The lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting long shadows across the polished green turf of the gym floor. Nick "The Mutant" Walker stood at the center of it all, a god among mortals. His body was a masterpiece of hypertrophic perfection—shoulders like cannonballs, pecs thick as dinner plates, arms veined and striated to the point of obscene exaggeration. Sweat glistened on his tanned, hairless skin, tracing the deep cuts of his abs down to the black compression shorts that clung to thighs thicker than most men’s waists.
He flexed casually for the onlookers, veins popping like ropes under his skin, and the roar of applause washed over him. Arnold himself had shaken his hand earlier that day. Winning the Arnold Classic again had definitely put his name in the history books as one of the most accomplished bodybuilders of all time. Nick’s cock twitched faintly in his shorts at the memory, that familiar surge of alpha dominance.
He was untouchable. Invincible... Until he wasn’t.
Later that night, in the dim back hallway of the venue’s VIP lounge, Nick wiped his face with a towel and nearly collided with an older man. Brandon. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, a plain black polo stretched over a dad-bod frame that spoke of past strength gone soft. But his eyes—cold, hungry, predatory—locked onto Nick like a wolf spotting prey.
“Great show, champ,” Brandon said, voice low and gravelly, a straight man’s baritone that carried the weight of command. He extended a hand. In his palm rested a small, obsidian pendant, etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in the low light. “A little something from an old collector. For the man who has everything.”
Nick laughed, that deep, booming chuckle that made lesser men shrink. “Nah, man, I’m good. Save it for the rookies.” But Brandon’s grip was iron when he clasped Nick’s wrist anyway. The pendant touched skin.
The world tilted.
It started as a heat—burning, invasive, crawling up Nick’s arm like liquid fire. He tried to pull away, but his massive frame locked up. “What the fu—” His voice cracked mid-word, higher than it should have been. Brandon’s lips curled into a smirk.
“You don’t get to keep it all forever, pretty boy. Time to share.”
The horror unfolded in the private suite Brandon had somehow secured. Nick staggered inside, slamming the door behind him, but the pendant’s curse was already burrowing deep. He tore off his tank top in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the god he’d built over decades. And then it began.
His pecs, those proud, shelf-like slabs that had won him trophies, started to deflate. Not shrink—drain. It felt like his very essence was being sucked out through invisible straws. Muscle fibers unraveled beneath the skin, melting away in wet, squelching pulses. Veins that had once throbbed with power now flattened, retreating like dying worms. Nick clutched at his chest, fingers sinking deeper and deeper into softening flesh. “No… no, please—” His voice hitched again, climbing an octave, turning breathy and lilting against his will. “Oh my gawd, what’s happening to my boobies? I mean—my pecs! Fuck!”
He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in the mirror. The words had come out campy, flouncy, like some caricature he’d once mocked in the locker room. His biceps, those 22-inch peaks of granite, withered next. They sagged, skin loosening as the meat inside evaporated. He flexed desperately, willing them back, but only pathetic little lumps appeared, twitching uselessly. His height began to compress too—bones grinding, spine shortening with audible pops. From 5’11” of towering dominance, he dwindled to 5’4”, the mirror now looming over him like a taunting giant.
His quads, the tree-trunk pillars that had powered stage walks and deadlifts beyond mortal limits, collapsed inward. Flesh melted down his legs in rivulets of wasted potential, leaving behind skinny, hairless sticks that quivered under his own weight. The black shorts slid down his narrowing hips, pooling at his ankles.
His cock—once thick and heavy, a symbol of raw masculinity—shriveled too, retreating into a pathetic little nub, barely peeking from a smooth, boyish pubic mound. Balls drew up tight, insignificant. Nick whimpered, the sound high and girlish, his hands fluttering to cover himself in an instinctively effeminate gesture.
By the time the transformation finished, Nick wasn’t Nick anymore. He was a short, skinny nobody. Pale skin stretched over a narrow frame—no abs, no lats, just a soft, flat chest and bony shoulders. His once-square jaw softened into something delicate, almost pretty. Tattoos that had looked fierce now seemed cartoonish on his diminished arms.
And worst of all, his mind… it twisted. Every instinct screamed to fight, to dominate, but his body betrayed him. He caught himself posing in the mirror—hip cocked, wrist limp, lips pursed in a pout he couldn’t control. “Ugh, like, what even is this body? It’s giving twink realness, honey,” he trilled, horrified at the words spilling out in a breathy falsetto.
The door clicked open. Brandon stepped in.
He was no longer the soft older man. The pendant’s power had funneled everything—every ounce of Nick’s hard-won mass, every striation, every vascular peak—straight into him. Brandon towered now at 6’3”, his polo ripped open to reveal a chest that made Nick’s old one look like a warm-up. Pecs like armored plates, capped with thick nipples. Shoulders wide enough to block doorways. Arms thicker than Nick’s former thighs, veins snaking like rivers over biceps that peaked like mountains. His abs were a brutal eight-pack, descending into obliques that flared into a V-taper worthy of the Olympia.
And below, black gym shorts strained over quads that could crush steel, calves diamond-cut and vascular. Brandon’s cock—still straight, still alpha—bulged obscenely, untouched by the theft but clearly aroused by the power rush.
“Look at you,” Brandon rumbled, voice deeper, more commanding than ever. He flexed one arm casually, the muscle exploding into a 24-inch monster. “Pathetic little fairy. All that meat… mine now.” He stepped closer, looming over the shrunken ex-champ.
Nick’s new body reacted without permission—his skinny legs wobbled, a soft gasp escaping his lips as his eyes traced the older man’s godlike form. No, fight it, his mind begged. But his mouth betrayed him.
“Oh-em-gee, Brandon, sir… your muscles are so big and juicy. Like, I can’t even,” Nick squeaked, hand fluttering to his flat chest in mock scandal. He tried to stop, to curse, but it came out as a giggle. Camp. Flouncy. Helpless.
Brandon laughed, a low, straight-man chuckle that dripped with contempt. “On your knees, twink. You’re gonna learn your new place.” He grabbed Nick by the scruff of his neck—effortlessly, one massive hand engulfing the entire back of his head—and shoved him down. Nick’s knees hit the carpet with a pathetic thud.
Up close, Brandon’s body was overwhelming: the scent of fresh sweat and raw testosterone, the heat radiating off skin stretched drum-tight over stolen muscle. Nick’s shrunken cock twitched traitorously in its pathetic state.
“You’re my personal masseuse now, Nicky-girl,” Brandon growled, stripping off his shorts. His cock sprang free—thick, veiny, straight as an arrow, hanging heavy over balls like ripe plums. But he didn’t force it on Nick’s lips. Not yet. This was about humiliation. “Oil me up. Worship what used to be yours. And make it good, or I’ll make you prance around the expo in nothing but heels.”
Nick’s hands shook as he grabbed the bottle of massage oil from the side table—his fingers, once capable of 500-pound bench presses, now slender and weak. He poured the slick liquid over Brandon’s colossal chest, watching it cascade down the deep cleavage between pecs that could smother a man.
“Y-yes, Daddy—sir! I mean, like, your pecs are divine,” he lisped involuntarily, voice a breathy falsetto that made his cheeks burn. He pressed his palms in, trying to knead with strength, but it was laughable. His tiny hands barely dented the rock-hard slabs. Brandon moaned in pleasure, the sound deep and masculine, flexing his pecs so they bounced and danced under Nick’s touch.
“Harder, fag. Put some elbow into it. Oh wait—you don’t have any anymore.” Brandon’s laugh boomed as he raised his arms, exposing hairy armpits and lats that flared like wings. Nick whimpered, climbing onto the bed to reach higher, his skinny body draping awkwardly over the alpha’s bulk.
He worked the deltoids next—those cannonball shoulders that had once been his—rubbing deep circles that made Brandon groan like a bull in heat. Oil made everything shine, highlighting every striation, every vein. Nick’s own reflection in the mirror across the room was grotesque: a delicate, campy little thing, ass up in the air as he serviced a superior male.
“Lower,” Brandon commanded, spreading his legs. Nick’s effeminate hands slid down the ridged abs, tracing the stolen six—no, eight—pack that flexed and rippled at his touch. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him, high and needy. “Mmm, your obliques are giving me life, sir. So thick and powerful…” Horror clawed at Nick’s mind—he hated this, hated the way his body arched and preened—but the words kept coming, camp and submissive.
Brandon’s quads were next. Nick straddled one massive thigh, his pathetic crotch grinding uselessly against the oiled muscle as he kneaded the vastus lateralis. The muscle was alive under his fingers, twitching and hardening like it remembered its old owner.
“These legs could crush my skull,” Nick tittered, horrified, as he worked the teardrop sweep above the knee. Brandon’s cock was fully hard now, leaking precum onto his abs, but he ignored it—pure straight alpha dominance, using the broken bodybuilder as nothing but a toy.
Hours blurred. Nick massaged every inch: the diamond calves, the glutes like two boulders, even the thick traps that rose like mountains to Brandon’s neck. Brandon humiliated him the entire time—making him call himself “Nicky the Twink,” forcing him to twirl and pose in effeminate little dances between sets, laughing as Nick’s voice cracked into giggles and lisps. “Look at what the Arnold champ became. My little muscle thief’s bitch. Say it.”
“Th-thank you for stealing my muscles, Daddy Brandon,” Nick squeaked, tears of shame mixing with the oil on his cheeks. “I’m just a weak little camp boy now… your personal masseuse forever.”
Brandon finally pulled him close, pinning the skinny frame against his colossal chest. One massive arm curled around Nick’s waist like a steel band. “Good girl. Tomorrow we hit the gym. You’re spotting me on my new bench PR… with that pretty mouth if I feel like it.” His free hand groped Nick’s flat ass possessively. “And you’ll thank me for every rep.”
In the mirror, the horror was complete: a once-mighty champion reduced to a short, skinny, effeminate servant, hands still slick with oil, body trembling in unwilling arousal and terror. Brandon flexed behind him, every stolen muscle popping in cruel victory. The pendant glowed faintly on the nightstand, sealing Nick’s fate.
He would spend the rest of his days like this—kneeling, rubbing, worshipping, lisping praise in that horrible, campy voice—while the real alpha grew even stronger on what had once been his. And deep down, in the shreds of his old self, Nick knew he’d never escape. The drain was permanent. The service was eternal.