Satisfied with the new father and son you just corrupted, you continue on down the sidewalk, looking out for someone else to corrupt with your slobby gaze. You pass a few folks as you walk, but none of them catch your attention enough to really feel worthy of your talents—you want something bigger, a project that could really challenge you a bit, and keep you occupied for a while. You come to an intersection, and there, across the street, you see a gym. One of those big corporate ones, with lots of floor space, exercise rooms, classes, a basketball court, probably a pool and a sauna. Filled with men and women doing their best to improve themselves and their bodies. You smile, as a devious thought creeps in, thinking about all of the filthy havoc you could wreck in a place like that, with your new found powers. You cross the street, head through the parking lot, and get a look at yourself in the mirror there. You’re absolutely filthy, still covered with shit from your run in with the father and son. While it pains you to do so, you use your powers in the mirrored windows on yourself, cleaning yourself up a little bit. Not much, but enough that you can possibly pass for normal. With that done, you head into the gym.
You’re so preoccupied with your fantasies, that you attempt to go right past the front desk, only for a large man to step in your way. He wearing gym shorts and a tight, black polo shirt. He’s several inches taller than you, and very muscular. If you had to guess, he must be one of the managers, or a personal trainer at the gym—or maybe both. “Sir,” he said, his nose wrinkled at your still pungent stench, “this is a member’s only club. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Sure, you could turn him into a six hundred pound pile of filth here and now if you wanted, but no—you wanted to take your time with this one, and have a little fun at his expense, before reaching the main course on the gym floor beyond. “Oh, well, actually, I was hoping to get a membership here. Can you take care of that for me?” you say, smiling up at the muscular fellow in front of you.
Normally, of course, he would throw someone as fat and dirty as you onto the street, by force, if necessary. But you wheedle into his mind, weaken his composure and his confidence just enough, that he falters. He’s not happy about it, clearly, but if you’re a customer…then you’re a customer, no matter how fat and filthy you might be. “Ah, I…see,” he says, clearly dismayed.
“Maybe you could give me a tour?” you ask, rubbing it in a little, “Just so I can see what sort of amenities you offer at this location?”
Begrudgingly, he sighs, nods, and you follow him into the gym proper, mind already scheming what to do with your first victim here. He clearly thinks of himself as a alpha, superior, better than anyone smaller than him—a bully. He found himself a job where bullying fat people is just part of the job description. His disdain for your body is palpable in every word he says to you as he shows you around the equipment, asking you if you’ve ever set foot in a gym in your life. Clearly, this man needs to be taken down a few pegs, and you’re just the dirty minded slob to do it.
You start slowly, as the tour goes on. Shrinking him down, inch by inch, rewiring his mind at the same time so he doesn’t even realize it’s happening his clothes, and reality around him, adjusting to his changes. Soon enough, he’s shorter than you—but you push him down even lower, and at the same time, start adding some fat to his body. By the time you reach the pool, he’s a foot shorter, and easily a hundred pounds heavier than he was before, and hasn’t noticed a thing—and his tone towards you hasn’t changed at all. It’s kind of laughable, actually, that a five foot four flabby fellow like him is still talking like some alpha god—you’ll take care of that in good time. Once you end up in one of the exercise rooms, with their mirrored walls, a new thought occurs to you—a devious, nasty thought. You focus on yourself in the mirror, and start warping your own physique. In a matter of moments, you’re no longer the chubby, hairy, bearded pig you were before—well, that’s not quite true. You still are a hairy, bearded, chubby pig, but now you’re six foot eight, and you’ve added a ton of muscle to your frame, making you look like a massive power lifter—and you smell like one that hasn’t seen a shower in a few months. The manager’s tone towards you changes immediately to reflect your new body—now he’s full of respect—maybe even admiration.
With the tour finished, you both head back towards the small cubicles near the front desk to discuss the terms of membership. As you go, you make a few more subtle changes to the manager leading the way. His coiffed hair falls out, leaving him with early onset male pattern baldness, zits and acne cover his face, and a pair of thick glasses are now sitting on the bridge of his nose. He’s looking more and more like a chubby, ugly nerd, and less like the muscle god he still thinks he is on the inside—at least for now. He leads you to his desk, and he sits down on one side. You take the chair across from him, and feel the cheap plastic bend and strain under your now muscular frame. “Alright, now, we have two membership tiers here at the gym,” the manager says, pushing his glasses up, his voice now high and nasally. “Silver, and Gold. I assume a man like you—like me—would benefit most from the gold level,” he smiles at you.
The next change is more subtle. You want to break this chubby little nerd. You make a few little tweaks to his sexuality—make him incredibly turned on by being humiliated, especially by big, musky muscle men like you are now. The only catch, is that he isn’t aware of his new fetish yet, though he will be soon enough. “Actually, I was thinkin’ you could add a third membership level for me,” you say, sneering down at the little nerd, watching his start to sweat a bit.
“O-Oh?” he says, not quite sure why he feels a sudden lurch of excitement in his gut—and his groin.
“Yeah,” you say, leaning in closer, “I think you should give me a membership for free, faggot.”
He shudders with unexpected pleasure at the insult, but tries to maintain his composure, “S-Sir, I…we have a strict no harassment policy here, and we certainly don’t offer memberships for free…”
You reach out, and grab hold of the front of his polo, tugging him forward hard enough that the desk cuts into his large gut, and the front of his shirt starts to tear, “Listen to me, you fuckin’ faggot. I saw you checking me out on that fuckin’ tour. I bet you love workin’ here, don’t ya? Ogling muscle gods like me all day? You should be payin’ me to workout here.”
He shuddered again, both in fear, and arousal. Doubt crept into the corners of his mind. Had he been checking you out? Staring at you? “I…wasn’t…” You give him awareness that he’s changed, let him begin to realize that, over the course of a few minutes and a short walk around the gym, he went from a stud, to a short, overweight, ugly nerd. “No—what…this isn’t right,” he says, looking down at himself, “What did you do to me?”
“Don’t worry faggot, soon enough, you’ll forget you were ever some muscular hot shot. All you’ll remember is this new life, where you’re some ugly, slobby, fatass nerd who lucked into his dream job working at a gym. A total virgin, since the only thing you fuck is your hand, playing with your little cock all day long, while you stare at the muscle men around here—isn’t that right, you dirty pervert?”
You lean back in the chair, feeling it shudder under your weight, and put your muscular arms back behind your head, exposing your rank, hairy pits—and the nerd’s eyes immediately lock onto them with lust.
“So faggot, here’s what you’re going to do,” you continue, “you’re going to take out your credit card, and sign me up for a gold plan, which you’ll be paying for. Then, you’re going to send me $200 dollars over Paypal, and do you know why you’ll do that, faggot?”
“W-Why?” he asks, still staring at your pits.
“Because once you do that, I’ll let you shove your ugly little face into my pits. And when you do that, your cock is going to explode in the front of your pants, and all your memories of being a hotshot jock are going to go with them, trapping you as this fat, worthless, nasty little freak for the rest of your life.”
“I’m not going to do that,” he whimpered, “Why would I do that? Just…just change me back!”
You can already hear the desire there, the lust eating away at his good sense. You just smile, and say, “Because the thought of ruining yourself is fucking hot, isn’t it? Letting me use you like a fucking ATM has that little chode cock of yours rock hard. Pull it out—go on, let’s get a good look at your worthless fucking tool.”
Helpless to stop himself, he stood up from the desk, dropped his shorts and underwear, and displayed his little cock—two inches poking out from his fat pad, thicker than it would ever be long, already drooling precum on the floor.
“You wanna cum, don’t you faggot? Every time I insult you, it just makes it worse. You know what I’ll do once you give in and buy me a membership here? I’m going to ruin this place, everyone here, just like I’ve ruined you. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of dumb, filthy muscle pigs to drool over once I’m done with the place, but you, you’re never going to be anything over than a fat, pimply faced loser. As much as you’ll want men to fuck you, for the rest of your life you’re going to be stuck as a worthless virgin addicted to fucking your own fist, because no man will ever agree to have sex with you, no matter how much you beg, no matter how much money you offer them. You’ll just be a dumb little pervert stuck worshiping superior men from a far. So do it. Do it faggot, go on, I know you want to. I know you can’t stop yourself.”
He had his wallet out before you even got to the final insult, putting the information in on the computer, making sure he would be charged $70 dollars a month for your new gym membership. Then, he took out his phone, asked you for your paypal info, and you felt your phone buzz—$200 extra dollars, as requested.
“Fuck, you really did it. I was gonna change you back, you know,” you say, “But I guess you really do want to be stuck as fat loser virgin for the rest of your life.”
Before he can say anything, you grab hold of the back of his head and shove him into your stinking pit, and he shudders, flooding his underwear and shorts with a massive load of cum without even touching himself, all of his old memories draining away. You let him lick at your pit for a few moments, then shove him away when he starts to get a bit clingy.
“Fuck Sir, fuck! I…how…how much to, uh, smell your feet? Fuck, anything…I’ll do anything…” He whines at you.
“Shut up faggot, I have a workout to get to, but if you want to buy my smelly shoes, it’ll be $1000 dollars,” you say, grab your membership card from the desk, and proceed into the gym proper, thinking about what kind of slobby fun to have next around here…