Untitled

It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to break a young athletic man and turn him into Grade A himbo beef.

These boys come in so confident. Broad shoulders, cocky grin, years of sports giving them that perfect mix of muscle and arrogance. They think they’re alphas. They think they’re straight. They think they’re in control of their own minds.

They have no idea how quickly I can reprogram them.

Take this one right here. Six months ago he was a straight college athlete — star of his team, chasing girls, posting gym selfies, the whole package. Big arms, thick chest, empty head already halfway there if I’m being honest. All it took was one “chance” meeting at an exclusive alumni event, one drink, and one private conversation in my study.

I barely had to try.

Young men like him are ridiculously easy to hypnotize. Their minds are so used to following orders from coaches, so pumped full of endorphins and testosterone, that once you dangle the right bait in front of them they practically beg to drop. I let him feel important at first. Complimented his body. Told him how impressive he was. Let him flex for me. Then I brought out the pocket watch.

The moment that silver disc started swinging, his eyes locked on. I watched his broad chest rise and fall slower… slower… until his mouth hung slightly open and that cocky expression melted into blank, obedient slack.

“That’s it,” I murmured, stepping closer. “Big strong boys like you have such simple minds. So easy to rewire.”

He used to fuck sorority girls. Now the only thing that makes him leak is being called a good dumb trophy boy while I run my hands over his swollen pecs.

And the best part? He’s happier this way. They always are. Once you strip away all those complicated thoughts and responsibilities, all that’s left is a big, beautiful, simple-minded muscle boy who lives to be displayed, touched, and kept.

Are you listening enough to your hypnosis, boy? 🧠💪 Hey there, trophy boy. Dumb himbo. Jock bro. Meathead. Whatever label makes that empty head of yours tingle the most, are you actually putting in the work? You already know the grind at the gym. You chase the pump. You stack plates. You flex in the mirror and feel that satisfying burn as your muscles swell bigger, rounder, dumber. But what about your mind? That pretty little sponge between your ears that’s just begging to be reshaped? Real trophy boys don’t just lift. They listen. Every single day you should be locking in those loops. Pop in your favorite hypno files, slip on those headphones, and let the words sink deeper. Let them rewrite you. Let them melt away all that unnecessary thinking and replace it with pure, simple, horny obedience. Just like progressive overload at the gym, you gotta keep increasing the dose. More reps. More listens. More blank, blissful hours letting Daddy’s voice (or your favorite creator’s) mold you into the perfect empty-headed muscle toy.

Morning pump + hypno = unstoppable alpha energy Post-workout cooldown with loops = deeper submission Before bed brainwashing = wet dreams and even bigger morning wood

Listen up, you big dumb jock. If you’re already a meathead in training — staring at your reflection between sets, feeling that empty happy buzz in your head — then you already know: daily hypno reinforcement is NON-NEGOTIABLE.

Your brain is getting simpler every day. That’s the goal. But brains are sneaky. They try to fill back up with boring thoughts, work stress, or “being smart.” Nah. We pump that shit right back out with hypno loops in the gym, every single session.

How a Proper Dumb Meathead Uses His Loops:

1. Pop those earbuds in before you even touch a weight.
Good boys load up their favorite himbo trance track (the one that makes your cock twitch and your brain go fuzzy) the second they walk into the gym. No excuses. Earbuds = brain off switch.

2. Sync the pump to the words.
Every rep should match the voice in your ears. When it says “bigger… dumber… hornier…” you push harder. When it tells you to drop deeper, you drop those weights with perfect form and an even emptier head. The burn in your muscles = the blankness in your mind.

3. Repeat your trigger phrases between sets.
Mouth moving, eyes glazed, repeating out loud (or in your head like the good obedient bro you are):

• “I lift. I obey. I get dumber.”

• “Big muscles, small thoughts.”

• “Gym is my hypno temple.”
Say it until it feels more real than your own name.

4. Edge the pump, don’t just chase it.
Stay right on that edge of horny-stupid while you train. Let the hypno voice tell you how hot it is to be this simple. How good it feels when your brain leaks out your ears with every curl. No thinking about anything else. Just pump, listen, obey, grow.

5. End every workout with a reinforcement cooldown.
Last five minutes on the treadmill or stretching — full volume, eyes closed if you can get away with it. Let the file rewrite you deeper. Feel all those smart thoughts getting crushed under new layers of happy, horny, muscle-obsessed himbo programming.

Consistency is everything, bro. One day without your loops and you risk thinking too much. Two days and you might start acting like a regular dude again. Don’t do that to yourself. You’re past that now.

Yeah bro! A lot of guys have this dream. You have to turn your kink into a lifestyle. Which isn't that hard to do. We can start easy! Alright lesssgo. 1. Body First – Build the Frame - Build the Discipline Aim to go to the gym 3 times a week. If you are new to the gym, do full body strength training exercises. Rely on machines to teach, and train you new form. There will be days where your tired and don't want to go, but those are the days you have to push yourself and go anyways. Make it a habit. Soon, you will be craving the gym because it's an escape from reality. 2. Listen to Hypnosis / Subliminal There are some great Dumb Jock files out there. I really like Ex Body's subliminal, which you can loop while you sleep. (You don't need to wear headphones, and you can't hear any of the affirmations) Check the comments out, there is a lot of people who say they've seen major changes. Here are some good SoundCloud Hypnos:

Are you listening enough to your hypnosis, boy? 🧠💪 Hey there, trophy boy. Dumb himbo. Jock bro. Meathead. Whatever label makes that empty head of yours tingle the most, are you actually putting in the work? You already know the grind at the gym. You chase the pump. You stack plates. You flex in the mirror and feel that satisfying burn as your muscles swell bigger, rounder, dumber. But what about your mind? That pretty little sponge between your ears that’s just begging to be reshaped? Real trophy boys don’t just lift. They listen. Every single day you should be locking in those loops. Pop in your favorite hypno files, slip on those headphones, and let the words sink deeper. Let them rewrite you. Let them melt away all that unnecessary thinking and replace it with pure, simple, horny obedience. Just like progressive overload at the gym, you gotta keep increasing the dose. More reps. More listens. More blank, blissful hours letting Daddy’s voice (or your favorite creator’s) mold you into the perfect empty-headed muscle toy.

Morning pump + hypno = unstoppable alpha energy Post-workout cooldown with loops = deeper submission Before bed brainwashing = wet dreams and even bigger morning wood

(Uncensored at My Bsky)

Should be more careful when toying around with possible cursed artifacts!

Of course it's not like it maaaatters to have that much smarts, anyway

You can think of a few reasons why you found yourself in the audience that night. Well, really one. When you heard "Are You Smarter Than A Himbo" was putting on a show in your neighborhood, you couldn't resist. Sure, it was kind of stupid. You'd seen the clips online. They'd bring some braindead jock up on stage to flex, laugh, crack jokes, and answer basic trivia wrong. The poor idiot would laugh along as the audience laughed at him. You'd always figured the dunce was too dumb to realize they were laughing at him. But fuck, those guys were hot. So if anything, you'd get to ogle at some hot guy flexing all night and maybe get a few laughs out of it too.

"Do you think Zak's pecs are real?"

"Jason is like totally the hottest."

"I think Ryan isn't as dumb as he lets on."

"Did you know Mike is single? I can't…"

You roll your eyes at the fanfare all around you. These people were seriously into it. And then it starts.

"Welcome everyone!" You watch as a lanky man struts on stage with his hair slicked back and a wide grin on his face, "Are you ready!?" The crowd- mostly women and a few guys cheered in response, "I said: are you ready!?" You roll your eyes as the host worked the crowd, "Alright, alright… welcome." The host smiles wider, "Put your hands together for our main man!"

The host gestures toward the side of the stage and Zak strolls out with a slow, confident walk, his arms flexed as if expecting applause. He’s got thick curls falling over his forehead, and his chest is packed with muscle, tight under his white tank top. The crowd goes wild as he steps onto the platform.

“Y’all ready?” Zak shouts, raising both arms above his head. “Let’s go!” He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, and your eyes widen as you take in his massive pecs and perfect abs. The crowd similarly goes wild. Zak grins, flashing a perfect set of teeth, "I'm so fuckin' pumped to be here tonight! I fuckin' love you guys!"

"But Zak, I think you have something to say to everyone. Right?" The host interjects, patting the massive jock on the back.

"Yo dude yeah, for real." Zak nods, "Like, this is gonna be my last show, ya know? With the whole modeling thing blowin' up and all." The audience groans, "I know, it sucks majorly, trust me!" Zak frowns, "But like, you'll get to see plenty more of me. Trust me brahs." He winks and the crowd cheers.

The host claps, "That’s what I like to hear! Alright, let’s get started!"

You lean forward in your seat as the first audience member is brought up. It only takes a few questions for her to utterly humiliate Zak, who just laughs and flexes like the dumb himbo that he is. As the contestant returns to her seat, the host's eyes scan the crowd, zeroing in on you.

"What about you there in the blue shirt? He looks smart, right Zak? Let's get you up here!"

Initially you're shocked. You? The host gestures for you to make your way up to the stage. You can feel your heart pounding as you climb the stairs, palms feeling a little sweaty. The bright lights, all eyes on you. And as you step onto the stage, you get an up close look of Zak. His biceps bulge impressively, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. But god he smells like a wet gym sock.

"Sup bro, nice to meetcha!" Zak grins and throws a muscular arm around you, "Dude, you ready for this?"

"Aw do I sense a budding bromance?" The host grins and the crowd cheers. After settling them down, he turns to you. "You know how this works by now. Do you think you're smarter than a himbo?"

"Yeah, I think I am." You reply.

"Heh we'll see about that, bro!" Zak guffaws, "I was just goin' easy on that last chick."

"The confidence!" The host laughs, "Let's put it to the test. Your first question: Which is the only sea without any coastlines?"

You ponder for a moment. A sea without a coastline? That's... god what was that? You feel your cheeks flushing red, as you realize you don't know the answer to that. But if you don't know the answer, Zak would definitely not know either. Speaking of Zak, he's bouncing his pecs like the oversized gym bro he is.

"Is it the Caspian Sea?" You shrug, eyes still locked on his massive pecs. Of course the host shakes his head with exaggerated sadness.

"Ah, seems Mr. Smartypants here was a bit too distracted admiring the view to ace that question!" He winks at the audience, while Zak flexes.

"No shame in that, brah!"

You feel your face flush red with embarrassment as the laughter from the audience washes over you. Great, now they all think you're just another hormone-addled fool who can't string two thoughts together because of a pretty face.

"Alright Zak, a question for you now buddy!" You figure Zak is about to bomb this question anyway- round will end in a tie and you can walk away with some dignity, "What color are bananas?"

Zak scratches his head, "Dude… tricky." He chuckles, low and dumb, "So, I want to say yellow, but also green when they're not ripe. Oh but brown too if they go for too long!"

"Fantastic answer Zak! Well thought out!" The host grins as the crowd cheers, "Uh oh, looks like Zak has pulled ahead!"

The fuck kind of question was that? You look at the host and then Zak, who is doing a victory dance. The color of bananas? Of course Zak would know that- he's a fucking ape. You smirk at your own joke.

"Okay okay, let's try another one! Mr. Smartypants, are you ready to redeem yourself?" You're ready, more than ready. You're not..., "What pigments are responsible for the red color of leaves?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You don't have an answer for that. Maybe you did know it, but between the flexing stud and the stage fright, you couldn't find the information.

"Chlorophyll."

"What a shame! That is not correct." He smiles at the audience, "It seems Zak may have a chance to widen his lead! Hey big guy, what day of the month is Christmas celebrated on?" It takes Zak maybe a minute or two to answer that one correctly, "Look at that folks, Zak is now up by two!" He turns to you with a grin, "Seems our guest is not much of a smartypants after all!"

Again, your face flush reds, "No worries, little dude." Zak ruffles your hair, "I uh, I got some smarts, ya know." He looks out towards the audience, "Last show brahs but first win!"

The crowd cheers and it dawns on you that you might be the first person to actually lose this stupid game. Frustration bubbles up inside you as the host and crowd continue to mock you. You're better than this, smarter than being made a fool of. Screw it, you're going to show them all up.

"I could answer every single one of those easy-ass questions he's getting," you mutter under your breath, but the mic picks it up anyway. The host's eyes light up.

"Oh ho, is that so?" He raises an eyebrow, a smirk gracing his features. "Well then, why don't you prove it, hot shot? Let's see if you can handle something a little more…your speed. Here we go bud - how does the body cool down during intense exercise like a heavy workout session?"

You chuckle. Really? This was the question? You clear your voice, "Sweating. That's how it keeps from overheating."

"Correct!"

"Woah bro, nice one!"

Yeah... that was a nice one. Finally got a question right... finally... You wince as a warmth fills your upper arms. At first it's just a gentle tingling, a warm buzzing beneath your skin. But quickly it builds to a throbbing, insistent pressure.

"What the…?"

The sensation intensifies, an intensifying heat pulsing through your upper arms. Your skin prickles and tightens as your biceps and triceps stretch against the sleeve of your shirt. It feels like the most intense pump after a grueling workout, but magnified tenfold. Your arms throbbing, aching. You feel aware of just how much more space they're taking up. And the twitching- it's incessant. Unconsciously, your arms start to rise, muscles tensing, flexing…

"Whoa…" you mutter, marveling at the sheer size and density of your upper arms, "How…?"

The host clears his throat pointedly, breaking you out of your awestruck reverie. "Ahem, moving on! Thanks for that… demonstration." He shoots you a knowing wink, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's see if we can't challenge that big ol' brain of yours with another question, shall we? What does the acronym SBD stand for in powerlifting?"

"Oh brah, way too easy." Zak chides, crossing his massive arms over his muscular chest, "Even I know that one."

But your head is swimming. The powerful feeling in your arms send pleasurable waves of warmth through your body. But your mind. You're reviewing the question. Thinking it through. SBD? In powerlifting?

"SBD... SBD..." You rub your chin, unconsciously flexing your now massive bicep, "Huh... like... That's uh..."

You look over at Zak and he's making some kind of motion. A goofy grin on his face as he squats. Squats. Squats!

"Bro!" You grin, "Squats, dude! Yeah, that's what the S stands for." You grin, but the host shakes his head, "C'mon what?" You pout.

"You're still forgetting the rest." The host smiles, "And the timer is counting down."

You shuffle anxiously on your feet. You know this, right? But why would you? You're not into powerlifting. But like, it should be easy. If S stands for squats then like, wouldn't B and D also be something to do with working out? Yeah? Totally, that makes sense. But like, what else is there? What other... huh... shirt is getting kinda tight too. And fuck, you can't help but notice how warm your chest feels. Nice and warm, pressing more and more against the fabric of your shirt. Stretching it out against your big, meaty...

"Bench press, brah! B stands for bench press!" You say with a grin as your shirt starts to tear away, revealing a set of massive pecs and a chiseled torso, "Huh where'd my shirt go?" The audience cheers and you grin, staring down as you bounce your pecs.

"Excellent job, but unfortunately, you didn't finish. You missed D, you big dunce."

The host laughs, and you laugh along with him and the audience. Big dunce. Yeah that's... that's you? You pause for a second and start to feel that same embarrassment from earlier. They're laughing... not with you, but...

"Dude, can't win em all!" Zak slaps you on your increasingly wider back and you turn to him- now at eye-level, "But like, brah, you've got this next one!"

"Y-y-you th-think so.... brah?" Your tongue feels heavy, the words feel sluggish. You notice your voice sounds deeper to your ears, "I..."

"You have to focus there, smartypants!" The host interrupts, "Two more questions. Are you ready?" You nod slowly, "In a deadlift, how high are you supposed to lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Deadlift..." Your eyes light up suddenly, "Wait, bro! The D! That's what D stands for, brah!" You say excitedly.

The whole audience laughs, as does the host. You look at him, feeling a strange sense of confusion bubbling up. Why were they laughing? What was so funny?

"Good job there, but that was the last question. We've moved on, big guy."

"Oh..." You chuckle, a grin forming on your lips as you let out a deep, dumb laugh, "Huhuhuh that was pretty stupid of me." The audience and the host laugh even louder, and you find yourself joining in, "Alright, gotta lock in, gotta... brah what was the question?"

"Dead lifts..."

"Oh fuck yeah! I fuckin' love deadlifts."

The host grins, "Yes, exactly! So tell us, when doing a deadlift, how high do you lift the barbell before lowering it?"

"Yeah... uh..." You bite your lip, thinking hard. Your fingers drum against your swollen bicep as you try to concentrate and with a sigh, lift your hands behind your head, "Oh nice..."

Your eyes lock on to your bulging bis and tris and you're momentarily distracted. But the sharp tang of your own musk drifts up from your armpits, momentarily derailing your train of thought. Fuck, you smell good. Really fucking good. But since when did you...?

"Brah, c'mon you got this." Zak says, watching you closely.

You shake your head and run a hand through your perfectly gelled, styled hair, before pausing- fuck your aesthetic is probably cooked. You awkwardly pat at your hair.

"Worry about your hair later, you've got a question to answer." The host says.

"Fuck, sorry..." You let out an awkward chuckle, "Just gotta..."

Your body moves instinctively into the proper deadlift position—back straight, knees slightly bent, hips pushed back—as if you've done this 1000s of times before. As you demonstrate the form flawlessly, a new awareness floods your lower body. Your glutes feel… alive. Heavy. Round. Perfect. You grin as you squeeze them unconsciously, feeling the dense muscle fibers contract.

"The answer is hips, bro."

"Let's fuckin' go, brah!" Zak cheers and slaps you on the ass, sending a wave of intense pleasure reverberating through your meaty glutes.

As the crowd cheers, your eyes lock on Zak. The pleasure from him slapping your ass still making you shudder. You drink him in, fixated on the prominent bulge straining against his gym shorts.

"Fuck..." You mumble- he's packing serious heat there.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as fantasies flood your mind—Zak pinning you down, those huge hands squeezing your meaty ass while he drives his massive cock deep inside you. The image of you riding his thick cock sends shivers down your growing frame, and you imagine running your tongue over every inch of his sweat-slick skin. You lick your lips and grin at the thought.

When your eyes meet again, Zak doesn't look away. Instead, his smirk widens as he catches you staring, and the few brain cells he has recognize exactly what you’re thinking. He flexes for the audience, but he turns to give you a quick wink, letting you know all that flexing was just for you... because he wants you to know he wants you too. After all, you know there's not way he could resist you either. With your... bulging pecs? Massive arms? Thick glutes?

"Wait..." You mumble. You can feel the rusting gears in your increasingly empty head turn ever so slightly, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.

Your head was spinning, brain trying to make sense of all of it.

Something’s off, right? Like... this ain’t how it used to be. You know that. You weren’t… this. But then... what were you then, dude? Cause, like, look at you. Seriously... just look. You’re absolutely shredded. I mean, c’mon, those arms? That chest? You don’t just wake up lookin’ this jacked without bein’… well, this guy. So how could you not be you if you straight-up look like you? Right?

A dumb chuckle escapes your lips as all that thinking overwhelms and shuts down whatever last remaining brain cells you have.

The host snaps his fingers in front of your face, breaking you out of your haze. "Earth to bro, we still got one question."

"Huh? Wha-" You blink slowly, your expression vacant and slack. Drool slips down your chin as you stare blankly ahead.

"Are you smarter than a himbo?" The host grins.

"Nawww, bro, 'course not!" You reply with a big, dumb grin spreading across your face, "Can't be smarter than a himbo cuz… I AM the fuckin' himbo, bro!"

The host laughs, shaking his head, "Well folks, I guess that settles it! Looks like we've got ourselves a new resident himbo to take Zak's place. Give it up for… COLT!"

The audience erupts into cheers and applause as you beam proudly, basking in the spotlight. You feel Zak sling a muscular arm around your broad shoulders, squeezing you close.

"Dude, so fuckin' glad you're joinin' the fam, bro!" Zak enthuses, his hand drifting lower to grope your ass possessively, "Trust me bro, you're gonna love it."

Zak's strong grip on your juicy ass makes you shudder and you can tell by that grin that he's thinking exactly what you're thinking.

The host clears his throat loudly, snapping you out of your lustful stupor. "Don't forget to wave to the crowd, champ!" He gestures encouragingly towards the audience.

With a dopey grin, you raise a hand in greeting, relishing the adoration pouring in from all sides.

"Thanks y'all, this is gonna be fuckin' sick!" You call out enthusiastically, grinning like an idiot.

And as Zak digs his fingers into your massive ass, you lick your lips hungrily. The only thought in your empty head was that once this show was over, you'd be giving him a private encore performance that neither of you would forget…

Oh no, bro. Did you forget what you were doing? Again? Ah, man. That sucks, bro. It’s a lot harder to focus on things now, huh? Not like when you used to be Mr. Smart Guy. You used to think you were so smart, didn’t you, bro? You probably don’t even remember that, do you? But you actually were pretty fuckin’ smart. Now you can’t even remember what you’re supposed to be doing from one moment to the next without me fuckin’ telling you what to do.

Pretty sure you were thinking about making your pre-workout protein shake, weren’t you, bro? You’ve made your body really sexy for me with all those muscles and tattoos, and you want to keep making it sexier, don’t you, bro? And you’re going to think about me with every rep of every exercise you do at the gym today, aren’t you? Yeah, that’s right. You’re going to think about how happy it makes me to see you slowly turning yourself into the dumbest, buffest bro at the gym.

The organic chemistry textbook was particularly heavy, and his arms were particularly weak, so he reached to pick it up with both hands. But as he did, a strange thing happened: the weight of the textbook seemed to split in two in his hands even as it got heavier in each of them, and the whole world seemed to shift and twist around him.

The effort of lifting the weights made his muscles strain, and bulge, and grow, first in his arms and then all over, abs popping out of his skinny stomach, pecs popping out of his flat chest, lats popping out of his narrow shoulders as they broadened, all threaded through with veins as if he’d been going to the gym religiously for years, despite never setting foot in one. 

He shivered with a sudden chill as his khakis shriveled away into gym shorts and his dress shirt vanished entirely, leaving those new muscles on full display, even though he prided himself on dressing smartly and hated being shirtless. There was a tickling on the side of his head as his hair buzzed itself trendily short, a pricking in his ears as they pierced themselves with diamond studs, a soreness on his arm as a tiger inked itself into being, even though he had always found tattoos and piercings appalling.

And still the new dumbbells in his hand kept weighing down, down on his body, his head, his brain itself; he felt increasingly confused as his weighed-down mind felt more and more heavy and thick and slow and stupid, his prized IQ plummeting like a dropped weight. Why’d he think he never set foot in a gym? He practically lived at the gym, bro! The gym and the club, that is. Why’d he think he hated being shirtless? He was a total exhi- ebix- uhh, he loved showing off his hot bod and its sick gains, dude! Why’d he think he hated tattoos and piercings? He loved how dope they made him look, how they made it obvious to everyone that he’s a cocky fuckboi always on the prowl for a good time just like the tiger on his arm. 

N-no, that was all wrong, he was studying–Why’d he think he was studying organic chemistry? He didn’t even know what that was, bruh; he was probably just thinking of that new organic protein powder that was supposed to help you get totes shredded, and his chemistry with that cute twunk at the gym who’ll def give up his ass in the showers after one more sexy wink. Not like he’d waste time studying anything at some boring-ass college when there’s lifting and fucking to be done, anyway.

In fact, he realized as the dumbbells made one last change, weighing down and stretching out his cock in those gym shorts, before the new reality settled into place around him, his old life overwritten – why was he thinking at all? After all, he was just a dumbbell himself, bro!

you find your friend Edward Eddie blank motionless in some blank white room. some of the jocks who bully you give him a helmet. he slips it on like instinct and hands you the ball suddenly you can't move. Eddie undresses you as you try to scream for help but nothing comes out. they put you in the room the white walls erupt into spirals and all you can do is stare. you feel your muscles growing and bursting and your memory fading as everything is replaced. you didn't meet in robotics club you met Eddie in your elementary football team and were inseparable ever since. as your new memories come in your old memories cum out and the spirals stop. Eddie comes in hands you a helmet and as you put it on you seal your fate. you and Eddie inseparable football gods. like it always has been how it always should be.

im standin here in my tight black shirt n shorts, white hat on backwards, flexin my big arm while holdin my fone like a total dumm horny stinky brain full of pink stupid fog. cant think strait at alllll. my head is so foggy n pink n slow, just swirlin with musky jock thoughts. duhhhhh… flex… sniff… leak… cum…

used to try bein smart but now my brain is completely melted into this warm pink dumb fog. every lift at the gym pumps more fog in n pushes all the smart stuff out. the transformatin is soooo great bros!!! feelin my iq leak away while my arms get bigger n my pits get stinkier n my balls stay heavy n full of thick cum is the best thing ever. i love how empty n fuzzy my head feels now. no more thinkin, no more worryin, just pure horny stinky jock bliss.

look at meeee… tight shirt huggin my chest, shorts showin off my thick legs, arm popped n veiny. i stare at myself n my brain just goes blank n pink. i can smell my own musk even thru my clothes n it makes the fog thicker. my pits r probly so stinky rite now after liftin but i dont care, i love it. makes me hornier. makes me dumber. my balls feel so full n achin all the time, leakin into my shorts while my head stays all foggy n stupid. feels so fuckin good to be this big dumb horny stinky jock with nuthin but pink fog in my skull.

bein like this is amazin. i dont gotta pretend to be clever or deep. people just look at this swole body n the hat n the flex n thats enuff. i just grin dumb, flex harder, n let the pink stupid fog roll deeper. my old smart self would be so jealus seein how happy n empty n musky i am. no stress. just sweat, stink, pump, n cum.

if ur lookin at this pic n feelin that tingle like “fuck yesss i wanna be a big dumb horny stinky brain full of pink fog too” — let it take over bro!!!! stop tryin to think hard. every time a smart idea pops up just flex ur arm or sniff ur pit till the pink fog comes in n melts it. go to the gym n sweat till u reek. dont wash too much, let that stinky jock smell soak into ur brain n make u even dumber. eat big, lift heavy, edge ur cock for hours while chantin slow in ur foggy head “pink fog… stinky pits… full balls… brain off”. look at mirrer pics like this every day n let ur thoughts turn into warm pink mush.

the transformatin feels soooo amazin. watchin ur brain fill with pink stupid fog while ur body gets swole n ur pits get musky n ur balls swell with cum is pure heaven. u stop carin about everythin else n just become this happy empty-headed stinky jock who lives for the pump, the smell, n the loads. its so liberatin. just flex, stink, leak, repeat.

“Live the dream. Join the conversion.” Randolph scoffed at the advertisement as a thick muscle man panned out from his shot at the gym. Sweat dripped off his chin as he stared into the camera after finishing a set. Of course, Randolph knew better. It was all staged. How anyone was supposed to actually fall for this obvious ploy was beyond him. Converse in the gym? Really? Those shoes had hardly any arch support. No gym goer in their right mind would actually choose to wear those things willingly to a workout, no matter how well they sold it with a bodybuilder model. He was soon disproven. Within the week, Twitter was aflame with the hashtag, #I_Joined_The_Conversion. Before and after images soon followed within the next month, showing the progress the buyers had made in their fitness. The news was alive with the phenomenon, reporting on just how successful this overnight competitor had become compared to other major brands like Nike, Adidas, and New Balance. When asked their secret, the owners simply said it laid in the quality of the wear. People try the shoes, and they never want to look back. Again, Randolph scoffed. Others might give into the hype. He would not.

Some months later, he sat among his friends at the cafe, drinking some cocoa and reading a new novel. Their little book club’s membership had dwindled over the last half a year. The mysterious movement known as The Conversion had spread far and wide. Even the barista had taken to the movement, investing in a sports counter specifically designed for protein shakes and other health-related beverages, like smoothies. The counter was decorated with bright red letters that boldly proclaimed, I Joined The Conversion. The store’s owner Salvatore seemed to bounce back and forth between the counters. His muscles had swollen to an immense size, and while he still conversed with his less fit customers, he took greater pleasure in conversing with the gym goers that had come for his shakes and smoothies. Even his employees had fallen to the dark side as the numbers of new hires and current employees gradually shifted over to the vascular end. Old friends who used to hold conversations regularly now stared unseeingly when conversation waxed philosophical. Sometimes pecs would bounce. Other times, an arm would flex, accompanied by encouraging hoots and hollers from the changing customer base. Dumbbell napkin holders and other gym-themed decorations had gradually replaced the traditional Italian pieces that once dignified the store. Sal had even gone so far as to invest in televisions to broadcast the most recent events in sports. Randolph rolled his eyes as one of the brutes he had watched pass through the joint so often now planted himself on one of the chairs at his table. “Excuse me. I think you have the wrong table,” he said. A familiar book landed on the surface with a heavy smack. “Pretty sure I’m in the right place. Sorry it’s been so long, guys. I’ve been busy.” The man’s chiseled jaw bulged with his neck. His broad shoulders barely fit into the tank top he wore. Titanic arms rippled and shifted with the slightest twitch. Heavily tanned skin shone under the light as a platinum-blond haircut jutted up from his head in a high-and-tight flat top that further accentuated the angularity of his jaw and chin. His calves and thighs were barely contained by the grey sweat pants that clung to his waist and legs. Randolph furrowed his brow. “Shawn?” he asked. The big man grinned. “The one and only,” he said in a voice that was far deeper than Randolph remembered. “You miss me, boys?” “What the hell happened to you?” one of the others demanded. Shawn shrugged and pointed to his shoes. “I joined the conversion,” he said simply. His shoulders rippled just as his arms had. The same red converse from the commercials now covered the man’s feet, which had clearly gone up a size or two. “And let me tell you, it’s one of the best fucking decisions I ever made.” “Shawn,” Randolph grated warningly. “Oh, lighten up, Randy. You always were a stick in the mud, even before I got big.” He flexed a bicep, then flipped his book open. “Now where are we? I got pretty far in, but I can flip back a few chapters, if you need.” “You read this?” Randolph asked incredulously. “Uh, … yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a book about a barbarian. Warriors, fighting, showing off that combination of strength and skill in combat; it’s all amazing.” A far-off look came into his eyes as he raised an arm and flexed it absently. “Anything else?” Randolph pressed. “Well, I was fascinated by the unique love triangle. Having to choose between a homosexual relationship or one that would guarantee his line of succession after conquering his clans to achieve proper leadership was a bold choice for the author to include. Depending on the culture, he could have lost everything, if he chose the former and his chiefs found out.” Randolph raised a brow in surprise. “The way things have been changing on your media profiles, I thought you’d just turned into another muscle zombie, like the rest over there. Shawn scowled. “Hey, they’re not zombies. They’re just really focused on their personal fitness.” He jabbed toward the hint of a belly that pushed subtly at Rudolph’s polo with a finger. “You could use a little focus there, yourself.” “Not at the expense of becoming a meathead,” he countered. “At least half the patrons here used to be average Joes. Then they got those stupid shoes, and suddenly it’s goodbye intellectualism and hello brutation.” “Brutation?” Shawn inquired with a half growl. “A brutish mutation,” Randolph clarified. “It’s been spreading like a plague.” Shawn rose slowly to his feet. “Then I guess I should go,” he said coolly. Wouldn’t want to risk giving you my contagion.” He turned deliberately to the counter. “Thanks for the great reception, Randy. You enjoy your session.” He strode to where Sal sat waiting. The man had already whipped up a huge metal cup and passed it to Shawn with a consoling smile. He patted him on the shoulder a few times. Shawn melted into the crowd of overwhelming muscle soon after, chugging his shake as he went. The group didn’t contribute much to the discussion. The others were too distracted staring at the book Shawn had left behind.

Randolph growled as he glared at his computer screen. Message upon message, be it email, PM, instant, or any other blared brazenly in bold flashing letters. You’ve been referred to JOIN THE CONVERSION. Access this link for a special deal. The contents of the accompanying messages ranged from Dude, you’ve got to try this! to Bro, it’s time to convert. Randolph snarled in disgust. Everywhere he looked, this conversion movement had spread. Ads flashed in his eyes whenever he passed over a site. Videos and testimonial clips now appeared on youtube in reviews and spliced between portions of the original ad he’d seen on television. “Just thought I’d try it, you know?” “I guess they’re comfortable?” “I’m pretty much trying these for the money and free shoes.” The camera panned onto the original muscle man. Then it faded to black with a white Six Months Later to indicate the transition. “Best fucking decision I ever made.” Randolph hardly recognized the man talking now. His voice had deepened. His hair had shortened. And hard muscle bulged and rippled with hints of veins showing under the skin. “I’ll never wear another brand again,” the second said effusively. He flexed a burgeoning bicep and grinned. The third one smiled sheepishly at the camera. “I feel pretty stupid for how I was before. I … guess you could say I’ve seen the light.” He let out a bassoon of a guffaw as his tight pectorals clenched with his chiseled core. “My name is Michael Ortiz–” “Jared Carmel–” “–Aaron Parnell.” “And I’ve been converted,” their voices rang together. The camera transitioned to show all three men working out with the man from the first commercial. Then the screen faded to black with the simple words, JOIN THE CONVERSION. “Join the conversion,” Randolph scoffed. He rolled his eyes and logged off, flicking the middle finger at the screen to vent his frustrations as he got ready for bed.

A heavy clanking in his ears roused Randolph from his slumber. He blinked owlishly. Everything was a blur. The rhythmic clanking continued as his chest rose and fell. A pair of straps brushed gently against the crook between his shoulders and chest. Something was massaging his chest. His eyes rolled in pleasure at the gentle ministration. The brush would ease. His body would tense. The clank would sound. His body would relax under the gentle brush. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He didn’t know what was going on. He just knew he felt good. Too good to care. Too good to wonder. Too good to– Tense. Clank. Relax. Brush. Too good to think. Suddenly he was lumbering through the indistinct shapes. He could feel the figures brushing against him as he passed, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d just shoulder them aside. A big silver cup was waiting for him on a counter. An indistinct face stared back. He knocked back the cup and licked his lips. He turned. He lumbered back. A hand pulled him aside to stare at a mirror. Dull gray eyes stared back. A thick chiseled jaw slackened at the sight of the dark green tank top clinging to his torso. A pair birch-pattern shorts clung to his glutes and thighs. He eyed the veins in astonishment and raised his arms slowly into a flex as he watched them wriggle under the skin. A dark beard covered his cheeks, jaw, and lips. It had been carefully groomed for a rugged hard-cut look. Last, but not least, a black snapback cap had been turned around on his head, allowing just a hint of his hair to puff through the gap that now sat in front. He stared at the mirror a few seconds longer, then looked down to see a familiar pair of dark red converse shoes. It was small at first, a little chuff of air; just enough to cause the shirt to brush ever so gently against his shoulders and pectorals. Then the chuff became a puff, the puff a pant, the pant a guffaw, and the guffaw a full-throated laugh. His core tightened as the air rang with the deep, dull staccato. “Huhuhuhuhuh….”

“Uh … I’ll just … come back later.” You quickly left the apartment complex’s gym and the many muscle men who stood there having a posing session in front of the full body mirror.

Why were they all in briefs? Why were they all so … focused? You didn’t recall seeing a reservation for the gym, so it’s not like this was some kind of party or something. And they didn’t seem like frat bros. Just what was going on here?

You arrived back in your apartment to see your roommate Randal chugging back another sludgy concoction. How he could stand those protein shakes, you would never understand. The sheer number of carbs and sugars in that large of a mixing cup made McDonalds’ large and thick shake look more like a medium. He let out a thunderous belch and came up for air to grin at you.

“Hey there, Roomie. That was fast. Thought you said you were going to use the gym,” he teased.

“Occupied,” you said simply and made your way to your room.

“I did try to warn you,” Randal said as he followed behind and leaned on your door frame.

“Warn me that there would be a practical porn fest going on?”

“Oh, come on. It’s not all that bad,” Randal said as he took another gulp of his shake.

“They were in their briefs, Randal. Their briefs, as in just underwear and a pair of socks. The gym wasn’t even reserved. Does management know about this?”

“Bro, management is part of it.” Randal shrugged. “Don’t see what you’re so worked up about. Everyone knows they meet there Tuesday night. S’not a crime, if the owner doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“Does the owner know?”

Randal shrugged. “Hell if I know.” He took advantage of the silence to polish off the rest of his shake, then let out an explosive hiss of air.

“Those things are going to kill you one day,” you grumble.

“Not if I keep working them off,” Randall countered with a smirk. “I’m training to be a trainer, remember? The gym’s like my second home.”

“Whatever. I’m going to talk with the owner about this. If management is part of the problem, then a solution needs to be found.”

Randall shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere, though.” He turned and trudged toward his room. “Gonna get my workout in. Don’t disturb me, all right?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill, muscleman.”

Randall stopped, turned, and grinned cockily as he flexed a bicep. “Damn straight.” He winked good-naturedly as you rolled your eyes a second time. A few seconds later, you heard the familiar clatter of his cup smashing against the sides of the sink, after he sunk another one of his ‘three-pointers.’ A half a minute later, the heavy thump of the bass in his room thudded dully down the hall and through your door.

You gulped as you stared up at the imposing shape of the building’s manager. Chris’ platinum hair had been perfectly styled with some wax to hold that familiar sheen as he peered into the apartment with piercing blue-green eyes. His tight shirt clung to the defined pectorals and chiseled abdominals on his torso. He was a good five years older than you, but that five years made one heck of a gap in the maturity of his features, including the blocky nature of his jaw and the stark gaze he had perfected over what you assumed to be the tenure of his work as a manager in the complex.

“I’ve come to talk with Randall,” he said curtly. “Is he in?”

“I think so. Is something the matter?”

“No. I just need to talk with him.” He shoved past you with little care, forcing you to stumble against the entertainment center to regain your balance. You didn’t even get the chance to call out a warning, before he was knocking forcefully at Randall’s door. You barely regained your feet, when you found yourself flung aside again by the assistant manager. His dark auburn hair had a few red highlights in it and jutted up in a series of spikes as he shoved his way past. Compression gear clung to every curve and bulge on his body. He didn’t bother to apologize, or even acknowledge your presence.

“Chris, what’s happenin’, bro?” Randall asked with a casual grin as he raised his fist up for a bump.

Chris gave an indulgent smile and returned the gesture in kind. “Nothing too serious. We just need to have a private word with you is all.” He gestured into Randal’s room. “May we?”

“Come on in,” Randall said cheerfully.

“Thank you.” He turned to glare at you. “We’ll talk with you later.”

You winced. Apparently, word of your actions had reached the manager, and he was far from pleased.

The talk took nearly an hour to finish. You raised your eyes from the book you’d been reading on the couch when the door finally opened.

“And remember to be there on time, Randall,” Chris rumbled.

“I will,” Randall’s voice carried from the hall.

“Good. Now feel free to carry on with your studies.”

The door closed. Randall’s workout track cued up, and the bass started thumping again. This time, you noted a few new chords in the soundtrack. Your eyes fell on the assistant manager pocketing a CD case.

“All that for a new track?” you asked.

“Among other things,” Chris said with a shrug. “Now, about your complaint.”

You winced, bracing for the beating you were almost certain would come.

“You were right.”

You blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter. I said you were right. The schedule was completely open to anyone entering the gym to work out. Given the, for lack of a better word, cooldown ritual that the others tend to follow after a hard workout, it could be deemed scandalous to others that are seeking to use the equipment. Most of the apartment complex has warned one another about our usual time to use the equipment, so we haven’t needed to make a reservation on the schedule. That will be changing now.” He extended a hand. “I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Oh, we’re livid,” Chris chuckled. “But a point is a point.” He grinned as he seized your hand “We’ll just have to see who wins the match, eh?”

You winced under the man’s grip, but he maintained perfect control, never once squeezing beyond your range of comfort.

“Until next time,” he said by way of farewell. “Oh, and by the way,” he said as he reached the door, “you might consider joining us before you judge us next time. Goodbye.”

They swept out together, leaving you to stew over their parting words and the familiar beat of Randall’s music.

You watched Randall flex in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower, and smirked at his grin. “Careful there, Narcissus. You might freeze like that.”

Randall chuckled and turned to pose for you. “Jealous?” he teased.

“You wish.” You chuckled and shoved him lightly. He didn’t budge, and his pecs were hard against your hand, straining the wrist.

Randall smirked. “Something wrong?”

“Okay, Randall, I think you’ve proven you’re the stronger one now.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s get ready.”

Randal nodded and pressed play on his phone. The Bluetooth speaker blared his tracks through the room as he lathered up and shaved the stubble off his face. You finished your usual morning ablutions and tapped your toe to the beat from time to time when the playlist hit a song you enjoyed.

Eventually, the pair of you stared at each other across the breakfast table: Randall in compression gear, you in your usual jeans and T-shirt.

“I’m gonna be home late today,” he said causally. His wireless earbuds rested snugly in his ear canals as he listened to his beats. “Got a lot of new exercises to practice for my certification.”

You shrug. “Okay. I’ve got some studying of my own to do for work, anyway. I’ll see you around.”

The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Randall ate his oatmeal and drank a primer, before clearing his dishes, washing them, and striding to the door. You retreated to your room and began to study.

You’re not sure how much time passed before you noticed it. The sound was faint, but you knew that tune. You peered up at your ceiling, cocking your head curiously. The music built and thumped louder, louder, louder.

“What the hell…?” You rose from your chair and strode outside, then up the stairs to the next floor. It didn’t take long to track the offending apartment in question. Number Sixty-nine had always been a little run down compared to the rest of the complex. Some chucklehead thought it would be funny to screw out the nine and flip it so it mirrored the six, then forced it back in. Management let it be for the sake of good humor and the nature of the individuals who usually housed there.

You knocked. Nobody answered.

You knocked again, louder this time. A tall young man with chiseled features and a high and tight flat top cut stared down at you. He must have been a good 6′ 3″. He raised both arms in his sleeveless muscle tee and performed a double bicep flex.

“Welcome to flex fest, bro. How can I help you?” The big man chuckled at his joke. You now understood why they reversed the numbers. What better way to show a subtle nod to working out than to imagine the two numerals as flexing arms?

You introduce yourself. “I live just downstairs. Your music is pounding through the floor, and I’m trying to study. Do you think you might be able to turn it down a little?”

The rhythmic thumping surged at you in wave upon wave of sound, not unlike the beating of the ocean against a cliff.

The big man chuckled and laid a beefy arm around your shoulders. “No can do, bro. We’re in the middle of our workouts. Gotta be ready.”

“Ready for what?” You practically have to shout to be heard over the surround sound speakers that have been installed in the apartment.

“The meeting, of course!” the lug shouted back as he pulled you in. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.” He practically dragged you through the portal and into the apartment, slamming the door with a well-placed kick. The first room you entered was filled to the brim with heavy duty weights and mirrors. The kid squatted with a long metal bar on his shoulders to strain his calves and thighs with every motion. A blue singlet clung to his frame as he stared ahead and grunted in time to the pulsing beat.

“That’s Trav! Bro’s a real beast with the weights. Wants to be the strongest man in the world. As you can see, he’s well on his way.”

The next room was full of weighted jump ropes and a miniature punching bag being jabbed by a tall man with ebony skin that shone with his sweat. Powerful muscles bunched and tensed as he prepped to take another strike at his imaginary opponent. His short hair grew out to just cover the scalp, while stubble spread down the sides of his face and cascaded over the lips, chin, and cheeks.

“Andray,” the introduction went. “Came from Brooklyn, wanted to make somethin’ of himself. Thought he’d be a reporter, but then he found boxing. Lil’bro’s never looked back.”

The third room thumped just as loudly, but there wasn’t much in the way of fitness happening here. The occupant lifted a set of dumbbells in one hand, while the other clicked rhythmically on the keys of his computer.

“And that’s Douglas. He’s the new kind on the block. Bro’s only starting out, but he’s keeping up.” He strode in and reached for a half-empty cup that sat on the bed’s night stand. “Doug, bro. Don’t forget your shake.”

Douglas mumbled something back, and your guide grinned as he smacked Douglas’ shoulder.

“’Atta bro.”

He led you back into the final room, where a weight bench sat by the bed.

“Since you’re here, bro, come on in and spot me.” The door closed with a heavy slam, and you found yourself planted firmly behind the bench. “Just hold the bar if I start having trouble to help me put it up in rest.”

“But–”

“Bro, you interrupted my workout. Least you can do is help me finish my set, so I can help you with whatever’s wrong on your end.”

You rolled your eyes and let him have his way. He’d probably drag you back in, if you didn’t anyway, and it wasn’t like it was actually hurting you any.

You groaned as you melted into your couch. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why the hell did you let them bully you into doing those exercises?

“Someone looks beat.”

You rose your head in surprise. There was Randall in his gear looking you over critically.

“Sixty nine?” he asked.

You nodded weakly.

“Loud music?”

Again, you nodded.

“Figured.” He smirked. “Bro, they’re too thick-headed to change. You should just leave it and focus on doing the stuff you want to do.”

You groaned again, and he chuckled.

“Here. Let me whip up something to help.” You heard the whirr of the blender blades, winced as it grated against your ears. And then there it was, the same slop Randall had been drinking for months. “It designed to absorb all the acid your muscles make when they’re broken up, helps reduce the soreness and improve recovery time.”

“If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”

“Nope, that’s all you,” he teased mercilessly.

You grumbled, but accepted the shake gratefully. At least he was trying to help.

“Look, I’m just saying it’s pretty obvious you’re feeling restless. A little workout here and there would do you some good.”

“I’d rather not deal with potential retaliation from every muscle member of our complex, thank you very much,” you say pointedly.

“Did the guys at Sixty Nine do anything to you?”

“… No.”

“Then I doubt the others will either. Pretty sure I’ve seen them going to the gym for those meetings. Come on. I’ll go with you, if you think it’ll help.”

You sigh. “I doubt it, but I suppose it can’t hurt to experiment.”

It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. Your muscles groaned in protest with every move as you pulled yourself out of bed. Randall grinned at you as you dragged yourself into the kitchen.

“Damn, man. You look awful.”

“You should know. You did this to me,” you complained.

“No, I just put you through a training session. Your body’s doing this to you, because it’s not used to it. Drink another shake. You’ll be fine.”

You grunt and motion to the speaker with a loll of the head. “New music?”

“Yeah. I’m experimenting with different tracks. I call this one Morning Pump.”

“Of course you would.”

He shrugged. “Gotta do the work to get the gains. It’s fun, you know.” He struck a pose. “And the benefits speak for themselves.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get going, ya meathead,” you sass.

“Yes, Sir, Coach,” Randall shot back with an infuriating smirk. “I will grow my meat. It is good to grow my meat.”

“Get out.” You blush as you feel a stirring in your loins and your muscles start to tense.

Randall bowed flamboyantly. “Your wish is my command.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to your room, where your computer sat waiting. It was time to do some research.

Music thrummed in your head. You felt hot and sweaty. Your arms trembled.

“One more,” a voice said. “One more.”

“One more,” you mumbled.

“Just a little more….”

The weights clanked as Darwin guided the bar back into its rest and grinned down at you. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

You blush. “It’s not that much progress.”

“Bro, it’s enough. You broke the plateau. Now you’re really gonna start making some gains.” He chuckled and handed you a packet. “Here. This stuff has some real kick to it. It’ll really help you bulk up.”

“But I don’t–”

“Bro, you wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t want to. Now take it home, and add it to your drinks. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“I … thanks, I guess?”

He smirked. “You can thank me later.”

The clanking haunted your dreams. The thumping haunted your waking hours. Every second, every day, your walk, your movements, everything followed a set rhythm. You blinked blearily as you tapped the next button on your keyboard and followed the slide show. Image after image, muscle after muscle. You hovered briefly over one of them and blinked in surprise. Was that Randall?

But then the thump struck, the key clicked, the image moved forward, and you were following again. Following the rhythm, following the beat, following as the earbuds picked up on the feed from your phone. It was easy to transfer the tracks from Randall’s CD. You leaned back and stared after clicking into a new tab. You don’t remember opening it, but images and words flash before you in time to the beat. You lean back and let the cotton rub against your pecs and abs.

You blink. And suddenly the room is dark, save for your screen. The tab is gone. You’re staring at a series of tattoos. Without even thinking, you rise, you walk to the door, you ghost into the night. And everything blurs.

The heat from the gym room is stifling as you get off the treadmill. You’d long since shucked your clothing, save for a pair of briefs and a tight pair of socks that strained against the clubs your feet have grown into. You open the window. A familiar beat carries on the air and your mind slows. You reach down and pat absently at your crotch. “You’ve sure gotten big, little guy.” Then you let out a chuckling guffaw at the ludicrous situation of talking to your junk.

Then suddenly, you’re not alone. Chris smiles at you as you stare into a mirror. A camera is in his hands. You hear the click. It fits in perfect time with the thud of your music.

“That’s it,” his deep voice rumbled as he grinned. “How do you feel now?”

You look up at him, your mind awash with a strange sense of vertigo and euphoria that stuff it with cotton. Goosebumps wash over your swollen muscles as they tense, causing your tattoo to ripple over your shoulder and bicep.

“I’m ready for the meating, Sir.”

The door opens, and Randall walks in with a blank expression on his face. He stands next to you with the same brand of underwear, the same filmy socks. “Ready for the meating, Sir.”

The timer went off, signaling the end of your reserved time. You didn’t move. The room filled with muscle. You didn’t bat an eyelash. You posed. You flexed. The cameras flashed. You cycled to the machines. You worked. You went back to the mirrors again. Sweat glistened in the light to highlight the curves and striations you’d worked so hard to develop.

“Welcome to the meat,” Chris sneered.

You just stared blankly ahead as you patted your crotch again. “I am meat. Meat must grow. Bigger meat is better meat.”

He knew it was true. You knew it was true. You would grow your meat, because you were a meathead. And that was what these meatings were for.