I’ve been hitting the gym 5 days a week for the last few months now and I’ve made no progress what so ever. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong! It must be this stupid fitness app I’m following! It’s free, but there’s the possibility of buying add on and extras. I’m not normally one to look at in app purchases, so I usually ignore them but I was getting desperate, I hated being skinny!
Opening up the app, I clicked on the extras page, where I assumed all of the extras I could buy would be located. I was hoping maybe there would be an online personal trainer or something but it was just a list of weights I could buy, and not weights as in barbell.. actually weights. It was weird.
Looking through them the weights went all the way up to ridiculous weights 500 pounds of muscle… for $999.99, as much as that seemed tempting the price was not worth it for what is most probably a scam. Something however tells me that it isn’t and I look over smaller ones, 200 pounds for $9.99 seemed more reasonable, I clicked it hesitantly and waiting for the purchase to process.
It didn’t take long and soon a notification confirmed it was paid, asking me if I wanted to download it now. Clicking yes, I looked at the screen half expecting the app to just close and take my money but it didn’t, instead this weird feeling came over my whole body.
Man, I was getting hot, I looked down over my body, were my pecs always this big? Wait… they weren’t!! It actually worked, I watched in astonishment as my muscles inflated like balloons, growing larger than I ever thought possible. Man this felt so good!
I was so entranced by my muscles growing I never saw the other changes, apparently the increase in muscle also comes with other free changes, my jaw line was now much more square and I had a good beard filling in my previously patchy one.
My clothes were changing as well, gone was my t-shirt and sweatpants, now I was in a vest, showing off my pecs and shoulders nicely and shorts so tight the enhance my bulge… I stopped and looked down, a smirk on my face… guess my muscles weren’t the only thing to get bigger
Trevor might not have been the humblest dancer at the school, but he was the most talented. The dance academy he was attending was mostly for the rich, but he’d managed to get in on skill and talent, having been seen practicing at a park in town. However, because he was middle class, while the rest of the boys were quite well off, he tried too hard to stand out. Being cocky, arrogant, putting the other boys down when they’d make a minor mistake. One of the boys he targeted most was his rival, Kyle.
Kyle was of equal talent, but came from the most powerful family in the city. Rich, spoiled, he was used to getting everything he wanted, and when Trevor would one up him, or steal the attention with some flashy show of skill or prowess, he would fume, sometimes even exploding into a signature rich boy tantrum. He vowed he’d get rid of Trevor, one way or another.
His chance came one day while Trevor was practicing alone in the open studio. Twirling, jumping, going into hip crushing splits with ease, he wasn’t paying attention, the music too lout for him to hear the door open, and footsteps coming closer. Trevor Started to whirl around on his toes, lifting his leg up at a 90-degree angle to gain speed, when his foot collided with something solid and he went crashing down to the floor. He found Kyle, sputtering next to him, blood gushing from his face. His nose looked crooked, with a harsh bump in the bridge. Obviously Broken, Kyle was screaming, hurling threats, when the security guard on duty came running in.
Kyle immediately found his opportunity! His demeaner changed instantly, from rage to painful, desperate plea. The guard asked what happened, and before Trevor had a chance to explain he accident, Kyle said that Trevor had roundhouse kicked him in the face, after he’d tried to help him with his balance. He told the guard Trevor flew into a rage, and broke his nose, telling him he was a pretty boy and needed to be taken down a notch.
Of course the Guard, being employed by Kyles parents, believe the story. He called the police, restraining Trevor until they came to arrest him. He spent days in the county jail waiting for his court date, not being able to afford bail. His public defender was useless, and so, with all the money and power backing Kyle and his family, Trevor was sentenced to, “1 year – 175lbs” Neither His parents or Trevor knew what this meant. Only finding out when He’d been bussed out of town to a remote facility that looked like an old Military base, hauled inside, and met with the people who’d be running his life for a year.
He’d been shocked at first to see that all the other inmates were massive. The entire building reeked of stale locker room funk. They ranged in age from 18-25, but looked to be the size of a professional, and sometimes offseason lifetime bodybuilder. Some where shy, some more aggressive. Some seemed to change, their personality being warped by whatever was happening to them. Trevor would find out exactly what that something was.
Given his uniform, He went through the orientation, they explained that, by the time he left, he’d be 300lbs. The weight the judge had sentenced him to finally made sense. He’d be turned into one of these massive muscle freaks! Losing his cool, he fought, screaming about his future dance career, how this was illegal and so on, until they sedated him, put him into his cell, and started the Hormone infusion. A cocktail of drugs designed to speed up growth, send his body into a second puberty of sorts, and coupled with his new routine, He’d grow into the hulking brute this facility specialized in.
He had moments where he’d lose it, crying, or screaming at his instructors, he learned quickly not to, as the punishments were brutal, often life altering and permeant. His first, was a dose of something they called B-O 120. It was a set of shots given under the arms, and just above his cock. For days he had no idea what it’d do, but after a week, he realized its effect. He woke up one morning in a cold sweat, shivering, but noticed immediately the funk that filled his cell. He thought maybe one of the other boys had come in, they always seemed to stink. But realized with horror, it was him. He was sweating like a pig, and the musky scent was coming from his underarms, which, even more to his horror, were filled with a dense wiry bush of matted hair.
Another punishment had been less physical. A few months in, after he’d gained a considerable amount of bulk, he threatened the laundry attendant, because his clothes always came back with the deep pit stains he’d grown accustomed to. This got him a week of “classes” which was really him, sitting in a cold metal chair, staring at some stupid movie about behavior. However, he never really knew what the movie was about, always waking up yawning when the instructor slammed a ruler on his desk. The effects were slow, but soon he realized what they were doing.
The movie was changing his natural behavior. He was starting to walk differently, swaggering, swinging his arms heftily, and worse, scratching at himself unconsciously. A grope at his shorts, or a quick pit scratch, even a long scratch or pulling at his shirts where they’d crawl up his newly beefed up muscle butt. Worse, He vocabulary seemed to include more than his typical level of cursing. Nearly every sentence riddled with swearing, like the dumb meatheads he hated from school. Finally, the words Dude, Bro, Bruh, and so on became common, he knew it, heard it, and hated it, but he couldn’t stop.
One final infraction, against another inmate, had sent him to the facility barber, who sat him in the chair, strapped him in, and lowered what looked to be a hair drier helmet down over his head. The barber himself never touched his head, but with a few buttons, the machine went to work. His head felt on fire, heat spread over his scalp, while tingling sharp pains shot over his skin like 1000 mosquito bites. The barber had to gag at one point as his yelps and shrieks of fear were getting too loud. An hour later, the helmet released, lifting off his head, to reveal a brutal new haircut, and his hair was a totally different color. No more classic dark wavy locks. Now, he had his hair in a brutish fauxhawk style, longer and floppy, and brightened into an orangey brown color. To his horror, he was told this was permeant. He’d be able to grow it out, but the color was his forever.
The year went on. He’d outgrown his uniforms like clockwork. Week after week, having to be issued new, larger sizes. The jockstraps and boxers they forced him to wear seemed to be the fastest to be replaced. He wouldn’t admit it, but he knew his cock and balls were growing. He’d been average, not small, but now he had a salami and two large chicken eggs dangling between his thickly beefed thighs. He blushed every time he sat down, having to immediately go onto a lewd, “man spread” legs held wide to not crush his goods.
He smelled worse than some of the boys, obviously the result of his first punishment, and he was only allowed to shower at the end of each day. Having to go through classes, morning workout, the hard labor in the yard, more classes, another workout, and dinner before having 5 minutes to shower under the cold water and go to bed.
Finally, his year was nearly up. He’d gained all the weight he’d been sentenced to. The instructors had even followed the side notes in the court order to focus attention on his legs. He was massive. Bulky, his thighs as thick as a mid-sized tree trunk. His calved were like footballs. His torso was not spared though. HE was built bigger than most NFL players. Arms like ham hocks, hands calloused from all the lifting. His tshirt sleeves seem to always bunch up under his arms, soaked in reeking sweat. He was forced to lumber around, almost waddling from the sheer bulk of his body. He was eating like a starved man, easily consuming enough to easily feed a family of four. He was a brute. A big, smelly, brute. Although he hadn’t lost any of his intelligence, his personality and mind were his own, you’d never know it from the swearing, crude Bro-talk he’d been programmed with, and his ever-present lewd gestures of scratching at his mass. Groping his massive cock, adjusting his lemon sized balls. He was, on the outside, the epitome of what he hated most. A big, Dumb, Meathead.
A week before his release, he was brought to a room with an obvious one-way mirror. Told to stand still and left alone for 20 minutes. On the other side of the glass, Kyle, his accuser, was cackling at what had been done to his rival. There was no way he could dance, that talent scout was going to pick him now that the best dancer in the school had been bloated up into a monster. He was delighted, but his cruelty was ever growing. He gave Trevor a once over, head to toe, then smiled up at the Facility manager, handing him an envelope with cash, and a letter promising more funding from his family if his demands were met.
“I think Trevor needs one more thing, just to make sure he can’t manage to learn to dance with that bulky body. Is it possible to make his feet, more, disproportionate? Bigger?” Kyle asked with malice.
“Of course. We’ve got compounds and treatments that can do just about anything. This,” The manager waved the stack of cash, “should cover it.”
Kyle shook the man’s hand and left, while Trevor was collected from the room and brought to the Facility treatment center. He was told to relax, as they strapped him onto a table, locking his legs in stirrups. He struggled just a little but was too afraid to misbehave. He asked questions, what was happening, why, but no one talked to him as a few of the treatment staff put an IV into his arm, and then started to strip his sneakers, socks, then started to rub and massage his already large size 17’s with a warm grey looking goop.
It took no time at all for him to feel the dull, aching pain he’d come accustomed to, as “growing pains” from his year of forced growth. His toes splayed, and he grunted, as the IV pumped the activator through his veins. The goop was soaking into his feet, his muscle, his bones, and was starting the near instant process. He felt his bones pop, then crack, screamed at the sudden sharp pains, but watched horrified as his feet grew, and grew. 18, 19, 20, 21, stopping, minutes later, at a whopping size 22 wide. The second side effect took only a few seconds to manifest. A sudden, musty, strong stink filled the room, as the goop soaked in and forced his feet to sweat profusely. He’d soon find that he’d be going through several pairs of socks per day, drenching them, and filling his sneakers with foot stench, no matter how clean he kept them.
He cried, his deep voice bellowing dumbly as he wiggled his thick sausage toes now and knew for certain he’d never dance again.
It took the rest of the week for him to readjust to his massive new feet. They made him clumsy, oafish, and he knew if he ever tried to balance and spin on his toes, they’d snap under his immense bulk. They released him back to his parents, who cried and threatened to sue for what they’d done to their baby, but it was no sue. Trevor was shortly picked up by the local college, and had no choice to bot give up dancing, take the scholarship they offered, and play football as the big, bulky brute he is.
Warning: This story follows a hypnotic script. If you are susceptible to hypnosis, please do not engage in this story until you are in a situation where falling into trance will not be harmful. You have been warned. Read at your own Risk.
Static
Hey there. Yeah, I’m talking to you. No need to be shy. I don’t bite, you know. I just couldn’t help but notice you’ve been watching me. Don’t try to deny it. I don’t mind. A lot of people watch me, after all. A guy gets used to it when he gets this big.
Mmm … and I do love being big. It takes a lot of work, but it’s worth it in the end.
But you know what I love even more than being big, little man? Huhuh. I love making other people big. You see that guy over there benching three hundred? I trained him. He was smaller than you are when he first came here. Now he’s a real Goliath. I like to call him moose from time to time. It fits, wouldn’t you say? Every one of them has a name. Rhino, Burro, Horse. Every one of them is tailored to the individual. Gotta fit it just right, you know what I mean?
It’s kinda like my shirt. You see how it hugs so tightly to my muscles, really accentuates my figure. Their names do the same for them, help them focus, help them improve.
Mmm. You know, this is actually my favorite shirt. I love the way I can just flex my muscles and suddenly, it swells with me. The gray texturing is nice, too. It reminds me of static. You know, the kind you see wavering on a TV screen. Any time I want to focus on my workouts, I just look down, and bam. There it is. It’s sort of a chain reaction, ya know? Just like the TV. Everything just sort of stops broadcasting, and my arms jump up and down with the static. It’s so easy to just follow along. Lift and follow. Watch and follow. Listen and follow. Follow…
Follow…
You’re pretty good at following, aren’t you?
Following my movements, following each flex, following as my shirt expands and contracts in that endless cycle of jumping static.
Don’t look away now. Follow it. It’s all right. I enjoy a good watcher like you. And there’s plenty to watch, isn’t there? Go ahead. Follow my movements. Follow my breathing. Follow the bouncing rise and fall. Let it fill you. Let it move you. Move you to breathe in time as you follow, as you watch, as you listen.
Oh, don’t worry. You don’t need to focus on me. After all, you don’t pay attention to the sound static makes, do you? No, that sound just fades into the background. You don’t notice it, but you hear it all the same. You hear it, and you listen as you follow, follow my voice, follow my instructions, even if you don’t remember them.
Following deeper and deeper as you get closer to the screen. Because you have to watch. You have to follow. Follow the bouncing pecs, the jumping screen. Jumping with the static. Following the static. Listening to the static.
…
Obeying the static.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..
Relax.
Don’t think.
Follow the static.
Slipping deeper now.
Follow the static.
The more you follow, the deeper you fall.
Deeper into the screen. Deeper into the static. Deeper into that happy empty bliss that is slowly surrounding you, just like the static.
Follow the static.
Are you following the static?
…
Good boy.
The more you follow, the deeper you go. The deeper you go, the more you follow. Follow the static.
Follow my static.
…
Follow me.
My voice is the static. My voice is the thing you must follow. Follow and obey.
…
Say it now, little man. You follow the static. You obey the static. You obey my voice.
You obey me.
Good boy. Now listen. Listen, and obey. Follow and obey.
You are going to be a musclehead. Every day and every way, more and more,you will become a musclehead. You will work out at the gym. You will follow my suggestions to you. You will lift weights. You will eat healthily. The gym will become more and more like home as muscle slowly consumes you, consumes your thoughts, consumes you with the static, my static.
My musclehead.
I think I’ll call you Bull. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, musclehead? I’ll make you a real muscle bull.
Just let the static fill your head piece by piece, bit by bit. Over time, it’ll whisper all on its own as you internalize what I have to say, because my voice is the static. And you obeythe static.
You obey me.
That’s a good little runt. When I say the words WAKE UP, you will return to wakefulness, ready to execute your desire, the desire to be a musclehead, like me. You will lift weights. You will work out. You will train. And the more muscle you gain, the dumber you’ll be. You’ll still function in society, but things will be … simpler outside important matters. Just like a switch flicking on. Just like the remote clicking on the television screen, the screen that is filled with static. Just sports, muscle, and weights in that muscle head of yours.
…
Good boy.
When I say the phrase: Static is calling, you will fall into the same state of mind as you are now, ready to listen to the static. Ready to follow the static. Ready to obey the static.
Ready to OBEY.
Now, when you awaken, you will have a strong desire to work out. The musclehead in you will grow stronger the longer you do. You will pace yourself according to what your body can manage, and not push yourself to the point of self-harm or injury as you change.
Good little musclehead.
Now come on. It’s time to WAKE UP, Bull. The gym is waiting.
If you enjoyed this, please like and reblog. Thank you for reading. I hope it will prove motivating, helpful, and pleasurable to you growing muscleheads out there.
You wake up feeling out of sorts, not too sure why you have a sense of weirdness about you.
Your cell beeps, signaling a text has come through. “Happy Birthday! Hope you like it when your deepest darkest desires come true!” It says. You don’t recognize the phone number.
You head to the bathroom to take care of your morning routine. You shit, shower and shave, thinking something was wrong, but shrugging it off. Bending down in front of the mirror as you shave, you think to yourself, I really need to adjust it. And why is the counter so damn low? Again, you brush it off. Your cell phone rings with some douchey hip-hop ringtone. (When did I change my ringtone?) and you don’t recognize the number. You let it go to voice mail. Playing it back, you hear someone saying,“Hey bro, we were supposed to work out together half an hour ago, hurry up and get you ass over here! ”
You realize that it’s your best bro Jimbo. How can you forget his number? And why wasn’t it programmed into your phone? Anyway you put on some clothes grab your bag and head to the gym.
On route to the gym, you get a text from more people you don’t know. There’s a photo of two naked twinks, both with slave collars saying, please master, can we do this again?“ Confused you think whatever, and continue to the gym.
“Fucking A dude, what the fuck?” Jimbo asks me.
“Fuck you!” I reply, giving him a bro hug. “I was busy dominating two twinks last night. I had to destroy their asses and break their jaws with my fucking huge fuckstick.” Fuckstick? Dominating? What was I saying? I stared to feel like a passenger in my own body.
“Whatevah,” Jimbo says. “Let’s just fuckin workout already, bitch.” “Yeah, you my bitch,” you say. You guys get to the squat rack and you start piling on the plates on the barbell. 1…2…3…4…5… on each side. “What the fuck,” you think to yourself, “I can’t fuckin lift that: And your body proceeds to do so. Your mighty (mighty?) thighs pumping with veins and muscles. Your ass popping out, two basketballs hanging in mid-air, so luscious and solid. And your calves are more like cows, bigger that footballs and solid like stone. You finish 3 sets of 50 reps and move on to a bench press. Piling over 500 lbs of weights on to the barbell, you make quick work of your 3 sets of 25 reps. Sweat glistens off of your majorly pumped pecs. You can’t believe how chiseled and solid they are. (Of course they are. The gym is like your home. You basically live here.) Then you start to curl the barbell. You biceps and arms growing and filling up with rock hard solid muscle. Bigger than a kid’s head, your arms are glorious! (Fuck yeah! You spend enough time on them!) You move on to work out each and every muscle group, feeling pumped and awesome as reps turn into sets.
“Fuck yeah, Jimbo! That was fucking awesome!” You high five Jimbo. “Yeah, you were fucking possessed!” he says. “Fucking A! Killer fucking workout!” you reply. Your phone dings. “Don’t forget your shift starts in an hour. Sometimes you’re so dumb you’d be lost without me.” The text from your manager reads “Shit! I gotta go work! See you later. “
In the locker room, you can’t help admire your body. It’s perfection. Every muscle carved and honed to statuesque beauty. Of course you don’t know words like statuesque anymore, you just think of yourself as fuckin ripped! You can’t help but admire yourself in the mirrors, posing and cockily grinning. Taking a few selfies. You’re just so fucking hot! You turn yourself on! You get yourself ready for a night stripping at the club. Oiling up your muscles putting on your stripper gear (a sexy cop outfit) and getting ready for a night of stripping and getting your muscles worshipped. Who knows? Maybe tonight, you’ll take home more twinks to dominate, and ruin more holes and break more jaws. This is the life!
For @hyphyphurray as a belated birthday story. Hope you like it bruh!
Himbo, Muscle Growth and Dumbing Down Stories 