You remember how small you used to be. Skinny arms that trembled under the weight of an empty barbell. A flat chest you hid under oversized hoodies. A body so unimpressive that even mirrors seemed to lose your reflection in a crowded gym.
I promised you everything you’d ever dreamed. Size, strength, power...I could provide all of that. All I asked in return was obedience. Simple, right? You nodded so eagerly, thinking it meant early mornings, protein shakes, progressive overload, maybe a few humiliating selfies in the gym locker room for my approval. You were wrong.
The “training” never involved weights. It involved surrender. Day after day, you were broken down bit by bit. By my resonant voice, my possessive hands, my commanding gaze; Rewiring every synapse until resistance became physiologically impossible. You fought at the beginning. Cute little whimpers of “but I thought--!” and “wait, Master, that’s not--” until even forming full sentences felt too heavy for your softening mind.
Now look at you. Sprawled across my couch like a living trophy. Those once-narrow shoulders have ballooned into a thick, wide frame. Your pecs are so full and heavy they sag slightly when relaxed, nipples permanently puffy and firm from constant handling. Your arms, so strong and powerful, rest uselessly at your sides, unable to move without permission. Every inch of skin glistens with the sweat of perpetual low grade arousal. And between those tree trunk thighs, the white thong I make you wear is stretched obscenely, the fabric translucent where you’ve been leaking for hours.
You don’t even speak in words anymore. Just sounds. Soft, needy grunts when my palm settles on your chest. A long, broken whine when I drag a single fingertip down the center of your abs and watch every muscle jump and twitch like being shocked. A deep, animal rumble when I cup the fat, oversensitive mound between your legs and simply hold it...until your hips buck helplessly and drool slides from the corner of your open mouth.
You’re empty now. Beautifully, perfectly empty.
No bills. No deadlines. No decisions. No thoughts more complicated than how to please me. Your entire universe has shrunk to the heat of my body above you, the weight of my forearm pressed against your throat just enough to remind you who owns the air in your lungs, the slow grind of my hips against the soaked cotton that barely contains you anymore.
You used to beg to be big. Now you’re big, and you can’t even remember why you wanted it. All you know is that muscle means pleasure. Surrender is love.
I lean down, lips brushing against your ear. “You’re drooling again, pet.” A thick string of spit slides from your slack mouth onto your own pec. You don’t wipe it away. You can’t. I haven't told you what to do after all. I drag my finger along your sensitive nipple, causing you to quake. “Good boy.” Your whole body jolts at the praise. Back arching, thighs spreading wider on instinct, a long, shuddering moan vibrating through your ribcage. The front of your briefs darkens further. You’re not even hard anymore in the conventional sense; you’re just…always leaking. Always ready. A dumb, dripping faucet tuned only to my voice.
I roughly stroke you through your damp thong. Your breath hitches, high and pathetic. I don't even move with any urgency. My movements are slow and firm. Your eyes roll back. Mouth falls open wider. Hips jerk once, twice, then lock in a trembling bridge as you cum, thick globs filling the inside as they leak through the cloth. I can see your eyes, glassy and unfocused, grunting like a mindless ape. When it’s over you collapse, chest heaving, eyes glazed over. Your drool drips off your chin.
I cradle your jaw, thumb tracing along the edge of your mouth. “Who do you belong to?”
A low, wrecked sound crawls out of your throat. Not words. Just agreement. Surrender. Worship.
I smile. “That’s right.” I wrap my arms possessively around you. “You don’t have to think anymore,” I murmur against your temple. “You don’t have to want. You just have to feel. And leak. And serve.”
Your head lolls toward me, seeking my neck, my scent, my pulse. A soft, mindless nuzzle. A contented grunt.
My perfect, ruined pet. Big. Strong. Empty. Mine.
baratheonpilled
janainaart
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