(First Pic by @texanstrong)
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 heād 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 theyād 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 heād 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 wasnāt 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 heād 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, ā1 year ā 175lbsā Neither His parents or Trevor knew what this meant. Only finding out when Heād been bussed out of town to a remote facility that looked like an old Military base, hauled inside, and met with the people whoād be running his life for a year.
Heād 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, heād be 300lbs. The weight the judge had sentenced him to finally made sense. Heād 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, Heād grow into the hulking brute this facility specialized in.
He had moments where heād 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 itād 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 heād gained a considerable amount of bulk, he threatened the laundry attendant, because his clothes always came back with the deep pit stains heād grown accustomed to. This got him a week of āclassesā 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 theyād 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 couldnāt 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. Heād be able to grow it out, but the color was his forever.
The year went on. Heād 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 wouldnāt admit it, but he knew his cock and balls were growing. Heād 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, āman spreadā 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. Heād gained all the weight heād 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 hadnāt lost any of his intelligence, his personality and mind were his own, youād never know it from the swearing, crude Bro-talk heād 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.
āI think Trevor needs one more thing, just to make sure he canāt manage to learn to dance with that bulky body. Is it possible to make his feet, more, disproportionate? Bigger?ā Kyle asked with malice.
āOf course. Weāve got compounds and treatments that can do just about anything. This,ā The manager waved the stack of cash, āshould cover it.ā
Kyle shook the manās 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 17ās with a warm grey looking goop.
It took no time at all for him to feel the dull, aching pain heād come accustomed to, as āgrowing painsā 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. Heād soon find that heād 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 heād 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, theyād snap under his immense bulk. They released him back to his parents, who cried and threatened to sue for what theyād 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.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
gracieabrams
titsay
germansingergirl
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
