The flashing text burns into your retinas: Ruin Yourself.
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.
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