I donât even know why I opened the DM.
It was from Simon. Simon. The little four, eyed freak I shoved into a locker yesterday for looking at me funny in the locker room. Usually, the kid is too scared to even make eye contact, but tonight, my phone buzzed with a link from him. No text. Just a link.
âProbably begging me not to flush his head tomorrow,â I muttered, thumb hovering over the screen. I was lying in bed, bored, scrolling through Insta. I should have just blocked him.
The screen went black instantly. No loading bar. No website header. Just a deep, pulsing black void. I frowned, tapping the screen to close it.
"Piece of shit phone," I grumbled.
Then the sound started. It wasn't music. It was a low, vibrating hum that I didn't just hear, I felt it. It rattled in my teeth. It buzzed in my groin. And then, a voice. His voice. But it wasn't the squeaky, terrified stutter I was used to. It was deep. Distorted. Commanding.
"Look at the screen, Brad."
I laughed. "The fuck is this?"
A spiral flared to life in the centre of the blackness. Neon green. Ugly. Bright. It started to spin, and my eyes locked onto it. I tried to look away, to lock the phone, but my thumbs felt heavy. Like... really heavy. Like they were made of lead.
"Youâre tired of thinking, Brad. Thinking is for smart people. Youâre not smart people. Youâre meat."
"I'm gonna... kick your ass..." I slurred. The words felt thick in my mouth. My head was swimming. Why was the room getting so hot?
"You don't want to kick my ass. You want to impress me. You want to be a good, empty vessel. You want to grow."
The word echoed in my skull. And my body answered.
A sharp, electric cramp ripped through my stomach. I gasped, dropping the phone on my chest, but the spiral was still spinning in my mind's eye. I tore at my shirt, it felt suffocating. As soon as the fabric cleared my skin, I watched in horror.
My gut... bubbled. Thatâs the only way to describe it. The layer of soft skin over my stomach hissed and evaporated, burning away like it was nothing. Underneath, something was pushing out. Hard. rigid.
"F, fuck!" I groaned, arching my back off the mattress.
My abs were knitting themselves together, surging outward, carving into a deep, jagged six, pack right before my eyes. The burn was excruciating, but underneath the pain... god, there was this heat. This pleasure. It felt good to be hard.
"Soft boys are useless. You need to be hard. Hard everywhere."
My sweatpants, my favourite grey Pikes, suddenly felt way too tight.
I looked down, panic flaring in my chest. My crotch was bulging. And not just a boner. The meat itself was expanding, thickening, getting heavier. It throbbed against the seam, a desperate, angry pulse that synced with the hum in my ears.
"No... stop..." I whimpered. But I didn't want it to stop.
"You love it. You love being a brainless stud. You love being big for me."
The pressure in my sweats was unbearable. The fabric groaned, stitching stretching to the limit as my cock swelled into something monstrous, a thick, heavy slab of meat that had no business being on a human body. It was heavy. So heavy it made me feel lightheaded.
Or maybe that was my brain melting.
"Forget the math test, Brad. Forget your girlfriend. She doesn't like meatheads. But guys... guys love meatheads."
My girlfriend. Jessica. I tried to picture her face, but it was blurry. Why did I like her? She talked too much. She wanted me to read books.
Books are for nerds. I'm not a nerd. I'm a jock.
"That's right. You're a jock. A dumb, horny jock. You exist to lift weights and drain balls. Say it."
"I... I exist..." I stammered. My voice was dropping. Getting raspier. Deeper. "To lift..."
I scrambled off the bed, my legs feeling unsteady. My thighs felt like tree trunks. They were rubbing together, thick with new muscle. I stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the sink.
The guy staring back wasn't me. He was wider. His shoulders had broadened, tearing the seams of his t, shirt until I clawed it off completely. He grabbed a hoodie from the hook, a black YoungLA zip, up. I didn't own a YoungLA hoodie.
I do now, the voice in my head whispered. It's all I wear.
I zipped it halfway down, exposing the rock, hard ridges of my new midsection. I looked at my face, but... I didn't care about my face. It felt irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the body. The power. The cock twitching in my sweatpants.
My phone buzzed again. Simon.
"Send me a pic, bro. Show me what you are."
I didn't hesitate. I didn't even think. Thinking is hard. obeying is easy.
I pulled the phone up, hiding my face, no need for it, the abs are the identity, and snapped the pic. My other hand drifted down, gripping the massive bulge in my sweats, feeling the heat radiating off it.
I typed the caption without even looking. My fingers knew what to do.
Sent to: Simon (The Boss)
"Ready for training, Sir. Brain's empty. Cock's huge. Tell me who to fuck."
I hit send, a dopey, empty grin spreading across my face as I waited for his next command. God, I hope he makes me hit the gym. Or maybe he'll just come over and use me.
Whatever he wants. I'm just meat now.