The sin Iāve committed is Envy for sure. Iām a slightly fat gay guy with no luck dating but I see all these stud Jocks that are super hot, super fit and can get anyone they want and I wish I had the kind of body they do. I get so envious and jealous they have the perfect bodies with great looks where Iām average looking with a slightly fat body.
You shuffle deeper into the alley, the damp chill seeping through your thin jacket. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of desperation and shame. The coin in your palm feels impossibly heavy, its edges digging into your skin as you clench your fist.
Ahead, the fountain looms, a monstrosity of carved stone barely visible in the sickly orange glow of a single flickering streetlamp. It's a faceācruel, ancient, undeniably masculineāwith water perpetually spewing from its sneering mouth into a scum-covered basin.
"Oberon," you rasp, the name scraping your throat raw. "I... I need your help."
The confession feels like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "The sin is envy. I know it is. I fucking know it." Saying it out loud doesn't bring relief; it just solidifies the rot that's been festering inside you for years. You're gay. Not just gay, but hopelessly, pathetically so.
A doughy guy whose dating life is a barren wasteland of ghosted messages and awkward coffee dates that lead nowhere. It eats at you, a constant, gnawing hunger that you've never dared to speak aloud.
Everywhere you look, they're there. The gods of this world. Those jocks with muscles that seem carved from marble, stomachs so flat they look like they could be used as an ironing board, jaws so sharp they could slice paper, and that effortless, liquid confidence that makes everyone gravitate towards them. They walk into a room and the atmosphere changes. People lean in. Laughter gets a little louder. Eyes follow them. They don't even have to try.
And you? You watch. You compare. You burn.
You envy the way their tight t-shirts stretch across sculpted chests, hinting at the power beneath. You envy the easy way people flirt with them, the casual touches, the hungry looks.
You envy their comfort in their own skin, while you spend half your life pulling at clothes that never seem to fit right, strategically positioning yourself to avoid any reflective surface. They have the bodies you were cheated out of. The looks you were denied. The magnetic presence that makes people want them instantly.
Every time one of them passes you on the street, something sour and toxic twists in your gut. A bitter cocktail of longing and self-loathing.
You don't see yourself as ugly, not really. Just... average. Painfully, crushingly average. Soft where they're hard. Blurry where they're sharp. Invisible where they're the main event.
You close your eyes sometimes and imagine itābeing them. Waking up in that body, with that face, that confidence. Imagine walking into a room and having heads turn. Imagine people desiring you the moment they see you, instead of looking right through you.
The envy is a physical presence now, a heavy stone in your gut that grows a little larger, a little heavier with every perfect body that parades past you.
You stumbled upon this place by sheer, desperate accident. A cobblestone side street you'd never noticed before, tucked away behind a row of grimy warehouses. And there it was. The fountain. A last-ditch prayer to a dark fairy king you weren't sure was real, but what choice did you have?
"Please," you beg, your voice cracking, sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Take this... this thing from me. This envy. Make me like them. Make me one of them."
With a trembling hand, you flick the coin into the murky water. It hits with a disappointing 'plink,' sending a few weak ripples across the scummy surface. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Just silence. The distant wail of a siren. The drip, drip, drip of water from the stone face.
Then, the ripples change. They grow faster, more violent, churning the basin into a frothing, angry whirlpool. A strange, electric tingle shoots up your arm from your fingertips, a buzzing, invasive energy that quickly spreads through your entire body.
Your muscles seize up, locking in place as a wave of intense heat washes over you. You gasp, stumbling back against the damp brick wall, your eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope.
It's starting.
You can feel it. The fat. It's not just melting; it's being actively purged, siphoned from your body with an alarming efficiency. You watch, mesmerized, as the soft pouch of your stomach tightens, the flesh seeming to shrink and retract right before your eyes.
Your thighs, once doughy and thick, feel leaner, the skin pulling taut over newly emerging muscle. It's painful, a deep, cellular ache, but it's a glorious pain, the pain of becoming.
Your mind begins to fray and reweave itself. Memories flicker and shift like faulty projector reels. That disastrous date with the philosophy student? Now you remember him hanging on your every word, his eyes wide with adoration as you held court on a topic you barely understood.
That humiliating Grindr hookup where you couldn't get it up? Poof. Replaced by a memory of some twink begging for your number, his hands trembling as he touched your arm. The comparison, the constant, soul-crushing comparison to the college studs, the gym gods... it's fading. Why would you ever compare yourself to them? When you're... you're becoming...
A god.
The thought slams into you with the force of a physical blow. YES. A GOD.
The transformation kicks into high gear. Your chest balloons outwards, the soft flesh replaced by two thick, heavy slabs of muscle that strain against the fabric of your shirt. Your pecs feel solid, powerful, each breath causing them to flex and ripple.
Sweat beads on your skin, running in rivulets down the newly carved valleys of your abdomen. Your waist cinches in, the fat vanishing completely, revealing a set of razor-sharp, deeply etched abs. You run a hand over them, the sensation alien and electrifying. They're hard as rock, each ridge perfect, symmetrical. The kind of stomach people stare at with a mix of blatant envy and raw hunger.
Your arms are next. They swell, biceps rounding into perfect peaks, shoulders broadening until your shirt seams groan in protest. Veins, thick and blue, snake beneath the thin layer of sweat-slick skin, mapping out the new terrain of your power. There is no softness left anywhere. No trace of the person you were a minute ago. You are pure, engineered potential.
Your brain is on fire, synapses firing and rewiring with brutal speed. The awkward mumbling, the self-deprecating humor, the desperate need for approvalāall gone. In their place rises a slick, effortless charm. A cocky, knowing smirk feels natural on your lips.
You remember conversations where you didn't just participate, you commanded. You remember people laughing at your jokes, hanging on your every word. Your ego isn't just growing; it's exploding, inflating like a hot air balloon, lifting you high above the petty concerns of mere mortals. You're not just important. You are the center of the fucking universe.
More memories flood in, displacing the old, worthless ones. You see yourself in a bright, sterile bathroom, flexing for your phone's camera. You remember the exact wording of the captions you'd post. "Another day, another pump. Who's mirin'?"
You remember shilling overpriced, useless protein powder to your desperate followers, the notifications of sales pinging on your phone like a dopamine drip. You remember the adoration, the worship. And you remember getting hornier. So, so much hornier.
Your phone, suddenly in your hand, buzzes. A message. From a guy. Some dude named Kevin. 'Hey man, you look amazing. Any chance I could take you out? My treat.' Your dick, already stirring, gives a half-hearted lurch. Then... nothing. A wave of disgust, cold and sharp, washes over you. Pathetic.
That's what he is. Look at him. Begging. He probably can't even bench his own body weight. And the way he's looking at you... that desperate, hungry look all those fucking fags get. It's gross. It's weak. A new, ugly thought coils in your mind: they're all so fucking gay. The word hangs there, dripping with contempt. Homophobia. It's not just a thought; it's a core belief now, as fundamental as your newfound muscles.
Your phone buzzes again. And again. A torrent of notifications. But these are different. Profile pictures of women. Stunning women. A blonde with lips so plump they look like they're stung by bees, posing in a bikini. A brunette with hair cascading over perfect, surgically-enhanced tits. Models. Influencers. Bimbos.
FUCK.
Your cock, which had been merely interested, now erupts with a vengeance. It thickens, lengthening with alarming speed down your thigh. 6 inches... 7... it keeps growing, pushing against the restrictive denim of your jeans. 8... 9... 10... it's a monster, a thick, heavy rod of meat that pulses with a life of its own. 11... 12 fucking inches. It feels incredible, a source of immense, primal power. Your ego swells to match it, a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated self-worship.
The last vestiges of your old life are being systematically erased. College? A hazy, irrelevant dream. You remember high school, but it's different now. You weren't some awkward nerd. You were the star quarterback. The captain of the wrestling team.
You remember coaches slapping your ass, cheerleaders fighting over who got to hold your jacket. You could have gone pro, everyone said so. But college? Nah. Too much bullshit. Too much reading. You were too dumb, too horny, too fucking important for all that. Why sit in a classroom when you could be in the gym, or better yet, in some chick's bed?
Now, the memories are crystal clear. You're a personal trainer at Equinox, downtown. The most exclusive one. Every bored, rich housewife and every daddy's-little-princess in the Chicago Loop wants a piece of you. They pay you a fortune just to watch them sweat, to occasionally "adjust their form," your hands lingering on their soft, perfumed skin. And you're happy to help. For the right price. Or the right look.
Your sense of entitlement solidifies into granite. You weren't just given a silver spoon; you were born with a fucking golden platter in your mouth. You've always had the best. The best car, the best clothes, the best body. You deserve it. The world doesn't just revolve around you; it fucking orbits you, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
Politics? You don't follow the details, that's for losers and eggheads. But you know what you believe. You're conservative. Strong. Like your father, whose money you now remember inheriting without a second thought.
You hate the other side. You hate their whining, their weakness, their blue hair and their "safe spaces." Especially those bitchy, woke liberal chicks. God, you fucking hate them. And yet... you love fucking them. You love the challenge of breaking them, of fucking them so good, so deep, so relentlessly that they forget all about their little causes and their little protests.
You love seeing that fire in their eyes go out, replaced by a vacant, adoring need to please you. You fuck them until they're just as stuck, just as vapid, just as conservative as you are. It's a public service, really.
Your mind, once a library of facts and feelings, is now a stripped-down engine with three simple functions: lifting, fucking, and looking good. The dumbing-down process accelerates. You can barely remember how to do long division.
History? A blur of names and dates you couldn't give a shit about. Science? Something about... weights and reps? You're a fucking moron, and it feels glorious. People might call you a himbo, but that implies a certain, affable stupidity, a gentle giant quality. You're not gentle. You're not affable. You're a fuckboi. A crude, vulgar, self-absorbed fuckboi, and it's the only thing you've ever wanted to be.
Your body, now a masterpiece of physical perfection, pulses with this new reality. The rare combination of brute strength and elegant proportion makes people instantly, painfully aware of their own shortcomings when they stand next to you. Men don't just want your physique; they resent it. They want to be you, and they hate you for it. Women want your body, but more than that, they want your attention, your approval, your seed.
And your face. God, your face. It's the final, devastating touch. The jawline is sharp enough to be a weapon, a stark, angular frame for your mouth. Your eyes, once a soft, forgettable brown, are now a dark, intense, almost predatory blue.
Your hair, damp with sweat, is pushed back from your forehead in a way that looks careless but is utterly perfect. Your expression is a masterpiece of arrogant seduction, a slight smirk playing on your full lips as if you've just been told a dirty joke or are thinking about the last person you utterly ruined in bed. It's not a delicate beauty; it's a consuming one. The kind of face that haunts people, that they replay in their minds long after you've gone.
You don't just look attractive. You look untouchable. You are the gold standard, the living embodiment of what everyone else secretly measures themselves against and fails.
The stone face of Oberon in the fountain suddenly looms in your vision, growing impossibly large, its cruel features overwhelming your senses until it burstsānot with a bang, but with a silent, blinding rush of water that engulfs you completely. You sputter, wiping your eyes, and the grimy alley is gone.
You're standing in a steam room, thick with the scent of eucalyptus and expensive sweat. The air is warm and heavy on your perfect skin. Across from you, two women are staring, their mouths slightly agape. They are breathtaking.
A blonde, improbably tan, with tits that defy gravity, barely contained by a tiny bikini top. Her lips are glossy and plump, perfect for... well, you know exactly what they're perfect for. Next to her, a brunette with dark, sultry eyes and legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair falls in perfect waves over shoulders that would look even better draped over your face.
You don't hesitate. You flex.
It's a small movement, just a tensing of your bicep, a slight puffing out of your chest, but it's like a starting gun. They move towards you as one, drawn by an invisible force. Their hands are all over you, touching, stroking, worshiping. "Oh my god," the blonde breathes, her fingers tracing the veins on your forearm. "You're... you're even better than your pictures."
The brunette moans softly as her hand glides across your slick, hard pecs. "I used to work for the DNC," she murmurs, as if confessing a sin. "I used to care about... things." She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a new, desperate purpose. "But I don't care about any of that anymore."
The blonde nods in agreement, her hand sliding down to grip your impossible ass. "I wrote those awful protest songs. So angry. So stupid." She giggles, a high, vapid sound. "Now all I want to do is make you happy."
Your whores. Rich, reformed, perfect whores.
The lust that has been simmering, building, now boils over, consuming every remaining thought. There is no envy. There is no past. There is only this. The sin of Lust, and it is your religion. You lust for flesh, for the feeling of their bodies against yours. You lust for attention, for their adoration, for their worship. You lust for sex, a primal, all-consuming need that will never, ever be satisfied.
They aren't people anymore, not in the way you used to understand the term. They are accessories. Trophies. Living, breathing proof of your power, your conquest, your sheer, unadulterated dominance.
"I... I can't even believe you're real. Your body is... it's like it was carved by angels to make other men feel like shit." breathes the blonde, her voice a high-pitched, needy whine, her lips, swollen and glistening, are parted slightly.
The brunette, nods vigorously, her dark hair clinging to the sweat on her temples. "I used to think I was happy," she confesses, her hands roaming freely over the chiseled landscape of your abdomen. "I had my master's degree in gender studies. I volunteered. I protested. I thought I was making a difference." She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "What a fucking joke. The only difference that matters is this." She squeezes your bicep, her fingers failing to even make a dent in the solid muscle. "This is real power. This is what matters."
Their words wash over you, not as praise, but as simple confirmation of reality. Of course your body was carved to make lesser men feel inadequate. Of course your physical presence is the only true power in this world. Any residual empathy, any capacity for seeing beyond your own reflection, any shred of understanding for the "plight" of othersāit's all gone.
"You're right," you say, your voice a low, confident rumble that vibrates through your chest and into their eager hands. "All that other shit is for people who have nothing to offer. People who are... soft." You spit the word out like it's poison. "Weak. They need their little causes and their committees because they can't look in the mirror and see a god staring back."
You reach down and cup the blonde's face, your thumb stroking her jawline. "But you're not like that anymore, are you? You're smart now. You know what's important." You guide her head down, and she goes willingly, eagerly, her glossy lips parting. The brunette watches, her own hands busy, one stroking your powerful thigh while the other disappears between her own legs, her breath hitching.
"I used to date this guy," the brunette pants, her eyes locked on the scene before her. "He was so sensitive. He wanted to talk about his feelings." She shudders, a look of genuine disgust on her face. "God, I was so stupid"
You smirk, a cruel, knowing expression that feels as natural as breathing. "That's because you're a woman," you state, as if explaining gravity. "It's biology. You don't want a partner. You want an owner. You want to be claimed by something stronger than you. It's not your fault you were confused. You were listening to a bunch of weak, liberal fags who were too scared to be men."
Now this. This is a proper reaction. This is the natural order of things. A thick, primal lust reasserts itself, crowding out the momentary irritation. Your cock, which had been semi-soft, surges back to its full, terrifying 12-inch glory, a veined pillar of granite demanding satisfaction. You look from the phone to the two women before you. They are not just whores; they are your first converts. Testaments to your power.
"Get up," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. They scramble to their feet, their bodies slick with sweat and anticipation. You grab the blonde, spinning her around and bending her over the smooth, tiled bench. Her ass is perfect, round and tan, and you give it a sharp, stinging slap that leaves a red handprint on her skin. She yelps, but it's a sound of pure pleasure.
"You see this?" you say to the brunette, grabbing a fistful of the blonde's hair and pulling her head back. "This is what you were meant for. This is what all women were meant for. To be on their knees, or bent over, waiting for a real man to put them in their place."
You position yourself behind the blonde, the head of your colossal cock pressing against her entrance. The brunette moves to your side, her hands running over your heaving back and shoulders, her mouth whispering filthy encouragement in your ear. "Yes, fuck her. Show her what a real man feels like. Ruin her for anyone else. Breed her."
The word 'breed' sends a jolt of electricity through you. Yes. That's it. That's the ultimate purpose. Not just the fleeting pleasure of the act, but the biological imperative. To pass on this perfection. To create more of you. It's the most conservative, the most fundamental, the most important thing in the world.
With a powerful, guttural roar, you thrust into the blonde. She screams, a high, keening sound of pain and ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls of the steam room. You don't hold back. You don't ease into it. You fuck her with the brutal, unthinking force of a tidal wave, your hips slamming against her ass, your hands gripping her hips so tightly you know you'll leave bruises.
A hammer blow against the wall of the old world, shaping it in your image. Your body is a blur of motion, a symphony of flexing muscle and raw, animal power. The steam room fills with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the blonde's incoherent screams of pleasure, and your own guttural grunts, the sounds of a primeval god claiming his territory. The brunette is everywhere, her hands stroking your sweat-slicked back, her nails digging into your ass, her lips whispering a constant stream of filth and encouragement that fuels your fire.
"Look at you," she moans, her voice thick with lust. "So fucking strong. So fucking perfect. God, I wish every man on earth could see this right now. I wish they could all see what a real man looks like so they'd know to just give the fuck up."
The thought sends a surge of pure, unadulterated ecstasy through you. Yes. They should see. They should all be forced to watch. To see the gap, the insurmountable, genetic chasm between them and you.
You picture it: all the weak men, the sensitive men, the liberal men, the gay menāall lined up, heads bowed, forced to witness this act of pure, masculine conquest. They would weep. They would finally understand their place in the world, which is nowhere. They are obsolete. You are the future.
"We need strong men!" you'd roared, and the crowd, a sea of adoring, beautiful women, had gone wild. "We need men who aren't afraid to be men! Who aren't afraid to build, and protect, and BREED! We don't need thinkers! We need doers! We don't need talkers! We need fuckers!"
The blonde is trembling beneath you, her body convulsing with one orgasm after another, each one more intense than the last. She's broken. Remade. You've fucked the DNC out of her, fucked the liberal arts degree out of her, fucked every thought except for the singular, all-consuming need to please you out of her pretty little head. She is your creation. A testament to your power.
"Tell me what you are," you growl, your voice a harsh command as you pound into her relentlessly.
"I'm yours!" she screams, her voice cracking. "I'm your whore! I'm your little Republican cumslut! Just please... please don't stop!"
You laugh, a deep, arrogant sound that vibrates through your entire body. You have no intention of stopping. You could do this forever. This isn't just sex; it's your purpose. It's as natural to you as breathing. The pressure builds at the base of your spine, a tidal wave of molten pleasure gathering force, ready to annihilate everything in its path.
The sight of them, both completely lost in their worship of you, is the final trigger. The dam breaks.
You grab them, one in each powerful arm, and you fuck them. Right there in the steam room. You fuck them relentlessly, your body a piston of pure, unadulterated power. You are a god, and they are your sacrifices. You hear them moaning, but it's a distant sound, background noise to the roaring in your own head. They're moaning your new name.
"Sebastian... oh god, Sebastian..."
Yes. That's it. Sebastian. Of course it is. With a roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the building, you cum. It's not just a release; it's an explosion. A volcanic eruption of pure, concentrated alpha essence. Your body convulses, every muscle straining, as you unload what feels like a gallon of your seed deep inside the blonde. The force of it sends another shattering orgasm through her body, and she collapses onto the bench, a quivering, moaning mess.
You pull out, your cock still firing, and grab the brunette by the hair, spinning her around. You paint her back and her perfect ass with thick, white ropes of your cum, marking her as your property. Your territory. It's a primal act of ownership, and it feels more right than anything you have ever felt in your entire life.
You stand there for a long moment, your chest heaving, your body slick with sweat and steam and the evidence of your conquest. The two women are on the floor, at your feet, exactly where they belong. The air is thick with the scent of sex and eucalyptus and your own overwhelming, masculine presence.
You feel... solid. Complete.
You scoop your phone off the bench and open the camera, switching it to selfie mode. You look at your reflection. At the sharp jaw, the intense blue eyes, the sweat-matted dark hair. At the body that doesn't just look good, but looksĀ unfair. You smirk, the same arrogant, knowing smirk that has made countless women weak and countless men seethe with jealousy. You take a picture. Perfect.
You type a quick caption. 'Done with the gym. Picked up a couple of new whores for dinner.'
You don't need to wonder. You are Sebastian. You are a god in human form. A vapid, egotistical, lustful, homophobic, conservative douchebag. And the world, honestly, does revolve around you. You look at the two women, already beginning to stir, their eyes finding you again, filled with that familiar, desperate hunger. You feel your cock begin to stir again. The lust is never sated. It is a fire that can only be fed. And you will spend the rest of your perfect, beautiful life feeding it.
As the last tremor subsides, you stand there, steam curling around your perfect form, two beautiful women clinging to you, and you know, with absolute certainty, that you are complete. You are Sebastian. The most beautiful, sexy man alive. A vapid, egotistical, lustful man with the body of a God. And the world is your oyster, ready to be fucked.
