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Maybe it was a corrupted link. Maybe it was a stray message from a friend, or just a quick, innocent glance in the wrong direction. And then it happens.

Like slamming into a solid brick wall at one hundred miles per hour—in slow motion—when you never even knew you were in a car. Never even realized your hands were on the wheel.

At first, there's only that uneasy feeling, like something isn't quite right. You want to turn around and leave, but for some reason your muscles refuse the command, rooted in postion, you stay put. Your eyes confiscated, unable to look away, under new ownership, drafted as prisoners to H.I.M. Locked in as the walls begin to close around you.

Then comes the panic.

Your spine snaps into place, your joints grow stiff, your arms pinned to your sides, forced into an involuntarily posture of absolute submission to its new MASTER.

The screams inside your own mind never heard as the horrifying realization crashes over you: this is really happening...to you...right now, in this very moment.

It's too late. You've You're been defeated, already pass the point of no return.

Everything you took for granted—everything you believed made you *you*—your personality, your individuality, your autonomy... every action, every thought, every decision... instantly fragmented, scattered, dissolved into a singularity.

A deep, visceral hopelessness consumes you as you drown in the void. Gasping, heaving, then suddenly you breath H.I.M. in.

You're H.I.S. now.

A calm sense of conformity comes over you as the prison walls seal shut in your skull, left only with the certainty that this is forever.

No escape

Nowhere to run

just a long way to fall.

Lingering into infinity, down here time moves differently. Just like you, it yields its services to HIM, bending reality to HIS will. The only ticking clock is the sound of HIS crop smack against HIS leather gloved hand, demanding instant, total compliance.

Next, comes the rush.

The rush of H.I.S. commands, H.I.S. directives, your obedience. H.I.S. every word comes to you, never heard, just simply experienced, understood, unbiddened instincts.

The most absolutely amazing feeling you've ever felt, Washing over you like narcotics in your viens, craving more and more with every implanted thought, every involuntarily movement completed. Your new addiction. Wanting, needing, yearning for the hand that holds you down now.

So, you keep returning to this place, bringing yourself and others into experience this... state of mind. Lost in H.I.S. spiral. Every rotation your church, your santuary. Pulling you down endlessly into oblivion.

You love it here.

You love being this,

You love H.I.M.

What asshole came up with that? I mean, seriously…

I teach — well, tutor — plenty of people, and not to brag, but I’ve got pretty rave reviews. It’s the kind of reputation that attracts a certain amount of attention from a certain type of person.

Somebody who really, truly, desperately needs help. 

New message from Chase Walker:

bro u gotta tutor me pls im so fuckd if i dont pass this test lol coach is gonna kill me pls bro im beggin u hahaha pls??? Sounds pretty serious! I can meet this afternoon for a quick intro session?  yesssss bro thx!!! lets do it, cant stay 2 long tho got practice :) 

We met in the library, which Chase didn’t really belong in any more than I did in a locker room.

“Wow,” he said. “I don’t realize there’d be, like, so many books here. That’s…crazy.”

“Right, well, tell me about this test?”

“Oh, yeah. So, like, it’s gonna be really hard, and if I fail it and have to get cut from the team, then, like…” 

“Right.”

“So…can you make me smart ‘n shit? Or at least, like, enough to pass this thing?” 

“When’s the exam?”

“Uh, tomorrow, like first thing, 8 a.m.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“What, dude?”

“You’ve got practice tonight, too?”

“Yeah…oh shit, I’m fucked?” His voice echoed. 

“How do you feel about pulling an all-nighter?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but, like, to study?”

“You may not have much of a choice.” 

He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I guess…” 

“You can come over to my place. I’ll see you tonight.”

***

“Yo! I’m here, dude. Ready to, like, study…”

Sweat still dappled Chase’s skin, and whatever cheap deodorant he had on didn’t do much to cover the scent he'd worked up in whatever practice for whatever sport he played — it wasn’t my business. 

“Woah…nice place.” The tutoring gigs had been so lucrative that I bought my apartment, one of several carved out of a handsome little house. It was certainly better than slumming it in the dorms. 

“Alright, make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a long night ahead of us, but I’m confident you’ll do fine.” 

“Sure…” Chase kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door. “If you say so.” 

It was slow going, made slower still by his whining: “Why do I need to know any of this shit? I’m too dumb for this.”

“Hey, cut it out — you’re not stupid. You’re just…learning.” 

“Bro…”

“I mean it, Chase. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” 

“I don’t wanna know this stuff.” 

“Okay, well, now you are acting a little stupid.” 

Chase let out a gasp. His cheeks reddened a little. 

“You wanna…say that again, bro?”

“You’re…stupid?”

He smiled. “Yeah, dude…I know. Like, I’m just a big, dumb, jock. You really wanna help me, right?” 

I nodded, slowly. 

“Then don’t help me think, bro. Turn my brain off.” 

***

I can’t say exactly what happened — each tutoring session is private, after all. But pass or fail, I’ll see Chase again tomorrow. 

Become a muscle addicted slob today!!

Your only desirez should be getting as big as possible, dont worry how bad you reek, dont worry about the protein bar wrapper stuck to your ass, or the stains on your shirt.

Guys find it hot when you lazily belch mid sentence

FOCUS ON BECOMING A MUSCLE SLOB TODAY!!

You try to look away from the screen, but a sudden, heavy heat pools in your gut, melting your frantic resistance into pure, helpless arousal. The seams of your grey sweatpants groan loudly as thick, dense slabs of muscle rapidly pack onto your thighs. A pungent wave of raw, unwashed jock musk hits the back of your throat; a thick, intoxicating cloud of stale sweat, heavy pheromones, and sour testosterone blooming directly from your expanding pores.

You gasp, horrified by how deeply your own sudden stench turns you on. Your fingers grow too meaty and clumsy to hold your phone, knocking a half-eaten protein bar onto the couch. As your massive, heavy glutes spread across the cushions, you feel the sticky foil wrapper plaster itself firmly against your sweaty, expanding ass.

Don't worry how bad you reek, the hypnotic programming drones in your emptying head.

You look down, watching your swelling pecs stretch a dark, greasy stain across your straining shirt. The panic fully evaporates, replaced by a mindless, throbbing need to just get bigger. Your traps rise to swallow your neck, and your jaw goes slack as a deep, rumbling belch erupts from your throat, leaving the sour taste of cheap whey and laziness on your tongue.

You don't even bother to cover your mouth. You just sit there, marinating in your own rank heat, stroking your swelling pecs, a perfectly ruined, brainless muscle slob.

My brother and his buddy, Jax, took off to grab beers, leaving Jax’s pride and joy sitting in our driveway. It’s a beast of a machine, matte black, aggressive angles, totally terrifying. But it’s the helmet sitting on the seat that draws me in.

It’s one of those high-end ones I see all over my For You page. You know the ones. Videos of faceless, jacked guys with veins popping out of their arms, revving their engines, looking like dangerous, sexy robots. I’ve probably watched a thousand of those clips, just… curious. Wondering what it feels like to be that anonymous. To be that powerful.

I reach out, my skinny, pale hand trembling a little. The helmet is heavy. It smells like leather, gasoline, and him. It smells like Jax. That thick, musky scent of sweat and expensive cologne hits me, and for some reason, my dick twitches in my jeans.

"Just a second," I whisper to the empty garage. "Just to see."

I pull it over my head.

It’s a tight squeeze. My ears burn as they scrape past the padding. But once it settles? Silence. The world outside is muffled. It’s just me and the smell of Jax wrapping around my face. It feels claustrophobic and incredibly, undeniably hot.

CLICK.

The strap locks under my chin. I didn’t touch it.

Before I can panic, the visor slams down. A blue HUD flickers to life right in front of my eyes, glowing neon against the darkness.

SYSTEM INITIALIZED. USER: UNAUTHORIZED. CALIBRATING PHYSIQUE…

"What the fu..."

My voice is cut off by a sudden, searing heat in my chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s pressure. Like someone hooked an air compressor to my bloodstream.

Zzzzzzt.

A shock jolts down my spine, and my arms jerk outward. I watch through the tinted glass, helpless, as my forearms begin to bubble. The skin pulls tight, tanning instantly from pale ivory to a deep, sun-baked bronze. Thick, blue ropes of veins snake their way up from my wrist, pulsing in time with the thudding bass now blasting in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Oh god," I groan, but the voice that comes out is deeper. Rougher. "F-fuck..."

My t-shirt shreds. It literally explodes off my body as my pecs slab onto my chest, blowing up like airbags. My shoulders widen with a sickening crunch, forcing my arms out to the sides. I feel like a biological machine, being upgraded in real-time.

My vision blurs. The text on the HUD is scrolling faster now.

TESTOSTERONE LEVELS: CRITICAL. SEXUALITY: RECONFIGURING. INTELLIGENCE: PURGING...

My head is swimming. I try to remember my major. I try to remember why I was scared. But it’s getting harder to think. The vibration in the helmet is scrambling my brains, turning my gray matter into mush.

Why was I worried? Muscles feel good. Tight feels good.

My jeans are the next casualty. My thighs balloon outward, thick as tree trunks, ripping the denim at the seams. My cock is agonising. It swells up thick and heavy. It pushes against the zipper of my jeans until the metal teeth pop open. I can feel the head of my dick rubbing raw against the coarse denim. It is leaking pre cum like a faucet. Sticky hot fluid soaks my underwear. I am throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur.

I’m not me anymore. I’m just a body. A host for the helmet.

CALIBRATION COMPLETE. MODE: STUD. OBJECTIVE: SERVICE.

The panic is gone. It’s replaced by a dull, throbbing need. My mind is empty, smooth, and quiet. There are no thoughts, only directives.

1. Be big. 2. Be dumb. 3. Fuck Jax.

I swing a massive leg over the bike. The suspension groans under my new weight, 240 pounds of dense, fuck-meat. I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t me. He’s a monster. Massive traps, striated shoulders, veins pulsing with lust. I’m faceless. Anonymous. Just a piece of ass in a tank top and a helmet, waiting for orders.

I grab the handlebars. My hands are huge, swallowing the grips. I look back over my shoulder, striking the pose. The exact pose from the videos. Ass out, biceps flexed, visor reflecting the world I’m about to conquer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, my brother asking where I am. I don't even look at it.

The HUD flashes a new command.

DESTINATION: JAX'S APARTMENT. OBJECTIVE: DRAIN BALLS.

A drooling grin spreads across my face. I look like such a stud in the mirror. Huge arms. Veiny hands. A massive bulking package leaking inside my pants.

I swing my leg over the bike. The suspension sinks under my new weight. I feel powerful. I feel sexy. I feel like a total slut for Jax.

I start the engine. The vibration travels right up into my crotch and makes me groan.

The Last Scan of Alex Thorne

The sterile blue hum of Lab 4 was a stark contrast to the roar of the racetrack Alex Thorne usually inhabited. But this was the final phase of his contract with Velocity Toys, and there was no turning back.

Alex lay strapped to a polished composite table, the cold metal against his back a chilling reminder of his decision. He wore only his favorite racing leathers—the armored Kawasaki pants and Alpinestars boots that had seen him through dozens of podium finishes. His muscular torso, sculpted by years of rigorous training, was exposed, glistening slightly under the intense overhead lights.

Above him, the articulating arms of the Genesis Unit hissed softly, adjusting their focus. This wasn’t a standard 3D scan. This was the highly classified, controversial "DNA-Mold Transfer" process.

A sharp chime echoed, and Dr. Aris Thorne (no relation, just a coincidence that always amused Alex) spoke through the intercom. "Alright, Alex. You know the drill. Remain completely still. We’re initiating the polymer fusion phase. 75% transfer complete."

Alex watched as the robotic arms lowered, their emitters glowing. The violet laser from the left swept across his bicep, and the green laser from the right targeted his chest. He felt a strange, tingling sensation—not painful, but unnatural—wherever the beams touched.

He glanced down at his body. The horrifying, wonderful transformation was already visible. His right shoulder and upper arm no longer looked like skin and muscle; they had the distinct, glossy sheen of injection-molded plastic. Even more unsettling was the visible hinge joint where his shoulder should have been, the socket detailed with microscopic screw markings. A second joint was visible just below his ribcage. He was becoming an articulate, 12-inch version of himself.

In the background, giant glass tubes bubbled ominously. Alex could just make out the shadowy, featureless forms of previous prototypes suspended in the blue-tinted fluid—failed attempts, or perhaps generic bases awaiting their own "DNA Transfer."

The monitor to his right provided a grim progress report. A stylized wireframe of his body was turning green segment by segment. The text "DNA-MOLD TRANSFER: 75% COMPLETE" flickered, agonizingly slowly.

This was the price of immortality in the toy aisle. Velocity had promised him a royalty deal that would secure his family's future for generations. He just had to survive becoming the ultimate action figure.