Himbomancer

The shorter the shorts, the better your chances

Jordan

Jordan was just your average college dude, you know, bro? Kinda lanky, kinda nerdy, studying computer science, always glued to his laptop, coding or gaming. He wasn’t a slacker, but he wasn’t exactly tearing it up at the gym either, bro. His roommate, Dylan, was the opposite—a total jock, always in basketball shorts, flexing his biceps, and talking about his latest PR at the gym. Dylan was the kinda dude who’d blast TikTok gym vids and chug protein shakes like they were water, bruh.

One night, Jordan was stressing hard, bags under his eyes from pulling all-nighters for a coding project. “Yo, bro, you look like shit,” Dylan said, tossing a basketball between his hands. “You need to chill, man. Can’t sleep, huh? I got somethin’ for ya.” He pulled out his phone, smirking, and sent Jordan a link. “This hypnosis video, bro. It’s, like, some next-level sleep hack. Watch it, and you’ll be out cold, trust me, bruh.”

Jordan rolled his eyes but figured, what the hell, bro? He was desperate. That night, he popped in his earbuds, clicked the link, and pressed play. The screen glowed with swirling colors—reds, blues, purples—pulsing in a way that made his brain feel fuzzy, bro. A deep voice droned through the earbuds, smooth and commanding. “Relax… let go… surrender your mind… obey…” Jordan’s eyelids got heavy, his thoughts slowing, like his brain was sinking into a warm, thick fog, bruh. He didn’t even notice when he passed out, drooling on his pillow.

The next morning, Jordan woke up feeling… different, bro. His head was kinda empty, like someone had turned down the volume on his usual nerdy thoughts. He scratched his head, shrugged, and grabbed his laptop—but coding felt boring, bruh. Like, why bother? Instead, he caught himself staring at Dylan’s dumbbells in the corner of their dorm. “Yo, Dylan, bro, mind if I, like, borrow these?” he asked, his voice sounding dumber, lazier than usual.

Dylan grinned, flexing in his tight tank top. “Hell yeah, bro! Time to get swole, huh? Let’s hit the gym, bruh.” Jordan didn’t even question it. He just nodded, like obeying Dylan was the most natural thing in the world, bro. He ditched his usual jeans and hoodie for a pair of Dylan’s old basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey. They hung loose on his scrawny frame, but something about the swishy fabric made him feel… hot, bruh.

At the gym, Dylan took charge, barking orders like a coach. “Ten more reps, bro! Push it, bruh!” Jordan’s arms burned, but every time he lifted, his mind felt emptier, like the sweat was leaking out his smarts, bro. He caught his reflection in the mirror—pale, skinny, but he flexed anyway, grinning like an idiot. “Yo, bro, I’m gonna get jacked, huh?” he said, voice all cocky, even though he barely had a bicep to show off.

Days turned into weeks, and Jordan was hooked, bruh. That hypnosis video? He watched it every night, not even questioning why. The swirling colors, the voice—it was like a drug, bro. Each time, it rewired his brain a little more, erasing his old self. Coding? Forgotten. Video games? Lame, bruh. All he cared about was the gym, stacking plates, and chasing that pump. His body started changing—muscles popping, shoulders broadening, abs starting to peek through. He’d flex in every mirror, snapping selfies in his basketball shorts, hand always adjusting his junk like a total fuckboy, bro.

Dylan noticed the shift and leaned into it, hard. “Yo, Jordan, bro, you’re my boy now, right? You do what I say, bruh.” Jordan just nodded, eyes glassy, a dumb grin on his face. “Yeah, bro, whatever you say, coach.” Obedience felt so good, like a hit of pure pleasure, bruh. Dylan started calling the shots—when to train, what to eat, even what to wear. Jordan’s closet was nothing but jock gear now: shiny basketball shorts, tight jerseys, snapbacks turned backward. He’d strut around campus, flexing for anyone who looked, his brain too foggy to care about classes or grades, bro.

One night, after a brutal leg day, Jordan was gooning hard in their dorm, hand stuffed in his shorts, stroking away while staring at his own reflection. Every time he came, it was like his brain short-circuited, bruh—another chunk of his old self gone, replaced with pure, toxic jock energy. “Fuck yeah, bro,” he muttered, voice low and dumb. “Just a horny muscle idiot, bruh.” He loved it. The dumber he got, the hotter he felt, the more he craved Dylan’s orders.

By mid-semester, Jordan was unrecognizable, bro. A total himbo, cocky and arrogant, always flexing his growing pecs and smirking like he owned the place. He’d dropped out of his comp sci classes—too hard for his empty head, bruh—and spent all his time at the gym or posting thirst traps on TikTok. His vids were pure fuckboy vibes: shirtless, flexing, basketball shorts riding low, captioned with shit like “Swole szn, bro 💪 #GymLife #ObeyThePump.” His followers ate it up, and he basked in the likes, his brain rotting further with every notification, bruh.

Dylan was his master now, no question. “Yo, Jordan, bro, you’re my perfect jock boy, huh?” Dylan said one day, tossing him a new pair of shiny red basketball shorts. Jordan just nodded, pulling them on, already hard just from Dylan’s voice. “Yeah, bro, I’m yours. Whatever you say, coach, bruh.” His individuality? Gone. His old personality? Erased, bro. All that was left was muscle, horniness, and total obedience to Dylan’s every word.

Every gym session, every flex, every time he jerked off, Jordan sank deeper, bruh. He was a toxic, masculine fuckboy, indistinguishable from the other jacked-up bros on campus. Peer pressure had won, bro—he copied Dylan and the other gym rats, their groupthink shaping his every move. He’d stroke through his shorts in public, not even caring who saw, muttering “Feels so good to be dumb, bruh.” His muscles grew, his ego swelled, and his brain stayed empty, forever locked in the jock bro haze.

Jack and Connor

Jack, 19, stepped into his dorm room at Queens University, his skinny frame hauling a duffel bag stuffed with books and band tees. First year, fresh start, but his nerdy heart was pounding. The room smelled like sweat and protein shakes, and there, sprawled on one of the beds, was Connor—six-foot-three, muscles bulging under a tight tank top, basketball shorts slung low, showing off that V-line. His jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Connor grinned, all cocky and alpha, sizing Jack up like he was prey.

“Yo, bro, you Jack? I’m Connor, your roomie. Gonna make you one of us, bruh,” Connor said, his voice deep, dripping with that toxic masculine charm. Jack blushed, unsure what “one of us” meant, but his dick twitched at the thought. Connor was the kind of dude who owned every room he walked into, and Jack already felt small next to him.

First week was chill, but Jack noticed Connor’s routine: gym at dawn, flexing in the mirror, always shirtless, always smirking. Jack caught himself staring, his brain foggy with lust every time Connor’s biceps flexed or his shorts hugged his thick thighs. One night, Connor caught Jack’s gaze in the mirror, his hand lingering on his crotch. “Yo, bro, you wanna be like me, don’t ya?” Connor teased, his voice low, commanding. Jack stammered, but Connor just chuckled, pulling out his phone. “C’mere, bruh. Check this out.”

The screen lit up with a swirling spiral, colors pulsing—red, blue, green—spinning faster, pulling Jack’s eyes in. “Just watch, bro. Let it sink in,” Connor whispered, his voice like a warm hand stroking Jack’s mind. Jack’s thoughts slowed, his body relaxed, and his dick hardened in his jeans. The spiral was all he could see, Connor’s voice all he could hear. “You wanna be a jock, bro. Dumb, strong, horny as fuck. Ain’t that right?”

“Y-yeah, bro,” Jack mumbled, his voice slurring, his mind slipping. Connor grinned, his hand resting on Jack’s thigh, squeezing. “Good boy. Keep watching. Let it rewire you.”

Every night, Connor pulled out the spiral. Jack would sit, eyes glued, as Connor’s voice drilled into him. “You love the gym, bro. Muscle’s all that matters. You’re a jock now, bruh. Horny, dumb, and obedient.” Jack’s brain melted under the words, his old life—books, grades, geeky hobbies—fading. He started jerking off to the spiral, Connor’s voice guiding him, each stroke making him dumber, hornier, more like Connor. “Cum, bro. Let it make you mine,” Connor would growl, and when Jack shot his load, his mind sank deeper, his individuality dissolving into toxic jock bro haze.

Connor took Jack to the gym, tossing him a pair of basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey. “No more nerd shit, bruh. This is you now.” Jack nodded, his brain too foggy to argue, his dick throbbing at Connor’s command. In the gym, Connor pushed him hard—bench presses, squats, deadlifts. Jack’s scrawny body burned, but every rep felt like sex, his cock leaking in his shorts as Connor barked, “Push it, bro! Build that muscle!” Jack obeyed, addicted to the pump, to Connor’s voice, to the mirror showing his body changing.

Weeks passed, and Jack was gone. His old clothes—band tees, skinny jeans—were trashed. Now it was all jock gear: loose basketball shorts, tight tanks, snapbacks. He’d flex in every mirror, grinning like a cocky fuckboy, his dick always half-hard, always ready to goon. Connor’s spiral sessions kept him dumb, his brain a loop of “gym, muscle, bro, obey.” He’d jerk off for hours, hand in his shorts, each orgasm stripping more of his old self. “Feels good to be dumb, don’t it, bro?” Connor would say, and Jack would moan, “Fuck yeah, bruh.”

By mid-semester, Jack was unrecognizable. His body was thicker, shoulders broad, pecs starting to pop. He’d swagger around campus, calling everyone “bro,” his voice louder, dumber. He’d abandoned classes, his only focus the gym, sports, and looking hot. Connor was his coach now, his alpha, and Jack lived for his approval. “Flex for me, bruh,” Connor would order, and Jack would, his muscles tensing, his cock throbbing in his shorts. “Good jock,” Connor’d say, and Jack’s brain would buzz with pleasure, no thoughts left but obedience.

One night, Connor pushed it further. “On your knees, bro,” he commanded, pulling out his phone, the spiral spinning. Jack dropped, his mouth watering, his mind blank. Connor unzipped his shorts, his thick cock springing free. “Suck it, bruh. Show me you’re my dumb jock.” Jack obeyed, his lips wrapping around Connor’s dick, his brain screaming “bro, muscle, obey.” As he sucked, Connor’s voice filled him: “You’re nothing but a horny fuckboy now, Jack. No thoughts, no individuality. Just my jock bro.” Jack came in his shorts, untouched, his mind sinking deeper into submission.

From then on, Jack was Connor’s. He’d follow him to the gym, mimic his every move, his every “bro.” He’d goon for hours, hand always on his dick, addicted to the dumb jock life. His TikTok was all flexing vids, shirtless thirst traps, captioned “Just a dumb bro, bruh 💪.” The algorithm fed his obsession, rotting his brain further, making him indistinguishable from every other Gen Z fuckboy. He loved it—loved the cocky swagger, the toxic masculinity, the groupthink that shaped him. Connor’s spiral had erased Jack’s old self, leaving only a muscled, horny, obedient jock bro, forever flexing, forever dumb, forever Connor’s.

“Yo, bro, you ready to train?” Connor asked one morning, tossing Jack a protein shake.

“Fuck yeah, bruh,” Jack grinned, already hard, already mindless, ready to obey. Muscle was all that mattered, and he’d never break free.

The Bro Factory

Dylan was a nobody, bro. Just some skinny college freshman, nose in his books, thinkin’ he was gonna be a coder or some shit. When his buddy convinced him to sign up for a “fitness retreat” called AlphaPulse, he thought it’d be a chill week of hiking and maybe some push-ups. But when he pulled up to the remote compound—surrounded by barbed wire and blasting trap music—he knew something was off, bro. The place screamed jock.

The other guys there? Total bros. Ripped, cocky, strutting around in basketball shorts and sleeveless jerseys, flexing for no reason. They all had that same dumb grin, eyes glassy, muttering “bro” like it was the only word they knew. Dylan’s gut told him to bounce, but the gates locked behind him, and the head coach, Zane, rolled up. Dude was a fuckin’ tank—muscles bulging under a tight tank top, voice like gravel. “Yo, Dylan, bro,” Zane said, slapping his shoulder. “You’re gonna love it here. Time to become a real man.”

First night, Zane herded all the newbies into a dimly lit gym, the air thick with sweat and something chemical. “Orientation, bros,” he barked, handing out little brown bottles. “Poppers. Keeps you loose.” Dylan sniffed one, and his brain went fuzzy, like someone turned the volume down on his thoughts. His dick twitched in his shorts, and he couldn’t look away from the massive screen at the front of the room.

The screen lit up with a pulsing spiral, red and black, spinning so fast it made Dylan’s head swim. A low, droning beat thumped through the speakers, and Zane’s voice echoed: “Lift. Grow. Obey. You’re a jock, bro. Muscles are life. Cock is king. Submit to the grind.” The words burned into Dylan’s brain, each one hitting like a sledgehammer. He tried to shake it off, but his body wouldn’t move. His hand was already in his shorts, stroking, like it had a mind of its own.

The other newbies were gone, bro. Eyes blank, jerking off through their mesh shorts, moaning “bro” in unison. One dude, Mike, was already shirtless, flexing his growing pecs in a mirror, muttering, “Fuck yeah, bro, lookin’ swole.” Dylan’s vision blurred as Zane walked around, injecting each guy with a syringe full of glowing liquid—steroids, testosterone, who gives a shit? When the needle hit Dylan’s arm, his muscles burned, swelling under his skin like they were gonna burst. His thoughts? Poof, bro. Straight-up static.

Days melted together. Every morning, Zane had ‘em in the gym, lifting weights heavier than Dylan’s old body could even dream of. His arms got thicker, his chest broader, his abs popping like a fuckin’ TikTok influencer. Every rep made him dumber, hornier, like his brain was leaking out through his dick. He’d cum in the showers, watching his reflection, flexing his new muscles, and each time he blew his load, he felt stupider. “Fuckin’ love this, bro,” he’d mutter, stroking through his basketball shorts, addicted to the rush.

The compound was a goon-fest, bruh. Bros everywhere, jerking each other off, grinding, cumming on six-packs and biceps. No one questioned it—just pure, dumb, masculine groupthink. If one bro started flexing, they all did. If one bro popped a boner, they all followed. Dylan caught himself copying everything—same swagger, same “bro” in every sentence, same cocky smirk. His old self, the nerd who liked video games and quiet nights? Erased, bro. All he cared about was muscle, getting hard, and obeying Zane.

Zane’s hypnosis vids played 24/7. Spirals on every screen, Zane’s voice droning: “You’re a fuckboy, bro. No thoughts. Just muscle. Just cock. Obey your coach.” Dylan’s mind was mush, but it felt so fuckin’ good. He’d strut around in nothing but low-slung basketball shorts, his hand always on his dick, stroking through the mesh. One night, he and Mike went at it for hours, gooning, cumming on each other’s abs, laughing like idiots. “Good bros share, bro,” Mike slurred, high on poppers, his eyes empty.

By the end of the week, Dylan was unrecognizable. A swole, brain-dead jock, cocky as fuck, addicted to flexing and jerking off. Zane lined ‘em up, shirtless, sweaty, dicks tenting their shorts. “You’re my bros now,” he growled. “No thinkin’. Just liftin’, fuckin’, obeyin’.” Dylan nodded, his mind blank, his body buzzing with testosterone. He didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t need to. Being a dumb, horny fuckboy felt too good, bro.

It started with Jake, the quiet kid who ran the chess club. Dude was scrawny, always buried in books, kinda nerdy but chill. One day, he’s scrolling X, sees a MuscleTrance ad, and downloads it. “I just wanna bulk up a bit, y’know?” he told his buddy Ethan. Next day, Jake’s in the cafeteria, wearing nothing but a tight tank top and basketball shorts, flexing his biceps for no reason. “Yo, bro, you hittin’ the gym later or what?” he says, smirking, his voice deeper, dumber. Ethan’s like, “Dude, since when do you talk like that?” Jake just laughs, “Bruh, it’s all about the gains. Chess is for losers, bro.”

By the end of the week, Jake’s a different person. He’s at the gym 24/7, chugging protein shakes, posting thirst traps on TikTok with captions like “#AlphaGrind #NoPainNoGain.” His old chess trophies? Trashed. His brain? Fried. All he talks about is lifting, sports, and how hot he looks. Every time he flexes in the mirror, you can see it in his eyes—pure, cocky arrogance. The app’s got him hooked, and he’s not the only one.

The spiral’s the key, bruh. You open MuscleTrance, and it’s like this glowing, swirling vortex pulls you in. Colors pulse—red, blue, gold—spinning faster and faster. Words flash across the screen: “OBEY. LIFT. FLEX.” Some techno beat thumps in your headphones, syncing with your heartbeat. You can’t look away, bro. It’s like the spiral’s drilling into your skull, rewriting your brain. Dudes who use it say they feel this rush, like every time they watch, they get dumber, hornier, more obsessed with their muscles. And when they, uh, let off some steam after a workout? It’s like their old self leaks out, replaced with more of that toxic jock bro vibe. No going back, bruh.

Soon, half the guys at school are on it. Ethan, the artsy kid who used to sketch in his notebook, shows up in a sleeveless jersey, blasting rap and yelling, “Yo, bro, check my quads!” He’s ditched his sketchpad for dumbbells, his sensitive side gone. Then there’s Marcus, the debate team captain. Dude could argue circles around anyone. Now? He’s grunting at the gym, calling everyone “bro,” and posting vids of himself flexing with captions like “#BeastMode #Dominate.” His vocab’s down to, like, 10 words, and half of ‘em are “bro.”

The app’s got this leaderboard, too. It ranks you based on your workouts, how much you lift, how many flexing vids you post. The higher you climb, the more the app rewards you with “exclusive spirals” that hit even harder. Dudes are competing to be the top alpha, flexing harder, getting cockier. It’s like their personalities are being erased, replaced with the same dumb, horny, toxic mindset. They all dress the same now—basketball shorts, jerseys, snapbacks. They all talk the same. “Yo, bro, gotta hit the gym. Gotta look hot, bruh.” Individuality? Gone. They’re just clones of the ultimate fuckboy influencer, addicted to the grind.

Some kids tried to fight it. Liam, the science nerd, figured the app was using subliminal messages or some kinda neuroprogramming. He swore he’d delete it after one try. Next day, he’s in the weight room, shirtless, smirking at his reflection, muttering, “Bruh, feels so good to be dumb.” The app’s got this grip, like it’s hacking your brain, making you crave the gym, the flex, the rush. Every time you give in, you feel that dumb jock vibe sink deeper. Obedience is pleasure, bro.

Teachers are starting to notice. Mr. Carter, the psych teacher, tried banning phones in class, but the MuscleTrance bros just sneak it in the locker room, staring at the spiral between sets. The principal’s clueless, thinks it’s just “boys being boys.” Meanwhile, the girls at school are weirded out. “They’re all turning into the same person,” Sarah, the student council prez, posted on X. “It’s creepy. They’re obsessed with themselves.” But the bros don’t care, bruh. They just flex harder, post more vids, chase that next spiral hit.

Rumor is, the app’s creator, some shady fitness influencer called “AlphaKing,” is using it to build an army of dumb, obedient jocks. Nobody knows why, but the top leaderboard guys? They’re getting DMs from AlphaKing, calling them to “join the pack” and “submit to the grind.” Sounds like a master pulling strings, keeping their minds subdued, their bodies jacked, their wills broken. Every rep, every flex, every jerk-off session makes ‘em dumber, cockier, more addicted. Muscle’s all that matters, bro.

Zac was a typical college sophomore at Westview University, a lanky 19-year-old with a mop of brown hair, a quick wit, and a penchant for late-night gaming sessions. He was majoring in computer science, always tinkering with code or debating sci-fi lore with his friends. His roommate, Ethan, was a psychology major—quiet, intense, and a little too interested in subliminal messaging and behavioral conditioning for Zac’s comfort. Ethan had a knack for getting under people’s skin, but Zac brushed it off. They shared a cramped dorm room, and Zac figured he could handle a weird roommate for a year.

Unbeknownst to Zac, Ethan had been experimenting with audio hypnosis. He’d spent months crafting a series of tracks laced with subliminal commands, designed to rewire someone’s mind without them ever noticing. Ethan wasn’t just curious—he was obsessed with control. And Zac, with his predictable routine and noise-canceling headphones, was the perfect test subject.

It started subtly. One night, while Zac was studying with his headphones on, Ethan swapped his usual lo-fi playlist for one of his custom tracks. The music sounded normal—chill beats, soft bass—but beneath the surface, layered whispers repeated: “You love the gym. Lifting feels good. You need to get stronger.” Zac didn’t notice anything odd. He just felt a strange urge to hit the campus gym the next morning, something he’d never done before. He laughed it off, blaming it on a random burst of motivation.

The gym was crowded, filled with jocks and athletes, but Zac felt oddly at home. He fumbled through a basic workout, his scrawny arms straining under the lightest dumbbells. When he got back to the dorm, sweaty and sore, Ethan was there, smirking. “Looking good, bro. You should keep it up.” Zac shrugged, but something in Ethan’s tone made his skin prickle.

The audio tracks continued. Every night, Zac unknowingly absorbed more commands: “Lifting is your purpose. You want to be big. You want to be hot.” Within a week, he was at the gym daily, skipping classes to squeeze in extra sessions. His appetite surged, and he started chugging protein shakes Ethan conveniently left around. Zac’s wardrobe began to shift too. His graphic tees and jeans felt wrong, constricting. One day, he found himself buying a pair of black Nike basketball shorts online. They felt right. Soon, his closet was nothing but those shorts, tank tops, and snapbacks.

Zac’s mind was changing too, though he didn’t realize it. His once-sharp focus on coding dulled. He struggled to follow lectures, his thoughts drifting to his next workout. His friends noticed him zoning out during conversations, muttering stuff like, “Gotta hit the gym, bro.” They teased him at first, but by the second month, they barely recognized him. Zac’s lanky frame was gone, replaced by lean muscle that bulged with every flex. His hair was cropped short, his posture cocky. He’d started calling everyone “bro” and flashing a smug grin that wasn’t there before.

Ethan’s tracks grew bolder. “You’re a jock. You’re dumb. You love to obey. Obedience is pleasure.” Zac’s grades tanked, but he didn’t care. School was boring. The gym was his world now—lifting, sweating, chasing the pump. He spent hours admiring his reflection, flexing in the mirror, obsessed with how hot he looked. His personality flattened. The witty, nerdy Zac was buried under a new persona: a vain, arrogant meathead who lived for gains and hookups. He’d become a fuckboy, flirting with anyone who caught his eye, but his real loyalty was to Ethan.

By the third month, Zac was unrecognizable. His body was jacked, veins popping under tanned skin. His vocabulary had shrunk to gym slang and crude jokes. He wore his black Nike shorts everywhere, paired with tight tanks that showed off his pecs. Ethan had stopped hiding his control. One night, he played a track openly, and Zac just stared blankly, nodding along. “You obey me. I’m your master. You exist to please me.” Zac’s eyes glazed over, a dopey smile spreading across his face. “Yes, bro,” he mumbled. Obedience felt like a warm rush, better than any lift.

Now, Zac’s days followed a simple loop: wake up, chug a shake, hit the gym, flex for selfies, and do whatever Ethan told him. Clean the dorm? Done. Run errands? No problem. Ethan’s word was law, and Zac craved the high of compliance. He didn’t question it. He didn’t think much at all. He was a mindless jock, a muscle-bound puppet who lived to be hot, dumb, and obedient.