The Builder

The Builder

“Framework is coming along very nicely,” you complimented your foreman as you looked over the joists and beams that had been nailed together and inserted into the foundation. “Wiring and plumbing seem to be going well. How soon until the basics are finished?”

“Another couple of weeks. Had to get a special distributor to fit the client’s specifications for a green building.”

“Let me guess, recycled material?”

He nodded. “You know how people want to focus on the environment now.”

“Protecting the environment, I understand. Insisting on using materials that may not be the same quality, however, just seems like a crime to me.”

“Sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. Speaking of which, I think someone wants a word with you.” The foreman motioned curtly with his head.

You turned around to stare at your latest work in progress. The lad had grown a great deal since he helped with the last house. A sleeveless tank clung to his bulky frame as his nipples stood out against the tight material. Veins ran down his arms in rivers as a set of dog tags jingled and clinked in the gap between his pectorals. A shiny white helmet obscured all signs of the lad’s hair, but you already knew he’d buzzed it down at your request.

“What did you do to me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell did you do?”

You shrugged. “Employ you, train you, pay you. Was there anything else you wanted to accuse me of?”

“What did you use on me, steroids or something?” he growled as he stepped closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. I’m a builder, not a drug lord. All I did was remodel you for the job, the same way I would any house. It did the trick. You’re adhering to the rules of the site and performing your job admirably. Thank you for actually wearing your hardhat today, by the way. It suits your hard head, a head so thick and square, so well defined. Why, I’d even go so far as to call it a block. Yes, a hard hat on a block head.”

“Wh-what’re you--?”

“A hard hat making it so hard to think. A block head blocking those pesky thoughts. Built like a brick, built like a wall, a wall that only I can pass with my words, my key.”

He stumbled and swayed. “S-stop--.”

“Yes, stop talking. Stop thinking.”

His hands clenched as he trembled. “No,” he practically whimpered.

“No thoughts, no worries,” you continued relentlessly. “No pesky doubts. Just my voice. It’s time for an inspection, Blockhead.”

His shoulders slumped. His arms rested lazily at his sides as he stared blankly ahead at you. “Ready for inspection,” he said in a dull monotone.

Your foreman whistled. “Damn. I never get tired of seeing that.”

“You think that’s special, wait till you see what I have in store next.” You smirk as you look at the young man. “You’ve been building nicely. A strong foundation is important in any building project.” You brush over each of the man’s muscles, testing for resistance, mass, and fat index. “Strong walls,” you note. “You built them sturdily and well. A little more strength never hurts, though. Let’s make them a little bigger, shall we?”

The workman rasped as his jaw snapped and cracked to gain greater definition, while the tanktop rode up higher and tighter under his armpits. His shoulders broadened as his biceps, triceps, and flexors swelled alongside his pectorals.

“Those walls need a firm foundation.”

A few seconds later, the workman grunted as a bulge began to press against the toes of his work boots. A brush of your hands over the footwear, and they expanded by two more sizes to fit the new broad feet they housed.

“Now for the plumbing. A proper house needs good strong pipes and a powerful pump for the well.”

The worker’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he groaned. More veins spread over his musculature, creating a vascular spectacle.

“Such a deep, deep well. So full. So deep.”

The muscles in the workman’s neck thickened as heavy cords became more apparent. A thick lump jutted out midway down his neck, while a bulge pressed slowly against the crotch of his jeans and continued to expand with every breath.

You nod in satisfaction. “Now, more importantly, it’s clear we need to work on that faulty wiring. You’re too suspicious of me. That needs to change. After all, I’m your boss. I want my workmen to trust me. No more worry about changes. All you need know is that I’m the boss. You do what I tell you, because of that. From now on, you’re a proper member of my work crew, understand? No need to question the builder’s renovations. He knows what he’s doing, and I’m a builder, so i know what I’m doing. I’ll even install a dimmer switch for the lights upstairs, so you can think more clearly on the important tasks with my permission. Aside from that, though, you’re going to stay my big lumbering blockhead, got it?”

“Yes, Sir, Boss....”

“Good boy.” You snap your fingers and watch as he blinks. There’s a definite dullness about his eyes as he stares at you for a few moments. “Yeah, Blockhead?” you ask.

He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Uh ... you need me to carry more stuff today, Boss?”

You shake your head. “No, but Taft here bet me fifty dollars you won’t be willing to put on a gun show for us.”

He blinked slowly, then raised an arm and flexed it as he furrowed his brow. A subtle protrusion began to form in the bone structure over his eye sockets as he did. A few seconds later, he beamed at you. “Do I get to split it with you?”

You smirk. “Sure, big guy.”

He chuckled. “Then let’s do this.” And with that, he began to flex, straining his clothing to its absolute limits against his new physique. The whole time, he bassooned a deep husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuh....”

It didn’t take long for the other workers to respond in kind. You sigh contentedly at the sound.

“I do love my blockheads,” you say. Then you chuckle. “And that’s why you never mess with the builder, Taft.”

Taft chuckled. “Don’t gotta tell me twice, boss.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remodel you, too.”

A Final Service

The demotion had been painful, the discharge even worse. Now Patrick Konahee stood in the empty white testing room with little more than a pair of boxer briefs that clung to his frame. He hadn’t been allowed the chance to serve his country properly. He’d been slandered, maligned, mocked, betrayed. But he still loved his country, an he wanted to serve however he could. No one would know of the advances he helped to make possible, but at least he would have done something for the people he loved.

“Are you ready, Mister Konahee?” the doctor’s voice asked over the loudspeaker.

“I am,” Patrick replied.

“Then we’ll begin the test now.” A warped screen not unlike an old television monitor rose on a hydraulics system, until it reached Konahee’s height.

“All right, Mister Konahee. Stare into the screen, please.”

Patrick did as he was bid. After all that military training he’d received it was almost instinctual to follow the orders of a superior. He caught a brief glimpse of his striking blue eyes and carefully coiffed hazel hair, before the device clicked on and began to hum. A plain white light pulsed gently over the glass.

“Okay, what now?” Patrick asked.

“Just keep staring, Mister Konahee, and don’t stop until we tell you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Patrick said. He continued to stare ahead, blinking occasionally as his eyes required. A creeping tingling sensation passed over his skin, and his hairs stood on end. “Sir, I’m getting a case of goosebumps. Don’t know if it’s me or the device, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Yes, yes, Mister Konahee. Thank you for the update. Now please, keep staring. Rest assured, our monitoring equipment is catching all the relevant data.”

Patrick continued to stare. A dull prickling began at the base of his chin. He scratched it, and was surprised to feel the gentle scraping of a few stray pieces of stubble.

‘Odd. I could’ve sworn I got it all when I shaved this morning,’ he thought to himself.

The humming intensified and the white light suddenly felt much less boring. The tingling became stronger, and Patrick could swear he heard the whisper of hair scraping hair as he slowly opened his mouth to gape at the screen. His pupils began to dilate as a ring of black developed around the blue of his irises, creating a striking gaze. His brow furrowed, and stray hairs drooped over the edges of his vision.

“Uh, Sirs, I’m starting to feel a little ... funny,” Patrick said. He grunted and scratched at an itch on the bridge of his nose, where the beginnings of tawny hairs had sprouted to match the hairs at the upper portion of what was rapidly becoming a fully developed beard.

“Keep staring, Mister Konahee.”

“But--.” Patrick let out a low groan. His voice cracked as his nostrils flared and began to rise. His clean-cut features became more rugged as the sharp angles of his jaw and cheek bones gradually began to press out, becoming more apparent.

“Relax, Mister Konahee.”

Patrick hunched forward as thick hairs began to sprout over his chest, arms, and the backs of his hands. He panted, and his shoulders broadened as deep furrows carved their way across his forehead. His skin thickened and began to darken as he grunted and scratched casually at his crotch. A dull smile pulled at his lips, exposing the hints of more prominent teeth, particularly his canines.

“That’s right. Just let go, Mister Konahee. Do what comes naturally.”

A loud crack sounded as Patrick’s skull began to shift, creating a natural slope that rose up into a cone atop his thickening and darkening hair. An ominous creaking was soon followed by a loud crunch as Patrick’s ribcage expanded forcefully. His chest heaved as his grunts devolved into low growls and guttural exclamations. His brow slowly swelled into a shelf-like border that overshadowed the blue of his iris and darkened it as his pupils continued to gain more prominence.

His legs bowed as calves and thighs gained mass and the arch in his feet dropped flat with a loud pop. Toes expanded and lengthened into prehensile digits, including a thumb, while his arms lengthened and his fists struck proudly against his swelling pectorals. Biceps, triceps, and flexors quadrupled in size as his new coat of fur consumed them. By now, his skin had become black and leathery. Fabric popped and tore apart as he dropped forward onto his knuckles and his back snapped to realign with this new posture.

Nose and palate jutted forward with his jaw to create a beastly maw. Lastly, his body swelled into immensity as a silver patch appeared on his back between the shoulder blades arching down.

The new gorilla huffed and panted as it stared at the screen. Its limbs trembled. Finally, it dropped to the floor, rendered completely unconscious. The whining and humming died as the screen shut off. A large bowl full of fruits and various bugs soon rose from the floor, alongside a great bowl filled with water.

“It appears the experiment was a success,” the doctor said as he pressed another button, lowering the screen on the strange monitor to reveal a weapon not unlike a glue gun in its design. “Devolution is, indeed, a possibility. We need only enhance the rate of the weapon to ensure it can transform its target quickly.” He smirked and turned to his aide. “Get word to the President. Project Regress is a go.”

Reblogs are definitely coming. This is beautiful, and it needs to be shared.

I’ve been holding on to this for a while. In… September? I was having a Really Bad Time. So I ended up making this comic to sort of… sort through some stuff. It really helped.

I hope maybe it can resonate with other people, too.

Reblogs would be very appreciated, so more people can see it <3

Want more transformation stories? Please, consider joining my patreon to support my creative endeavors. On top of seeing more of my works before anybody else, you’ll also receive other benefits, like offering suggestions (at least one of which I’ll use each month, provided it doesn’t go against my rules/principles), receiving a free short story written by me for you, role playing, conversation with me via Discord, and coaching on how to improve your own writing style.

The Game

You’ve heard of video games and drinking games, but bro, you haven’t lived until you’ve played the lifting game. It’s so fucking addicting!

How’s it work? You’ve just gotta join the Gaming Gym, bro. Dumb bros keep saying muscleheads and nerds can’t get along. That’s bullshit. Got recommended to this place by one of my bros, and I’ve never turned back. They’ve got this sweet gaming room. Tabletop, cardgames, videogames, consoles. You name it, they’ve got it. There’s just one rule to get in. You’ve gotta spend at least a half hour doing fitness. Cardio, weights, doesn’t matter as long as you put in the work. And they have the best fucking save system! I don’t know how they do it, but there’s this reader they put in at all the game consoles. You just insert your membership card, and it’ll pull up your save files for whatever game you’re playing, no questions asked. I don’t know what kinda deal they had to pull with the manufacturers to pull it off, but bro, it’s sweet.

The lifting game? Oh. Oh, yeah! Huhuh. Sorry ’bout that, bro. Kinda nerded out for a second there. I can be kind of a dumbass like that, sometimes. The lifting game’s got its own space aside from the rest of the gaming room. There are stations all over one of the walls, and it still has lines. The name says it all. It’s a game about lifting stuff.

Hey, don’t knock it till you try it! It’s harder than it sounds. You know VR, right? S’kinda like that. The more points you earn in the game, the higher your rank gets in the gym, and the more benefits you can earn, like VIP access to some of the games, special training programs, free health drinks from the bar once a month (or even once a week, if you’re really good), that sort of thing. It takes some getting used to at first, but bro, once you get into it, you won’t want to stop.

Don’t believe me? I used to weigh 130 when I started here. Now look at me. I’ve more than doubled that weight. I fucking love to lift, bro. And it’s all thanks to that game.

What’s my rank now? Bro, can’t you tell? I’m an NPC!

Well, of course we’re gonna have gaming references for ranks! It’s the Gaming Gym, bro, where you come to game and gain!

Come on. Let me give you the tour. Nah, bro. It’s no trouble. After all, I’m the welcoming NPC.

Gotta give those tutorials, m’I right, lil’bro?

Pledge

He didn’t remember what happened last night. He didn’t remember how he got there. All he knew was his head was killing him, and his whole body ached. He groaned.

“Bro, what the hell happened last night?” He blinked in surprise. Had his voice always been so deep? He felt the warmth of sunbaked stone beneath his arm and turned his head as he stretched one of his arms up to his head and felt the fabric of his snapback. He didn’t remember putting it on.

A big house stood in the distance. Someone was standing on the porch. His sleeveless muscle tee clung to his gigantic pectorals, and his square jaw accented the broad shoulders and clenching abdominals of his torso. A few seconds later, his chiseled features blocked out the sun as he peered down at the prone figure.

“You seriously fall asleep out here, lil’bro?”

The man on the grass blinked blearily. His bicep tingled as he stared up at the behemoth looming over him. “I, uh ... I guess?” He furrowed his brow. “I ... don’t really remember, bro.”

“Big.”

“Huh?”

“It’s Big Bro. You’re my lil’bro, and I’m your Big Bro.” He lowered a hand. “Got it?”

“Uh ...” He seized the hand. “I ... guess.” He was on his feet in seconds. “Thanks, uh ... Big Bro....” He shuddered, then groaned as his eyes rolled back in his head. Wave upon wave of pleasure plowed over his body. “Uhhh.. Huhuhuhuh....”

“That’s right, Lil’bro.” The big man twisted the cap around so the bill sloped down Lil’bro’s neck and exposed his face. He sneered as he watched the man’s legs swell in the boxer shorts he was wearing. The fabric creaked as a distinct swelling began in the crotch, and a full beard grew in on the man’s face as the hairs thickened on his swelling pectorals, then spread down in a treasure trail through the shallow trench that was the beginnings of a defined six pack. “Just enjoy the ride. Let it happen.” He rubbed the man’s growing bicep and grinned. “Damn, you are gonna be huge. Think I’ll call you Swole. How’s that sound, Lil’bro?” he asked as he curled an arm around the man’s shoulders and led him closer to the house.

“Swole....” he parroted as his swelling feet smacked against the stones leading up to the porch.

“Just a big, dumb, swole bro, Lil’bro.”

“Yuh....”

The big man grinned as he pulled his hand aside to reveal a large 86 on Swole’s bicep. He flexed his own bicep to show off the giant 01 that had been inked there and watched in satisfaction as the light left the half-naked man’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re gonna fit right in, Pledge.”

“Whatever you say, Big Bro....”

The frat president sneered as the front door creaked open to reveal row upon row of muscle men posed in identical double bicep flex to salute their president, each sporting a large number on their left bicep. “Damn straight. Now go join the line.”

This deserves a reblog. What an excellent beginning of a deeper introspection to his original meathead tattoo story. I can’t wait to see where it goes. Well done, BODriver! Well done!

It was a stupid dare, and you were a dumbass to go through with it… But college is the time to do stupid shit, right?

“Are you serious?” said Rhys, giving your unassuming, un-inked body a once-over. “Sorry, I don’t touch the face, neck, or hands unless you have at least a few pieces already. And honestly, you’re gonna have a hard time finding any artist who would.”

“Wait,” said your friend Jake, who was sitting beside you. “Would you change your mind if we told you it’s for a dare, and he’s gonna get it lasered off after a month?”

“That makes it even worse, dude,” said Rhys, as he started getting up. “I’m serious about my art, and I’m not gonna purposefully give someone a tat he doesn’t really want—”

“—How about I throw in an extra two thousand above your normal fee?” said Jake, nonchalantly.

Before Rhys could even protest, Jake threw two thick stacks of 20s onto the table. You saw the tattooist mouth something in bewilderment before he sat back down. After a few seconds of pondering Jake’s offer, he looked back at you.

“You and your friend have more money than sense, but I need a new set of tires, so… I’m just gonna take this,” he said.

“Oh it’s all Jake’s,” you replied.



“Just to make sure I got this right… You want a thumb-sized tattoo—chosen by your bougie friend—right on your forehead… And you don’t want to see it until it’s done?”



“That’s right,” you responded. Nerves had your stomach feeling all knotted up, but in your head you knew Jake’s crazy shenanigans always turned out fine in the end. College had been a blast ever since Jake had entered your life.

“And even though you’ve never gotten a tattoo before, you’re gonna be fine with the pain of me repeatedly jabbing needles into your face, and you promise that you’re not gonna bitch out?”

“I promise.”

Rhys sighed.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But if your friend asks me for any hate symbols, I’m gonna kick his ass. Also, he can’t ask for any colors since those are harder to erase. And I’m diluting the black to about a 75% grey. And I’m using a light touch. It’ll start fading right away and probably end up looking like shit, so don’t you ever tag me or this place in any pics online, and don’t tell anyone I did this for you.”

“Deal,” said Jake, before you could respond. “Now let me show you the design…”

After looking at whatever was on Jake’s phone, Rhys quickly led you and Jake to the back and sat you on a chair. After disappearing for a few minutes, Rhys came back with a stencil.

The first 15 minutes of inking felt like an eternity. You focused on keeping your breath steady as the searing pain and the buzzing of the gun pounded your skull. You remained silent as you listened to Jake and Rhys chat on how exactly did you end up in that tattoo shop, on the last Sunday before classes started, with this crazy idea.

Jake, being his over-talkative self, started by explaining how, way back last year, he’d gotten himself an entire house right off campus, where he’d first met you during one of his infamous keggers (the next of which Rhys was totally invited to, by the way). It didn’t take long for Jake to bring you into his crew, and take you on as his next “project.” To like, get you to come out of your shell. Eventually his housemate would move out, which was a bummer, but that meant the room was wide open for you this year.

And it was yesterday morning while you were moving in, when another of Jake’s friends mentioned the new tattoo removal clinic that had opened over the summer. And you guys were curious about it, even though no one in the group had any tats. (But Jake totally would’ve tatted up by now if his dad wouldn’t disown him.)

So you volunteered to get some ink. And not just anywhere, but right on your forehead, and you’d keep it there for four weeks until you started getting laser treatments to get rid of it. Cuz you’re crazy like that.

Wait, was that really how the conversation went? You could’ve sworn it was Jake’s idea…

Jake—being in his “comfortable” financial situation—would pay for the tattoo, and then for the removal. And if you went about your college life without covering up the tat or holing up in your room while you had it, you could choose any tattoo that would stay on Jake’s ass until graduation. Sure, the whole plan sounded like something straight out of Jackass, but college is the time to do stupid shit, and maybe this shit could get you famous on Youtube or something.

You broke your silence by telling Rhys you needed a breather. The pain had been making you clench all over.

After Rhys stepped out of the space, Jake took out a pair of wireless Beats from his bag.

“Hey, champ, you did great. You’re a beast,” Jake said, flashing a mischievous grin.

“Thanks Jaker. I had no idea it was gonna hurt that much. I was afraid I was gonna move… What’s that for?” You pointed to the headphones.

“I just remembered I brought these, so maybe you should listen to that playlist you like so much… You know, to distract from the pain.”



“You mean your weird take on ‘lo-fi chill beats to study and relax to?’ Don’t get so full of yourself, I don’t like it that much, haha.”

“Woww…” Jake pulled back his wavy dark brown bangs as he feigned offense.

“That hurts, bro. You know how much of my heart and soul I put into updating my playlist… Actually, I’m not at all hurt cuz I know you’ll beg me to put it on for you, and you’re gonna love it and thank me for its healing power—”

“—OK, OK, that’s enough. Just put the headphones on me. My hands are all clammy and gross.”

“Sure thing, bro,” said Jake, with a strange twinkle in his hazel eyes.

As soon as Jake sat back down from putting the headphones on you, you saw Rhys return, donning fresh gloves. You closed your eyes as the familiar music enveloped you. It was the soundtrack of the many late nights you spent with Jake in his room. Sometimes you really did your studying to it. But other times, you’d *relax*, talking with Jake about everything and anything, but mostly you and the potential he saw in you. Listening to the playlist often took you back to the first time you’d met him, during that fateful party almost exactly a year ago.

He’d been standing out on the balcony, watching the full moon. You’d asked him what he was listening to, and with a smirk, he’d wordlessly stuck both earbuds into your ears. At first you were confused by the silence but then you picked up on the beat… And the two different voices, split between both ears:



“Trust me,” sang the left, with heavy distortion.

“Lose control,” sang the right, sounding slowed down.

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.”

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.” The music started to speed up.

“TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL. TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL…”

This song always took you back… But this time, as you were listening to it in the tattoo parlor, something was different. A third voice, evenly spread to sound like it was stalking you from behind:

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“You are the meathead,” the voice approached closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.



I AM THE MEATHEAD, you replied with the whole of your being, before being awoken by a hand tapping your shoulder.


“Hey, wake up, Champ,” Jake said as he took off the headphones. “You’re all done.”

You were confused.

You’d thought the tattoo was gonna take at least an hour, but after just one song on Jake’s playlist, you were done already. At first you were tempted to feel concerned, but you remembered that Jake had said it would distract from the pain, and he was right. He was always looking out for you.

“Well,” said Rhys, handing you a mirror. “What do you think?”

You looked at your reflection. There, right in the middle of your forehead:

🍖

The meat emoji. A cylinder with two ends of a bone sticking out of it. Really? You were surprised, but relieved that it wasn’t something obscene or gross. Little did you know that it unlocked the next phase of Jake’s plans for your development…