Mind Games

By LuvsMusl

About a year ago I noticed a small card posted on the bulletin board at my gym. "Reach and SURPASS your training goals," it said. "Expert Hypnotist. Results Guaranteed." I'm in my late 30's and I've been lifting seriously for close to 20 years. Even a year ago, at 5'10" and a rock hard 230 pounds, I had a physique that turned heads. But, like anyone, I had my lagging bodyparts. In my case, it was an upper chest that I could never get as thick and full as I wanted. And also my midsection. Make no mistake, I had abs. But, as the years had gone by, it had gotten harder and harder to avoid that layer of padding that obscures the carved-up, six-pack look everyone's after. So I figured maybe hypnosis wasn't a bad way to jump-start my program and work on my sticking points.

I called the number on the bulletin board and arranged to meet Derek, the hypnotist, in one of the gym's small exercise rooms that same evening. To my shock, Derek turned out to be little more than a boy -- 19 or 20, maybe. And while he had a trim, worked-out body, he couldn't have weighed more than 160. Frankly, I was hestitant to turn control of my training over to someone so young, especially when he looked like he barely knew his way around the gym.

Derek was bright and confident, however, and he anticipated all my reservations and addressed them directly and simply. The training expertise would all be mine, he explained. What he could provide was additional motivation, and a big dose of fresh energy and focus. He mentioned a couple of other local bodybuilders he had worked with, and I knew both of them in passing. Each had recently achieved sudden and noticeable gains.

"Anyway," Derek explained, "it's all academic until we see if you can be hypnotized." Not everyone is a suitable candidate, he told me. A fair percentage of people are too resistant to let themselves be put in a trance. "Shall we give it a try?"

"Why not, " I said. Something about Derek's calm manner and his sparkling green eyes made me like and trust him, so I figured it was worth a shot. He started by having me focus on my own breathing, and then led me through a kind of guided meditation. I had to count backwards slowly from a hundred. And then I had to imagine myself slowly descending a long, long stairway into the depths of a building. It was all very soothing and relaxing, and at some point -- as he said I might -- I drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

A few minutes later -- MANY minutes, perhaps -- I was awake again, and rubbing my bleary eyes. I was a little embarassed at having drifted off. But Derek said it was a good thing. "Actually, Jack, you're an exceptionally sensitive subject," he told me. "If we continue, we'll be able to accomplish some amazing things." But he said he'd let me decide, and suggested I think about what I wanted and contact him again whenever I was ready.

Following the session I felt amazingly relaxed and energized, and was filled with the urge to work on my body. So instead of heading home I hit the cardio room and did an intense 30 minutes on the cross-trainer. And then I stopped by the abs area and pounded out 500 strict incline crunches. Derek had apparently lingered in the gym to chat with some of the other lifters, because he was just heading out while I was in the middle of my tortuous crunch set. When our eyes met he smiled at me approvingly and winked. "That's strange," I thought.

The next morning I woke up with a raging hard-on. Even though I "took care of it," I found I was increasingly horny throughout the day. I used the pent-up aggression to power me through a heavier-than-usual back workout, followed by another intense abdominal routine. But even after expending twice the energy of my typical training session, I was still exploding with lust when I was done.

I showered and changed and went straight from the gym to a popular cruise bar where I figured there would be some available meat. I wasn't wrong. Freshly pumped from the gym and exuding a thick cloud of testosterone I was pretty obviously the center of attention as I swaggered through the crowd sipping my Crystal Geyser.

Finally someone summoned the courage to approach me. It was a hot guy in his mid-20's, tall and blond with GQ looks and the marble-hard, chiseled physique of a champion gymnast. He looked me up and down and said, "You are the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen in here. Wanna go somewhere and get sweaty?"

I was about to set down my water and accompany the hunk out of the bar, when I suddenly realized I needed to call Derek.

"Hello, Jack," he said as he picked up the phone -- before I'd even had a chance to say anything. I was calling from a payphone at the bar, so "Caller ID" -- if he even had it -- would have been irrelevant.

"How did you know this was me?" I asked.

"Because I told you to call me at 7:30," he said. "I know you don't remember."

I stood there a moment, a little spooked: not quite knowing what to say, or even why I'd decided to call Derek in the first place.

"Listen to me, Jack," he said, then paused a moment. "Three, two, one... down, boy." I felt my breathing relax, and was deliciously comfortable and sleepy all of a sudden. I could have listened to Derek talk forever.

"Are you with me, Jack?" he asked. "How do you feel?"

"I feel great. What should I do now?"

"Come over." And with that he hung up the phone.

I had no memory of Derek telling me his address or giving me directions. But without thinking about it I drove to his building and pressed #104 without even looking at the name plate. After Derek buzzed me into the building I walked directly to his apartment and stood waiting for him to open the door.

Derek had just showered, and when he came to the door he was wearing nothing but a pair of bikini briefs. As he let me in I was surprised at how incredibly sexy he was, at second glance. Droplets of water sparkled on his smooth, boyish skin, and I found myself overwhelmingly turned on. The guy I had ditched back at the bar was a distant memory. Derek looked a hundred times sexier to me.

"How was your workout?" he asked as he led me into the living room.

"Amazing! Fucking amazing! I can't remember when I've had a better pump."

"What did I tell you?" he smiled. "And it's going to get better and better. As long as you do everything I say."

It occurred to me that what I wanted more than anything in the world was to obey Derek and make him happy. The thought of doing just that got me hard, and I could barely wait to hear what he'd say next.

"Jack, look at me." I stepped closer and stared into his deep, shining eyes. "Jack, " he said. "....inspection." I had no idea what that meant. But I realized, after a moment, that my hands were involuntarily starting to unbutton my shirt. I caught myself and looked up at Derek, who seemed okay with it, but I still wasn't sure. "Is it all right with you if I take my clothes off?" I asked.

"Of course, " he said. "You know that."

A minute later I was standing at attention in front of Derek, stark naked, in what's known in competitive bodybuilding as the "relaxed" position. I didn't know why, but this seemed the right thing to do. It was certainly what I wanted to do.

"Very good, Jack," Derek said, as he ran his hands over my tensed muscles, stopping here and there to pinch or squeeze. "You're doing really, really well. I'm proud of you." I could feel my muscles swelling a little bigger in response to Derek's praise. My dick was a column of granite.

"Come," Derek said, and he led me into his bedroom, where he had a full set of dumbbells on a rack facing a mirror. "What weight do you normally use for bicep curls?"

"Twenty-fives to warm up," I said. "And then maybe forty to seventy-five for work sets."

"No..." Derek looked in my eyes, as if doubting what I was telling him. "Jack, I think you're wrong. I think right now you'd have a hard time with anything over five pounds."

I laughed, assuming he was joking, and walked up to the dumbbell rack. After considering my energy level, I decided to grab the 50's. My hands locked around the bars, but with all my strength I couldn't budge the weights off the rack. It was like they were welded in place.

"See what I mean?" Derek said. Blushing crimson, I moved down the row and grabbed the 25's. With Herculean effort, I just barely managed to lift the two dumbbells in inch or so out of their cradle. But I was so spent from the effort that I had to drop them back in place immediately. I was panting as if I'd just tried to lift a Buick.

"Like I said, Jack, maybe you'd better start with the 5's." Derek nodded toward the little 5-lb. dumbbells at the bottom of the rack. They looked like a couple of rattles. I grasped the weights and yanked them up off the rack, but, astonishingly, they were almost more than I could handle. Gritting my teeth I pulled one of them toward me in a pathetic, sloppy bicep curl. But I had to lower it before I even completed the movement. I tried the other arm, but it shook and strained to a stop after I'd raised the weight a mere inch or two from its starting position. I couldn't believe what was happening.

Derek took the weights from me and put them back on the rack. And then he stared into my eyes, suddenly serious: "You realize, Jack, that I'm the only one who can give you what you want. And that I can take it away just as easily. Do you believe me?


"Good, Jack. Does it feel good to obey me?"

"It feels great."

"Very good. Because doing exactly what I say is the only way you're going to get the huge, powerful, muscular physique you've always wanted. Your strength is controlled from right here," he said, tapping his own head. "And your muscle growth, also. Am I right?"


"Good boy. Now make me happy by picking up those 100's and doing a set of strict bicep curls. And don't stop until I tell you."

Skeptically, I stepped up to the huge 100-pound dumbbells and took a deep breath. Expecting to fail I grabbed the weights and lifted them off the rack with relative ease. I turned toward Derek and began executing strict-form bicep curls with the massive weights: left, right, left, right, left, right.... It was fifty percent more weight than I had ever handled, and I couldn't begin to understand where my strength was coming from.

Derek pulled down his briefs and began playing with his surprisingly huge and pretty cock as he watched me rhythmically pound out repetitions. It felt great to be turning him on with my power, and even though my biceps were burning with an intensity of pain I'd never felt before, I knew I could keep going forever if he wanted me to.

Derek let me get to fifty reps before he said, "Good, Jack, now put the weights back on the rack." In sweet agony I clumsily put the dumbbells away. I bent and unbent my arms, and they must have swelled a good two inches as blood surged back into the exhausted muscle fibers.

"Pose." In response to Derek's one-word command I stood in front of him and struck a double-biceps pose, holding it tightly in spite of the knife-like pain that shot through each of my upper arms. "That's my good boy," Derek said, continuing to stroke his big cock as he squeezed and massaged my massively engorged biceps with his other hand. "How big would you like me to make you?"

I wasn't sure what to say. I'd always felt I was a pretty good size at 230, and could happily stay that weight, or even a little less as I cut up a bit. Now I wasn't sure. "As big as you want me," I heard myself saying. "However big you want me to be is fine."

"Good answer, Jack," Derek said, smiling like a proud father. "For now let's say 285. Just for a start." That sounded a little crazy to me. 285 pounds on my 5'10" frame seemed like a gargantuan amount of muscle.

"That seems pretty big," I said. "I never really imagined myself weighing much more than 240 or 250."

"I know that," Derek said. "But I'm going to force you to grow bigger than you want to be. It's something you're going to do for me. And because... well, you don't actually have a choice in the matter, do you?" He was smiling mischievously as he said the last part.

"No," I said. "I don't." I was just telling the truth. At that moment it was blatantly obvious to me that I had no more control over my own will than I had over the weather or the stock market.

"Several times a day, and every night before you go to sleep, you're going to repeat the following words to yourself: 'Two eighty-five for Derek... two eighty-five for Derek... ' Will you do that, Jack?"

"Yes," I said, and began silently repeating the phrase in my mind. I could feel my dick getting hard again.

"By the way, Jack," he said. "You can put your arms down, now." Amazingly, I had completely forgotten that I was holding a tightly-flexed double biceps shot this whole time. Ordinarily, I'd have been shaking like a leaf by now, with sweat pouring down my body from the exertion. But somehow, because it was willed by Derek, I had managed to hold the position effortlessly for a good 15 minutes.

Derek sat back on his bed, continuing to run a hand up and down his fat, erect cock. "Jack, is it me, or is it getting hot in here?"

Something about Derek's words filled me with urgent, uncontainable lust. I threw myself to my knees and began sucking his dick like a starving animal. The sensation of his big, meaty cock in my mouth was the most exciting, pleasurable thing I'd ever felt. I would have happily continued chowing on Derek's dick all night. But after half an hour or so, he pulled out and flipped onto his stomach, presenting his beautiful, hard-rubber, hairless bubble butt. "Eat my ass," he said simply, utterly confident that I would comply.

I'm normally not all that big on eating butt, but within a millisecond my tongue was inside his tight, pink hole -- aggressively licking and probing, searching for exactly the right angle and movement that would give Derek the most pleasure. He let me service him this way for another half hour, at least.

At which point he got up, looked at me and said, "Jack, I bet you'd love some cock, wouldn't you?" I didn't know exactly what he meant. I'm ninety percent top, and I had assumed that the next step would be me fucking him. But now Derek smiled at me broadly and snapped his fingers three times -- one, two, three! Without even thinking, I opened the top drawer of Derek's bed table, took out a bottle of lube and some condoms, and proceeded to open one of the rubbers and slip it onto Derek's rock-hard penis. I was moving automatically, like a robot, my mind completely unaware of what my body would do next. Frankly, it was completely exciting.

Once the rubber was on him, I turned and knelt on the edge of the bed, my knees thrust forward and my head pressing down onto the sheets. This left my beefy ass pointing up hungrily at Derek and his sizable, throbbing tool.

"Good boy, Jack," he said, giving my butt cheek a healthy slap. "That's my good, obedient boy." I felt myself slipping into an even deeper trance as Derek dabbed my hole with lube and then fucked me, with cruel intensity, in various positions for the next hour or so. My ass is fairly sensitive and inexperienced, and I have to tell you that Derek's erect tool was big enough and hard enough to make every thrust hurt, especially as roughly as he was pounding me. Yet I managed somehow to ignore the incredible pain. Instead, amazingly, my mind stayed tightly focused on making the experience as pleasurable as possible for him. In spite of feeling like I was being torn apart by a jackhammer, I braced myself in a way that gave Derek the maximum pleasure; and I tightened and squeezed my rectal muscles so that my hole repeatedly clenched and gripped Derek's thick meat.

After he finally shot his load and pulled out, I turned over and looked up at him: "How do you want me to cum?" I asked, massaging my throbbing, purple boner.

"You can't," he said, and then chuckled. "If you're going to get to a rock-hard 285 pounds for me, I can't have you wasting your chi on sexual pleasure. You need that energy for your workouts."

Thinking he must be joking, I desperately began stroking my erect cock. It only took a few seconds to realize he was telling the truth. He had somehow made it impossible for me to shoot a load. Welling with anger, I instinctively moved toward him with violence in mind. But, immediately, I became horribly dizzy and felt myself shrinking until I was no more than three inches tall. Derek's massive form loomed beside me, and as his hand reached toward me I began to hyper-ventilate, certain that he was about to crush me in his fist.

Instead, he merely stroked my shoulder: "It's okay, Jack," he said. "Just breathe normally. You're okay."

As soon as he said that, I returned to normal size. (Or, rather, my perception of our relative sizes returned to normal.) Derek smiled at me comfortingly. The absolute power he wielded over my body and my mind was both terrifying and thrilling.

"Jack, listen to me," he said, in that calm, authoritative voice that riveted my attention more powerfully each time I heard it. "Tonight, instead of five hundred crunches, you're going to give me a thousand. And tomorrow night twelve hundred. And fifteen hundred on Friday. And then you can call me."

By Friday night I could barely stand up straight and my stomach was a mass of painful knots and cramps. Somehow I managed to climb onto the slant board and straighten my body into an extended, lying position. I felt too weak and in pain to execute even a single crunch, but I knew had no choice. To focus my energy I said the words "Two eighty-five for Derek, two eighty-five for Derek," and continued to chant this mantra as I surrendered my will to his and allowed my body to be pulled through an excruciatingly painful and difficult set of stomach crunches. At about number fifty my vision went black. In my mind's eye was the image of a raging fire, which was the visual equivalent of the feeling in my midsection. As if in a dream I continued hammering out gut-stabbing crunches, until I completed an incredible total of fifteen hundred.

After a moment's rest I rolled clumsily off the slant board and crawled to the telephone. I dialed Derek's number, knowing he'd be waiting.

"So, Jack," he said, as he picked up the phone. "How did you do? Did you get to fifteen hundred?"

"Yes." I barely had the energy to grunt that single syllable.

"Good boy. You can release now."

I literally dropped the telephone, then yanked my gym shorts down with one hand while grabbing my still-hard cock in the other. I only had to stroke it about ten seconds before I came like an atomic bomb -- groaning from my guts as I shot what felt like a quart of cum. I felt a lightning bolt of sexual ecstasy shoot from my balls up my spine and back down again. My whole body shuddered as I convulsed and shot two more times, leaving me limp and quivering, every cell and nerve vibrating with joyous relief. It was the mother of all orgasms. And Derek was God, there was no doubting it. Derek was my life. Exhausted, I cleaned myself quickly with a workout towel and fell asleep on the floor beside the slant board. As I drifted off, I found myself automatically chanting, "Two eighty-five for Derek. Two eighty-five for Derek." I knew I'd struggle to be five hundred pounds if he wanted me to.

At our next session my young Master surprised me with a shocking revelation. "Jack, how long have we known each other?" he asked.

I thought about it and shrugged. "About a week, I guess."

Derek smiled and got a sly twinkle in his eyes. "Actually, Jack, you've known me for three months. It was back in April that you first answered my ad and came to my house. We've had over fifty sessions together."

"That's impossible."

"No, it's not. Two weeks ago I gave you a post-hypnotic suggestion that made you forget everything. I made you think you were meeting me for the first time when we saw each other at the gym last Monday."

"Prove it, " I said, still incredulous.

"Okay. Jack... recall." Suddenly, unfamiliar memories flooded my brain. In quick flashes I got images of the dozens and dozens of sessions I'd had with Derek -- three months of intense mental training, during which he had virtually re-programmed my psyche, and had progressively increased his control over my mind and my will.

The shock of suddenly remembering must have made me go pale. "Are you all right?" Derek asked.

"I think so."

He led me back to his bedroom. "Get on the scale," he said. "What did you weigh at home this morning?"

"My usual, I guess. Two thirty-four, two thirty-five."

"Check your weight right now." I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto Derek's scale. To my shock and delight, the needle stopped at almost 260 pounds! I looked at Derek, wide-eyed and confused.

"Take your shirt off and look in the mirror," he said. I tore off my t-shirt and turned toward the full-length wall mirror. What I saw nearly knocked me on my ass. My pecs were huge and perfect, my shoulders massive, my arms bigger than I'd ever imagined they could be. And my stomach looked like a cobblestone street: two lean, tight, sculpted rows of thick washboard abs. I didn't understand, and looked to Derek for an explanation.

"Along with making you forget our last three months, I also made you oblivious to the changes in your body. You've lost considerable bodyfat and packed on a solid thirty pounds of beef since we've been working together. It's happened gradually. But I programmed your mind so you wouldn't notice until I wanted you to. How do you feel?

I briefly glanced at myself in the mirror again, and then approached Derek. I dropped to my knees, opened his pants, and pulled out his big, beautiful piece of meat. And I began to gratefully, hungrily, lovingly service him. I'm pretty sure this was me, and not just a hypnotic suggestion. It was getting hard to tell the difference, but I hope it was just me.

That night I lay in bed repeating the new mantra my young Master had given me: "Three twenty-five for Derek, three twenty-five for Derek, three twenty-five for Derek."

The phone rang, and it was him. "Jack," he said, "...erase."

I hung up the phone, confused. "Wrong number, I guess," I thought to myself, as I drifted into a deep, comforting, peaceful sleep. •

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