Walking Home
by Magus
Hey folks, I'm back! For the first time in about two years, I have access to the internet from home, so I can finally upload some of the stories I've written in the meantime. But that means I have to proof-read and finish them, too. Until I can get through the longer stories, here's a quickie to whet your appetite...
He wasn’t far into his walk home from work - the weather was unusually warm for late December - when it struck him that he wanted to write a true story. Third person, of course, just like all his other stories, except this one would have been real. Would have actually happened.
It was because of the cd. He’d thought he’d tossed all that self-hypnosis shit the last time he moved. It hadn’t even worked, really, so it wasn’t like he was using it anymore. But then, just the other day he’d found the disc, just sitting there in plain sight. No wonder he hadn’t seen it, it’d been just poking out from under a stack of papers, but he only noticed it now.
He’d been about to erase the bogus hypnosis tracks to maybe make a mix tape, when he noticed a track he just couldn’t remember: Jock2. He remembered the relaxation tracks (Rest1, Rest2), the track for self-confidence (Proud1), and to lose weight (Fit1-through-4), and even that silly track, the one he would have been ashamed to admit having listened to the most, “Jock1”. It was to make a guy, an average, bookish guy, become more of an athletic sort. He’d listened to it steady for two weeks last year or so, around when he joined the rugby team, but it hadn’t really made much of a difference, and so he’d dropped it after a while, and by that time, getting to the gym was already a deeply-ingrained habit.. But there’d been no sequel, no “Jock2”. He would have remembered that.
So, curious, he’d listened to Jock2. He was sure he’d never heard it before: he would have remembered this...it was all about linking working out to sex, getting bigger and stronger to getting sexier, hornier. And the other way around, the hornier, the sexier, the better working out was. “You are a big, dumb jock,” said the file. “You love working out, you love muscle, you love sex. Muscle is sex.” He had a hard-on by the time the file was over. He listened to it again while jacking off, cumming like he’d never cum before. Except for the getting dumb part, it was right up his alley: he liked working out, seeing his body get bigger, watching his muscles flex through the lifts by his reflection in his mirror. It made complete sense that sex and working out were linked. He spent the rest of the night jacking off, more times in a row than he’d had in years.
He was thinking that this was the story he would write, the way it would start, with that one time (well, technically twice) listening to that file. He hadn’t listened to it since then, although he’d found himself repeating the words to himself while he was working out. They really helped to motivate him. “You are focused in the gym. You need muscle. You need sex. There is nothing in your mind except for lifting. You are getting bigger, better, hotter.” It had been a great workout, he had to admit. One of his best. And every one since then, too.
He was thinking of this, remembering, when he suddenly realised he was sporting a boner. He was walking down a mostly-empty street with a hard-on like steel tenting his khakis, just like one of those guys in those hypno stories. He grinned before he realised it - imagine, getting so turned on, so horny, just because you’d had a good pump at the gym, that maybe, just maybe a few of the guys and girls there had been impressed. He’d been bigger, he’d known it, watching himself in the mirror. He’d flexed a little bit, unself-consciously, confident, cocky (like a “big, dumb muscle jock,” maybe).
This would be part of the story, too, he decided. Here he was, walking down the street, a giant hard on in front of him, part of him terrified of what other people might think, part of him thrilled, knowing that he was hard because he was getting off on his growing body, his tight muscles. He loved muscles. “Muscle is sex. You are bigger, better, hotter. You want to be bigger, better, hotter.”
He’d measured himself, just the other day, a little while after listening to that new file. His biceps, his chest. It’d been a while since he last tried to measure himself, so he got one of those professional-looking tapes, the ones professional body builders probably used. It might have been the ruler, but he was bigger. His arms were an inch larger around. His focus in the gym was really paying off. Knowing he was bigger, hotter, motivated him, drove his workouts. If he stayed focused, soon he really would be a “big, dumb jock”.
Walking down the street, his cock hard, his mind replaying the events of the last few days, he recalled the phrases that kept coming back, “You are turned on by being a big, strong, muscle jock. You want sex, all the time. You get off on muscle. You grow for sex.” That was why he was hard, mostly not caring, hell, wanting to show off, wanting to even strut.
It wasn’t the tape, of course. It was coincidence. He’d only listened that one time (technically twice). Sure, he hadn’t deleted the cd yet - hadn’t even taken it out of his computer - but he hadn’t listened to it. He didn’t have the time: he was busy being a demon at the gym!
But the words from the tape kept coming back to him. They had no power over him, but remembering them kept him hard, his cock straining against his pants, maybe even leaking a bit. “Your mind is emptying of everything except for sex, sports, and muscle. You are nothing but a big, dumb jock. You will be so horny all the time, always waiting for the next game, the next fuck, the next day at the gym.” Yeah, he thought, big dumb jock. That’s what I am, just a big, dumb, muscle jock...
He’d gone out last night, drank too much, maybe, because by the end of the night he’d been feeling up some other muscle guy against the wall outside the club. He was doing things like that more and more. It was just because he looked so hot, lately, the way he kept noticing the tightness in his shirts in his shoulders, arms, the way his legs bulged and his back was growing so wide, so strong...He’d felt up this other guy, holding him roughly, feeling the countours of him, knowing how hot that was, all that muscle, knowing he was the same way. He rubbed his groin into the other guy, wanting to fuck, but then someone came by, some fucking cock-blocker, maybe, and so he made his way home (he guessed, he really had gone over-board), and jacked off, jerking his cock so hard it hurt.
And this morning, he’d been all fuzzy-headed. He just kept remembering the guy, the night before. The only time today that he’d actually felt focused was during his workout (another great one...his shoulders, his traps, they were fucking exploding!), or when he thought about sex. Sex he’d had, sex he wanted to have, sex he would have. More often then not, he’d just sat at his desk, flexing his legs, feeling up his chest, a stupid expression on his face and half a hard-on stiffening in his pants.
Dumb jock. The very thought made him walk differently, more confidently. He knew he was a big guy, a muscular guy. So what if he looked like a big dumb jock? He looked hot, and that’s all that mattered. Muscle and sex were totally linked, and so with his work outs going the way they were, why wouldn’t he be thinking about sex more often. Fuck, sex was great. He was fucking horny.
“You are horny all the time.” He was horny all the time. “You love showing off.” Judging by his rock hard cock, the way he was strutting, he sure did. “You love being a dumb jock.” Oh, fuck, yeah.
He jerked off as soon as he got home, then showered (spending extra time lathering up, feeling his broad, muscled chest, so much bigger this week than last, so much hotter), and changed. He was going out tonight, man. Fuck, he had to. He’d earned it: a good day at the gym, a fucking hot workout...yeah, he’d earned a bit of action. And how could someone this hot stay inside? He looked at the computer, even started up the track, thinking it’d be fun, stir up his libido a bit with such an impossible fantasy. Self hypnosis, yeah, right. But suddenly he realised how late it was getting, and turned off the track, mid-sentence (“...ake up...five...and you are fully aw-”). He didn’t need to listen to that track again, that Jock2 track. He looked enough like a jock these days anyway, some big dumb jock. He was sure to get laid, and get up in time for the gym tomorrow. Maybe he’d have time for another fuck tomorrow before work. Besides, he still remembered every word of the track that he remembered listening to only the once (techically twice).
He wanked his huge, throbbing meat one more time before he left, grunting with passion, abandon he couldn’t remember ever having. “FUCK! FUCK!” He shouted. “I’m a big fuckin dumb-fuck jock!” he growled, he panted, as he came.
He’d wanted to write a true story, but somehow he never made it to the keyboard, except to listen to that track until he realised he was short on time, had to get to the gym, or to the next game or practice. He worked out, he fucked, he forgot to write that story, that true hypno story, until that day, weeks, months after he’d last listened to that track. He was cleaning up, and found that cd, right next to where he kept his cleats, right in plain sight. And on it was a track he couldn’t remember ever seeing. Jock3.
Of course he listened to it, just the once (and once more to jack off). And a few days later, walking home from the gym, he was thinking he might want to write a story. A true story...
The End