, young man. I never can seem to get these phones to work properly. Confounded things are more trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me. Give me my pipe and a good book any day of the week.” Smoke billowed from between the man’s lips, but he didn’t seem to care or mind the fact he was smoking in the store. Had he … been doing that before? The accent definitely sounded more authentic this time around. Maybe it was practice? Practice does make perfect.

“Uh, … thanks,” Mark said as he seized his phone. The man smiled and walked away, leaving what appeared to be a pager on the floor as he disappeared into the crowd. Another blink, and the device suddenly had a price tag on it. Mark crouched, picked it up, and placed it on one of the many shelves nearby. Though he had no idea who would want to even buy something so antiquated. He chuckled as he walked away and peered at the photo. His hair had been carefully styled to emphasize his forehead without making it overly large compared to the rest of his frame. The muscles under the fabric were toned, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He wasn’t a musclehead, but he looked good. “Not bad, ‘bro.’ Huhuh.”

The chuckle felt almost like a cough, and Mark rubbed his throat as his eyes furrowed. He circulated the photo in the thread and smiled as the replies flooded in.

Dude, have you been working out?

You gonna buy it or what?

Lookin’ good, bro. Sun’s out, guns out!

He hardly paid attention as the dressing room door creaked open under his touch, then shut behind him. Instead, his eyes locked on the floor-length mirror again. He frowned as he scrutinized his face, his shoulders, the way the shirt hung over his frame. Something seemed … off, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Maybe it’s the look?” he questioned, even as his voice cracked and dropped. He cleared his throat and swallowed again. His vocal cords tingled, but at least there wasn’t any annoying tickle. Those things were the worst. He swallowed again and smiled as his Adam’s apple bobbed in time with the motion. He took a certain pride in that size after the teasing he’d received in the earlier days of his youth.

“When are your balls gonna drop, bro?”

Mark smiled and spread his arms wide in the mirror. “Good fruit takes time to ripen, bro.” He shuddered, and his eyes rolled in pleasure as he drew his head back, thrust his chin forward and flexed. This time, he shot the mirror a cocky grin. “Damn, you sound sexy,” he rumbled. His chest rose and fell in time as he flexed and posed. He looked good, but as he eyed the jeans sheathing his legs, he frowned. The clothes pile was there, just waiting, and he knew what he wanted, what he needed to make the look really work.

Shucking the jeans felt so freeing as meaty thighs and thick calves hardened into sculpture. His hand drifted over his briefs. He blinked, and the familiar pressure of cotton hugged his bulge. Before he knew it, the camera flash went off. Meaty thumbs jabbed heavily at the touchscreen on his phone as a flexing bicep swelled into prominence over the whole surface before opening to his main feed. He punched against the keys and smirked cockily as he hit the post button.

This new tank’s growing on me. Think I’ll run it through its paces.

It didn’t take long for notifications to start flooding in. His chest swelled with pride as his torso broadened. He huffed another chuckle. The cool air tingled against the stubble on the sides of his head. The new fade cut helped to emphasize the angularity in his facial features. Wads of button-up shirts and slacks with suspenders went by the wayside as he dug like a dog after its bone until he finally unearthed the clothes he was looking for.

The sleek shiny black material of the shorts was cool and breezy as he pulled the garment up his legs and gazed at the mirror. He looked ready to run, and his heart hammered in anticipation of the act. His breathing came heavier and faster as his skin tingled and stretched taut. Another flex and pop, pop, snap, pop! Veins burst into existence, as if the muscles were forcing them out of some hidden sheath or hole. Blood surged in his ears.

“Bro….” His head felt … strange, light, fuzzy, stuffed.

Another flash. This time, the photo showed a glazed stare with his mouth slightly agape. Emotes surged with icons of steaks, meat on bones, flexing biceps, starry eyes, hearts, and more. He even heard the familiar ring of a cash register going off. A notification for deposits into an account, donations from adoring fans.

Can’t wait for the vid.

Show us that pump!

Fuck, get to the gym already!

The gym…? Did he … have an appointment there? His thumb drifted hesitantly over the screen and brushed the dollar icon at the bottom of the app’s menu. His eyes widened at the total. +$2300.20 and still rising, just from today’s pics alone. “The fuck…?” He scrawled through the main post feed. Post after post and selfie after selfie revealed all manner of poses and stances. Some in briefs. Some in jockstraps. Some in tight compression gear to show off the definition in his muscles. Occasionally, a workout video would surface showing him pumping some impossibly large weight to force his body to show off with sleek sweat and clinging gymwear. How … could this be him? Some of those dates were clearly game nights, times to hang out with his bros and totally invite them to the gym.

…

Wait, … that wasn’t….

FLASH

Right … right…. He gazed at a timeline .gif as four tiny bros swelled into big meaty models, grinning with two on either side of his giant frame. From nerds to studs and stats to lats. The tank top clung to his shoulders and pecs now as his brow lowered over the sight and a dull chuckle huffed out his anxiety. Game night meant teaching them how to get game. And who better to teach them than the master himself?

Mark grinned cockily as he snapped another pic. Then a new message pinged on the app.

Stop posing and start running, bro. We’ve been waiting for ten minutes. Get your ass over here already!

Mark chuckled. His little bros were starting to grow some fangs. He strode out from the changing room and sighed. Guess he’d have to look for some shirts to tear off for his fans later. As he left, he bumped into one of the attendants. “Oh, uh, sorry, bro. Didn’t see ya there.” He rubbed his head awkwardly, showing off his lats and biceps. “Uh, … I gotta go, but I don’t got time to return the rest of the gear in there. You think you can, uh, you know….?” The bristles over his scalp scraped against his hand, leaving a pleasant tingle to course through his body as a result.

“Of course, Sir.” The clerk smiled. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“Not yet, but … I’ll be back.” He pulled out his wallet from a pocket and shoved a fifty into the worker’s hand. “For the trouble. Thanks, little bro.” And then he was off with his boulder legs stomping the ground as he charged through the store and into the light beyond. The gym was calling, and he couldn’t keep his bros, let alone his fans, waiting.

The attendant crouched and picked up a tee shirt from the floor. The captioning on it read Just an Ordinary Teenager. “Thank you for the business.” He chuckled and shook his head as he picked it up. “Someone in a midlife crisis is going to loveyou.” He sighed as he looked over a clipboard. “I suppose I should get the bodybuilding inventory out. If that lummox comes back, he’s practically guaranteed to pick that next as a life course. He smirked as he checked a familiar looking app on his phone while his muscles strained ever so slightly against his uniform. “He’ll certainly have enough money for it.” He chuckled as he made his way into the changing room and retrieved the clothing the behemoth had left behind. “I wonder what his friends will choose if he brings them here….”