It’s Our Duty To Raise REAL MEN.

Another trip around the sun and another level up! ⬆️🎂

When I was in my 20’s I recall people warning me to wait until I was in my 40’s. That’s when things would go south and my body would ache, and become overweight and sag. Well here I am officially over half way through that “dreadful” period and so far so good.

Sure I feel a few aches some days more than others, some things are a little tougher than they were 25 years ago and I may have a few more grey hairs and wrinkles but overall I feel good, I think I look good, and its just all good.

I don’t really feel 46. Guess I’ve made some mental and physical choices that have allowed me not to become what so many others just accept as part of getting older.

Turns out old dogs can learn new tricks

Arturo, check these @alpha-freak and @ozalpha out! They fit right in with the Pack!

#letStartBeingAFreak

It is clearly a first step, but it is the military difficult. One year ago, I was still thinking about being muscular. Now I’m completely addicted, I went to be huge, freakingly huge, I want to scare people, I want to have little worshipper bitches begging for a really hard pounding…

Next step is coming…

#feedMeLikeAMonster #juiceMeUp

Your cock connected to your groin. Your groin connected to your body. Your body connected to your mouth. Your mouth connected to my cock.

Your body getting bigger, stronger, harder - like my cock in your mouth. Bigger, stronger, harder. My cock enlarging inside of your hungry mouth. Your mouth becuming connected to it. Your entire body shaking with pleasure as I flex my cock in your hungry mouth. My cock guiding your body’s movement. In sync. Lose yourself in the musk of my crotch. Exist in the moment, solely in the moment. Welcome what your crave. Welcome my cock. Accept my cock. As it accepts you. As it turns you into an extension of my cock. Of my will. You are the beast between my legs. A manly snake. My third leg. Eres mi polla. Eres mi verga. I grab your head like I would grab my cock to masturbate. And you drool as I leak in your mouth. Your saliva and my precum are one. Your mouth and cock are one.

And when I come inside of you, my cum travels through you. And you cum at the end of your cock. Because all of you is an extension of my cock.

You are my cock. Mi polla. Mi verga.

-Dom Francesco

Your Surrender

Let’s set the stage, help you envision the scene.

You feel yourself squirming a little lately, spiritually speaking.  It’s not ideal.  The town in which you live is small enough that your past washes up on the shores of the present every day, a little bit.  You used to have a little too much fun with drugs and alcohol.  Maybe you were a little too outgoing.  Maybe you’re a different person now, slightly, but your ghost hangs around and haunts you.

You’re not proud of your past.  In fact, you’re a future-forward kind of guy.  You have a nostalgia for a past you’ve never lived.  You reason that if you had a different past - different actions, different environments, different habits - you’d be inhabiting a different present.  You’d be a different person.

When you sigh, it’s a big, gusty thing that seems to sweep out the darkest corners of your body.  The time has come and gone to do something about it.  So you move, at his instruction.  Your ears bend to his words, and your brain concedes control to your dick.  He makes you so hard, the way he talks to you.  Your interests parallel.  You have long, engaging conversations that verge on intellectual, sometimes, about the nature of transformation and what you truly want from life.  As the months roll, you grow closer and closer to him.  You talk to him on the phone three, four times a day.  You don’t always remember everything, but you know that he has some kind of power, some kind of power over you, and you thrill to it.

You obey the call.  You surrender, and you do it, for the first time, without hesitation.  He’s just … different, somehow.  He resonates.

Like many, you made a New Year’s Resolution.  You’re a Resolutioner.  You’re part of that dreaded herd that swarms the gyms on 2 January, at least on the surface level.  As February comes and goes, March swirls angrily by and leaves April shuddering in its wake.  The warmth seeps up from below.  You feel the world changing around you, and its voice is inviting you to do the same.  Change.  Evolve.  The whispers in the wind are seductive, beguiling.  They seep in through the bedroom’s open window as you lay there, waking.

And it’s that time of the year, too.  The winter’s lacquer of snow & ice has finally shattered, and the sun strobes strongly through more hours of the day.  When you wake up in the morning, the outside world is airily infiltrating your bedroom through the open window.  Instead of groping through a charcoal void, your skin prickling with cold, your eyes snap open and your mouth curves into a satisfied, relaxed smile.  You test your muscles with a stretch, hearing the joints pop and the sinews sing against the bone.  

You do not lay in bed alone.  His voice is there, too.  And his body, his hands.  He slaps your up-turned ass - hard - and says quietly, “Mine.”  And it’s a joke, but it’s not a joke, too.  “Gym time, boy,” he says, and you know it’s true.  When he speaks, it’s invariable, immutable, fixed.  There’s a certain iron cast to the words - when he wants there to be - and they crash down like a portcullis.  It’s gym time.

You’ve taken to the routine.  You’ve always been a creature of habit.  Conscientious to a fault, perhaps just a little too neat.  You like things just so, but sometimes fret over the idiot details.  He’s helping you with this.  It’s kind of him.  He’s helping you to unwind the invisible wires around your brain - to be less conscious of every single thing around you.  Or, if not less conscious, to be a little more dismissive of the idiot details.  He’s teaching you how to paint with broad strokes, rather than scribbling in the margins with a fine-tip pen.  This appeals to you.  Your stride gets longer.  Your eyes fix on objects in the distance.

Especially muscles.  Your eyes are drawn to them.  Now that you live in the Big City, you take long walks when you could take the subway, just so you can see more.  Now that the days are warmer and less insulation is required, you can see the results of the efforts of the guys around you.  How they adorn their work with swirls of black ink, or how they wear their favorite brands.  How they hide their eyes behind mirrored shades.  And when you see them, you start to follow them.  It’s not unnatural - just a guy walking behind a guy for a little while.  It’s a big city.  No one notices.  And the entire time, you feel this sharp, twisting pang in your deepness, and you feel yourself shifting in your shorts.  Your basketball shorts, the ones that he picked out for you that morning.  You haven’t chosen your own clothing now in months, and it hasn’t really occurred to you - but that’s just one of those idiot details that isn’t necessary for you to focus on.  The second you even consider it, it’s gone, like ash tumbling through the air.

You’ve become quietly covetous.  The first place your eyes fall when you see another guy is the place on their bicep where the sleeve falls.  Even better if the entire peak is displayed, from the small cannonball of the deltoid down to the olecranon of the elbow.  Next, if available, the etched diamond of the calf muscle.  Even better if the shorts fall just above the kneecap, displaying the firm teardrop of the vastus medialis.

And you see?  In your covetousness, you’ve eagerly sought out the information necessary.  What these muscles are called.  How to name them.  The deltoids.  The biceps.  The biceps femoris.  The quadriceps.  The abdominals, the serratus.  The pectorals.  You’ve become a student of the male body - and your major is the muscles.  You hungrily seek out this information.  Again, you’d stop to ask why, but that’s just one of those idiot details.  Your broad strokes of thought boldly wash out those hesitant, pencil-like scrawlings.  

Your conversation shifts, too.  Your remarks, even just the little off-cuff remarks you make to co-workers, are about your newfound interest.  You might even tentatively complain a little, about your sore quads, or how your pecs feel so full, but so tight, since yesterday was chest day, bro.

Let’s take a break.  You have the tableau, you see the players.  One of those players is, in fact, you.  Big picture.  And the other, well, he’s grinning just out of the corner of your eye, when you lay together, spent & exhausted on the bedspread.  You might even be covered in cum, but you’re laughing, a big gusty sound that originates from down in your chest - actually, come to think of it, where most of your sound comes from these days.  You’ve been feeling yourself expanding, somehow.  Slowly, but surely.

Is this magic?

You tell me.

You’re lying there, next to him.  You play your hands over the contours of his muscles.  He loves it when you knead into his rhomboids, his lats.  You’re kept in a slight state of astonishment whenever you see his chest.  He likes it that way.  Flexes for you, with his eyes and grin fixed on yours.  Later, he’ll cinch the measuring tape around your waist, around your chest, tug it tight around your bicep.  And you’ll flex, and you’ll laugh.  Because you know that number is gonna get higher, and higher, just as maybe your IQ number might be getting a little lower.

Somewhere inside of your skull, that little scratching sound, that pencil cribbing in the margins, is worrying over that detail.  You can hear it, but just like living in the Big City, there’s always some kind of noise, some kind of static.  As easily as a gnat at your ear, you whisk it away with an absent-minded dismissal.  Because

“Gym time, boy.”  And the seriousness of his words expand in the air, creating an invisible push at the small of your back.  You go together, and he observes, and he watches.  He corrects your form.  Sometimes you spot one another on the bench.  You workout until you both shake with effort and hunger.  And probably a little from that bomb-ass pre-workout, too.  Damn, does that shit fizz in the veins.  And it makes the veins pop, too!  You love marvelling at the way your veins pop out against your growing bicep.  You love the comments people give, those commonplace “Wow!  You’ve been working out, huh?”  

“Sure,” you grunt in modest reply, and flex, perhaps a little conspiratorially, like you’re sharing a secret with this awed co-worker.  And one day, you might notice out of the corner of your eye, this guy that’s kinda been following you for a block or two.  

Full circle, bro.  You might be just aware of the eyes prickling against your skin.  The way your shorts and Chicago Bulls jersey fall on your frame.  You’ve long since ditched the glasses, and you sport shades now - mirrored ones, like aviators.  Just like everything else you’re wearing, he picked it out.

At the crosswalk, the little orange hand turns solid and you come to a stop.  You are tired from your workout, but not too tired to stretch, turning that stretch into a surreptitious flex.  You might even lower your shades and wink at the guy you feel gaping at you, trying successfully to blend into the crowd of other normal people.  How badly you want to warn him - no, not warm him, haha, what the hell would you be warning the little dude about?  More like, you wanna turn around and be like BRO, JUST LIFT and see the reality registering in his eyes, see him start to change too.  See him start to expand, see his chin lift, see the ink - just like yours, big tribals, so much depth, you could stare for hours - just materialize on his skin.

And maybe he does.  Maybe that poor, shrimpy onlooker with more weight in his skull than muscles on his bones feels that subtle, shifting wind.  Maybe he, too, inhales - inhales deeper than he ever has before, scours out the basement of his body with his breath, and lets it out in a huge, gusty exorcism.  Maybe he turns the corner and puts pen to paper at the front counter, and finds himself waking up in the morning with new ideas, thoughts, plans, goals.  

Maybe you’re contagious.  That thought makes you laugh - it’s really more a guffaw, now, this deep sort of chuckle that makes you sound a little bone-headed.  Like maybe lifting is catching, bro.  How sweet would that be?

And the future is still ahead of you, though you don’t pay it much mind.  You follow the street home to him, to his words, to his gaze, to his arms around your body.  To the murmurs you’ll forget as he talks you down, smiling at you the whole time.

It isn’t magic, because there’s no such thing as magic, right?  But it’s close enough to be effective, so maybe it is.  

Anyway, if he told you there was such a thing as magic, you’d believe him.

You’d believe anything.

May 6, 2018. Forced Workout.

8am, Sunday morning.

The stakes are getting high. You have an upcoming race, Arturo. And I am sculpting your body into that of a magnificently virile soldier, a Spartan ready to dominate the competition, dominate those other males. You have it in you. The strength to meet my expectations. To become what you are meant to be. There is nothing you want more than to become what I envision. To let your primal side take over. To let the testosterone course through your body and turn into a beast. My beast. Nothing you want more than to become mine.

 Reading this, your cock already twitches.

 Fuck, you’re already horny, aren’t you?

Good boy.

 We have been talking about today’s workout for a while. Planned it carefully. You are ready to follow my lead. You know this will be hard. Torture, almost. But there is nothing you cannot overcome soldier when your alpha guides you. Follow. Obey. Grow. This is your mantra, now.

 Prove it to me.

 Get yourself hard, jocktoy.

 This is my first instruction.

Do not skip ahead, soldier. Follow the instructions as you read them.

 Hard, yet?

 Then thug on your balls. Pull on your cock.

If you are clothed, get naked.

 Squeeze your balls.

Feel the blood fill it even more. Making it more sensitive.

Bigger in your hands.

Look at your snake coming alive.

Flex your cock. Tighten the muscles.

Hold for four seconds.

Release.

Repeat.

Match your breathing to the tightening, holding, and releasing.

Yes.

Repeat.

You are a male, soldier. A fucking beast sculpted out of pure testosterone.

Be proud of that cock coming alive in your hands.

Tighten.

Hold.

Release.

 Twenty more times.

 You starting to feel it, soldier? How powerful your cock makes you!

 Show me. Grunt.

Louder, pussy.

Let me hear that deep, primal grunt.

 Tighten.

Hold.

Release.

 Again.

 Fuck yeah!

 Reach out for the peppermint essential oil.

I’m gonna share a secret with you, soldier.

A secret that will force you to keep focused on your balls throughout the training.

 In the palm of your hand, release two drops.

Rub your hands together a couple of times.

Smells nice, right?

Imagine when that smell will mix with your musk, later on.

Overpowering your nostrils. Making you high on your own fucking manly scent.

 Now rub your hands on your balls.

You don’t want the oil directly on there (not yet, anyway).

Indirectly, having rubbed your hands and then your balls is fine.

 You’ll start feeling it in no time.

It will surprise you.

It might get your heart racing as you wonder if you did the right thing listening to the instructions.

Trust me. Endure the pain. To become the beast you want to be, to prove yourself worthy, you already endure pain in the gym. I know you can do it.

  Text me on Kik to tell me you’re starting the next phase.

As the warmth of the peppermint settles in, go to www.edgemeplease.com

You know the website. We’ve been using it.

Make sure our app to call each other is on. I might call you while you are edging.

Not to chat. Just to make sure you are grunting like the fucking animal you are.

 Settings: Hard; Not cumming.

It’ll be easy on you: you have to do it for 30 minutes.

 I might listen in. So you better take this seriously cause I wanna hear some grunting and rapid breathing, soldier.

 As you follow the instruction on the screen, focus on the idea of you being tied and being milked by your fellow brohs. Members of the pack who admire your body. Who lust after your rapid growth. Who want you so fucking bad. You are my second-in-command. And yet these guys are bigger than you. But your growth is fast. Wrap your fist tight around your cock and make me proud. Make them envious. Admiring.

 And focus on the burning sensation on your balls.

If it recedes too much, add a drop of peppermint oil. Rubbing your hands together first and then rubbing your balls.

  Do not continue reading until you are done with the edging.

 …

…

…

 Warm up for what is to come.

Do 50 jumping jacks. Followed by high knee running in place for 30 seconds.

Repeat.

 The heart should start pumping.

The leg muscles should start awakening.

 Good. Cause you are headed out for a run soon.

 But first… remember how I asked you to get a 15 pounds kettlebell?

 It’s because you’re up for 10 Turkish get-ups. On each side.

If you haven’t heard of that exercise yet, get ready for a sore ass tomorrow.

Take the time to Youtube it and learn how to do it.

 Remember, 10 on each side.

You’ll be cursing by the end.

But fear not… it’s only the beginning.

 …

…

…

 Now that the Turkish get-ups are over with, you are headed out for a run. Get your gear ready. Including your dirty jock, which you’ll wear. Sniff it well before you put it on. Let your musk set your brain on fire.

 Instructions for the race:

Wear your jock. The musky one.

Every two minutes, get to the ground for 5 push-ups.

Run until you reach the 5k.

You can walk if you must, but you need to do the full three miles today.

Obviously, the more you walk the more push-ups you’ll end up doing.

But I know you’re a strong man, Arturo. A few push-ups won’t get you tired yet, just more pumped, semental. Focus on your strength, soldier. On how fucking good and heavy and full your balls feel. You are my man. My protégé. Be strong. Grit your teeth and push further.

 …

…

…

 Once home after the race:

 Get naked as soon as you get inside the house.

Hydrate well.

Get hard. Hard a fuck, hombre. You were out for a fucking 5k after edging, your balls on fire. And now you’re about to dive deeper into your true manhood.

 For five minutes, take a few ice cubes and run them along your shaft and your balls and your legs. Feel them melt on your hard shaft, on your tired quads. Fuck you are a stud. Getting fucking pumped for your alpha.

 …

…

…

 Now get ready for the next phase.

Apply the peppermint oil as before.

You will do 100 lunges in sets of twenty.

Between each set, you must bring yourself as close to cumming as you can.

When you are certain you cannot jerkoff anymore because you will cum, stop and do twenty lunges.

Repeat until you reach 100 lunges.

 We are finishing with pull-ups.

You have been improving really quickly on that front.

I’m proud of you as fuck.

Your task now is to do pulls-ups until failure. You’re probably getting quite tired at this point. But just think about how fucking pump you’ll be after!

Then jerk off until you can barely hold your seed in.

Repeat.

You are done when you cannot lift yourself up for a single pull-up.

 Congratulations, you have made it through. That is, if you have managed to reach this point without cumming.

 If so, your prize is to decide whether you want to cum for me now or hold your seed in until you get to fuck your wife.

 If you came before it was time, let me know. Expect a punishment.

 When you are done, write an update here so that our fellow bros, fucking meatheads like you, will be inspired and join the pack in turn. Spread your musk. Make their nostrils flare with your manly scent. We gotta grow them too, solider. And there is no better instrument for that than seeing how you are turning into a fucking stallion! Don’t think, just write. Let your cock do the writing. Tell us what a beast you have become, jocktoy.

The Pack, after an arm workout suggested by @primalenergy1. Grinning. Feeling connected. Bonded. 

 Swollen.

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Finally happened, my ass is bigger than my jeans. I guess all those squats that my Master make me do are paying off. I was lucky to be wearing a jockstrap when that happened. 😈

-Arturo