Cmc

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here

Chester sat on the worn couch in his small trailer, phone propped against a beer can as he scrolled through the latest wave of NFL videos. The simple-minded country hick had been glued to the screen for weeks, fascinated as one muscular stud after another showed up wearing one of those bright red Make Football Straight Again shirts and transformed into pure, aggressive alpha perfection. Josh Allen leading the charge, the Watt and Bosa brothers flexing like gods... Chester’s cock twitched every time he saw the muscular behemoths they had grown into. The raw masculinity and proud heterosexuality turned him on more than anything ever had. 

Yet beneath the arousal, something deeper tugged at him. He wanted to be part of it. He wanted to wear the red himself.

He typed out the confession to Morgan, his Daddy, the man who had owned his mind and body for over a year with powers no one else understood. Morgan’s reply came back fast, a laughing voice note that made Chester’s cheeks burn: “Aw, little beta wants to play big bad football man? Cute. Stay in your lane, boy. You are what I say you are.”

The dismissal stung, but the parcel arrived two days later anyway. No return address, just a plain box containing a lock of thick blond hair, a small vial of dark liquid, and a folded sheet of yellowed paper covered in an ancient language that somehow made sense the moment Chester looked at it. He knew exactly what to do. 

Chester lit the candles on his rickety kitchen table, pricked his finger, and let three drops of blood fall onto the lock of blond hair. He held it over the flame and began chanting the incantation, the strange words rolling off his tongue like they had always belonged there. The smoke rose thick and sweet. The world lurched violently. His simple country-hick body slumped forward as his spirit was ripped free and hurled across the country in a rush of dark energy.

He slammed into the new, far more powerful frame mid-stride in a luxury California home gym, the impact so sudden and violent that the borrowed lungs gasped out a sharp breath. It was Christian McCaffrey’s body. For one terrifying heartbeat the real soul of the 49ers star thrashed inside their shared mind, screaming in pure terror and confusion at the intruder who had just ripped him from his own existence. The scream lasted less than a second. Then it was cut off completely, consumed in an instant by a rush of dark, hungry energy that left nothing behind. Chester’s consciousness settled in like it had always belonged there, smooth and seamless, every nerve and muscle fiber lighting up with overwhelming power.

Memories flooded him in a dizzying torrent: game-winning runs, contract negotiations, the smell of the locker room after a hard practice, the faces of teammates, the exact weight of a football in his hands. Everything that had ever happened to Christian was now Chester’s to freely access.

And there, sitting neatly folded on the bench press like an invitation, was the bright red MFSA shirt Nick Bosa had mailed him yesterday. The pull toward it hit immediately, warm and magnetic. The fabric seemed to call to him as if it was alive, humming with the same supernatural promise that had already remade so many others.

He crossed the room on thick thighs that already flexed with borrowed power, each step feeling heavy and commanding. His hand, now large and veined, closed around the shirt. The cotton hummed against his palm like a living thing, pulsing with heat that traveled straight up his arm and into his chest. Chester did not even hesitate. A low, eager growl rose in his new throat as he stripped off the tank top and pulled the red MFSA shirt over Christian’s head. The moment the fabric settled against his skin, stretching snug across the already athletic torso, the transformation began in earnest.

A deep, pleasurable heat bloomed across his chest like liquid fire pouring straight into the muscle. Pectorals surged forward in heavy, relentless waves, expanding outward into thick, armor-like slabs that stretched the red cotton painfully tight. The stitched white letters distorted over the growing curves as the muscle fibers multiplied and thickened, pushing the pecs into a powerful, rounded shelf that forced his arms to rest at wider angles. Nipples hardened into sensitive peaks, sending jolts of raw pleasure straight down his spine with every breath. Shoulders broadened with a series of deep, rolling cracks that echoed through the gym, deltoids exploding into thick, striated caps of pure power while his traps climbed higher and higher up a rapidly thickening neck. His arms were next. Biceps ballooned dramatically, peaking into sharp, vascular mountains that split into two distinct heads, while triceps swelled into powerful horseshoes beneath them. Veins snaked and pulsed across forearms that doubled in girth, the cords standing out like ropes under the skin.

The growth raced down his back. Lats flared out so wide they pulled at the shirt seams with audible creaks, creating a dramatic V-taper that made his waist look even tighter. Abs carved themselves deeper and deeper into a brutal eight-pack, each block separated by shadowed cuts that gleamed with a light sheen of sweat. Lower still the heat detonated. Quads exploded outward in thick sweeps of striated muscle, the vastus lateralis and medialis pushing aggressively against the shorts until the fabric began to tear at the seams. Hamstrings tightened into dense, powerful cords while calves diamonded into rock-hard sculpted shapes that lifted him slightly onto the balls of his feet. Glutes firmed and rounded into two heavy, striated slabs of power that filled out the seat of his shorts. Even his cock responded, thickening and lengthening rapidly inside the fabric, growing heavier, longer, and far more insistent as raw alpha energy flooded every cell and nerve.

The mental shift followed right behind the physical surge, slow and twisting like the shirt itself was rewriting him from the inside out, one belief at a time. Liberal tolerance, the soft little ideas Chester had once carried in his old body, melted away under wave after wave of hardcore conservative fire. At first it felt like simple clarity. Why pretend anymore? Women were objects now, pretty things built for real men to enjoy whenever and however they wanted. He pictured them on their knees, bent over locker room benches, existing only to serve and please. The thought made his newly thickened cock throb hard against the shorts. The gays? Weak, disgusting betas trying to ruin a man’s sport with their rainbow agenda and their constant need for attention. He couldn’t believe he’d ever been one of them. Football needed to be straight again, raw and brutal and unapologetic, the way it was always meant to be.

Chester grinned wide inside Christian’s new alpha body, the old simple-minded country-hick sub completely overwritten by toxic, dominant confidence. Every liberal hesitation burned away until nothing remained but pure, unfiltered power. He was Christian McCaffrey now, bigger, stronger, and finally on the right side of everything that mattered. He flexed both arms hard in the mirror, watching the biceps peak sharply under the red fabric, and let out a low, satisfied laugh. The shirt had done its job perfectly. He belonged here.

His phone began ringing on the weight bench, the sharp vibration cutting through the heavy silence of the luxury home gym. Chester, now fully settled inside Christian McCaffrey’s transformed body, reached for it with one massive hand, thick fingers wrapping around the device with effortless strength. The sight of a familiar number - one he’d memorized - on the screen sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the alpha power currently surging through every vein.

He accepted the video call. Morgan Wallen’s handsome, cocky face filled the screen, that familiar arrogant smirk pulling at his lips as he leaned back in what looked like the leather seat of a private jet.

“Look at you, my boy,” Morgan drawled slowly, his Southern accent thick with amusement and ownership. His eyes roamed openly over the image on his screen, taking in every inch of the enhanced running back staring back at him. “God damn. Christian McCaffrey himself. All bulked up and wearing that pretty red shirt like it was made for you. Those pecs look heavy as hell. Arms thicker than they have any right to be. And I bet that cock of yours is nice and heavy in those shorts right now. You look like a real straight alpha… on the outside.”

Chester instinctively flexed one arm for the camera, the bicep peaking sharply under the tight red fabric as a low, satisfied growl escaped his new throat. “It feels fucking incredible, Daddy.” His stomach twisted when he used that term. It didn’t feel right calling another man “Daddy”, not now he was in the body of a straight man. Still, he couldn’t shake the need to respect Morgan. “The size, the strength. Everything the shirt gave me. I feel like I could crush anyone.”

Morgan chuckled, low and dangerous, the sound rolling through the speaker like a promise and a threat at the same time. He leaned closer to his own camera, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “New rules for our little game, boy. Listen close, because I am only saying this once. You can strut around with your football buddies acting as straight and toxic as you want. Talk all the shit you like about the gays ruining the league. Treat every woman you see like the pretty little object she is. Chase pussy, slap asses, fuck as many of them as you desire. It will feel completely natural to you now. The shirt made sure of that. You are going to crave women. You are going to hate anything weak or queer. You are going to be the perfect, loud, unapologetic straight alpha football player to the rest of the world.”

Morgan’s smirk widened, his voice dropping into that commanding tone that had always turned Chester’s knees to water, even in this godlike body.

“But never forget who really owns you underneath all that new muscle. I still own you completely. One secret codeword from me and everything the shirt gave you collapses in a heartbeat. That straight alpha act, that burning disgust for anything gay, that hunger for women. It all vanishes. You will drop right back into cock-hungry beta boy mode, begging for Daddy’s cock like the desperate, whimpering little sub you actually are. Your new heterosexuality? It is just a gift I am letting you borrow. I can strip it away anytime I want and turn you back into my leaking, cock-obsessed bottom boy, even while you are walking around in that massive, powerful frame. One word and you will be on your knees in your own mind, no matter who is watching. Understand?”

The words sank deep into Chester’s core. On the surface he was straight, completely and aggressively so. The thought of women made his newly thickened cock twitch and swell with genuine, throbbing hunger. The very idea of touching another man felt repulsive and weak. But the realization hit him like a dark, erotic punch to the gut. It was all conditional. Fragile. Morgan could take every ounce of that hard-won straightness away with a single secret codeword and leave him humiliated and desperate in this perfect alpha body. The power imbalance sent a twisted thrill straight through him, his massive pecs tightening under the red shirt while a secret wave of submissive heat pooled low in his belly. He was an alpha right now, but only because Morgan allowed it.

Chester nodded eagerly inside his new frame, his deep, commanding voice steady and confident on the surface even as the humiliating thrill made his pulse race. “Yes, Daddy. I understand. Are… are you the one who made these shirts?”

Morgan’s smirk widened into something almost predatory. “Good boy. And no, I’m not telling you whether I had anything to do with those pretty red shirts spreading through the league or not. That is way above your pay grade, little beta. You just focus on playing your new role perfectly. Enjoy the ride while it lasts. Who knows when I might decide to flip the switch and remind you exactly what you really are.”

The call ended abruptly, Morgan’s face disappearing from the screen and leaving Chester staring at his own reflection once more. The red shirt still strained gloriously across his chest, the body still felt unstoppable, and the straight alpha hunger still burned hot inside him. But now he knew the truth. It could all be taken away in an instant. And the knowledge only made him harder.

Later that evening Chester, now fully and seamlessly Christian McCaffrey in both mind and body, pushed open the heavy wooden door of a downtown San Francisco sports bar that the 49ers had claimed as their unofficial off-season spot. The group of massively enhanced teammates already occupied the large corner booth, their red MFSA shirts stretched tight across chests that had grown even more imposing since the shirts first claimed them. The fabric looked painted on, the white stitching of the letters distorted over the heavy curves of pectoral muscle that rose and fell with every breath.

Nick Bosa sat at the head of the table like a king, his traps and deltoids so thick they forced his shoulders to flare wide, the red shirt straining audibly every time he moved. George Kittle lounged beside him, biceps peaking sharply even at rest, while Brock Purdy and a few others took up the rest of the booth, their own transformed frames filling the space with raw, unapologetic power. All of them wore the red MFSA shirt and looked like gods who had decided the old rules no longer applied.

Nick slammed a heavy fist onto the wooden table the moment Christian slid into the booth, the impact loud enough to make the beer glasses jump. “Fucking fags trying to ruin the locker room with their rainbow bullshit,” he growled, voice thick with pure contempt that rolled out like gravel. “They need to stay the hell out of our sport. No more special nights, no more flags in the stadium, no more pretending it is okay for a man to act soft around real alphas.”

The table erupted in deep, approving laughter that boomed across the bar. George Kittle flexed one massive arm for emphasis, the bicep exploding into a sharp, vascular peak that made the red sleeve ride up. “Damn right. This city is the worst. San Francisco is fag central. Walk down the street and it is all pride parades, rainbow flags on every damn building, and dudes holding hands like it is normal. We’re changing that reputation starting now. With the red shirts spreading and us growing into the real alphas the league needs, this whole city is going to learn what straight football looks like. Make San Francisco straight again too.”

Brock Purdy nodded eagerly, draining half his beer in one go before adding his own crude spin. “Exactly. Too many gays thinking they can just waltz into our world and turn it soft. We’re the 49ers. We hit hard, we talk straight, and we fuck women. Let them keep their parades somewhere else. Our locker room stays pure from now on.”

Nick chimed back in now: “Women will know their place too. On their knees or cheering from the sidelines. Not in the front office, not in the huddle pretending they belong. The shirt fixed all that thinking for good.”

Christian laughed right along with them, the sound natural and booming, rolling out of his deep new chest with zero effort. He raised his own beer, clinking it hard against Nick’s glass, and jumped into the banter without missing a beat: “Hell yeah. This city has been begging for a reset. All those rainbow flags everywhere, all those weak betas thinking they can make football inclusive. Fuck that. We’re the ones who are going to make it straight again. San Francisco is our town now, and the 49ers are leading the charge. No more tolerance. No more excuses. Just real men, real hits, and real pussy.”

The group roared with approval, fists slamming the table again as more crude jokes flew back and forth. Nick clapped Christian hard on the shoulder, the impact solid against the dense muscle there. “That is what I am talking about, CMC. You finally get it. Welcome to the real side, brother.”

On the surface Christian’s grin never faltered. His massive frame stayed relaxed and confident, the red shirt pulling tight across his enhanced pecs as he leaned into the toxic energy of the table. The banter felt right. It felt powerful. It felt like home.

But in the back of his mind Morgan’s voice whispered low and intimate, a secret only the two of them knew, cutting through the noise like a private command: “Keep laughing, beta. You are only playing pretend out there. The boys think you are one of them, a big straight alpha just like the rest. But we both know the truth. You are still my cock-hungry little beta in disguise, wearing that pretty red shirt like a costume Daddy let you borrow.”

A secret thrill raced down Christian’s spine, hot and electric, making his newly thickened cock twitch once inside his shorts despite the straight alpha hunger the shirt had given him. The contrast was perfect. Outwardly he was everything the movement demanded. Inwardly he still belonged to Morgan completely, one secret codeword away from collapsing back into the desperate sub he truly was. The game was on, and he was exactly where he belonged.

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here - part thirteen here - part fourteen here - part fifteen here

The now-corrupted NFL senior staff wasted no time tightening their grip on the league.

In the weeks following the explosive season opener, Roger Goodell had become little more than Josh Allen’s meek, trembling beta puppet. The once iron-fisted commissioner who had ruled the league with bureaucratic precision and cold authority now moved through league headquarters with downcast eyes and a soft, submissive posture.

Beneath his tailored suits he wore the humiliating baby-blue “2 BETA 4 FOOTBALL” shirt that had stripped him of every ounce of power. The fabric clung to his softened, diminished frame, a constant reminder of his fall. His shoulders were narrower, his chest flatter, his presence reduced to something small and eager to please. When he spoke in meetings his voice was quiet and deferential, always glancing toward his phone as if waiting for Josh Allen’s next order. The proud executive who had once intimidated owners and players alike now existed only to serve the MFSA vision.

Under Josh’s direct orders, Goodell and his newly compliant executives began applying heavy, relentless pressure on every team that still showed even the slightest resistance. Internal memos circulated through front offices with clinical coldness, warning that “continued non-compliance with league unity initiatives” would result in steep fines, loss of draft picks, reduced revenue sharing, and “re-evaluation of coaching and personnel decisions.”

Private calls were made to resistant general managers and owners, the language veiled but unmistakable: conform or be left behind. League investigators suddenly appeared at practice facilities, asking pointed questions about “team culture” and “player conduct.” Sponsors were quietly encouraged to pull support from any franchise that dragged its feet. The message was crystal clear. The red wave was no longer optional. It was mandatory.

In Kansas City, the pressure finally broke one of the last significant holdouts.

Andy Reid, the longtime Chiefs head coach who had stood firmly behind Patrick Mahomes and the remaining unenhanced players, was summoned to a private league meeting in New York. The veteran coach arrived expecting a discussion about roster rules or scheduling. Instead he found Roger Goodell waiting for him in a dimly lit conference room, the commissioner’s baby-blue shirt just visible beneath his open suit jacket.

“Andy,” Goodell began, his voice soft and submissive as he read from a script that was clearly written by Josh Allen himself, “the league has reviewed your recent conduct and your refusal to embrace the MFSA movement. Your continued resistance is harming the unity of the game. For the good of the league’s image and long-term stability, we are forcing you into immediate early retirement.”

Reid’s face turned beet red with fury. He slammed a meaty fist on the table, making the water glasses jump. “This is bullshit, Roger. You and I both know what this really is. You are letting a bunch of overgrown bullies take over the league. I have given my life to this game. I will not stand by while you turn it into some cult of toxic masculinity. I refuse. I will fight this.”

Goodell flinched at the outburst, his beta nature making him shrink back in his chair. But he forced himself to continue reading from the script, voice trembling slightly. “Your refusal has been noted. Effective immediately, you are no longer the head coach of the Kansas City Chiefs. The league thanks you for your service.”

Reid stormed out of the meeting furious, shouting threats of lawsuits and public statements the entire way down the hallway. But the damage was done. Within hours, the Chiefs organization, now under heavy league pressure, announced Reid’s retirement “for personal reasons.” His replacement was a hardline MFSA loyalist who had already been thoroughly converted months earlier. The new coach wasted no time making his allegiance clear.

The very next team meeting in the Chiefs’ main auditorium felt more like an execution than a strategy session.

The room was packed with players, most of them still wearing their regular practice gear, but the atmosphere had already shifted dramatically. A handful of red MFSA shirts stood out like bright warning signs among the sea of neutral colors. Harrison Butker and Matt Araiza sat near the front, their massively enhanced frames taking up extra space, arms crossed over thick pectoral slabs as they smirked with open satisfaction. 

The new head coach, Coach McCormack, a hardline MFSA loyalist who had been quietly converted weeks earlier, stood at the podium with the same commanding presence that now defined the movement. His own red shirt stretched obscenely tight across a chest that had ballooned into heavy armor-like plates, shoulders broad and traps rising high on either side of a thick neck. His voice carried the deep, authoritative baritone that had become the new normal for anyone touched by the red wave.

Patrick Mahomes sat in the second row, still in his plain practice hoodie, surrounded by the remaining unenhanced players who had not yet fallen. His face was tight with barely contained anger and disbelief as the new coach began speaking.

“Effective immediately,” the coach announced, voice booming through the room, “Patrick Mahomes is benched. He will ride the pine and learn from the future of this franchise.”

A stunned silence fell over the unenhanced players. Mahomes’ eyes widened, his mouth opening in shock before he could stop himself.

The rookie quarterback who had eagerly embraced a red shirt weeks earlier stood up from the front row, rising to his full, newly enhanced height. The bright red MFSA shirt clung to his transformed body like a second skin, stretched drum-tight across thick, armor-like pectorals that jutted forward aggressively. His shoulders were capped with heavy deltoids, traps climbing high on a thick neck, while his arms hung heavy with dense, vascular muscle that peaked even at rest. The rookie’s quads pressed against his shorts, tree-trunk thick and striated, and his entire frame radiated the same dominant, unapologetic energy that now defined the league. He flexed one arm casually for the room, the bicep exploding into a sharp, vascular peak under the red sleeve, a smug grin on his face.

“Coach is right,” the rookie said, voice deep and commanding, carrying the same toxic confidence that Josh Allen and the rest of the MFSA alphas projected. “It’s time for real leadership. Time for alphas who are not afraid to lead this team the right way. Straight. Strong. Unapologetic. No more soft plays. No more pandering. We are going to hit harder, talk straighter, and dominate like men were always meant to.”

Mahomes sat in stunned silence, the weight of the moment crushing him like a physical force. He had fought so hard, alongside Jalen Hurts and Justin Herbert, to keep the resistance alive. Now he was being publicly humiliated in his own locker room, replaced by a converted rookie who had once looked up to him.

The other un-enhanced players shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting between Mahomes and the growing number of red-shirted teammates who were nodding in agreement, flexing and murmuring their approval.

Butker leaned back in his chair, laughing low and cruel. “About time. Soy boy Mahomes has been holding this team back long enough. Now we have a real quarterback leading the way.”

Araiza nodded beside him, his own red shirt straining across his chest as he flexed one thick arm. “Exactly. No more smiling for the cameras and playing nice with the woke crowd. We are here to win like alphas. And the rest of you betas better get on board quick, or you’ll end up like Kelce.”

Mahomes clenched his fists in his lap, jaw tight, but he said nothing. There was nothing left to say. 

Sensing that the end of the Football Is For Everyone movement was near,he decided to take drastic action. Every day brought new reports of another team falling, another player or coach slipping on a red shirt, another voice of inclusion going silent. Mahomes could feel the walls closing in. If he did not do something bold, something public, the movement would swallow everything they had fought for without a fight.

He crashed a major MFSA rally being hosted by his own teammate Harrison Butker and broadcast live on national television. The event was held in a massive outdoor stadium on the outskirts of Kansas City, the kind of venue usually reserved for rock concerts or championship parades.

Tonight it was packed wall-to-wall with thousands of red-shirted fans, a sea of bright crimson jerseys and signs chanting the movement’s slogans in a deafening, rhythmic roar. “Make Football Straight Again!” echoed across the field as spotlights swept over the crowd, red banners fluttering in the night breeze. The atmosphere was electric, almost religious, with fans flexing in unison and cheering every mention of Josh Allen or the red wave.

Harrison stood center stage as master of ceremonies, his massively enhanced frame dominating the platform in his tight red MFSA shirt. The kicker’s thick pectorals and broad shoulders strained the fabric as he paced back and forth, microphone in hand, hyping the crowd with stories of the red wave’s unstoppable spread. “Look around you!” Butker bellowed, voice booming through the speakers. “This is what real football looks like! No more weakness. No more rainbow distractions. No more betas pretending they belong! The alphas are here, and we are taking our sport back!”

The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers, fists pumping and red shirts flexing in a wave of toxic masculinity that filled the stadium.

Mahomes stormed the stage without warning, heart pounding as he sprinted up the side stairs and snatched the microphone from a stunned stagehand. Security tried to move in, but the sheer shock of seeing the Chiefs’ star quarterback on stage bought him a few precious seconds. His eyes were wild with desperation, face flushed, hair disheveled as he stepped into the spotlight.

“Stop!” Mahomes shouted into the microphone, his voice cracking with raw, unfiltered emotion as the cameras swung toward him and the massive jumbotron lit up with his face. “This is not right! This is not football! The MFSA movement is a cult. It is turning our league into something hateful and ugly. They are forcing players to change, to become bigots, to push out anyone who does not fit their narrow idea of what a man should be. I am begging you: fans, players, everyone watching at home, resist this! Fight back before it is too late! Inclusion matters! Respect matters! We cannot let them win!”

The crowd roared with a chaotic mix of boos, confusion, and scattered cheers. Some fans started chanting “MFSA! MFSA!” while others looked stunned, phones raised to capture the moment. Butker’s face twisted in fury as he lunged for the microphone, trying to wrestle it away from Mahomes.

“Get off my stage, you beta bitch!” Butker snarled, his massive hand clamping down on Mahomes’ arm. “You had your chance to join us. Now you're just embarrassing yourself in front of the whole country!”

Mahomes held on desperately, tears streaming down his face as he continued his plea, voice breaking with raw pain. “Josh Allen and the rest of them are destroying everything we love about this game! They took Travis from us. Then they took my coach. They're turning teammates into monsters who hate their own brothers! Please, don't let them turn the NFL into their personal playground of toxic masculinity! We can still save it! We can still be better!”

His words were cut off when the leaders of the MFSA movement appeared on stage from the wings like conquering heroes. Josh Allen led the group, his godlike frame dominating the platform as he strode forward with absolute authority. Kirk Cousins, Nick and Joey Bosa, Baker Mayfield, and Joe Burrow flanked him, all of them wearing their red MFSA shirts stretched tight across their massive, enhanced bodies, radiating overwhelming alpha power. The crowd erupted into thunderous, deafening cheers at the sight of their heroes, the roar shaking the stadium as fists pumped and red shirts flexed in unison.

The leader of the resistance had just walked straight into the lion’s den, live on national television, and the red wave was ready to crush it once and for all.

Josh stepped up beside Mahomes with slow, deliberate confidence, his godlike frame casting a long shadow across the brightly lit stage. The dark, triumphant smirk on his sharpened face was visible on every jumbotron around the massive stadium and on millions of television screens across the country.

The Bosas moved like predators closing in for the kill. Nick and Joey each grabbed one of Mahomes’ arms in an iron grip, their massive red-shirted bodies pinning the struggling quarterback in place with effortless, overwhelming strength. Mahomes twisted and fought against their hold, but it was like trying to break free from steel cables. The cameras zoomed in tight, broadcasting every second of the confrontation live to the world.

“Enough of this beta whining,” Josh rumbled, his deep voice booming across the stadium and through television screens nationwide. The crowd roared with approval as he reached into a bag held by one of the stagehands and slowly pulled out a folded baby-blue shirt. He held it up high for the jumbotron and the cameras to capture, the bold white lettering across the chest reading “2 BETA 4 FOOTBALL” in stark, humiliating contrast to the sea of red surrounding the stage.

Mahomes’ eyes widened in pure terror as he realized what was about to happen. “No! Josh, don’t do this!” he begged, voice cracking with raw desperation as he struggled harder against the Bosas’ unbreakable grip. “This is not you! This is not the league we love! Please, don’t—”

Nick Bosa tightened his hold on Mahomes’ left arm, laughing darkly. “Shut up, beta. You had your chance to join us. Now you get to become what you really are in front of the whole world.”

Joey Bosa grinned on the other side, his thick fingers digging into Mahomes’ right arm. “Yeah. Time to stop pretending you’re a leader. You’re just another weak little bitch who needs to learn his place.”

Josh’s smirk widened into something cruel and victorious. Without another word, he forced the humiliating baby-blue shirt over Mahomes’ head right there on live television. The fabric slid down over his athletic torso and settled against his skin with a soft, mocking whisper. The moment it made full contact, the transformation began immediately in front of the entire world.

Mahomes’ tall, athletic frame started to drain away in visible, agonizing waves. His broad, powerful shoulders narrowed and softened, the dense muscle melting away as they sloped downward into delicate, feminine lines.

His thick pectorals flattened and shrank rapidly, collapsing inward until his chest was smooth and unremarkable, the once-proud muscle disappearing completely.

Powerful arms withered into thin, soft limbs that looked almost dainty, the veins and definition vanishing as they became weak and unremarkable.

His quads and calves lost all definition in rapid pulses, the tree-trunk legs shrinking and thinning until they were frail, skinny, and barely able to support his changing body.

His once-impressive height compressed noticeably, bones and spine shortening until he stood several inches shorter and far slighter than before, the baby-blue shirt now hanging loosely on his diminished frame.

Between his legs his cock twitched once in desperate protest before it dwindled rapidly, shrinking inch by inch into a tiny, useless nub that left only a smooth, pathetic pouch in his pants.

His face softened last, cheekbones rounding, lips plumping into a full, pouty shape, and eyes growing larger and more doe-like with long, fluttering lashes.

The mental change followed right behind, burning away his proud, inclusive mindset and replacing it with total, eager submission. Mahomes fought it with everything he had left, tears streaming down his face as he whispered broken pleas under his breath.

“No… I’m Patrick Mahomes… I believe in inclusion… I believe in respect… I won't break…”

But the shirt’s dark magic eroded everything, slow and methodical. His leadership dissolved into desperate yearning to serve. His belief in equality curdled into shame, then into a deep, aching need to be used. The thought of serving real alphas like Josh, the Bosas, Burrow, and the rest filled him with overwhelming, humiliating, endless desire.

The former leader of the resistance dropped to his knees in front of the towering MFSA alphas, eyes wide with adoration as he looked up at them, completely broken.

“Please…” Mahomes whispered in a soft, breathy voice, the words trembling with total submission. “Tell me how I can best serve you, the alpha men who tower over me. I'm just a pathetic weakling now. Use me however you want. I exist only to please real men like you.”

The stadium erupted in thunderous cheers as the MFSA leaders stood tall over the newly created beta boi, the red wave claiming its most public and humiliating victory yet.

The crowd chanted “MFSA! MFSA!” at deafening volume while cameras captured every second of Mahomes’ fall, the image broadcast live to millions of homes across the country. The resistance had just been crushed in the most spectacular way possible, and the red wave had never looked so unstoppable.

This story was written by my good beta boy obeymfsaalphas before tumblr nuked his blog. His good work deserves to be enjoyed so I'm sharing it here.

It was clear: the red wave had arrived. The NFL season had only just begun and yet the movement had already become unstoppable. Football players, coaches, and fans alike had begun ditching their team colors for the single unifying hue. And thanks to the awe-inspiring country superstar Morgan Wallen, the Make Football Straight Again agenda had begun its outward ascent, broaching new American populations. The music industry’s decline had begun, setting the stage for a new door to be opened.

“Cooper, do you have any upcoming projects that your fans can be looking forward to?”

“As you know, I’ve dedicated all my time outside of the league to advocate for the Make Football Straight Again movement.” Cooper’s voice, although he did not shout, shook the room. “I plan on working to begin spreading these important, traditional, conservative values outside of the league. I want to grant all Americans access to the truth, whether they watch football or not. That truth is that a hierarchy does exist, and at the top are straight alpha males.”

The reporter dreamily nodded along, her mind’s only thought wondering how she could best serve Cooper. Less than an hour ago, she had been bent over in the women’s restroom, having been cornered by the gigantic wide receiver. Her protests had faded away as soon as his fat cock entered her pussy, stretching it out beyond repair. Because of this, the perspective of the interview had shifted, no longer asking about the consequences of the MFSA movement but instead theorizing its promising future.

The reporter got to work ardently scribing Cooper’s answer down. Cooper checked his phone in the meantime, scrolling through his notifications. An alert reminded him of his next appointment, causing him to grimace. The office was only a few blocks away, but the appointment itself had been scheduled before Cooper had joined the MFSA cause. While not necessarily allies beforehand, the people Cooper was to meet with were certainly enemies now. They threatened his very existence, at least not physically.

After a few grunts and nods, Cooper found himself standing outside the building. In passing, he had provided a few of the camera operators with the link to the MFSA warehouse, explaining how to purchase shirts for themselves and their coworkers. The technician’s eyes had grown wide as Cooper thoroughly detailed the process, each bouncing with nervous excitement. Without hesitation, Cooper sauntered over to his next appointment, enjoying all the attention he received either way. Some faces greeted him with disgust, others with surprise and agreement. Any publicity was good publicity, right? Cooper loved every moment of it–the smile only fell from his face once he arrived at his destination.

In all its pastel glory stood Aura Apparel, a progressive retail outlet selling the woke agenda nationwide. Shirts, jeans, jackets and bandanas–if it could have an illegitimate pride flag on it, it would. The company’s slogan “Fashion for a Fairer World” was a revolting campaign against the Make Football Straight Again movement. The stores obnoxiously bred independent women and soft she-males. Even just being in the presence of the outlet had Cooper sick to his stomach.

Months earlier, Cooper’s publicist had arranged for the wide receiver to meet with the company’s managing partners to discuss a potential collaboration. Cooper had fired her shortly after, providing a pink Sissy For Football Alphas shirt in her severance package. Since then, a man had taken over the role–something Cooper should have done in the first place. The meeting with Aura Apparel was kept, although Cooper had no idea why.

The gargantuan wide receiver wished he had gloves as he reached for the door handle. A lavender discharge assaulted his nose as he entered the flagship store, blinding him momentarily. His destination was on the top floor of the building where the corporate offices were located. To get there, he had to bravely traverse through feminine fabrics displaying promises of transgender rights and diversity. Cooper kept a hand over his mouth to prevent vomiting, shuffling his way through without interacting with any of the shop assistants or other patrons. Finally, he found himself in the elevator, a Lady Gaga song accompanying him up.

While certainly not the tallest skyscraper in the city, Aura Apparel offered a great view from its top floor. Unlike the flagship store below, the corporate offices were sleek and gray, offering a clean aesthetic that was only broken up by the occasional wall art declaring “Love is Love” and “All Genders Welcome Here.” While still disgusted, Cooper felt much more comfortable in this space compared to the ground floor. He confidently approached the young man seated at the front desk despite being early.

“I’m here to meet the managing partners.” The announcement came out more like a declaration, as if he was claiming ownership of the office. However, Taylor Hendricks (as the nametag on the desk read) took a few moments to look up. Cooper’s face flashed red with anger: did this faggot have no respect for the order of things?

“It looks like they are busy for another 15 minutes.” Taylor twiddled his mouse, his breathy tenor causing Cooper to twitch. “Would you like to take a seat in the meantime?

“No.”

Finally, Taylor looked up, caught off guard. His face remained stoic but Cooper caught a passing sniff of fear tinged with lust. Even though he was sitting down, Cooper could tell the young man before him was short. The perfectly-tousled strawberry-blond hair, the fitted short-sleeved button-up–this was a boy who had been spoiled his entire life. Cooper guessed Taylor had completed an Ivy League education with a trust fund in his future, despite his obvious inability to follow tradition and produce offspring.

Then, Taylor’s face blushed with embarrassment, finally having read Cooper’s chest. The pinkish hue made the man appear even younger: like a teenage boy who thought he was ready for adulthood but in reality was anything but.

“May I have your name please…Sir?” Taylor tacked the honorific on at the last second. It came out clumsily, unfamiliar to his tongue. “I can shoot them a quick message to speed things up.”

Cooper was considering ignoring the faggot and barging past, but he held out a little longer. “Cooper Kupp.”

Taylor’s eyebrows raised. “Oh, Mr. Kupp…” Taylor typed something in before bending underneath his desk. When he rose back up, he revealed a package in his hand. “This came in for you this morning, the note said it was from your publicist for this meeting.”

Unaware of what the package entailed, Cooper took it from the front desk worker, his meaty hand double the size of Taylor’s. He ripped away the packing tape and opened the envelope to reveal a few shirts. Two red, one baby blue. A note was attached inside: “Start with these, the rest will work itself out.”

Tucking the note back in, Cooper realized that Taylor’s eyes had subtly been following his movements, curious of what was inside the package. An idea then popped into Cooper’s head.

“You don’t know what these are?” Cooper asked, removing the blue shirt from the package. While unfolding it, he made special care not to display the shirt’s text to the front desk worker.

“Sorry, I do not, Mr. Kupp,” Taylor replied.

Cooper smiled. “This looks like it would fit you. Try it on for me.” Taylor tensed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable-”

“I didn’t ask if you were comfortable,” Cooper barked. “I told you to try the shirt on.”

Taylor quivered, doing his best to steady his breath before shakily rising. Now at full height, Cooper was proven right, for Taylor was at most only five and a half feet tall. Cooper watched as Taylor stripped away the shirt he had certainly wasted time dwelling over that morning. Silly faggot, thinking he was allowed to make his own decisions. Luckily, the blue fabric Cooper was handing him was about to fix all of that.

“Does this look good, Sir?” This time, the honorific flowed out naturally, accompanied by a wistful gaze that had taken over Taylor’s eyes. Like magic, the changes began smoothly. The young man slowly stretched upwards, his limbs elongating accordingly. At one moment he was below Cooper’s nose, the next their eye levels met. Taylor ascended further though, reaching up to a height of 6’5, gaining nearly an entire foot in a matter of seconds.

From here, his lean body began to course with new code. Tight, conditioned muscles bulged out across his arms, etching out definable groves. Flat pectorals were followed by skinny abdominals. These were not muscles meant to showcase strength–their existence merely derived from Taylor’s new lanky nature.

Firm, yet thin thighs and conditioned calves. Long soles and a petite bottom. An Adam’s apple forced its way forward as Taylor’s chin flattened with a cleft down the middle. His teeth naturally whitened, his ears and forehead grew more pronounced, and his stylized hair sheared down the sides as it straightened into a simple military cut.

Cooper, having witnessed the effects of the 2 Beta 4 Football shirt countless times before, was surprised by the changes, growing irritated by the obvious physical improvements. The baby blue fabric vindicated itself quickly however, as Taylor’s modest pouch shriveled down into a useless, inch-long nub. The smooth, pathetic pouch at the front of Taylor’s shorts would never command any amount of power again.

The mental adjustments were fast-acting and sharp. No longer would Taylor live the privileged life he was accustomed to. Instead, new memories depicting a life of constant aspiration flew through his head. Excelling in school, joining the military, applying for a high-paying job. Every step Taylor had taken was to make up for what he lacked, the dominance and heft all men like him were supposed to be naturally born with. But thanks to the MFSA movement, Taylor had finally seen the errors in his ways, understanding his true purpose was to serve those other men who made up for what he lacked, both physically and in spirit.

“I’d say the shirt looks great on you,” Cooper smirked. “What do you think?”

“I love it, Sir!” Tyler Hendrickson beamed. “Thank you so much for this gift, Sir, and reminding me of my place!” Despite his new baritone, the front desk attendant’s voice lacked any substance.

“So, am I allowed to go in now?” Cooper tested.

“Of course, Sir! Alphas like you are always allowed to come and go as they please,” Tyler submissively smiled. “If there’s anything else I can do to serve you, Sir–anything–please let me know.”

Cockily, Cooper brushed his way past the beta and swaggered into the conference room, package in hand. Like what he had already seen, the office space was sleek and clean, marred up by posters of equality and fairness. At the front of the room stood the managing partners, blond and in their late thirties. Put together, the pair would roughly equal Cooper’s entire mass, but side by side, they were completely harmless and instantly intimidated by the alpha male who had just stormed the room.

“Cooper, what a pleasant surprise!” Shaun Mandel greeted pleasantly. His flowery blue button-up accented his maintained figure. The 5’10 male, although having already noticed the MFSA decorating Cooper’s chest, was doing his best to maintain civility. Cooper immediately pegged him as the top.

After Shaun made his acquaintance by shaking his hand, Thomas Rolfe warily introduced himself. He did not bother physically interacting with Cooper, instead proceeding directly to his seat. Thomas too had kept his body in shape and stood an inch taller than Shaun, but he did not bother disguising the emotions behind his glasses. His eyes were filled with fury, the kind driven by fear. Taking his own seat, Cooper confirmed that the other man was the bottom.

“When we had first discussed this possible partnership with your publicist, we had been so excited,” Shaun started. “Neither of us are huge football fans to be honest, but your name goes beyond the NFL.”

Thomas sat glumly, pouting like a child. Cooper winked in his direction, causing Thomas to twitch.

“When we founded Aura Apparel, our original goal was to create clothes for everyone. Straight or gay; male, female, and anything in between. So far our celebrity sponsorships have been calculated, what people would expect from our brand like ours. I think with your help, we can elevate Aura to the next level.”

Despite his faggot nature, Cooper was impressed by Shaun’s ability to hold a business-like conversation while ignoring the obvious elephant in the room. Thomas’s face however now shared the same hue as the elephant, the bright red ready to burst.

Shaun turned to his side and presented a few contracts. “So, I think our next steps would-”

“No,” Thomas interrupted.

Shaun’s response was gentle, but steady. “Thomas?”

“We are not doing this.” Cooper smirked, leaning back in his chair to let the scene play out.

“Thomas, baby,” Shaun’s voice grew even softer. “This could be a huge break for our brand.”

“It would break our brand,” Thomas shot back. “I don’t care how big of a name he is, or how physically big he is for that matter.” Thomas then pointed directly at Cooper’s chest. “That is not welcome here. Aura is supposed to welcome everyone, it’s supposed to be a place for all no matter their being.”

“It can just be a one-off deal.” Despite Cooper’s presence, Shaun’s had descended to whispers. “I’m not saying we sell out, but this could be our chance to expand our message.”

Thomas, unlike his partner, got louder: “Then what? We start sponsoring straight pride parades? Lobby for pictures of Josh Allen to be put in every school?”

“I’d support that,” Cooper chimed in, tweaking Thomas even further. Before Thomas could retort, Cooper continued. “If you think about it, by neglecting the MFSA movement, aren’t you actually going against what you just said?” Both Shaun and Thomas stopped, confused.

“‘Aura is supposed to be welcome to everyone,’ right?” Cooper said, throwing Thomas’ words back out.

“Well that’s not-”

“I wasn’t done speaking,” Cooper growled, shutting the faggots up. “‘It’s supposed to be a place for all no matter their being.’ And yet here you are, denying thousands of people their representation.”

Cooper watched as the argument crawled into the managing partner’s minds. It did not matter if the argument was weak or distorted–as long as it came from an alpha like Cooper, it was enough.

“It’s also very bigoted of you to presume that the MFSA movement isn’t welcoming to all.” Cooper’s words slithered through Shaun and Thomas’s ears. “Everyone has a place in Making Football Straight Again.” To emphasize his point, Cooper revealed the open package, taking out the remaining red shirts and sliding them across to the couple. “If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”

Neither Shaun nor Thomas rejected the gift, and Cooper knew neither of them would. Any libtard accused of holding prejudice would do everything in their power to right the wrong. It was automatic, a mechanical desire that Cooper had activated. The faggots had no choice but to submit to their nature, accepting the shirts to fully understand and appreciate Cooper’s unique perspective.

As soon as the corruptive fabric was over their heads, the dark energy surged into their systems. For Shaun, the change was like lightning. He had always been a leader, a confidant, someone others could trust in based solely by his mental presence. Now his body would boast the same, exploding outward in a violent, glorious rush. His pectorals surged forward first, ballooning into thick, heavy slabs of muscle. They stretched the red cotton to its limit, forcing the white letters to pop out.

Shaun’s shoulders broadened with a series of sharp, cracking pops next, followed by his deltoids rounding into powerful caps. His neck thickened into a strong, commanding column while his arms inflated, the biceps and triceps forcing the sleeves to ride up. His back widened and his abs carved themselves deep, propelled forward by a muscle gut that demonstrated pure alpha strength.

The changes continued to Shaun’s lower half as well. His quads exploded outward with thick striated muscle. His hamstrings tightened into dense cords, the calves forming into sculpted rocks and granting Shaun several more inches of height. His glutes firmed and rounded into powerful slabs that filled out the seat of his shorts. His cock as well, already quite girthy, lengthened in a single, heavy pulse, creating a pump of pure testosterone to constantly feed his body.

Shaun’s jaw squared, covered instantly by a thick, graying beard as his voice transitioned into a deep, commanding rumble. The rest of his body was quickly matted in hair to match, along with a heavy splash of manly musk.

Thomas’s transformation was a bit more overwhelming as the red fabric had more damage to repair. His already athletic build was upgraded, doubling his mass. The pectorals burst forward into impenetrable walls of armor. The shoulders cracked wider, forcing the delts and traps monstrously upward and outward. The arms swelled into peaked, veined monsters, his body becoming carved as if it were stone.

Thomas’s back flared into an exaggerated V-taper, forcing the shirt tight across his brutal eight-pack. The waist remained tight but his quads detonated in thick, sweeping waves, tightening into powerful cords. Stronger calves, a fatter cock, and a sculpted set of glutes that sealed off their two-way entrance. Thomas’s behind was now built for exit only.

Like Shaun, Thomas’s face filled out nicely. Sharper jaw, fluffed beard, all paired with a voice that had dropped multiple registers. Thomas would no longer be a man of articulation–a few syllables from his bass instrument would have anyone on their knees and following his orders.

The pair’s minds shifted next, perfectly synced together but with different assigned outcomes. Together, their liberal ideals cracked and burned away under relentless waves of toxic certainty. Shaun’s history grew more traditional. Men were meant to take charge, men were meant to carry the world on their backs. Men had responsibilities to uphold and conservative laws to obey. Memories highlighting the pride in being American, in being Christian, and in being a heterosexual flooded Shaun’s brain. These were followed by images depicting his marriage, his children, and his massive house in prime suburbia, protecting his family from the degeneracy of the city.

Thomas’s history grew more violent. Gone was the passionate fighting spirit for the blue. Now, Thomas held the fiery defense of the red. Women were objects now, pretty things built for real men to enjoy and command. The gays? Weak, disgusting betas trying to sneak softness into American society. Inclusion was pathetic, a crutch for the small and the overlooked. Thomas was done supporting those lazy, good-for-nothing criminals. He was now a real alpha who claimed anything he wanted, whether it be alive or not.

With the managing partners corrupted, their company came next. Cooper smiled as the two new alpha males jumped up from their seats to begin tearing down the posters that decorated the walls. Their massive masculine mitts shredded away promises of diversity and equality and trashed concepts accepting gender ideology and same-sex marriage. And the red fabric assisted them in their work, materializing American flags and Make Football Straight Again adornments to help embellish the boardroom.

Traditional notes were added too. The sleek plastic tables and shelves hardened into refined, polished wood. The lighting from the ceiling tinged darker into more aggressive tones. Even the Aura Apparel logo reformatted to fit the new needs of the company, adopting a more masculine font with eagle imagery beside it. As the finishing touch, Tyler meekly knocked on the boardroom’s doors before entering, a tray of beers in hand.

“‘Bout time you got here, pretty boy,” Shane Miller taunted fatherly. “My mouth has been craving that sweet elixir all day.”

Tom Richards was not as kind. “What took you so long?” he snarled. “Why’d you keep your alphas waiting? Was there some pathetic soy-boy task you had to fulfill first before serving your masters?”

The tray remained steady in Tyler’s hands. The beta held a proud, dumb smile on his face, turned on as he was put into his place by a real alpha in front of a stranger. Within a minute, each of the men had beers placed in front of them. First Cooper, then Shane, and finally Tom. Tyler then placed the tray onto the table and bent over it, remaining still as Tom removed his belt and properly lashed the boy for his disobedience. Tyler maintained his smile the entire time, his miniature nub throbbing. Before it could fully burst, Tom finished, wrapping his belt back in place and allowing Tyler to leave the room. “So,” Shane began as Tom took his seat again as if nothing had happened. “What are our next steps, Cooper? How can Aura Apparel help Make Football Straight Again?”

The remaining hours of the meeting were spent inside the board room, with Tyler occasionally replenishing their drinks. Contracts were signed, future deals secured, and each and every inclusive policy was demolished. The room reeked of testosterone, fueling the alphas to rewrite the entirety of Aura Apparel's existence. By nightfall, the brand’s personality had been completely warped, and the effects were already noticeable.

When Tyler had first opened the doors to the board room, none of the men realized that the beta had let the red shirts’ power escape, flooding the building with toxic energy. Cooper first noticed the change in the elevator ride down, the speakers now playing I’m the Problem track-by-track. Then, the doors eventually opened to the first floor, revealing a newly masculinized landscape.

Aggressive reds, stark blues, and the proud American flag illuminated the interior. Football gear and eagles acted as the main embellishments, along with posters featuring NFLs players sporting their MFSA attire. The staff too, once a colorful rainbow of genders and personalities, had simplified to just two categories; young men boasting the red fabric on their macho, virile bodies or young sexualized women sporting pink Real Women Serve Alphas tops.

The joy of it all was almost overwhelming to Cooper. Everything had been made better, been set right, by him. And he could not deny the sudden butterflies that danced around in his stomach. With his alpha power, what could he conquer next? What else could the Make Football Straight Again movement absorb and ultimately control? Cooper had no idea, but, grinning, he knew there was only one way to find out.

Justin Jefferson, WR, Minnesota Vikings and Joe Burrow, QB, Cincinnati Bengals at the 2026 Met Gala

No denying the alpha

The New Guard

Inspired by @badguyswin and his MFSA stories.

The air outside of the stadium was full of with tension. The game was about to start, and the “Make Football Straight Again” supporters were out in force—flags waving, red shirts worn proudly, demonstrating traditional manhood in sports. Facing them was a small, shrill group of counter-protesters.

At the front was 21-year-old Liam Brooks: scrawny, weak-shouldered, barely 5’7”, with a soft, unimpressive body hidden under a baggy Pride hoodie. His voice was whiny as he screamed into his megaphone: “Make Football Queer Again! Bigots out!”

Liam believed every word. He saw the MFSA movement as pure evil that needed to be crushed.

It was then that the change slammed into him like a freight train.

A deep, unnatural heat surged up from the ground, wrapping around his skinny frame. Liam gasped, dropping his sign as his body began to violently reshape.

His spine elongated with loud cracks, rocketing him up to 6’4”. Thin legs exploded with muscle with calves turning into hard diamonds, quads ballooning into massive, powerful slabs that shredded his jeans instantly. His narrow chest barreled outward into thick, heavy pecs covered in coarse dark hair. Shoulders widened dramatically, arms swelling into veined, rock-hard biceps and forearms built for dominance. His abs carved into a solid eight-pack, and his ass tightened into powerful, muscular glutes as his back entrance closed tighter, nothing going in there anymore. A thick, heavy bulge formed between his legs, enlarged and aroused further by the changes.

His face aged and hardened in seconds. Youthful softness vanished, replaced by a square, weathered jaw lined with salt-and-pepper stubble. His hair receded into a tight, buzz cut, graying at the temples. Crow’s feet and deep lines made him look every bit of 48 years old. His soft brown eyes turned cold, steel-blue, and mean. Covered by sunglasses that were as dark as his intentions.

The baggy clothes dissolved and reformed into a crisp Police Department uniform stretched tight over his new muscular body. Badge gleaming: Officer Brock Harlan. Heavy tactical boots, full duty belt with holstered weapon, cuffs, baton, and radio. A crisp tie formed around his neck, adding to his new air of authority.

But the worst changes were mental.

Liam’s progressive ideals didn’t just fade. They twisted and rotted into something ugly. College lectures on inclusion warped into a deep, seething contempt for “degenerates,” “freaks,” and “woke scum.” A cruel streak emerged, a love of power and punishment. He now craved enforcing order the hard way—especially on people like his old self. Corruption bloomed naturally: he saw the badge as a license to bully, to take what he wanted, to make examples out of anyone who resisted “real American values.” The MFSA movement wasn’t just something he supported now. It was his cause. He would protect it ruthlessly, and he would enjoy every second of breaking the betas and sissys who opposed it.

Officer Brock Harlan flexed his massive arms, cracking his thick neck with a predatory grin. The old Liam was completely gone, replaced by something far darker. Something far better.

“Party’s over, you pathetic little shits,” he growled in a deep, gravelly Carolina drawl, his voice dripping with contempt and authority.

The remaining protesters froze.

Brock laughed—a low, nasty sound—and stepped forward, towering over them with his huge, muscular frame. His steel-blue eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure.

“You freaks have been ruining this game long enough. Pushing your sick agenda on kids, turning locker rooms into freak shows. Not anymore.”

He snatched a rainbow flag from a protester’s hands and ripped it to shreds with ease, muscles bulging. “Make Football Straight Again isn’t just a slogan. It’s the truth. And I’m gonna make sure it sticks. Men in men’s sports. Real men. Real football.”

Brock grabbed the closest activist by the collar with one massive hand, lifting the smaller man slightly off the ground. “You gonna keep causing trouble tonight? Because I’d love an excuse to drag your sorry ass in. Rough.” His smile was cold and vicious. “I’ve got cuffs, a baton, and plenty of ways to make the process… educational.”

Fear rippled through the group. Brock released the man with a shove, sending him stumbling backward.

“Get the hell out of here,” he barked.

As the protesters scattered in panic, Brock adjusted his duty belt over his thick, powerful waist, chuckling darkly to himself. He felt no remorse—only a rush of sadistic satisfaction. The movement had given him everything: a powerful body, real purpose, and the perfect position to crush its enemies.

He turned toward the roaring stadium, arms crossed over his massive chest, a cruel smirk on his rugged face.

“Time to keep the game straight,” he muttered. “And I’m gonna enjoy every fucking minute of it.”

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here - part thirteen here - part fourteen here

The NFL season was only a few weeks old, but the red wave had already reshaped more than just the on-field product. In a private executive suite high above MetLife Stadium, Josh Allen sat across from NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell for what was supposed to be a closed-door meeting about “league stability.” 

Goodell, still in his crisp suit and tie, looked every bit the polished administrator trying to maintain control. Josh, by contrast, filled the leather chair like a conqueror, his godlike frame barely contained by the bright red MFSA shirt stretched across his massive chest. The heavy slabs of his pectorals rose and fell with each breath, while a confident smirk painted itself across his handsome face. He had the air of a man in absolute certainty of his superiority about him.

Goodell cleared his throat, voice tight with frustration as he leaned forward in his high-backed leather chair. The suite felt smaller than it should have, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne. “Josh, this has gone far enough. The MFSA movement is becoming a distraction. Ratings are up, yes, but so are complaints from sponsors, from players’ unions, from international markets who are pulling advertising dollars.” He let out a frustrated sigh before continuing: “We are here to play football, not push a cultural agenda. The shirts, the transformations, the rhetoric… It's dividing the league in ways we have never seen before. I need you to dial it back before this spirals out of control and damages the brand permanently.”

Josh leaned forward slowly, his thick traps rolling powerfully as he rested his massive forearms on the polished mahogany table. The red MFSA shirt stretched obscenely tight across his enormous chest, something that he noticed captured Gooddell’s attention for a quick second. A low, dismissive chuckle rumbled from deep in Josh’s chest, the sound rich and condescending.

“Dial it back?” he repeated, his deep voice dripping with amusement. “Commissioner, you’re scared. You’re weak. You sit up here in your fancy suit pretending to run things, but you see what is happening and it terrifies you because you know you can’t stop it.” He let the words linger in the air for a few seconds, forcing Goodell to confront the uncomfortable truth. “The red wave is not a distraction. It’s the future. Football was never meant to be soft, inclusive, or politically correct. It was meant to be straight, brutal, and dominated by real alphas. The shirts are simply helping everyone become what they were always supposed to be. Strong. Dominant. Unapologetic.”

Goodell shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried to maintain his authority, but Josh continued, his voice growing more commanding with every word. The quarterback rose slowly to his full, towering height, his godlike frame casting a long shadow over the commissioner. He flexed one enormous arm deliberately, the bicep peaking sharply under the red sleeve like a mountain of vascular power. The supernatural aura of the shirt filled the room like invisible smoke, warm and heavy, pressing against Goodell’s chest and making it harder to breathe.

“You’ve spent years trying to keep the league ‘neutral,’” Josh said, circling the table slowly like a predator stalking prey. “Neutrality is just another word for weakness. You let the rainbow crap and the woke nonsense creep in because you were too scared to stand up for what’s right. The players have already chosen. The coaches have chosen. The fans have chosen. Now it is your turn, Roger.”

Before Goodell could protest, Josh reached into a leather bag at his feet and pulled out a folded baby-blue shirt. He tossed it onto the table in front of the commissioner with casual dominance, the fabric landing with a soft slap that seemed far louder than it should have. The message written across the chest in bold white letters was clear to see: 2 BETA 4 FOOTBALL.

Goodell’s eyes widened in genuine alarm. “Absolutely not. This meeting is over. I will not be intimidated or manipulated like this.”

Josh’s smirk was pure alpha dominance, dark and certain. He placed one massive hand on the commissioner’s shoulder, the supernatural heat of the red shirt pressing through Goodell’s suit jacket like a brand. “Put it on, Roger. Or I’ll make you. The league is mine now… and so are you.”

The commissioner tried to resist, pushing back against the table and attempting to stand, but the combined presence of Josh’s overwhelming body and the red shirt’s relentless aura overwhelmed him instantly. His hands moved against his will, trembling as they stripped off his suit jacket and crisp dress shirt before reaching for the humiliating baby-blue top. The fabric slid over his head and settled against his skin with a soft, mocking whisper. The moment it made full contact, the transformation began, slow and merciless so Goodell could feel every degrading second of his fall from power.

His average, middle-aged build softened and shrank in visible waves. Shoulders narrowed and sloped downward as dense muscle and authority melted away into softness. His chest flattened rapidly, the frame collapsing inward until it was smooth and unremarkable. Arms withered into thin, unremarkable limbs that looked almost frail, the last traces of any commanding presence vanishing completely. His height compressed slightly, bones and posture shrinking until he stood noticeably shorter and slighter, his once-authoritative stance crumbling into something meek and submissive. His face softened, jawline rounding, eyes growing wide and uncertain as the mental shift took hold. 

The proud commissioner who had once run the league with iron-fisted bureaucracy was gone. In his place stood a weak, broken beta puppet who now existed only to serve Josh Allen’s vision. Josh patted the broken man on the head like a pet, his massive hand engulfing Goodell’s skull. “Good boy. From now on, you clear every decision with me. The NFL answers to MFSA. Understand?”Goodell nodded eagerly, his voice now soft and submissive, stripped of every ounce of former authority. “Yes, sir. Whatever you want.”

Across the country in Kansas City, Travis Kelce’s once-luxurious home had become a quiet, humiliating prison. The sprawling mansion that had hosted countless parties, celebrity guests, and viral social media moments now felt cold and empty. It was far too big and lavish for a beta male like him. He’d need to downsize too. Maybe he could donate the mansion to a more deserving alpha in the movement?

The former superstar tight end sat alone on the oversized couch in the living room, his short, stick-thin frame swallowed by the cushions. He wore the humiliating baby-blue 2 BETA 4 FOOTBALL shirt that clung loosely to his diminished body, the bold white lettering a constant reminder of what he had become. The man who had once dominated the field and charmed millions (not to mention one of the most famous popstars alive) now looked like a shadow of his former self, eyes downcast as he mindlessly scrolled through his phone with trembling fingers. The pictures from MFSA alphas that now dominated his Instagram feed fostered the flame of submissiveness that burned relentlessly within him.

The front door opened with a heavy click. Jason Kelce walked in, still dressed in casual clothes that showed off his familiar bearish, powerful build. It didn’t matter that he was retired from the NFL and had been for several seasons now - Jason always stayed in good shape, strong but not completely defined. The older brother stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw Travis, his face twisting from concern into outright horror.

“Trav… What the hell happened to you?” Jason’s voice cracked with disbelief as he took a step closer, eyes wide. “You look… broken. Like someone sucked all the life out of you.” He took a look around, not finding any sign of his brother’s famous fiancée. “Taylor left you, didn’t she? After everything you two went through? This MFSA bullshit has gone too far, man. I saw the game. I heard what they did to you in the locker room. We need to get you help. There has to be a way to reverse it.”

Travis slowly lifted his head, his wide, adoring eyes meeting Jason’s gaze. A soft, broken smile spread across his face, completely devoid of the charismatic spark that had once defined him. “Too late for me, Jason,” he whispered in a shaky, submissive voice that sounded nothing like the booming tight end from before. “The alphas know best. I tried to fight it, but the shirt showed me my real place. I’m just here to serve now. I’m happier this way. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

Jason’s face hardened with anger and fear. He took another step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “Happier? Look at yourself! You used to be a superstar! You used to light up every room you walked into! Now you’re sitting here like some broken doll in that ridiculous shirt. This is not you. This is not us. We Kelces don’t bow down to anyone. We fight! We push back!” He let out an exaggerated noise of frustration. “Come on, Trav. Snap out of it. We can call the league, get lawyers involved, do whatever it takes. Just tell me you’re still in there somewhere.”

Travis’s smile never wavered. He reached behind one of the couch cushions and slowly pulled out a bright red MFSA shirt he had been hiding. “It’s too late for me,” he repeated softly, holding the shirt out toward his brother. “But it isn’t too late for you, Jason. You could be so much stronger. So much better. Just try it on. You will see.”

Jason’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you out of your mind? Get that thing away from me. I am not putting that cult garbage on my body.”

Before he could step back, the shirt suddenly leaped from Travis’s hands, as if possessed by its own dark will. As soon as it was in his hands, Jason was lost. His hands seemed to move without him controlling them, forcing it over his head and yanking itself down over his broad, bearish chest. Jason roared in protest, but the red MFSA shirt settled against his skin with a soft, mocking whisper. The moment it made full contact, the transformation began.

Jason’s bearish, powerful frame exploded with new muscle in heavy, relentless waves. His already solid chest ballooned outward into thick, armor-like plates that stretched the red fabric until the white letters distorted dramatically. Shoulders broadened with deep, cracking sounds, deltoids exploding into rounded caps of power while traps climbed higher up a rapidly thickening neck. 

Arms swelled into veined mountains, biceps peaking sharply and triceps flaring into powerful horseshoes that made the sleeves ride up. His back widened into a dramatic V-taper, lats flaring so wide they forced his arms outward. Abs carved themselves deeper into a brutal eight-pack as his waist stayed tight and athletic. 

In the bottom half of his body, his quads detonated outward in thick sweeps of striated muscle, hamstrings tightening into dense cords and calves diamonding into sculpted diamonds. Glutes firmed and rounded into powerful slabs. His cock thickened and lengthened heavily inside his shorts, pulsing with raw alpha energy as it grew longer and thicker. It was a cock that would draw attention no matter what pants he wore. 

The mental change followed instantly, relentless and complete. Jason’s concern for his brother twisted into pure, seething contempt. Every liberal or moderate thought burned away under the shirt’s dark magic, replaced by hard, unapologetic conservatism and raw alpha superiority. He looked down at the pathetic, stick-thin beta that used to be Travis with open disgust. He found himself flexing his newly massive arms so the red shirt strained gloriously across his biceps and chest, the fabric pulling tight over the heavy slabs of his pectorals.

“You’re a disgrace to our family name,” Jason growled, his voice now deep and authoritative, echoing through the living room like thunder. “A weak little beta in that pathetic blue shirt. I cannot believe I ever called you my brother.” He spat at Travis’ feet. “Real Kelces are alphas. Strong. Straight. Dominant. Look at you. Sitting there like a broken toy, all skinny and soft, with that tiny little nub between your legs. You used to be somebody. Now you’re nothing. You make me sick.”

Travis dropped to his knees with a needy whimper, gazing up at his transformed brother with total adoration shining in his wide eyes. “Yes, sir. I know,” he whispered in a shaky, submissive voice. “I’m just here to serve. I’m sorry I’m so embarrassingly weak. I’m sorry I let the woke crowd turn me soft. Please… tell me how I can make it up to you. I’ll do anything!”

Jason’s dark smirk widened as he stepped closer, towering over the kneeling beta. He flexed one thick arm again, the bicep peaking sharply under the red sleeve while his traps rose like mountains. “Anything? That is a dangerous offer, little brother. Look at you on your knees already. Pathetic. You used to strut around like you owned the world, dating that pop-star whore and acting like some celebrity ally. Now you are just a skinny little bitch in a blue shirt. Tell me, Travis - or whatever is left of you - do you finally understand that real men like me are superior? That betas like you exist only to serve?”

Travis nodded frantically, his thin frame trembling with eager submission. “Yes, sir. I understand completely. You are so much stronger now. So much better. I was wrong to fight it. I was wrong to try to stay soft. Please… use me. Let me be your water boy, your errand boy, your… your toy. I will clean up after you. I will cheer for you on the sidelines. I will do whatever the alphas want. Just tell me how to please you.”

Jason let out a low, mocking laugh and reached down to pat Travis’s head like a dog, his massive hand engulfing the smaller man’s skull. “Good. That is exactly what I wanted to hear. From now on you call me Sir or Alpha. You stay out of the way unless I need something. And when the other alphas come over, you will serve them too. No more pretending you are still one of us. You are family property now, understood?”

Travis whimpered again, pressing his face against Jason’s thick thigh, nuzzling the red fabric of the shirt with desperate reverence. “Thank you, Sir. I am so grateful. I used to think I was important. Now I know I was always meant to be like this. Weak. Obedient. Useful only as a hole or a servant. Please… let me prove it to you.”

Jason’s smirk turned darker, satisfied as the red shirt pulsed against his skin, reinforcing his new identity with every heartbeat. He flexed both arms overhead, admiring the way the fabric strained across his godlike physique. The old Jason, the protective older brother, was gone. Only the alpha remained and he was ready to humiliate his brother mercilessly.

The luxury resort in the south of Spain shimmered under the late afternoon sun, a private oasis of white marble, infinity pools, and perfectly manicured gardens overlooking the Mediterranean. Tom Brady had come here for a rare moment of true peace after years of retirement, far from the spotlight, the cameras, and the endless speculation about whether he would ever return to the field. He lounged on a padded lounger by the adults-only pool, wearing nothing but designer swim trunks and a pair of expensive sunglasses, his still-athletic body relaxed for the first time in months. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt water and expensive sunscreen as he sipped a chilled drink and tried to ignore the quiet itch in the back of his mind that had been growing stronger lately.

That itch turned into something much more immediate when a deep, familiar voice cut through the calm: “Tom Brady. Still looking like you could suit up tomorrow.”

Brady lowered his sunglasses and turned his head. Striding toward him along the pool deck was JJ Watt, the retired defensive legend looking even more imposing than he had during his playing days. JJ’s body had clearly benefited from the MFSA movement. His red MFSA shirt stretched obscenely tight across a chest that had grown even larger and more dominant. Broad, powerful shoulders and thick traps framed a neck that looked carved from stone, while his arms hung heavy with dense, vascular muscle that flexed naturally with each step. The shirt clung to his torso like a second skin, highlighting the deep cuts of his abs and the powerful V-taper of his back. Even in casual resort attire, JJ radiated the same unapologetic alpha energy that now defined the movement.

“JJ,” Brady said, sitting up with a surprised but guarded smile. “Didn’t expect to run into you here. You look… different. Bigger.”

JJ’s grin widened into something predatory as he dropped onto the lounger beside Brady, the red shirt pulling even tighter across his massive chest. “The shirts have been good to me, Tom. Real good. You have to hear what Josh Allen and the rest of us are building. MFSA is not just about football anymore. We’re going to reshape the entire country: straight, strong, unapologetic. No more weakness. No more woke nonsense softening everything it touches. The red wave is coming for everything, my friend. The league, the culture, the whole damn nation.”

Brady raised an eyebrow, his expression a careful mix of skepticism and curiosity. He had heard the stories about MFSA, of course. His former teammate and good friend Julian Edelman had given him similar pitches weeks ago, but Brady had brushed them off as over-the-top. It felt like no good could come from getting involved with what appeared on the outside to be nothing more than a celebrity cult. Now, sitting this close to a visibly transformed JJ Watt, the reality felt heavier.

“Yeah, Julian has been saying as much,” Brady said slowly, keeping his tone light but firm. “I’ll be real though, it sounds like a cult to me, JJ. I respect the discipline and the work ethic, but this whole ‘Make Football Straight Again’ thing… It feels extreme. Divisive. I built my career on precision, preparation, and trying to stay above the noise. I’m not sure I want any part of something that turns the game into a culture war.”

JJ chuckled deeply, the sound rich and confident. He leaned forward, letting the red shirt’s supernatural aura wash subtly toward Brady. Even the greatest quarterback the NFL has ever seen wasn’t immune to the corrupting influence of the red shirt.

“Extreme?” JJ replied, flexing one massive arm casually so the bicep peaked sharply under the red sleeve. “Or necessary? Look at me, Tom. I feel better than I ever did in my prime. Stronger. Clearer. The shirt didn’t just grow my body. It sharpened my mind. Removed all the noise. The league was getting soft. Players worried more about social media and feelings than winning. Josh Allen saw that. He fixed it. And now the whole country is starting to wake up.” His face split into a grin. “You could be part of it. Imagine what one of these shirts could do for you: pull you right out of retirement, give you one last legendary run as the greatest quarterback the world has ever seen. Think about it. One more ring. One more dynasty. This time with the full power of the red behind you.”

Brady’s gaze lingered on the way the red shirt strained across JJ’s chest, the way the fabric seemed to glow faintly in the sunlight. A flicker of genuine curiosity crossed his face, mixed with the cautious skepticism that had kept him untouched by the movement so far.

“I’ll admit… I am curious,” Brady said carefully, his voice measured. “The way it changes people. The muscle growth alone is insane.” He paused, and when he spoke again it was with some hesitancy and even vulnerability. “If I got my hands on one, do you really think it could pull me out of retirement? Give me that edge again? One more run as the GOAT?”

JJ’s grin widened into something almost feral. He reached into the designer bag beside his chaise and pulled out a spare, neatly folded red MFSA shirt. The fabric seemed to hum with dark potential as he held it out toward Brady, the white letters catching the light.

“I just happen to have one right here, Tom,” JJ said, his voice low and coaxing. “Why don’t you try it on and find out for yourself? Trust me. Once you feel what the red can do, you will never want to go back to being… average.”

Brady stared at the shirt in JJ’s hand, the red fabric almost seeming to pulse with invitation. For the first time in a long while, the legendary quarterback felt the faintest pull of temptation. The red wave had finally reached him, and the choice was now his to make…

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here - part thirteen here

The NFL season officially kicked off under the bright lights of a packed Arrowhead Stadium, but the real spectacle began long before the first snap. Morgan Wallen took the stage for the pre-game concert, the country superstar striding out under a sea of flashing cameras and roaring fans. 

He wore a tight red MFSA tank top that left nothing to the imagination, the fabric stretched drum-tight across his powerfully built torso like a second skin. Bold white letters across the chest proudly declared “MAKE FOOTBALL STRAIGHT AGAIN,” the slogan distorted slightly over the heavy slabs of his pectorals and the deep cuts of his abs that were visible every time he moved. His broad shoulders and thick traps flexed naturally with each step, while his arms, which were veined and swollen with dense muscle, looked ready to dominate anything in their path.

As the opening chords of his biggest hit rang out across the stadium, Morgan raised the microphone to his lips and flexed one massive arm for the cameras in a deliberate, powerful pose. The red tank top rode up slightly, exposing the sharp, carved lines of his lower abs and the way his obliques tapered into a powerful V-shape. The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, thousands of fans already decked out in red MFSA gear chanting along as the singer belted out lyrics about trucks, beer, backroads, and traditional values. 

Morgan’s voice rolled through the stadium like thunder, his backward black cap shadowing his intense eyes while sweat glistened on his tanned, muscular shoulders and chest. Every flex of his biceps and every bounce of his heavy pecs sent another wave of approval through the sea of supporters below, hands reaching up from the front rows in adoration.

The performance was more than just entertainment. It was a declaration. Morgan openly endorsed the movement that had taken over the league, pausing between songs to point at the red shirts in the crowd and shout, “This is what real men look like! Make football straight again and make America straight again while we’re at it!” The fans lost their damn minds, chanting the slogan back at him in unison as red lights bathed the entire stadium in the color of the movement.

Later that night, on the field itself, the season opener between the Bengals and the Chiefs became far more than just a game. Arrowhead Stadium pulsed with raw anticipation as the two teams took the field under the blazing lights. The contrast was impossible to ignore. The Bengals, now almost entirely converted, looked like a different species compared to their opponents. Nearly the entire orange-and-black roster and coaching staff proudly wore their red MFSA shirts beneath their pads, the fabric stretched obscenely tight across bodies that had been remade into towering, hyper-masculine alphas. 

Joe Burrow looked unstoppable under center. His jersey and pads clung to his enhanced frame desperately, the heavy slabs of his pectorals flexing visibly with every drop-back. His thick traps and deltoids rolled with raw power as he planted his feet and unleashed passes with terrifying velocity and pinpoint accuracy. The ball seemed to explode from his hand, spiraling downfield with impossible speed and precision that left the Chiefs secondary grasping at air. 

On one early drive he stepped up into the pocket, shrugged off a blitzing linebacker like the man weighed nothing, and fired a rocket that hit Ja’Marr Chase mid-stride, who then carried it in for a touchdown. He’d already been a dominant force on the field even before adopting the red, but now he was completely unstoppable. A deadly weapon in Burrow’s arsenal.

Their superstar wasn’t the only player making a statement either. Mike Gesicki, now a monstrous tight end after his own full conversion, dominated the middle of the field like a nightmare matchup. The former liberal had been completely remade into an alpha specimen. His armor-like chest and tree-trunk legs allowed him to bully defenders at the line, shrugging them off with casual power before hauling in touchdown after touchdown. Every time he caught the ball, his enhanced frame exploded forward and he steamrolled the smaller, unenhanced Chiefs defenders. 

Even the team’s kicker Evan McPherson was dominating, as was the rest of the Bengals’ red-shirted army. The defense moved like a well-oiled machine of pure dominance. Their enhanced bodies turned every snap into a brutal mismatch. Linebackers delivered hits that rattled helmets, offensive linemen opened holes that looked like highways, and the entire unit operated with the same unapologetic, aggressive fire that now defined the movement. 

On the sideline, the fully transformed Zac Taylor barked orders with a deep, commanding baritone that carried over the roar of the crowd, his own red-shirted physique radiating the same alpha authority as his players.

By contrast, the Chiefs were only about half converted. While Harrison Butker, Matt Araiza, and a handful of others had fully embraced the red shirts and grown into imposing alphas, the rest of the roster including Patrick Mahomes and a still-unenhanced core fought at a clear and painful disadvantage. The red-shirted Bengals simply overpowered them on every play. The Chiefs’ unenhanced players looked smaller, slower, and softer by comparison, their efforts repeatedly crushed by the sheer physical dominance of the visiting team.

The game was never close. By halftime the Bengals had already built an insurmountable lead, and the second half became little more than a victory lap. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard told the story in stark numbers: Bengals 45, Chiefs 7. A complete, humiliating blowout that sent a clear message across the league. The red wave was no longer coming. It had arrived.

The stadium fell into a stunned hush as the Bengals players celebrated on the field, flexing in their red shirts for the cameras while the remaining Chiefs players trudged toward the tunnel in defeat. The season had only just begun, but the first game had already proven what everyone was starting to fear: the movement was unstoppable and the teams that embraced it like the Bengals and the Bills had a clear advantage.

In the tunnel after the game, Patrick Mahomes let out an exhausted sigh. The noise of the crowd had faded into a distant roar as he made his way through the concrete corridor toward the locker room area, his shoulders slumped and his face etched with frustration. The lopsided loss burned in his chest, but the sight that greeted him when he stepped into the Chiefs locker room hit him far harder than any score on the scoreboard. There, in the middle of the room, stood Travis Kelce - or what was left of him.

The former superstar tight end had been reduced to the pathetic beta water boy role the movement had forced upon him. He wore the humiliating baby-blue shirt with the bold lettering “2 BETA 4 FOOTBALL” across his narrow, sunken chest. The once-powerful frame and all the easy charm that had made him a household name was gone. The man who had once towered over defenders now stood noticeably shorter and slighter, his entire body drained of every ounce of the athletic masculinity that had once defined him. 

Kelce’s eyes were downcast as he dutifully handed out water bottles to the remaining Chiefs players, moving with the meek, eager-to-please shuffle of someone who had accepted his new place at the very bottom of the hierarchy. His face, once handsome and confident, now carried a soft, submissive expression, the broken smile on his lips almost serene in its defeat.

Mahomes stopped in his tracks, heart sinking. “Travis, come on, man,” he pleaded, voice urgent and cracking with emotion as he stepped closer. “This isn’t you. Fight it. Remember who you are! The guy who danced on the sidelines, who lit up rooms, who stood up for what he believed in. We can still push back against this! The shirts, the changes, the way they broke you… it is not too late. We can find a way. You’re stronger than this.”

Kelce slowly lifted his head, his wide, adoring eyes meeting Mahomes’ gaze. There was no spark of the old Travis left, no trace of the charismatic superstar who had once been Mahomes’ closest friend and teammate. Instead, a soft, broken smile spread across his face, gentle and completely sincere in its submission.

“I am exactly who I am supposed to be now, Patrick,” he whispered in a shaky, submissive voice that sounded nothing like the booming, confident tight end from before. “The alphas know best. I am just here to serve. That is all I am good for anymore.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them, a final, devastating confirmation that the man Mahomes had known for years was truly gone. It was a hard truth to grapple with. Surely there had to be something he could do to bring his best friend back?

The locker room doors burst open with a heavy metallic bang that echoed through the tiled space like a gunshot and disrupted Mahomes’ thoughts. Joe Burrow, Evan McPherson, and Mike Gesicki swaggered into the room, invited personally by Harrison Butker and Matt Araiza. 

The three massive Bengals alphas were in their bright red MFSA shirts, sweat-slicked and pumped from the dominant victory they had just delivered. The fabric clung to their bodies like a second skin, stretched obscenely tight across chests that looked carved from granite and shoulders broad enough to block out the overhead lights. Burrow’s heavy pectorals rose and fell with each powerful breath, the white letters distorting over the dense muscle. McPherson and Gesicki looked even more imposing up close, their tree-trunk quads flexing with every step and their thick traps rising high on either side of thick necks. 

Butker and Araiza greeted them with matching predatory grins, still wearing their own red shirts. A few of the other Chiefs players that had been converted joined them, and most of the ones who were holding out or trying to support their quarterback had quickly scuppered away once the alphas arrived.

“About time you boys showed up,” Butker called out, voice deep and mocking as he clapped Burrow hard on the shoulder. “We saved the best for you. Look at this pathetic little water boy we got for you!”

Araiza laughed and gestured toward the center of the room where Travis Kelce stood meekly, the baby-blue shirt hanging loosely on his short, stick-thin frame. “Freshly broken and ready to serve,” he announced proudly. “Go on, take your pick of the cheerleaders too. They know their place around real men now.”

Burrow’s eyes swept over the scene with dark satisfaction. Several cheerleaders had already been ushered into the locker room, their tight uniforms leaving little to the imagination as they pressed themselves against the few remaining red-shirted Chiefs players.

The Bengals alphas wasted no time claiming what they wanted. Gesicki immediately pulled one of the cheerleaders against his massive chest, his thick hand sliding down to grope her ass openly while he smirked in the direction of Mahomes.

“Damn, Butker. You really did a number on pretty boy Kelce here,” Gesicki rumbled, his voice a deep, commanding growl. “Look at him. Used to be a superstar and now he’s just a skinny little beta bitch handing out water like the rest of the soft ones.”

McPherson flexed one massive arm, the bicep peaking sharply under the red sleeve as he eyed the broken tight end. “Pathetic. This is what happens when you fight the red wave. You end up like this. A weak little toy for real alphas to use.”

Kelce kept his eyes downcast, a soft, submissive smile on his face as he held out another water bottle with trembling hands. Being verbally eviscerated by alpha men turned him on terribly - if his one inch cock worked at all, he’d be dreadfully hard already.

Before Mahomes could respond in support of his defeated friend, Burrow stepped directly into his path, towering over the still-unenhanced quarterback with unmistakable menace. The red MFSA shirt strained across Burrow’s enormous chest as he crossed his thick arms.

“What’s the matter, Mahomes?” Burrow drawled, his voice dripping with mocking triumph. “You look like you just saw a ghost. Or maybe you’re just realizing your little resistance is finished. Your boy Kelce here belongs to us now. Just like the rest of this league will soon enough.”

Mahomes stood his ground for a moment longer, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re all sick,” he spat, voice shaking with a mix of anger and desperation. “This isn’t football anymore. This is some kind of cult. You broke Travis. You broke the game. But not everyone is going to fall for your bullshit. We’re still fighting. We won’t let you turn the entire league into this… this nightmare.”

Butker stepped up beside Burrow, laughing low and cruel. “Keep telling yourself that, beta. You and your little club are the only ones left clinging to fairy tales. Look around. Your boy Kelce is already broken. He knows his place now. And soon you will too.”

Araiza joined them, his own red shirt stretched tight as he flexed one arm casually. “Yeah, Mahomes. Keep smiling for the cameras and pandering to the woke crowd. It just makes you an easier target. The red wave is coming for all of you. One shirt at a time.” Gesicki and McPherson chuckled darkly from behind the group, still groping the cheerleaders while they watched the confrontation.

“Run along, Patty,” Burrow called out. “Before we decide to give you a shirt of your own right here and now.” The threat send a shiver down Patrick’s spine. 

Mahomes took one last look at the towering red-shirted invaders, at the way they openly groped and commanded the cheerleaders, at the broken, submissive shell that used to be his best friend and teammate. He knew there was nothing he could do here. Not tonight.

He turned on his heel and hastily retreated toward the exit, the mocking laughter of the Bengals alphas and his own traitorous teammates chasing him down the tunnel.

Coach @badguyswin has once again blessed me with the privilege of continuing his series. For that, he deserves all the respect in the world.

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here - part thirteen here - Leo Chenal spinoff here

“Hubbard! Hubbard! Look over here!”

“This camera first, and then that one next.”

“Flex for us, Sam! Show us that alpha energy!”

The recently retired defensive end did as instructed, stretching the red fabric of his Make Football Straight again shirt across his massive, broad chest and barreled arms. Sam Hubbard occupied the entire space, his inherent superiority smothering the air around him, as if he was the only person there. The world went silent; he could no longer hear the flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras, nor the rabid crowd of protesters standing behind him.

Zac Taylor, coach for the Cincinnati Bengals and his former mentor, was the one who suggested Sam should pay a visit to the Feminist Aid Foundation. Apparently, their radical followers had been consistently protesting at each of the team’s home games, going as far as to harass audience members both as they entered and left the stadium. 

“The game isn’t soft or woke anymore, but these sluts still haven’t comprehended that.” Zac had arrived at Sam’s house in person to make the request. “I need you to go down and drill that fact into them. Force them to bend over for the red wave. I’d do it myself but obviously, I’ve got the team to take care of.”

The Sam that had existed before the Make Football Straight Again movement would have never accepted this offer. He was retired. He wanted to explore other business opportunities, work with his foundation, and spend time with his family. And beyond all of that, what Zac was suggesting was violent, a hate crime even. The forthright bigotry would have appalled him, and the new Zac would have too. The coach’s previously leaner frame had bulked up dramatically since joining the red shirts–the MFSA statement hugging his wide, powerful back and swollen chest. 

But the Sam that was sitting on the couch now, palming at his engorged pouch, was nodding. Grinning even. His pearly white teeth held the same sparkle and shine of the proud letters worn on his own massive chest. The statement had not left Sam’s body or mind since attending Nick and Joey Bosa’s party down in Florida. Sam had been too sensitive, too soft for too long. Make Football Straight Again had reminded him what real football felt like. He was done with that weak inclusive crap, and he was finished trying to please everyone but himself.

“I’d be more than happy to remind those women of their place.” Sam’s voice boasted a malicious edge. “What are you thinking?”

Zac smiled, pulling up his phone and outlining the basics of his plan. “It’s simple really. You’re going to convert the Feminist Aid Foundation straight from the source. You’ll come to the game tonight to advertise your appearance in advance. Social media will do its thing and blow it up, making sure you get as many people at the headquarters as possible. After that, the shirts will do the rest.”

On his phone, Zac displayed a picture of a warehouse filled with shirts. Red ones, pink ones, blue ones too, all ready to reestablish the patriarchy.

“How do I distribute all of them?” Sam asked.

“Just flex your perfect straight white masculinity,” the coach smirked, standing up. “I’m sure you’ll figure out the rest.”

“Sam, over here!” a photographer yelled out. “I want your picture too!”

“Ladies, ladies,” Sam charmed. “There’s enough of the Cincinnati Kid for everyone.”

His rich bass easily carried over the shouting of the crowd, its natural masculine tide washing away the feminine wails coming from behind him. Sam leaned over the two duffel bags beside him and turned around to face the protestors. There were at least ten more duffels sitting in his SUV, but he presumed these two would at least give him a good start.

“Cancel MFSA Men!” the protestors cried. “Respect or Reject!”

Assertively, Sam unzipped both of the duffels. Fabric immediately spilled from the open crevices like gold from a treasure chest. With his burly mitt, he grabbed a single pink shirt, the words “Sissy For Football Alphas” written mockingly across the front. Sam then approached the first girl he locked eyes with, a shorter brunette who at first glance was nothing to write home about. 

“Be honest with me sweetheart,” Sam started. “Don't you think women are happiest when they are cheering from the sidelines instead of trying to run things?”

The girl did not respond, instead raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. Sam frowned, a tinge of rage hardening him. He did not need her approval. In fact, he did not need anyone’s approval. As a straight man, an alpha male, the world was his to take. And Sam was going to take it. 

“If you’re just gonna be some silent whore, you may as well look the part too.” 

Guided by a testosteronic adrenaline rush, Sam grabbed the girl with one arm and locked her into place, forcing the pink shirt in his other hand over her. The girl stiffened in shock, surrendering as the changes took hold. Her once-brown ponytail sprung out into platinum blonde waves. Her flat chest suddenly swelled forward, straining against the white letters of the shirt. A heavy dosing of makeup completed the look, along with the glassy exterior that covered her eyes.

“You’re so right!” the girl’s voice was now light and breathy. “Women should know their place!”

The crowd around them had gone near silent. Soft whispers were exchanged as multiple videos captured the moment, documenting the entire scene. Before any of the protestors could form a reactive thought, Sam reached into a duffel and grabbed more shirts. Like confetti, the fabric was thrown into the air and rained down. Screams sounded out and people began to scatter, but Sam continued to launch the shirts into the sky. 

Some were able to escape in time, but due to the congested nature of the crowd, most felt the luscious fabric’s embrace. Hips widened, nipples hardened, and breasts began to bounce forward. The shrieks of terror slowly transitioned into moans of gratitude as the crowd’s motivations twisted. They found themselves wanting to wear the shirts they were given. They found themselves wanting to submit to their traditional roles. And most of all, they found themselves desperate for the approval of the alpha male who saved them from the lies of liberal degeneracy.

“Sam! Please take my pussy!”

“MFSA is the future! You are the future!”

“Let me serve you, Sam! Let me be your hole!”

The crowd’s moans grew louder, more shameless. Sam restrained from just dropping his shorts right there and freeing his massive cock, filling each and every one of the desperate sluts with his superior seed. After all, he still had a job to do. He had not even made it to the physical doors of the headquarters.

With a cocky smile, Sam ordered a few of the girls to run back to his SUV and grab the additional duffels. They eagerly complied, offering Sam a show of their perky behinds jiggling with every step. Once they arrived back, breathless and begging to do more, Sam dismissed them and moved into the crowd. By now, the protestors had become adamant followers of the MFSA movement. Each promised their commitment to advocate for the cause as Sam passed, desperate to get the attention of the superior straight man. Eventually, Sam found himself at the gate of the enemy’s lair, and after opening the doors, discovered another impasse.

“Smash the patriarchy!” the workers cried out. “The future is female!”

“Ladies,” Sam smirked. “What’s all this fuss about?”

Insults flew past him left and right: “Bigot!” “Douchebag!” “Traitor!” 

Sam turned to his domesticated followers, who anxiously awaited further orders. He signalled for them to drop the duffels, spilling forth new pink shirts to share.

“Don’t they understand that all this whining will cause wrinkles?” Sam joked, sparking snickers from his groupies. “Real Women Serve Alphas, right?”

And with that, the second battle for gender equality was underway. The MFSA girls began to launch shirts into the crowd, trapping the protestors. The feminists desperately ran for the escape, but before any of them could, Sam’s athletic prowess stopped them. A pixie cut dashed for a door, but before she could swing the handle, the alpha male had the pink shirt over half her body. By the time Sam left to tackle another victim, the first had already bimbofied, ready to convert more.

Piercings were dropped, glasses were crushed. One girl’s lesbian pride flag necklace morphed into a cross. Skin tanned, lips plumped. A second girl felt her pure hatred for Sam reverse into absolute lust. Breasts sprung forward, brains shrunk back. The posters on the walls had their words rearranged: “Oppose the Patriarchy” and “Believe Women” switched to “Believe the Patriarchy” and “Oppose Women.” In no time, the battle was won, with all ready to Make Football Straight Again.

Now with an army of submissives at his side, Sam began to distribute the workload. After all, no matter how big and glorious his straight alpha shoulders were, he could not carry the MFSA movement alone. Well, at least not literally. 

“First things first! The Feminist Aid Foundation will undergo a complete overhaul,” Sam announced. “From now on, this organization will be known as…um…” It took Sam a moment to conceive a name. All eyes stared longingly at him, waiting for his answer as if it was a commandment from God. “...uh…Real Women for the Patriarchy!”

“I love that idea! I can’t wait to fulfill our new purpose!”

“You’re so smart, Sam! This is why alpha men are in charge.”

“Women could never do something like that. Thank God Sam is here to guide us!”

A cohort of girls rushed away to follow Sam’s first command. Sam lazily massaged his awakening monster as he continued on to a second group. “While they get started on the rebrand, you all are going to write glowing stories about MFSA. Let the world know how the red shirts are saving football. Make them understand why straight alphas are the future. And explain why there’s nothing more important for a woman than becoming a submissive tradwife to a football husband.”

“I can’t wait to tell everyone why straight alphas are our saviors!”

“I can’t wait to tell everyone why MFSA is the future of football!”

“I can’t wait to write page after page about how sexy, strong, smart, sophisticated, sincere, sensible, and supreme Sam Hubbard is!”

Before long, hundreds of fingers were diligently typing away, eroding at the discourse online. Sam felt his superior cock throbbing in his shorts, but seeing he still had some girls left to assign tasks, he nobly ignored it.

“For the rest of you,” he grunted. “there’s still plenty of shirts to hand out. Let’s start by making sure this building’s cleared, and then we can work on a plan to distribute the rest.”

One by one, Sam handed each girl a stack of shirts, for which he received a variety of lengthy gratitudes. The pattern of soft soprano followed by soft soprano was like a lullaby, each praising his innate alpha abilities and slowly lulling him into a horny daze. One hand on the shirts, one hand on his cock. It was a lovely dream to disappear into, until it was interrupted.

“Stop it!”

Sam blinked awake. Before him stood the first male feminist (if that even existed) that he had seen all day. And there really was not much to see.

“I-I said stop it!” Logan Phillips stammered out again, clearly intimidated by the man twice his size. He had a decent height of 5’11 and some musculature, but beyond that the young adult had little more to offer. Logan was obviously not a faggot, otherwise he would have held the same lustful eyes for Sam’s gloriousness as all the other girls. 

“Stop what?” Sam challenged. He could smell the virginal reek all over Logan.

Logan put his foot down, “Handing out these shirts!” 

Sam considered this, putting on a show for Logan who, despite all he had already witnessed, bought it. Then, Sam picked up a new duffel from beside him, unzipping to reveal a lighter blue fabric inside.

“Alright,” Sam teased, handing one to Logan. “Can I give these out instead?”

Despite knowing better, Logan accepted the shirt and ignited the bond. Logan’s hands mechanically forced the shirt over his head and down his chest, sealing his fate. The words “2 Beta 4 Football” enacted their curse almost immediately.

Agonizingly, Logan’s descent began by losing his precious height inch by inch. 5’10…5’9…5’8. His sturdy frame began to drain away. His shoulder blades shortened, his chest sinking inwards into smooth, unremarkable skin. His arms withered from branches into measly, fragile sticks. Even the hair that coated Logan’s upper limbs and filled his pits dissolved into oblivion.

5’7…5’6…5’5. Logan’s legs lost their definition, the muscle melting away to create stubby, weak supports. The bones compressed, and so too did his face as baby fat grew back in, along with a button-nose for a pair of glasses to perch themselves on top of. By the time Logan settled out at just 5’4, the blue shirt hung pathetically from his frame. The proud, transformative statement had become comically large across his narrow chest.

The last physical change came to Logan’s cock, the sole thing that had separated him from all of his coworkers. It twitched once in desperate protest before it too began its rapid decline. Just like his height, Logan’s manhood dwindled down inch by inch, the shaft growing thinner and more sensitive until it was nothing more than a tiny, useless nub. 

Logan wished to cry. He wished to protest. It was like his entire being had collapsed, forcibly compressed and made incompetent. But before Logan could dwell on the sorrow much longer, the shirt washed away all the negative emotions and replaced them with total, eager submission. What now stood before Sam was not a feminist nor an ally, but rather a meek, broken beta who existed only to serve. 

With wide, adoring eyes, the newly minted faggot looked up to the titan before him. 

“Please let me give out these shirts, Sir,” Lindsey Price pleaded. “Please grant me the privilege of fulfilling this duty in your honor.”

Equally pleased by the transition and disgusted by the result, Sam allowed Lindsey to take the remaining shirts to distribute out accordingly. He did his best to ignore Lindsey’s complete submission, finding it convenient but also incredibly revolting.

Sam spent the rest of the day in the headquarters surveying the progress. The first group’s work at rebranding the organization was moving smoothly. Paperwork was filed, new logos were designed, and the website had already gone through a massive overhaul. The second group as well had already put in a tremendous effort. Glowing segments on the Make Football Straight Again movement had flooded online media. The red shirts were lauded as a “proper recognition of the patriarchy,” the up-and-coming trend was “home-making,” and popular online queries included “how to worship straight men” and “how to lock down a football alpha.” When one looked up “Sam Hubbard,” the search engine would prompt the response: “did you mean: husband material” underneath.

The third group did not go unnoticed either, as the number of shirts swiftly disappeared as the hours passed, growing out the base of support. And because Sam was a benevolent savior, all of the groups were rewarded for their work. Some were granted the privilege to massage his massive feet, tired from stomping out all the dissenters and threats to the hierarchy. Others were given an opportunity to caress his gigantic arms, sore from carrying the weight of society. And a lucky few (or rather, a lucky dozen or so), were granted the prize of taking his thick, heavy, straight alpha cock in one or more of their holes. 

Once his job finished, and his monstrous balls drained completely empty, Sam decided to depart. The women begged him to stay, making promises so extravagant that it was hard for Sam to ignore them. But his alpha responsibilities were calling, for there was more work to be done to Make Football Straight Again. Sam gave his regards to the girls, reminding them that thanks to their work, men would remain forever in control and women would remain forever serving them. This filled them all with joy, as they wanted nothing more than to live traditional, conservative lives pleasing alpha males.

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here

Felix sat alone in his small, cluttered apartment, the glow of his laptop screen the only light cutting through the darkness. Posters of Pride marches and progressive causes covered the walls, alongside shelves crammed with old occult texts, crystals, and half-burned candles from previous rituals. The chubby liberal gay activist stared at yet another video of Josh Allen flexing in his red MFSA shirt, the Buffalo quarterback’s godlike frame dominating the frame as he preached about making football straight again. Felix’s stomach twisted with a sickening mix of disgust and heartbreak that made his hands shake.

He had once admired and even openly crushed on so many of these football players, Josh chief of all. Late nights scrolling through highlight reels, fantasizing about their powerful bodies, their confidence, their raw masculinity. Now they were all turning into open bigots, flexing their massive bodies while spewing hate and exclusion. The man he used to fantasize about had become the face of everything Felix despised. The red shirts, the muscle growth, the sudden venomous conservatism - it felt like a nightmare he could not wake up from. He could not stand by any longer. Someone had to stop this!

He had studied dark magic for years as a secret hobby, collecting old texts and practicing small rituals in the dead of night when the world felt too heavy. Tonight he would use it to destroy the entire movement from the inside. If he could take Josh Allen’s body, he could turn the man against his own cause from within and bring the whole MFSA movement crashing down. No more bigotry. No more corruption. No more stolen athletes. The spell was a permanent swap, meaning he’d be sacrificing his body for good, but he told himself it was worth it. The soul of the sporting world and the culture of wider society hung in the balance.

Felix lit the candles one by one, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the room. With trembling hands he drew the intricate circle on the floor using chalk and salt, carefully placing symbols at each cardinal point. His heart pounded as he knelt in the center, the ancient words of the full body-swap spell heavy on his tongue. He spoke them slowly and carefully at first, then with growing intensity, his voice rising until it echoed off the apartment walls.

His soul ripped free from his soft, chubby frame with a sickening lurch that made him gasp. For one terrifying instant he felt weightless, formless, then he was hurtling across the country like a dark arrow, pulled straight toward Buffalo and the man at the center of it all.

The moment his consciousness attempted to slam into Josh Allen’s muscular body and rip the real Josh’s spirit out, it instead slammed into an invisible barrier. Some ancient protective magic, far stronger and darker than anything Felix had ever encountered, bounced him off like a rubber ball hitting concrete. The force was violent and disorienting, a psychic impact that sent his soul spinning wildly through the ether. Instead of landing in the movement’s leader, Felix’s consciousness was violently redirected into the body of the nearest man, dislodging whoever it was inside and sending their consciousness to the other side of the country and Felix’s waiting body.

Once his spirit had fully adapted to its new home, Felix opened eyes that were not his own and immediately knew something had gone horribly wrong.

The world looked different from this new height. The locker room floor seemed farther away, and when he instinctively looked down, the sight that greeted him made his stomach lurch with pure terror. Thick, heavily veined forearms led to massive hands resting on thighs that were no longer soft or chubby but dense pillars of striated muscle. A broad, heavily muscled chest strained against the tight red MFSA shirt, the heavy slabs of pectorals rising and falling with every panicked breath he took. The white stitched letters across the fabric distorted slightly over the powerful curves, and he could feel the supernatural heat of the shirt pressing directly against his skin like a living thing. His shoulders were capped with thick deltoids, his traps rose high on either side of a thick, corded neck, and his arms hung heavy with dense, vascular muscle that made even the largest suit jackets look inadequate. 

He glanced in a mirror that was hanging nearby on a pillar and recognized the man behind the shocked expression that was looking back at him in his reflection. This was Connor McGovern’s - one of Josh Allen’s offensive linemen - body, and it was now his prison!

Horror flooded him in a crashing wave. Felix tried to scream, to cry out in denial, but the voice that tore from his throat was deep and commanding: Connor McGovern’s voice, a resonant baritone that echoed off the locker room walls and sounded nothing like the activist he had been only moments ago.

“No… this is not happening… get me out of here!” The words came out in that unfamiliar rumble, each syllable vibrating through the massive chest he now inhabited. He staggered back a step, the sheer weight and power of the body making every movement feel alien and overwhelming. His mind screamed at the stolen limbs to move, to rip the cursed red shirt off his chest, to run from the locker room and somehow reverse the spell. But his hands — now large and calloused — only twitched uselessly at his sides.

Across the locker room, Josh Allen turned slowly from where he had been talking to a few teammates. The undisputed leader of the MFSA movement moved with the effortless grace of a god, his own mammoth frame radiating raw, unchallengeable power. The red shirt clung to him like a second skin, stretched obscenely tight across pectoral slabs that looked carved from marble and traps that rose like mountains on either side of a thick neck. His arms were thicker than most men’s thighs, biceps peaking even at rest, and his presence alone seemed to command the entire space.

A dark, knowing smile spread across Josh’s sharpened face as his eyes locked onto Felix trapped inside Connor’s body. “Nice try, little activist,” Josh rumbled, voice low and amused, carrying across the locker room with effortless authority. “Did you really think you could steal my body that easily? I’ve been protected since the very first day the shirt chose me. But congratulations. You just became one of my offensive linemen. Welcome to the team, Connor.”

Felix’s horror quickly deepened into pure panic. He tried to fight back with everything he had left. He willed the stolen limbs to move, to claw at the red shirt and tear it off his chest, to turn and run from the locker room before the corruption could take hold. His mind screamed commands at the massive body, but the limbs only twitched weakly at first, then grew heavier as the shirt’s supernatural aura began to press against his consciousness. It was warm and insistent, like a gentle but unrelenting hand wrapping around his thoughts, whispering promises of strength, belonging, and raw masculine power. 

Josh snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and commanding, cutting through the heavy air of the locker room like a whip crack. A ripple of fear ran through Felix. What was the leader of the MFSA movement planning?

He got his answer quickly. Several cheerleaders sauntered in from the side entrance almost immediately, their hips swaying with practiced confidence. They were the kind of women the MFSA movement celebrated: young, fit, and unapologetically feminine in their tight, midriff-baring uniforms that hugged every curve. Short skirts barely covered the tops of their thighs, and cropped tops stretched across full, bouncing breasts. Their long hair cascaded in soft waves, and their makeup was flawless, lips glossy and smiles bright as they giggled and pressed their soft, curvaceous bodies against the massive red-shirted players already present. 

One blonde cheerleader ran her manicured nails slowly down the thick, veined arm of a lineman, cooing at how strong he felt. Another brunette leaned into a defensive end’s broad chest, laughing as she traced the distorted white MFSA letters across his heavy pectorals. The way they touched the alphas, openly admiring and submitting to their dominance, only amplified the heavy, masculine energy already thick in the room.

Felix, trapped inside Connor McGovern’s massively enhanced body, felt the scene like a physical blow.

He tried desperately to look away, to cling to his old identity as a proud gay activist who had spent years fighting for queer visibility and against exactly this kind of toxic, hyper-masculine display. This is wrong, he screamed inside his own head. These women are being objectified. This is everything I hate. 

But his new eyes - Connor’s eyes - kept drifting back toward the cheerleaders despite every ounce of willpower he possessed. The red MFSA shirt pressed against his skin like a living thing, its supernatural aura growing warmer and more seductive with every passing second. It whispered directly into his thoughts, low and insistent: This is what real men do. This is power. This is right. Look at them. Feel it.

The warmth spread lower, coiling in his belly and then lower still, making the thick cock now trapped in his shorts twitch and begin to swell against his will. Felix’s horror deepened into panic as he felt the unfamiliar surge of straight arousal building inside the stolen body. He had never been attracted to women, not once in his life, but the combination of the shirt’s dark magic and the visual feast in front of him was breaking down those walls faster than he could rebuild them.

One of the cheerleaders, a stunning blonde with long legs and a playful smile, broke away from the group and walked straight toward him. She pressed her soft body against Connor’s massive chest, running her hands slowly over the thick slabs of pectoral muscle that now belonged to Felix. “Mmm, Connor, you look even bigger today,” she purred, her voice sweet and breathy as she squeezed one of his heavy pecs. “I love how strong you guys are now.”

Felix’s mind reeled. No. Stop. I’m gay. I like men. But the body betrayed him instantly. His new cock hardened fully, throbbing heavily inside his shorts as the cheerleader’s soft breasts pressed against the red shirt and her perfume filled his lungs. The shirt’s aura surged stronger, flooding his thoughts with new images: what it would feel like to grab her hips, to bend her over, to claim her the way a real alpha should. The whispers grew louder: This feels good. This is natural. This is what you were always meant to want.

He tried to fight it, whispering desperately inside his head, “I’m gay… I’m proud to be gay… this isn’t me…” But the words felt smaller, weaker, more distant with every heartbeat. The cheerleaders’ laughter and the way they openly worshipped the red-shirted alphas chipped away at his resistance until the last fragments of his old gay identity began to fracture and dissolve. In their place bloomed something new, something straight and dominant and completely aligned with the MFSA cause.

Felix’s resistance crumbled piece by humiliating piece. His eyes no longer tried to look away. Instead they drank in the sight of the cheerleaders’ bodies with growing hunger, like a man that had been starved his whole life. The shirt’s magic finished its work, rewriting the final corners of his mind until the activist who had once fought against everything MFSA stood for was completely gone.

When the blonde leaned up and kissed him, Felix - now fully and undeniably Connor - kissed her back with raw, unfiltered desire, his massive hands gripping her waist and pulling her in close as the last traces of the old Felix burned away forever.

He was Connor McGovern now. Straight. Loyal. An alpha through and through and he had never felt more right in his life.

Days later, the Bills facility buzzed with the usual post-practice energy, but the atmosphere in the locker room had grown even heavier with MFSA dominance. The new Connor now moved through the halls with complete confidence and authority. The corruption had taken hold completely. Felix was gone. Only Connor remained, fiercely loyal to Josh Allen and the movement, his old activist ideals burned away and replaced by a deep, satisfying hunger to protect and expand the red wave.

When security alerted the locker room that a strange, pudgy man in ill-fitting clothes was demanding entry and screaming about stolen bodies, the new Connor’s lips curled into a dark, knowing smile. He had been expecting this.

The original Connor who was now trapped inside Felix’s soft, chubby body stormed into the facility like a man possessed. His new pudgy frame jiggled with every angry, determined step, the baggy hoodie and loose jeans hanging awkwardly on his rounded belly and soft hips. The former offensive lineman looked utterly ridiculous, his once-powerful presence reduced to this short, overweight, flustered figure whose voice cracked with outrage as he shoved past a security guard.

“Where is he?” the original Connor bellowed, face flushed and eyes wild. “Where’s the thief who stole my fucking life? I want my body back! I know you’re in here, you bastard!”

Several red-shirted players moved to intercept him, but the new Connor stepped forward first, towering over the pudgy intruder with effortless dominance. His massive arms crossed over his enormous chest as he looked down at the man who used to inhabit this powerful frame.

“Well, well,” the new Connor rumbled, voice deep and mocking. “Look what the cat dragged in. Still clinging to your old life, huh? Pathetic. You weren’t man enough to keep it, it’s as simple as that. Now you get to see what real power feels like from the other side.”

The original Connor’s eyes widened in horrified recognition. “Give it back! This isn’t right!”

The new Connor only laughed, low and cruel. He snapped his fingers, and two massive red-shirted linemen grabbed the pudgy man by the arms, dragging him kicking and shouting into the main area of the locker room. The original Connor struggled uselessly, his soft body offering no resistance against their enhanced strength. 

Josh Allen watched with interest from across the room, sitting in his locker stall with a blonde cheerleader on her knees between his spread legs. It was pretty much his default situation whenever they were in the locker room. Those cheerleader sluts couldn’t get enough of the MFSA god.

“Hold him,” the new Connor ordered calmly. He reached into a nearby locker and pulled out a folded pink crop-top. The bold white lettering across the chest read SISSY FOR FOOTBALL ALPHAS. He held it up so the original Connor could see it clearly, a predatory grin spreading across his face.

“No… please, no,” the original Connor whimpered, already sensing what was coming.

The new Connor stepped forward and personally forced the pink crop-top over the struggling man’s head, yanking it down over his soft, chubby torso until the fabric settled against the pale, untoned skin. The moment it made full contact, the unwanted transformation began, swift and humiliating, but drawn out enough for the former lineman to feel every degrading second of his fall from the body he had once owned.

Felix’s soft, chubby, non-athletic body began to drain away in visible, agonizing waves. The pudgy shoulders narrowed and sloped downward as what little firmness there was melted into even softer, more delicate padding. His already rounded, unremarkable chest flattened and smoothed out completely, the slight layer of fat redistributing as small, perky breasts began to swell gently beneath the pink fabric, pushing outward in teasing waves until they formed sensitive B-cups that strained the crop-top and jiggled softly with every panicked breath. His thick arms withered rapidly into thin, soft limbs that looked almost dainty, the last traces of any muscle definition vanishing as they became smooth and weak.

His quads and calves, already softened and weak in Felix’s body, shrank further in rapid pulses until his legs were frail, skinny, and almost comically slender, barely able to support his changing form. His once-impressive height compressed noticeably, bones and spine shortening until he stood several inches shorter and far slighter than before, the pudgy belly tightening into a softer, more feminine curve while his hips widened into a gentle, inviting flare. 

Between his legs his cock twitched once in desperate protest before it dwindled rapidly, shrinking inch by inch into a tiny, useless nub that left only a smooth, pathetic pouch in his shorts. The sensation of his manhood pulling inward, growing smaller and more sensitive until it felt like nothing more than a humiliating little clit left him whimpering in betrayed arousal.

His face softened last, cheekbones rising and rounding into a delicate, feminine contour, lips plumping into a full, pouty shape that looked made for service, and eyes growing larger and more doe-like with long, fluttering lashes. Felix’s hair lengthened slightly, becoming a softer, more feminine style that framed his newly pretty features like a delicate halo.

The mental change followed immediately, relentless and complete. The proud, angry lineman’s resistance shattered as the pink shirt’s dark magic rewrote him from the inside out. His identity as a strong, masculine athlete (even while trapped in Felix’s soft, chubby body) dissolved into eager, submissive yearning. He was no longer Connor McGovern, nor even Felix.

He was Felicia now, a pretty little sissy who quickly came to relish how easily she had been uprooted from her place in the Bills locker room and had her masculine body and identity stolen from her. The humiliation of going from star offensive lineman to chubby activist to eager sissy only made the new cravings burn hotter. She wanted to be used. She wanted to serve. She wanted to be exactly what the alphas decided she should be.

Felicia dropped to her knees with a needy whimper, looking up at the towering alphas, and especially the new Connor, with total devotion and gratitude shining in her wide eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered breathily, voice soft and feminine. “Thank you for making me what I was always meant to be. A pretty little sissy hole for real football alphas. I love how easily you took everything from me… my body, my strength, my life. I’m so much happier like this.”The new Connor looked down at the broken sissy with a satisfied smirk, flexing one massive arm so the red shirt strained across his bicep. “Good girl, Felicia. Now you know your place. Welcome to the team.”

Thank you to the incredible Coach @badguyswin for giving me the opportunity to spin off his series.

The MFSA series starts here - part two here - part three here - part four here - part five here - part six here - part seven here - part eight here - part nine here - part ten here - part eleven here - part twelve here

The red wave had rapidly decimated the National Football League. Team after team had fallen to the Make Football Great Again movement, replacing their empathy for pure, brutal masculinity. The media had already cracked open too: the radio silence had begun shifting into dissent, but before long almost all the opinions had switched to unanimous praise. And now, leading up to the Super Bowl, the red shirts were planning to swallow the League all together.

But on the sidelines, quieter work had been underway. Tremendous changes had been happening at the local level, escaping the view of the tumultuous national news. Because of this, these smaller projects were able to grow unmonitored and unchallenged. Pioneers carefully chosen by the leaders of the MFGA movement–Josh Allen, Kirk Cousins, and Harrison Butker–were quickly painting over the rest of America, their red brushes smothering out any of the common peoples’ opposition.

One of these pioneers was Leo Chenal, a linebacker for the Commanders and former teammate of Harrison. When Leo had first received the package at the Washington facility, he was surprised to find a folded red shirt with a letter attached. Leo had pulled the fabric over his head without a second thought, not even reading the shirt’s statement or the letter and placing his blind trust in his friend. But before Leo could even orient himself to a mirror, evolution struck.

Within moments, his frame ballooned outwards, piling on pound after pound of excess muscle. His frame expanded upwards and outwards with extra mass, expanding him into a monster. His height increased, his pecs and shoulders swelled dramatically, his neck thickened. Everything that could become manlier did so. Even his feet, which were already quite large, widened out even further so that every step demanded complete attention.

Leo did not process any of these changes however, for his mind became focused on one thing: dominance. Dominance over women, solidifying their place as cheerleaders and homemakers that pleasured his massive, engorged cock. Dominance over the faggots, nailing them to the ground to grovel at his gigantic, superior feet. And most importantly, dominance over rhetoric, ensuring that traditional, conservative values and straight, white, alpha men like himself would always be at the top of the hierarchy.

This last statement, which Leo had already identified as the most crucial, was also what Harrison outlined in the attached letter. He called for Leo to begin working on the ground, helping grow the ranks “from the bottom up.”

“Football is a man’s sport. It’s straight and it’s brutal,” Harrison had written. “It’s about brotherhood. Real men supporting real men. The rainbow crap and the woke agenda were softening the game, turning alphas into betas. We’re solving the problem at the top, but we need you working from the bottom. These betas weren’t born betas, they were raised betas. If we find the root of our problem, then we can Make Football Straight Forever.”

Now, Leo found himself walking the tarmac of the Grantsburg Municipal Airport. His private jet stood out against the backdrop of rural Wisconsin. Leo was able to progress towards his rental truck without any interruption, for no press had been officially notified in advance of his arrival. The early morning sun at his back made his red tanktop glow, its statement pulsing off his massive upper shelf. Leo held a trusty water bottle in one of his hands. The other carried a duffel bag filled with enough fabric to corrupt his entire hometown.

Leo arrived at his old high school in minutes. The brick exterior looked the same as when he attended less than a decade ago, but within moments he noticed a blotch on the perfect painting. Beside the American flag flew another, one whose rainbow colors made Leo sick. Dropping the duffel momentarily, Leo grabbed the ropes and furiously forced the flag down. Once it was lowered enough, Leo ripped the fabric from the pole and shredded it in his hands. The pitiful colors stood no chance to his passionate masculinity.

“Hey!” A voice from behind him called. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Leo turned as a man a few years older than him rushed forward. Average height, tucked in shirt with a striped tie, nerdy glasses. The man reeked of inferiority and natural submission, so Leo was surprised when he ripped the trashed flag from his fists.

“Our GSA fought hard to get that flag up!” Daniel Holland was a history teacher for the high school, and the Gay-Straight Alliance was one of the extracurriculars he hosted. “My students spent months campaigning for the district to allow it. Do you even realize that what you just did is a hate crime?”

Leo continued along stoically as each of these insults was fired at him, unphased by the beta as he made his way to the football field. Daniel followed behind closely, continuing to hurl his remarks with decreasing intensity, gradually taking in the alpha male before him. The man Daniel was confronting appeared a few years younger than him and yet was taller, more muscular, and more confident than he would ever be. 

Eventually, Leo stopped and dropped what he was carrying, taking in the field around him. He could feel the memories of many home games returning to him, the crowds cheering for Wisconsin’s Offensive and Defensive Player of the Year. Daniel had by now gone silent, watching as the giant bent over to open the duffel bag. The zipper pulled back to reveal glimmering fabrics of all shapes and sizes. Leo’s mitt dove in and pulled out a white piece.

“Who are you even, anyway?” Daniel asked.

Leo ignored answering and instead fired the question back. Daniel replied swiftly. 

“A history teacher? Well, then you’re certainly a bad one,” Leo remarked. “You should know better than anyone that history is written by the winners. And who have the winners always been? Men. Men like me. Straight, white, alpha males who take what they deserve.”

Daniel scoffed, although he was surprised by the slightly intelligent remark.

“Aren’t you tired of being the weak link? Aren’t you tired of being pushed around in this meaningless job? Aren’t you just a wimp who forces others–your students–to ingest this beta agenda because you can’t suck another guy’s cock?”

Daniel blushed red. Leo had immediately understood the faggot’s true nature after first laying eyes on him.

“So what?” Daniel finally spat back, obviously losing. He shot a finger at Leo’s chest, its size dwarfed by the wall of flesh. “You’re just going to come in here and force your bigotry on us?”

Leo tossed the white shirt at Daniel, who instinctively caught it. A burst of energy ignited from Daniel’s fingertips as Leo zipped the duffel back up and grabbed his things. “Yes.”

Before Daniel could reply, his arms began to move on their own, unfolding the white shirt and lifting it up over his head. As soon as the fabric touched Daniel’s body, it absorbed his teaching outfit, making way for the transformation.

The white shirt set off an outbreak across Daniel’s skin, causing his mass to burst outwards. The skinny frame shot up to a solid 6’1, still placing him below Leo but making him an admirable height. Every ligament of his body bulged forward: biceps, triceps, and delts. Glutes, quads, and calves. Muscle carved out his upper frame as a small layer of fat piled on, creating a body built by a history of exercise but matured with age. Daniel was becoming an ex-player: a native of the field now able to pass down wisdom. 

Every inch of Daniel’s body that could become more masculine was made so. Hair spread across his frame like wildfire, coating the tanned skin. His Adam’s apple pried forward to create a commanding baritone. His jaw forced its way outward to host a prominent chin hidden behind the five-o’clock shadow. Daniel’s slacks drew upwards into a trusty pair of shorts that could hold his expanding pouch while his loafers extended outwards into a well-loved pair of sneakers that could hold his lengthening feet. 

A whistle planted itself on top of his growing muscle gut, attached to strings that led one’s eyes up to the new cocky smirk. It would become forever etched into Daniel’s face, thanks to his blossoming conservative beliefs. Gone were the days campaigning for the rights of others, sticking up for the weaker students and himself. Now Daniel was the top dog, the man in charge, and he was coming to realize that that was how all men were meant to be. 

Men were meant to be strong and dominant. Men were meant to be straight alphas. The woke agenda, pushed by feminists and libtards alike, threatened the harmonious existence that had existed for thousands of years. The existence granted by God himself. And Daniel was not going to let any queer, blue-haired, crying liberal take away his rights! Not only was he going to live red, but as a teacher, it was his duty to have his students live it too.

Once everything was squared away, the man finally recognized Leo for the idol he was.

“Leo? Leo Chenal? On my field!?”

Leo grinned, appreciating the way the familiar letters curved against the man’s chest. As one alpha appreciates another alpha.

“Dan Hoffmann. Gym teacher and coach for the varsity team.” The coach extended a meaty hand to Leo, which he accepted. “I was on the team myself a few years before you came along. Can’t say I made quite the impression, or stayed in shape.”

The coach threw back a hearty laugh. Leo remained quiet, watching along.

“So, let’s get to the point,” Coach Hoffmann eventually started again. “What can I do to help spread the movement and Make Football Straight Again?”

Thanks to his new convert, Leo was easily able to infiltrate the high school. The pair first returned to the parking lot, where Leo offloaded a few more duffel bags onto the coach. Coach Hoffmann took a glance inside the truck bed, discovering a dozen or so more bags. Once prepped, the coach led Leo into the high school, where teachers and students alike had begun to mill about, preparing for the school day.

At first, no one recognized the football legend or the statement he proudly wore on his shirt, but after a few minutes, the high school staff and students began to exchange nervous whispers and glances. Eventually, some approached Leo, ready to confront the message and his presence. Coach Hoffmann was prepared for each of these distractions however, thrusting a shirt forward before any stranger could open their mouth. Each person found themselves immediately silenced, suddenly finding their only purpose to wear the shirt and obey its command.

Before they entered the administrative office, Coach Hoffmann stopped Leo.

“I gotta warn you, bro,” the coach said. “This secretary has also been a whiny skank.”

Leo pushed open the door, revealing the forewarned secretary at her desk, diligently typing away. She was not much to look at with her short hair, barely B-cups, and simple white blouse. Peering up, her eyes filled with professional disgust.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her tone grating.

“I don’t need an appointment,” Leo responded. “I’m here to see the principal.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary parroted back. “You can’t see the principal if you don’t have an appointment.”

Bored with this conversation already, Leo reached into a duffel bag and revealed a ball of pink fabric, throwing it right at the secretary’s face.

“Hey!-” the secretary started, but after a moment her eyes wandered away dreamily. Without waiting any longer, Leo made his way towards the principal’s office.

“I’m gonna wait out here, bro!” Coach Hoffmann eagerly volunteered, staying back. “I’ll make sure there aren’t any interruptions.”

Without knocking, Leo marched into the principal’s office, his massive body filling the doorframe. Sitting behind the desk was a middle-aged man of little distinction. His office was lackluster, painted gray with the typical decorations. At first glance, Leo discerned that the principal was roughly six feet tall. The man had certainly not embraced any kind of exercise in years, perhaps decades, properly filling out his seat behind the desk.

“Excuse me?” Ronald Harris could not recall the last time someone had stormed into his office, let alone anyone’s. Slowly, the principal began to recognize who was before him. “Oh, Mr. Chenal! I had no idea you would be stopping by. Typically you’d have to make an appointment but given the circumstances, I’m happy to give you a few minutes of my time. What can I do for a Grantsburg celebrity?”

Leo took a seat, his muscular glory causing the chair to creak as he sat down. “I’m here to set things straight,” he started. “I’ve been assigned to bring things back to the way they are supposed to be. Straight, strong, and unapologetic. I’m here to reestablish tradition, one that can be carried for generations after.”

The principal could not tell if it was the speech, Leo’s booming voice, or the hulking figure that gave him goosebumps. As a moderate himself, he did not really appreciate some of Leo’s points, but he knew better than to start an argument.

“So, what exactly are you asking from me?” Ronald curiously asked.

“You’re going to help me Make Football Straight Again,” Leo commanded. It was not an ask, but a direct order. “We’ll start first with the high school, then advance to the district. After that regional Wisconsin, and before long we’ll have the state league backing us.”

“This all seems quite grand, especially for a uh-” the principal paused, now finally reading Leo’s shirt. “Pardon my language, but a controversial cult-like initiation.”

Leo turned to the duffel he had brought in, unzipping it and removing a folded shirt. He slid it across the desk without a word, watching Ronald eyes latch onto the mysterious fabric like magnets.

“Why don’t you try it on and see for yourself?” Leo asserted.

At first, it appeared as if Ronald was going to reject the offer. After staring at the glowing red for almost a minute, the principal finally ascended and grabbed the shirt. He then made his way around the desk to Leo’s side with the intent of returning the shirt, but he could not find the will to do so. There was something so hypnotizing about the fabric, the way its texture not only caressed Ronald’s fingertips, but his brain too. It murmured promises of glory and unadulterated masculine splendor.

Leo watched on silently as the principal dazedly undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, the cheap garments falling to his feet. With his flabby body on full display, the principal undid his belt and lowered his slacks slightly before disappearing underneath the glorious red fabric. Once it was properly fit onto his frame, he tucked the garment in with the utmost respect, the belt buckle resecured like a lock that would never come undone.

Two inches were added to the principal’s body instantaneously, igniting the true magic. The mass around Ronald’s stomach immediately shifted, the fat in his gut sucked up into his pectorals and deltoids. His upper shelf grew out even wider as the biceps and triceps expanded into footballs of their own, leading down to weathered mitts holding decades of experience tossing the old pigskin. The principal’s stomach, once fat and neglected, was now as tightly bound as a minister was to his scripture: his core had become impenetrable.

The rest of Ronald’s body grew out accordingly to match the proportions. Thighs thick enough to crush skulls, calves sculpted to chase after delinquents. His vocal chords stretched, causing every word to hold authority, no matter how insignificant. His face was squared off, allowing for a clefted chin and more prominent brow. The wrinkles displayed his age as something to be intimated by, not ignored. His hair was the finishing touch of refinement, shaping itself into the tight cut the principal had held since his military days.

Both Ronald’s brain and balls began a massive descent, churning with new potential. The submission the principal had had for the school board, the obligations he had once felt towards supporting his community, were drained away. He now felt an urgency to support traditional values. The urge to usher in alpha male ideals. The need to silence the women and queers who fought back against what was good and great. Ronald had the jurisdiction to live how he wanted to live, and to ensure all of his students and subordinates did so also.

Following the principal, the office took on a transformation of its own. The titles in the bookshelves switched from academic bores to proper reads. To Be a Man and Manhood: The Masculine Virtues America Needs were the first two examples to pop out, but soon the racks were filled with written proposals of tradition and conservative order. The bottom shelf was converted into a storage for Bibles, all ready to be handed out to unruly students.

The sparse decorations on the walls magically shifted, boasting new pictures and promoting different events. There were countless photos of the football team and posters sporting masculine and athletic verbiage. Trophies decorated the desks, and a new American flag propped itself up in the corner. Even the walls were upgraded, three of which took on a fresh new coat as the fourth was painted a proud, aggressive red. As the cherry on top, the fourth wall was blessed with a huge graphic rejoicing the school’s new priority. The same priority the principal now wore with pride on his chest.

“Leo, my boy!” Roy Hayes exclaimed, his booming voice shaking the walls around him. “On behalf of the whole school, might I say that we are honored to have a man of your presence here. The pathetic woke agenda has spent too long brainwashing our children and raising them into soyboy betas!”

The principal continued: “These boys want to dress up like women to feel special. Biden and his lackeys had us teaching that deep down, boys should want to be soft and submissive. What kind of education is that? These boys are supposed to grow up into real men, alphas like us. And alphas are breeders, large and in charge. Make Football Straight Again is the start, but I say we need to Make Education Straight Again!”

Rou’s passionate monologue came to a spectacular finish, and the principal returned to his seat.

Leo smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“So I’ll ask again,” Principal Hayes said, shifting slightly in his seat. His giant manhood was at full mast beneath the desk. “What exactly are you asking from me?”

From the duffel beside him, Leo pulled out a small stack of papers, outlining numerous policy reforms and edited doctrines.

“Signatures, to start,” Leo grinned. “Leave everything else to me. I’ll have this whole town painted red by the end of tonight’s home game.”

After some time, Leo finally exited the office. The paperwork was filed away, and Principal Hayes had already scheduled a staff meeting over the school’s lunch break. Three duffel bags were to be delivered to the auditorium, where the discussion would be held. On his way out of the administrative office, Leo found the secretary who bent forward over her desk with Coach Hoffmann behind her. His heavy cock, veined and throbbing from the sheer dominance of the moment, was driving in and out of the secretary’s wet entrance. She now wore the pink shirt Leo had thrown her, the words “Sissy For Football Alphas” bouncing along with her hearty C-cups and long blonde hair.

The rest of the school day progressed according to plan. Leo would walk into a classroom, empty a duffel, watch the progression, and leave satisfied. What had started as a Spanish class degraded into a discussion lauding ICE and the importance of deportation. An English literature session ended with the students and the teacher tossing historical fiction in the trash to make way for “superior American titles.” The choir practice was one of Leo’s favorite moments; watching all the tenors slowly drop into bass territory, their lyrics changing from some corny tune about inclusion to a recent Morgan Wallen hit.

The school itself also adapted with each passing hour. A poster advertising the theatre department’s sponsored school trip to a Shakespearean play shifted to an in-house event hosting Turning Point USA. The calendar that once documented minority holidays had been corrected to showcase every local sporting event. And beside this calendar appeared a lamented schedule of all the churches in town and their services.

Before long, school was out, releasing a new population supporting the Make Football Straight Again movement. There was only one step left to Leo’s plan: the home game that night.

“Boys!” Coach Hoffmann called out to the rowdy group of players. The locker room already held a cloud of unmitigated manly musk, and the game had not yet even begun. “I’d like to introduce you all to a very special friend of mine. You may recognize him from his framed pictures lining our high school walls, or as the linebacker for the Washington Commanders. Please help me welcome the pillar of unapologetic masculinity: Leo Chenal!”

The locker room erupted into boisterous whoops and hollers, some even staring in awe as Leo’s gargantuan mass rounded the corner. 

“Football is meant for straight alphas,” Leo got right to the point, watching as Coach Hoffmann quietly made his way around the room with a duffel in hand. As the players kept their eyes on Leo, the coach softly placed a shirt on top of each of their laps. Leo watched as one by one their eyes glazed over.

“Tonight, you are going to dominate,” Leo continued. The players listened intently, unaware of their own bodies stripping away their shirts to adorn the new red fabric. “Tonight, we take football back from the woke agenda. This school will never again have soft rules. This school will never again promote any beta rainbow pride. Tonight, we show football for what it really is: a straight man’s game!”

The locker room burst into rallying shouts once more, but this time, they were deeper and more primal. Before Leo’s very eyes, the high school team was evolving into men. Rippling abs, pulsing veins, muscles built by testosterone and arrogance alone. By the time the team entered the field, they had become a conglomerate of young alpha males. Their thick, broad bodies radiated an aura of oppression, their dominant swagger a heavy cloud suffocating the field.

The game was anything but intense. The visiting team had arrived prepared for a back-and-forth battle, but after a few minutes it was clear they stood no match. The home team was built for destruction; every player on the field was bigger, stronger, and meaner. Their enhanced bodies, powered by their commitment to the patriarchy and heteronormativity, had the visiting team out of breath and defeated by half-time. 

Despite the superficial battle on the field, the crowd was loving the action, in part thanks to the growing sea of red. As the game continued, shirts were freely handed out through the bleachers, some even delivered by cannons from the cheerleaders wearing new MFSA outfits. One could look away for a few moments and return back to a completely new picture. A 30-something stick of a man would be replaced by a buff trainer. A nerdy college student would be sitting at the end of the bleacher, but after a touchdown, there would now sit a rambunctious frat boy. Adults who had sworn off having children would become handsome but strict fathers ready to pass down their morals. The protestors too were blessed by the shirts, evolving them into local leaders and politicians who would further the movement.

In the end, no one was surprised by the landslide victory. The visiting team was demolished, their score less than half of the home team’s. But by then, everyone was celebrating the symbolic win–even the visiting team, who had found a duffel bag in their locker room as a consolation prize, courtesy of Coach Hoffmann. The sea of red cheered for the return of traditional values and the hierarchy of men. They cheered for the rights of straight alphas, and soon, they all began to chant together, their words echoing out through rural Wisconsin. 

“Make Football Straight Again!”

The next morning, Leo found himself at the airport again, his final duffel in hand. The rest had been given over to Principal Hayes, with more to be delivered to the school through expedited shipping. Thanks to Leo’s work, the entire school had already shifted over to the MFSA mindset. The school board would naturally follow, and new protocols for the district would come after.

The paperwork Leo had had Principal Hayes sign included new policies supporting the MFSA movement, assuring that kids of all ages would begin to understand and adopt the natural hierarchy. Posters of the Ten Commandments and imagery depicting Josh Allen would be required in every room. The students would declare allegiance to the American and heterosexual flags every morning. There would be required prayer times and domestication classes for the girls. And all students would be required to wear red from here on out, from preschool through graduation. “Make Football Straight Again” would be on everyone’s shirts, everyone’s lips, and constantly in everyone’s minds.

Before he had left, Leo had also dropped off some extra MFSA gear at Coach Hoffmann’s office. He had planned on exchanging it in person, but as he was about to knock, Leo had noticed that the coach was occupied through the locker room window. Coach Hoffman’s back was to him, standing behind his desk with his shorts lowered to the ground. Blocked partially by the coach’s muscular body was a blond slut wistfully sucking away, simply taking pleasure from being on her knees for an alpha male. Although the view was obscured, Leo recognized that the chick on the dirty office floor was not the principal’s secretary. 

Leo’s work here was done. Naturally, the movement would spread outwards from this part of rural Wisconsin, and soon Harrison and his crew would be receiving more and more requests for shirts. Leo had solidified himself as an unstoppable force of alpha power. He smirked, knowing that by restoring traditional masculine power to every corner of the country, he was going to Make America Straight Again.

after ppl asked for it i decided to make a discord server

link is only live for 7 days so u better get in there if u wanna be part of the club

Joe Burrow, QB, Cincinnati Bengals