Credit To @bennymueller404 For This Image.Please Consider Contributing To My Patreon. For Just $3 A Month,

Credit to @bennymueller404 for this image. Please consider contributing to my patreon. For just $3 a month, you can get access to stories, scripts, and other content that you won’t find anywhere else. Plus, it will give me the financial freedom to give you more stories and scripts, assuming I can get enough of you guys to subscribe. Even a dollar a month will help. Thank you again!

And if you can’t donate on a monthly basis, I have Ko-Fi for one-time donations of any value you see fit: http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

~Omni

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People say diligence and practice always pay off.

And they’re not wrong.

Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.

Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.

You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.

Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.

I’m here to build muscle.

...

I’m here to build.

...

I’m here to build....

And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.

It’s become my routine.

My set routine.

My subroutine.

Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.

Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.

Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....

I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.

It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.

This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.

These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.

The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.

I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.

A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.

You follow it.

You mimic it.

And, eventually, you become it.

We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.

Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.

Over and over.

Again and again.

We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.

“’Sup?”

That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”

Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...

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My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110

Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.

In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.

I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.

I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.

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Am I a machine?

...

Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.

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The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.

Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.

It’s all up to you.

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Y/N

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The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.

“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.

“And integration into the system?”

“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”

The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”

Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”

“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.

You do realize that, regardless of whatever pictures you use and if it shows a dick or not, your content is still porn? Like your stories are literally gay porn. They’re good, hella sexy, but I don’t understand why you might not understand that a mod might go below surface level and actually READ the post and flag it?

Please read this all the way through, Anon. You wanted me to address your argument, and this is a very firm rebuttal on all fronts. Read it thoroughly.

Anon, you clearly have a different definition of pornography than I do, and more importantly than the rest of the world does. The content I write has nothing to do with sex, other than perhaps some characters talking about it as their transformations progress, and even that’s iffy. Arousal may happen to some characters, but I am very careful how I handle each instance of that occurring to keep it outside the bedroom and generally touch on it only lightly. I don’t write about masturbation, nor do I write other graphic forms of sexual intercourse. The closest I have come to writing about it has been in Endemic Evolution when it was implied in a conversation overheard by one of the main characters. Is my content arousing to the reader?

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Which means it would likely fall under the classification of erotica in that sense, at least. Muscle transformation is a niche, and it’s one that I also find arousing as I transform the individuals in my stories both mentally and physically.

But let me make one thing clear to you, Anon. I’m a Christian who takes his morals and his religious beliefs very seriously. I’ve written a total of maybe three works of fiction that involve characters becoming gay as a part of their transformations. These instances were in part to experiment expanding my boundaries in fiction, and in part because it felt right to do that for those characters or was requested as a part of a commission, depending on the case. The rest of my characters when they transform are straight and remain straight.

You’re the one who chooses to turn my writings into lewd thoughts as part of your own fantasies. You’re the one who uses your imagination to carry my work into the field of graphic sexual arousal and acts. So, please don’t go telling me that I write pornography.

To back my claims, here is Tumblr’s own definition of what they consider adult content, along with exceptions to that rule. I’ll bold the most pertinent portions in rebut to your claims.

What is "adult content?"

Adult content primarily includes photos, videos, or GIFs that show real-life human genitals or female-presenting nipples, and any content—including photos, videos, GIFs and illustrations—that depicts sex acts.

What is permitted?

Examples of exceptions that are permitted are exposed female-presenting nipples in connection with breastfeeding, birth or after-birth moments, and health-related situations, such as post-mastectomy or gender confirmation surgery. Written content such as erotica, nudity related to political or newsworthy speech, and nudity found in art, such as sculptures and illustrations, are also stuff that can be freely posted on Tumblr.

So, whether my writing is erotic or not, I can tell you right now that it is not pornographic in nature according to Tumblr’s own guidelines. And whether my writing falls under the classification of erotica or not, it is still protected under tumblr guidelines, hence why I was saying that Tumblr broke their own guidelines, and that they should trust me more in my own judgement about what is and isn’t appropriate.

Also, please note that erotica is defined as any content that leads to arousal. So, by that definition, that means that in the case of pedophiles, viewing, say, a public school yearbook with kids smiling at them could be classified erotica to them, because they may find that arousing.

For the record, I’m not saying I support such behavior. Pedophilia is not okay. It never has been, and it never will be.

But you can see why I differentiate between erotica and pornography here. And more importantly why Tumblr and the world differentiate between the two. The one can cause a person who reads it to feel aroused. The other is deliberately designed for that purpose by portraying or writing graphic sexual intercourse, human genitalia, etc.

So, no, Anon. My writing is not gay porn. It’s not any form of porn. It will never step into the boundaries of pornography, no matter how much you may wish it to do so. I don’t know if you are, but I’m saying it in the event that you may be.

I hope that this reply helps you to understand my position, and that it educated you more on the subtleties and differences between porn, erotica, and plain old fiction/fantasy.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Omni

P.S.

For the record, I have nothing against gay people or including gay relationships in my fiction. They’re real and should be acknowledged, even if my religious beliefs are opposed to homosexuality. Heck, I have multiple gay friends online, and we get along just fine. Look back to my previous post about transexuals for my standing policy on how I feel I should treat those who are not of my faith and would be considered sinners, sinning, or “living in sin” by its doctrine.

On further review of the original photo, I felt it was too risky to show the whole thing. The image was still chaste in nature, but it did show a clear outline of what lay beneath the fabric, even to the extent of showing some veins against it. I wasn’t comfortable with that, so I cropped the image.

Credit goes to @musclecorps for the original image. Thanks for posting images that inspire me to write, man! :D

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Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181323718642/endemic-evolution-chapter-5-doctor-barton-sighed

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617475185126277120/credit-to-asianhunks-x-for-these-images

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 6

“That’s right, Rante. No shame in taking a selfie. You earned that body. Flaunt it, little bro.”

The camera shutter went off. A grin spread over Rante’s face. “Damn,” he swore.

“See? Told ya. Feels pretty good, don’t it?” Kyle’s deep bassoon carried from the bedroom.

“I ... I didn’t even notice,” Rante said as he stared at his phone’s screen.

“Kinda the point, bro,” Kyle pointed out. His blond hair glinted in the light from the room’s fixtures as a football game on demand played in the background. “The more ya get swole, the more your meat gets swole. Malloy said not to question it, so I don’t.”

“Uh ... question what?” Rante asked.

Kyle chuckled. “Exactly, bro. Feels good being so thick and heavy, don’t it?”

“Yeah ... good....”

Kyle sneered as he walked in behind the doctor. “We’ll have you in proper gear in no time, little bro.” Rante’s breathing caught, and his eyes rolled briefly as he felt the presence of the towering muscle behemoth that Kyle had become. The man stood a full head taller, and his broad shoulders were nearly as wide as the doorway. Thick, beefy white arms dwarfed Rante’s toned and shredded ones. The doctor’s core flexed almost instinctively.

“Easy, bro. You don’t gotta show off around me. I know how it feels tryin’ to grow.” He chuckled. “You’ll be just fine. You just need a little more time at the gym is all.”

“A little more time....” Rante echoed in a distant voice.

“That’s right, little bro. Gym’s the place to be. Malloy wants us to be there.”

Rante let out a low moan. “At ... the gym?” he asked dazedly.

“S’right, little bro. At the gym. The gym is where we belong.” Kyle’s hand clapped firmly on Rante’s shoulder.

“Where we belong....” The cell phone clattered to the floor. Rante’s pecs bounced back and forth, back and forth. His arms twitched and tensed. His pants finished falling to the floor as he turned and stepped out of them in nothing more than his boxers. “I must go the gym. The gym is where I belong.”

Kyle grinned. “C’mon, little bro. I’ll show you the way.”

Rante followed shamelessly behind. He strode past the doctors in their hazmat suits. He strode past muscle men and meatheads and jocks and whatever other names he had once called them. That didn’t matter anymore. They were all going to the same place, after all. He paused briefly to stare at a much smaller Asian man. Rante furrowed his brow at the sight. He looked ... familiar. More big men in suits stood around him, and they looked to be reaching for tasers. Rante shrugged. He didn’t care. He locked eyes with the man and spoke. “You comin’?”

The man shuddered, but shook his head wordlessly, albeit weakly.

Rante shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he grunted. Then he lumbered after Kyle like a wayward puppy. Gradually, the thump of his feet on the carpet was joined by another pair, and then another, and another. Muscle touched muscle. Meat pressed against meat. Men marched together as the familiar warmth flooded their bodies and a mind-numbing pleasure surged through their brains.

Two behemoths pulled open the doors to the facility. The air was filled with the grunts of hard labor and exertion. When they passed through, Kyle turned and grinned. “Welcome home, bros.”

Rante didn’t think, couldn’t think as the words passed from his lips, and he knew they were true. “The gym is my home. I belong in the gym.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. He wasn’t sure who started it. All he knew was that his chest was heaving, and the room was suddenly echoing over and over with the sound of dull vacuous laughter. They crashed together like ice in a blender. Different tones, different pitches, different voices. But slowly, they homogenized. High voices dropped. Low voices extended the length of their guffaws. Once weak and timid laughter pressed effortlessly out the diaphragm as the men engaged their cores

...

And let the meat do the work.

The piles of muscle by the door grinned knowingly at Kyle. Kyle made no effort of hiding his response. “Come on, bros. Let’s work out.”

Appeal Update: I am Tired of Red Tape and Bureaucratic Copy/Paste Replies

Things were going great. The staff was helpful and kind. The people I spoke to were patient and understanding, wishing to assist me as I moved along with the appeal process. I was contacted by an employee named Elisabetta who asked for the pertinent information on the post in question, so that it could be forwarded to the moderators, who apparently are a branch called Tumblr Trust & Safety (didn’t know that before).

Even if the ruling came back to stand as it was, I was going to be okay with it, provided I could get a proper explanation for it.

...

Guess what I got, instead, despite my specific request when I linked said information in my reply to Elisabetta?

That’s right, folks, I won a whopping corporate email! A copy and paste standard draft to all users that has no explanation, no specifics, other than the direction to go right back to the guidelines and FAQ support post! It was going so well. I was talking to real people. I felt like I was being heard, understood, and given a chance to present my case. I even told them I wouldn’t be mad if the ruling still stood, so long as they could explain to me why.

I’m a stickler for rules. I don’t like breaking them. If I mess up, I try to do better. But I can’t be expected to do that if I don’t get an explanation for what was so wrong in the original post!

Here’s what Trust and Safety had to say:

Hello, We’ve reviewed your classification appeal. After careful review, we are unable to restore this content because it is considered adult under our Community Guidelines, located here: https://www.tumblr.com/policy/en/community. For more information about what is and isn’t adult, please see our FAQ support post or the Tumblr Help Center. Thank you, Tumblr Trust & Safety

So, yeah, I’m kinda pissed and tired. I’ve been trying to get an explanation from the very beginning, ever since it was marked adult in the first place. I’ve been patient as my ticket has run up the pipeline. I’ve been patient as they’ve reviewed and processed. And though it took a couple of days before the ticket could be picked up by the help desk, that’s perfectly understandable, given the number of users on Tumblr and the fact that we had the Coronavirus pandemic to worry about (and still do). The people I talked to leading up to the review were professional, helpful, and wanted me to feel heard.

And they did that right. I did feel heard. A little peeved once or twice, but heard, with a knowledge that they were doing their best to help me with my problem.

And I’m grateful they were willing to review the image again after the first appeal and how fast it was sent back to me. I really am.

But then, after specifically asking them to tell me what was wrong with the post, really wrong with it, in the event the ruling still stood, I got that piece of garbage up there!

I’m not a dunce. I’m not stupid. I’m a college graduate who majored in English. I can comprehend guidelines easily. What I can’t comprehend is the process and justification which the moderators used to lead to the ruling standing, because that’s not in the guidelines.

And I’ve let them know that in no uncertain terms with the reply email I just sent today. I just want someone to tell me what was wrong in the image, and how that wrong thing violated guidelines. If genitalia or breasts were showing, or a sexual act were being performed, I would understand, because that’s against the guidelines. It’s clearly stated to be against guidelines.

But I didn’t see that in my image at all. And if the piece that I think is responsible for the ruling is indeed the culprit, I’d like to hear it from the moderators directly for how it violated those guidelines. Where was the sex? Where was the nudity/exposed genitalia or breasts? Was this portion of the picture too borderline, and thus decided to be deemed adult for the sake of being safe, rather than sorry? (seriously, some decisions can really be that close, and I understand that and can respect it.)

Tell me, so I can learn and not repeat the mistake. That’s all I ask, @staff. I don’t think it’s asking too much.

Here’s hoping I can finally get that explanation in the next reply.

Credit to @fitaestheticguys for this image. I got it from his blog.

As usual, if you want to help me earn a living writing these kinds of stories/scripts (and just writing in general), please subscribe to my Patreon. For just $3 a month, you get access to unique muscle, hypnosis, and transformation stories that you won’t find anywhere else on the web. You may also find the occasional hypnosis script, and will have the right to request certain story ideas and scripts to be written and posted for your viewing pleasure.

Thank you so much for your support. Now, without further ado, the post.

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Warning: This is a hypnotic script. Be sure that you will not be driving or operating any heavy machinery when you read this. It is preferable that you do so in a relaxed environment. As I have said in previous hypno posts, I am not a professional hypnotist. You read this script at your own risk, and I am not responsible for the results. However, I assure you that, as in my other scripts, I will include prompts to wake you back up and ensure that you retain your freedom.

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Sand

Curious thing, sand, isn’t it? We never seem to really question it. It’s a fine powdery silicate that grinds between the toes and melts into glass. We enjoy its warmth on a cool day and curse its heat in the dog days of summer. And yet, it has so many uses that we always seem to take for granted. Such tiny particles. So puny. So weak. So still. But it’s always the BIG things that are made from the little things.

Take this scene for instance. You can picture it, can’t you? The surge of the waves as they wash over the shore. The sea breeze blowing over the sand to raise playful eddies or simply to brush the cheeks of the beach goers. Gulls cry and call in the air. And sometimes you can see people building wet sand into castles and sculptures. All those little things bound together, molded into a single purpose by hands that are not their own, wills that are not their own, voices that are not their own.

All made possible by the crashing, whispering, rolling waves. Rolling over the shore. Rolling and absorbing into the sand, the sand that accepts so readily, that gums and clods and clumps at the insistence of the waves. So thirsty to take more. To absorb those waves deeper and deeper. Absorbing with every crash, every whispering sigh.

Absorbing every time.

Absorbing.

Every.

Time.

Time that slows and stills with every breath. Every passing second becoming a minute, an hour, a week, a month, a year, an eternity.

Time that slips through the hourglass so freely, clumps like your thoughts under the crash of the waves. The waves of my words. The building condensation that slips through your walls like the meeting of hot and cold.

The hot sand of your thoughts with the cool, refreshing flow of my words, my waves, rushing over the hourglass. Rushing, whispering, cooling, waiting to quench your thirst. The thirst of the sand. The sand of your thoughts waiting to drink deep and absorb my words.

And though you may not hear everything, condensation still occurs. The distilling of water. The distilling of my waves, my words, my will, forming within those walls, past those barriers, deep, deep within your mind.

Forming and growing and dripping ever so slowly. Slow, like the ebb and flow of the waves. Slow, like the steady trickle of my words, the distilled words, the words that are now seeping, forming, uniting, dripping, dripping, dripping to the sand. The sifting sand of your thoughts. Your thirsty thoughts. So dry. Waiting. Wanting.

You want to hear my voice. You want to let that water in. You want to let it flow over you. You want to hear its whisper as it ebbs and flows. You want to drink deep.  So thirsty. So wanting. 

Drink deep.

And a droplet begins to slide.

Deeper.

Down the glass it comes. So slowly. So heavy. And yet so refreshing. So clear. So cool and wonderful.

Drink deep.

The sand waits. It wants. You want. You want to drink deep. You want to listen and drink deep.

The droplet meets its fellows. It grows larger. More compelling. So cool. So calming. The promise to relax to stop the flow and merely be. Be silent as my words slip through your brain. Be relaxed as the water flows gently, slowly.

Gently.

Slowly.

Down, down, down.

Down...

Down.......

Down...........

And ... CONTACT.

My words have reached you.

My words have touched you.

My words have absorbed into your sand, the sand that is your thoughts, the thoughts that are even now beginning to clot.

And like a tiny river, the condensation of my words, my deep, refreshing, heavy words, flow along the trail to reach the point of impact. And you absorb them. Your thoughts soak my words up like a sponge. Growing thicker. Growing heavier. Growing sluggish and thick.

So heavy. So clodded.

So very hard to move on their own. But you don’t care. Because you would have to think to care. And all you can do now, all you want to do, is drink my words.

Drink and listen.

Listen and drink.

They are one and the same.

The same as the moisture from the waves that even now is seeping into your mind, into the sand.

Time has started to slow. It is slowing the more you absorb. The more you absorb, the deeper you go. The deeper you go, the slower your thoughts become. The slower the hourglass trickles. Deeper and slower as we count down from ten. And when we finish counting down, the hourglass will stop.

Your thoughts will stop.

You will stop thinking.

And you will wait. Wait for those hands to shape your thoughts into something different, something new. My hands. My voice. Quenching your thirst. Molding, directing, sculpting you into something new.

And you want that. Because my words are your water.

And you must absorb the water.

TEN.

The words are seeping into your mind. Seeping as the moisture spreads and binds those little grains, those various thoughts, into something larger. Something that begins to cling to the glass. Not because it is scared, but because it wants more. It wants to stay.

NINE.

To stay and focus to stay and listen as my words drip and slide and spread. Spreading, like the slogging stiffness that is gradually consuming your thoughts, consuming your head.

EIGHT.

Slower and slower. Deeper and deeper. The grains are running less and less through the neck as the water continues to trickle and seep down. Deep down.

SEVEN.

Down the slope. Down the edge. Clotting. Slogging. Slowing. Stopping up the neck. Stopping the flow of thought, the flow of consciousness.

SIX.

The sieve-like nature of the sand works against you now as the water pools deeper, lower, surrounding the dry sand in a layer of wet, a layer of water, a layer of my words waiting to seep deeper and deeper.

FIVE.

To quench the thirst.

FOUR.

Wetter and wetter. Thicker and thicker.

THREE.

Binding into an heavy glob, a sodden mass that must stay. Must listen. Must be molded.

TWO.

Molded by the flow. Molded by my words .Because the sand cannot move on its own. It does not want to. It wants to absorb. It wants to be sculpted. It wants to be shaped, because it cannot move on its own. Every thought, every grain, bound into a solid mass by my words, my will, my will that is now overtaking yours, consuming yours, transforming your thoughts from so many grains to a dull dark cement that only I can move, only I can shape.

ONE.

No more flow.

No more thought.

When I reach zero, the hourglass will stop. The glass will break. And your thoughts will pour into my hands to be molded, to be shaped, to become whatever I will.

Because that is what you want. That is what you need.

Your will is my will. Your thoughts are my thoughts.

I think for you.

I choose for you.

And that is what you want. You want what I say. You do what I say. Because I shape your thoughts.

Obey.

I mold your thoughts.

Listen.

With my words.

Obey.

keeping you bound.

Listen.

Quenching the thirst.

Obey.

The thirst to LISTEN and OBEY.

Because it is time for the hourglass to stop.

ZERO.

Time to obey.

You are mine to mold and command as I see fit.

I can shape you, shape your thoughts, shape your very being.

In this state, you are mine. And you will acknowledge this now by saying so. If there are others around you, you may whisper it under your breath. I merely require acknowledgement.

And you will acknowledge.

You will comply.

You will obey.

And you will do so now.

The waves of my words, my will, shape and scatter your thoughts as I see fit.

But I am not heartless. I know that there may be some desires you bore once before I brought you to this state of emptiness, of obedience, of blissful nothingness. So, here is what we’re going to do.

I am going to plant a trigger in you, a trigger that only works for me. That trigger is: Omni says it’s time to sculpt.

You will remember this trigger. And when it is used, you will verify that you have entered trance by responding with: I am ready to be sculpted. 

Repeat it.

...

Good. This trigger will remain in those who wish or consent to be molded by me of their own free will after this session is complete. Remember, the trigger is:

Omni says it’s time to sculpt.

If you desire to be molded by me in your conscious state, then when you wake from trance, you will like this post and reblog it with the comment: I am ready to be sculpted, Omni. You may then message me privately to discuss the nature of this sculpting. I reserve the right to refuse, and you will respect that right, should I choose to exercise it.

When I bring you out of trance, you will be your full former self. Your faculties will be yours, and you will be under no compulsion of any kind. Your will will be your own again. Your thoughts yours to choose and shape. You will not be bound to me in service. You will be your same self, except perhaps feeling a little better rested and relaxed, perhaps even a little happier. And in the event that you truly desire to be molded by me when you are conscious, you will feel the desire to follow the instructions I listed previously.

Now, for those who do not desire to be molded, but still sincerely enjoyed this script, you will like this submission and leave a comment.

That comment will begin with: Time has resumed.

You may then add whatever you wish in addition to it, whether it be constructive criticism or a discussion of the experience, or something, or nothing. It is up to you.

I also encourage you to reblog this script, but you are under no compulsion to do so, and may do so or not as you wish. And in the event you do choose to reblog, you are not under compulsion to follow the instructions of those who desire to be molded.

This next instruction is for all of you.

When you wake, if you sincerely desire it, and only if you really desire it of your own free will and have the financial means to support it while still living comfortably, you will scroll to the link embedded at the top of this post and subscribe to my patreon.

You will also follow my tumblr, assuming that is what you really desire.

Take the time to understand and incorporate the instructions that apply to you from the trigger to this point. Read through them again, if you must, to make sure that you remember and execute them properly. When you are certain you understand and remember what to do, you will continue to follow the script below.

...

Now then, it’s time to wake up. So, when I *SNAP!* my fingers on the count of TEN, just like that, you are going to come back to consciousness. This time, we’re counting up from zero.

ONE.

The sun is shining. The sand is beginning to harden as the heat wicks the moisture away.

TWO.

The wind is whipping at the remainder of the moisture, blowing the hot air radiating from the sun to speed the process.

THREE.

Some grains are beginning to fall away. The droplets are long since gone.

FOUR.

Thoughts unclogging. Mind beginning to think clearly again as the flow of consciousness resumes.

FIVE.

The condensation has disappeared from the glass, and the hourglass is repaired. It awaits the sand.

SIX.

The darkness is flowing away as the hardened clods break apart into glistening golden grains again.

SEVEN.

The grains are flowing back into the hourglass. The surf resumes its harmless pounding as it retreats.

EIGHT.

The sand flows easily through the neck of the glass, ensuring proper flow of thought, letting you resume where you left off before trance.

NINE.

You are almost there. On the next count, I’ll snap my fingers, and you will be fully awake and fully restored. You will follow the instructions you choose to obey of your own free will, having all autonomy restored to you with your consciousness.

Ready?

And...

TEN.

*SNAP!*

Credit to @oregonleatherboy.com as the original source for this image on tumblr. This is a patreon preview. If you want to read the whole story, please pledge to my Patreon. For $3.00 a month, get access to exclusive transformation stories, hypnosis scripts, and other content, along with access to the Discord server to suggest ideas for future creations, both hypnotic and non, and talk with your fellow patrons and me. This story is rated mature for language.

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Pull my Strings (A Patreon Preview)

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Synopsis: What would you do if a friend of yours has changed so drastically that you hardly even recognize them anymore? Most would ask about the change out of concern. This is the story that emerged from one such confrontation.

With life-altering consequences.

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Preview Script:

You know, in ancient Egyptian culture, they used to say that the shadow was an extension of the soul, a piece of a person's kas. Why do I bring this up now? Well, bro, you asked me how I got to be like this. Before I tell you, I have to lay a little background, you know?

So, you know I'm a real party animal now, right? I fuckin' love to party.

But, bro, it wasn't always like that.

I used to be somebody, you know? I mean, like ... somebody else. Now, I'm ... well, I'm nobody, bro. Don't got any real identity of my own. I'm whatever ... this guy wants me to be.

Look, I can't tell you his name, all right? I told you, I'm not me anymore.

It started out at this party. Somebody thought it'd be fun to bring in some entertainment, including this guy who's what they call a shadow puppeteer.

I thought the guy must've been some sort of hypnotist or stage magician or something, too. Some sort of combo, you know? He started off with a basic show, using his hands, a few cutouts, stuff like that to narrate the story to some music.

Bro, I don't fucking care about the story. Sports and weights, bro. Sports and weights....

*Groan* Fuck, it's getting worse....

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To read the rest, subscribe to my Patreon in the three dollar tier. Just click this link to go to my page: https://www.patreon.com/omnitf