Gym Addiction - Tumblr Posts

A little dark, but I wanted to show the other side of hypnosis in this story. Much like any other tool, it can be used to help or to harm. There are those who will take advantage of the trust you put in them to control you through trance. The infamous Trey was and still is such a one.

Enjoy the story, if you will, but please also let it stand as a stark reminder. Hypnosis is not a joke. It’s not just a parlor trick. It can be dangerous, if abused, and can (and does) lead a person to eventually perform acts that they would at first have deemed abominable, when given enough time and coaxing. That is what I was trying to portray here in this tale. Synopsis and story are below.

Alejandro wanted to get fit for his new year’s resolution, but didn’t think he could find the motivation to do it and stick to it alone. An old childhood friend suggests a hypnotist to help him get into the spirit of his workout.

Over half a year later, Alejandro is experiencing a crisis, after waking from a trance he didn’t remember consenting to, doing something he would never have done in his conscious mind, or ... would he have?

Regardless, the man fled, and has not returned since. This is the story of his struggle between what he was, and what hypnosis twisted him to be.

Two Masters

How had it gotten like this? How had things pushed so far? Alejandro didn’t know. It started out so innocent, just a new year’s resolution. He wanted to get fit, get ripped, to be truly strong for the first time in his life. He wanted to get hard, like a real man, hard like muscles, hard, so very hard...

He gasped and shook his head. His arms had already been raised to flex and pose. He panted and rushed for a set of bleachers by the park trail. He took a seat, leaned forward to try to let the spell pass. He couldn’t allow himself to fall any deeper than he already had. It was what that bastard wanted.

Just how many men had this monster seduced? How many lives had he destroyed with his words alone? Julio recommended him, practically shoved Alejandro at him. Was Julio in on it, or worse?

The first few months had been so simple and productive. He’d managed to change his diet, drop the junk foods, stick with healthier snacks and choices. Salads and water replaced soda and carbohydrates. Kale and seaweed chips replaced potato chips. Asparagus sprigs, tomatoes, cottage cheese, spinach, chicken breast, rice, quinoa.

Then came the hard part, actually going to a gym. Julio helped. He practically pulled Alejandro to the facility on every scheduled day. The exercise hurt like hell, but it was worth it, once his body adapted. Fat gave way to carved muscle. His body had become a statue, like the old greco-roman works, and he had been the sculptor.

...

But no, not if he was being honest with himself. He was molded, sculpted by him.

“Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou? or thy work, He hath no hands?” he whispered, quoting the scriptures with which he had been raised.

He still remembered the tracks, the files that whispered to him by night and pulsed in his brain by day in the gym. Outgrowing his clothes had been especially pleasing. He still remembered that time he bent over to pick something up in the office, and his shirt tore off his back. The cold air striking his skin, the goosebumps rising, the exposure, the stares. It was so embarrassing, but ... it felt so right.

How much of it had been the result of his own desires and how much from his training?

...

No, training wasn’t the word. More brainwashing, indoctrination. He still remembered quitting. He couldn’t place why. He just ... wasn’t happy with work anymore, wasn’t satisfied with it. He wanted ... but did he really want it, or was that just the whispers, the tracks?

“Oh, God,” he said as he looked heavenward. It was half swear, half supplication.

He’d been so happy when he started working at the gym. He could teach others how to grow, help them reach the same goals he’d achieved, then plow into his own routine in his off hours. It felt incredible.

Then came the tattoos. He wasn’t sure what prompted it. Maybe it was all the times he’d seen Julio flex in the mirror when they were together. The way the flesh rippled over the muscle, giving motion and life to those cells that had been permanently marked. Next thing he knew, he was in the tattoo parlor.

...

It wasn’t his last visit.

He stared down at the sleeves of ink that had been so intricately drawn over his legs and arms. He’d even inked his torso.

And he still showed off. It was almost like a compulsion. He was so anxious at what others might think, seeing their looks, their faces.

Judge not, lest ye also be judged.

Jealous....

Fools mock....

These thoughts and many more whispered to him, and slowly, something grew in him. He defied perceived judgement with a cocky sneer, with flexing, with a show of his new strength. If they wanted to judge him, they could do it while they burned with jealousy. He would get bigger.

Bigger.

Stronger.

Stronger.

“Get hard....”

Alejandro grunted and bowed over his knees, like he’d taken a punch to the gut. “No,” he growled. “I can’t. I won’t.”

He felt his phone sliding from his pocket, so he stuck it down on the bleacher in front of him, then clasped his hands together and bowed his head to see the tent in his crotch. Tears blurred his vision as he warred with primal instincts. His hands trembled as he clenched them harder together.

“God, please help me,” he begged.

The tears fell like the sweat that had dripped from his body in the locker room. He still remembered that night, remembered the blank faces on his fellow employees, some of the more extreme lifters, a few of the intermediate patrons. Too many faces for him to sift through. Too many to remember.

...

Remember. What did that word even mean anymore? He hardly thought things through, always just acting, doing. Office work and data points had been replaced with weights, routines, training plans, diets, supplements. The gym had become his home, his life.

The late summer sun kissed his tanned skin warmly, almost comfortingly.

But those words still haunted him.

We grow for Master.

We work hard for master.

Flex for master.

...Serve....

...Obey....

All that and more, while they ... while they....

He couldn’t even bring himself to think of it. And yet, he had been doing it himself, before he came to, just like them, in perfect time. How many times had he done it before? How often had he gathered like that without even knowing?

He felt unclean.

“God, forgive me,” he rasped.

His trust had been abused, yet even now he felt that pull, that call. His muscles tensed, his breathing was ragged. His body wanted, needed to move, needed to tense, to flex, to swell, to do as it was programmed.

“No man can serve to masters. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve to masters,” he repeated over and over, desperately, imploringly under his breath. “I won’t go back. I can’t go back. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve two masters....”

His phone buzzed.

“Please, God. Please,” he continued to beg.

The phone continued to buzz.

He peeked one eye open. The glare obscured the screen. Dare he risk it?

He could always go to the police, call 911, do something, anything other than just sitting at the bleachers. But ... Julio. If he was part of this, too, then....

Alejandro’s stomach fell. Could his childhood friend even be saved, or was the damage too far gone? Was he too far gone? His hand trembled and his breathing stuttered as he picked up the phone.

A barrage of boxes filled the idle screen.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

On and on it scrolled. The world spun and faded as his face went slack. His thumb scrolled over the messages, until a new one pinged, and he scrolled back up to the top.

No man can serve two masters.

There can only be one.

Report.

Alejandro’s thumbs tapped slowly and steadily as he rose from the bench.

Yes, Master.

He sent it.

He had to hurry.

Master was calling.

The one had chosen him.

He must serve.

He must obey.

He patted the crotch of his compression gear just once as he pocketed his phone, then began to run.

“I am coming... I am coming... I am coming....”