The greatest sin I commit is gluttony .
See i am a total push over and a people please. If some asks me to help them woth something I'll jump right up and do it, even if im busy doing my own important thing. If someone at work asks me to cover a shift for them I will even if I have worked my full hours that week.
I just can't say no to people even when im on the verge of my own burn out.
Please help me I connfess i am a total glutton for punishment lord obberon
You stand there holding the door open at your office building, your shoulder screaming in protest as people trickle past you one by one. Each person who walks through without a second glance makes your jaw clench tighter. You could let go. You should let go. But you don't. You're too fucking nice for your own good, a doormat in human form, and everyone knows it.
Finally, the last person exits, and you release the door with a sigh that tastes like defeat. As you turn toward the subway entrance, your foot catches in a disgusting puddle of what smells suspiciously like piss. Your clothes are soaked through, and the stench of urine and sweat fills your nostrils. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. This is what your "kindness" gets you—a pathetic life smelling of other people's waste.
The subway stairs are eerily empty. No turnstiles, no MTA workers, just you descending into the abyss. When you reach the platform, it's completely deserted. Weird. But then the train arrives, also empty, and despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you step aboard.
But then the train arrives, also empty, and despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you step aboard. The metallic shriek of the brakes echoes through the deserted station, a sound like a dying animal. Each car gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, pristine and vacant, as if waiting specifically for you.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of warning. This is wrong. Everything about this situation screams danger. Yet your feet, as if moved by some invisible force, carry you forward. The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing an interior so clean it sparkles, so empty it seems to breathe. You hesitate for just a moment—a lifetime of instinct warring with an inexplicable compulsion—before stepping across the threshold into the waiting metal belly.
The moment your foot touches the floor, the doors slam shut with a finality that makes you jump. The train lurches forward, and you stumble, grabbing a pole for support. The metal is cold against your palm, but it warms almost instantly, growing hot, almost burning.
A blinding white light erupts from nowhere and everywhere at once, searing your vision. You're thrown backward into a seat as electricity—raw, violent, and invasive—surges through every nerve ending. It's not painful at first, just intensely strange, like your entire body has fallen asleep and is now waking up with pins and needles multiplied by a thousand. You collapse into the seat, still soaked and stinking, as the transformation begins in earnest.
"Next stop Masc—" crackles the voice over the intercom, but the rest dissolves into static, like a radio caught between stations. Then you feel it—a deep, bone-rattling change starting at your core and radiating outward. Your pathetic office-worker body, soft from hours hunched over a desk, begins to expand.
You watch in horror and fascination as your shoulders stretch wider, the fabric of your shirt straining against the growth. Your chest broadens, pectoral muscles emerging where none existed before, rising and falling with each increasingly labored breath. The transformation is slow but inexorable, like watching time-lapse footage of a seed sprouting into a mighty oak.
Your mind reels as the train's rhythmic clacking grows louder, more deliberate, each sound a hammer blow to your consciousness. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. The noise isn't just sound anymore; it's a physical assault, each impact driving something out of you and forcing something new in. Your skull feels like it's being reshaped from the inside, the very bone thickening and solidifying.
Your jawline aches as it squares off, becoming a brutal, angular thing that promises violence. Your brow ridge pushes forward, slightly, giving your eyes a deeper, more shadowed, predatory set. The soft, thoughtful expression you once wore is being sanded away, replaced by a permanent sneer of disdain.
Your shoulders stretch wide, capped with thick, rounded delts that flow into arms swelling with size and definition. Biceps press hard against your sides, thick with ropey veins, while your forearms become dense and powerful.
The memories are the worst part. They don't just fade; they're being actively torn down. You see yourself helping an elderly neighbor with her groceries, a faint warmth spreading through your chest—SNAP!—the image shatters like glass.
In its place, a new memory solidifies: you're sixteen, kicking that same neighbor's trash can over because she put it out an hour early, laughing as her recyclables spill across her pristine lawn. The compassion you felt curdles instantly into a contemptuous satisfaction. It feels… right. More real.
Another memory: you're in college, patiently explaining a complex concept to a struggling classmate. CLACK. CLACK. The image melts. Now, you're standing over that same classmate, who's on the ground, having tripped.
You're not helping him up. You're kicking his books away, calling him a worthless faggot who should just drop out. The word "faggot" echoes in your new mind, and it doesn't feel wrong; it feels like a tool, a simple, effective label for something weak and disgusting that needs to be crushed.
The train's clacking intensifies, each sound more deliberate than the last. "Doors open on the right at Ame—" but the voice is too garbled to understand, words dissolving into meaningless noise.
You feel yourself aging—24, 26, 28—your body expanding further with each passing year. Your chest becomes the centerpiece: broad, full pecs with deep separation, a rough strip of chest hair pushing through your skin, dark and thick, leading down into a stomach cut clean with visible abs—not razor-thin, but powerful and dense, the kind of core that looks braced even at rest.
Your body is no longer your own. It's a construction site. Your spine straightens with a series of sickening pops, forcing you to sit taller, to occupy more space. Your neck thickens, the vertebrae fusing into a solid column designed to support a heavier, more brutish head. Your shoulders, once narrow enough to slip through crowds, are broadening with an audible creak of muscle and bone.
They're becoming armor plates, and you can already feel the satisfying bulk of them, the way they'll make lesser men shrink when you brush past them. Your hands, once nimble for typing and gentle gestures, are cracking and swelling. Your knuckles enlarge, becoming crude weapons. Your fingers thicken into meaty clubs, perfect for grabbing, for gripping, for dominating. You flex one of them, and a dull, animal pleasure rolls through you at the sight of its raw power.
PFFFFFFFFT. Another wet, guttural fart rips from you, and this one is different. It's thicker, more substantial. The smell is uniquely foul, a chemical cocktail of pure aggression and spoiled meat. It's the stench of a predator marking its territory, and you breathe it in deeply, your chest expanding. It smells like victory. It smells like America.
Memories of church and Republican values flood your mind. You remember growing up during the Bush administration, then Obama's two terms. Fuck, you loved Obama, right? What the fucking woke liberal scum? No, that wasn't you. You were a lifelong Democrat. No, no—you were a die-hard Republican.
Everything you did or will do is to invoke those ideals. Your family memories shift too—rich, entitled, suburban community, deep red in a blue state. FUUUUCK! PFFFFFFFFT! Another fart escapes, taking with it any notion of being some lazy liberal wanting handouts. You were cruel and in power.
The political shift is a tidal wave. You remember voting in a primary, feeling a sense of civic duty. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. That feeling is washed away in a flood of red, white, and blue. You're not just a Republican; you're a fucking weaponized conservative. You remember the faces of liberal politicians you once respected, and now all you see is weakness, treason, a pathetic desire to coddle the undeserving.
A new mantra begins to form in the hollowed-out spaces of your mind, a simple, brutal rhythm to match the train's wheels: Guns. God. Gains. Country. The words feel solid, real, the only foundation worth building on. Compassion is a disease. Empathy is for losers. America isn't for everyone; it's for the strong, and you are becoming its strongest son.
You're getting dumber. It's a terrifying, liberating process. The complex vocabulary you once possessed is being stripped away, replaced by a guttural, powerful lexicon of grunts, curses, and simple declarative statements.
"Synergy" becomes "fucking teamwork." "Nuance" becomes "right or wrong." "Let's consider the implications" becomes "fuck 'em." Your ability to see shades of gray is being burned away, leaving only a stark, black-and-white world of winners and losers, alphas and betas, patriots and traitors. And you, you are a winner. You are an alpha. You are a patriot. The simplicity of it is intoxicating.
Your skin is changing too. It's thickening, coarsening. You can feel the pores expanding, ready to sweat out the weak man you used to be. A sheen of greasy sweat breaks out over your body, coating your newly swelling muscles.
It's not the clean sweat of a workout; it's the oily, rank perspiration of a beast, a pig wallowing in its own glorious power. You scratch your chest through your shirt, and your nails leave red trails on the skin. You feel a primal thrill at the pain, at the mark you've left on your own property.
The train's light flickers violently, and in the strobing flashes, you catch glimpses of your reflection in the dark window. Your face is becoming a stranger's. The lips are thinner, crueler.
The eyes are small, sunk deep under a newly prominent brow, and they gleam with a malicious, hungry light. Your hair is darkening, shortening, becoming a severe, military-style cut. The man looking back at you is a monster, a thug, a brute in a suit. And he's smiling. A wide, vacant, vicious smile.
The last vestiges of your old self—your name, your family, your hopes, your fears—are being compressed into a tiny, screaming ball in the back of your skull. You're becoming nothing but a collection of appetites and prejudices.
A walking, talking monument to toxic masculinity. A brutal asshole who gets hard at the thought of his own reflection. A Republican so far to the right he makes fascists look moderate. A pig who wallows in his own filth and calls it patriotism. You are being hollowed out and filled with something pure, something simple, something terrible.
You are becoming exactly what this country needs.
The train screams into a tunnel, and the world outside the windows dissolves into a black, featureless void. The only light is the violent, strobing flicker from within the car, painting your transformation in sickening, jerky frames. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The sound is no longer just a rhythm; it's a language, and you're starting to understand it. It's the sound of progress, of industry, of a great nation grinding its enemies into dust. It's the sound of your new heart beating.
Your legs are next. They seize up, cramping with such intensity that you cry out, but the sound that escapes your throat isn't a cry of pain. It's a roar of fury. Your thighs, once lean, are now swelling with terrifying speed, muscle fibers tearing and rebuilding thicker, stronger, packed with explosive power.
The fabric of your piss-soaked pants groans and then splits with a loud RIP! along the seam. Your calves harden into knots of solid granite, and your feet crack and stretch, bursting through the ends of your shoes. You kick the ruined leather away, revealing feet that are broad, calloused, and undeniably dominant. Made for stomping. Made for standing firm.
The mental purge accelerates. A memory surfaces: you, crying at a sad movie, feeling a deep connection to the characters. CLACK. The image is obliterated by a blinding flash of white-hot rage. You remember watching the same movie, but this time you're laughing, pointing at the screen, calling the characters pussies for feeling anything at all.
"Fucking weaklings," you growl, the voice rumbling up from a chest that feels like a barrel. The concept of empathy is not just gone; it's alien, a disgusting weakness you can barely comprehend. Why would anyone feel for the weak when they could be strong?
Your ideology is being tattooed directly onto your soul. You see a fleeting image of a rainbow flag, and your new mind recoils in disgust. It's not just dislike; it's a visceral, biological revulsion, like the sight of rotting meat. Homosexuality isn't just "not for you"; it's a corrosive disease, a cancer on the body of the nation, a sign of the decay that real men like you are destined to burn away.
You remember a female boss you once respected, a capable leader. CLACK. CLACK. The memory warps, melts. Now you remember her differently: you remember leaning over her desk, your voice low, telling her she'd be better suited to getting you coffee than running a department. You remember the fear in her eyes, and your new self throbs with dark, triumphant pleasure. Women have their place, and it's under you. On their knees. Barefoot. Pregnant. Silent.
The smell is overwhelming now. It's you. It's your new signature. The stale piss from the puddle is gone, subsumed by something far more potent: the sharp, metallic tang of aggression, the deep, earthy stink of unchecked testosterone, and the foul, gut-turning odor of a man who considers hygiene a liberal conspiracy.
It's the smell of a locker room that hasn't been cleaned in a decade, the smell of a barracks, the smell of pure, unadulterated, American alpha male. You bring your thick, new fingers to your nose and inhale deeply. A guttural chuckle vibrates in your chest. It's the smell of power.
You're aging rapidly now, the years piling on as the train hurtles through the darkness. 32... 33... 34... With each year, your skin roughens, your features coarsen. Lines appear around your eyes, not from smiling, but from squinting in disdain and from years of sneering at the world.
Your hairline recedes slightly, just enough to add to your imposing, masculine severity. You're not a boy anymore. You're a man. A man in his prime. A man who has seen things, done things, a man who has earned his right to take whatever the fuck he wants.
Your past relationships? They were all mistakes, dalliances with weak women who didn't know their place. They're erased. Your career? Pathetic. Now you remember building an empire from nothing but sweat and balls. A fitness empire. A media empire. A fucking empire of pure, uncut masculinity. You preach the gospel of iron and discipline, of God and country, of crushing your enemies and fucking their wives. Your followers are millions strong, hungry for the brutal truth only you can deliver.
You stand up, your massive frame filling the aisle. You're naked now, your clothes having shredded away. You don't care. You are a monument. Your body is a roadmap of power: thick, vascular arms; a chest like a shield; a stomach that's a solid wall of muscle; and between your legs, a cock that's as heavy and aggressive as the rest of you. It's not just for pleasure; it's a weapon. A tool of conquest.
The train begins to slow. The rhythmic CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. softens into a triumphant, final series of thumps. The blinding white light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter, brighter, until it fills everything. You don't shield your eyes.
The way you hold yourself—hands at your waist, chest forward, elbows flared—makes it clear you know exactly what you've built. Not just proud of it, but certain of it. Like you carry yourself with the assumption that if anyone in the room measures themselves against you, they're already behind.
All you can feel in your fingers is hate, power, and the need to be cruel. You lick your lips as your dick thickens and strengthens. You imagine fucking some twink with that sweet bubble butt, his thick dick-sucking lips wrapped around your engorged cock. FUUUUUCK! But then you let out the most ungodly fart—PFFFFFFFFT!—the smell of sweat, piss, and cum drowning those memories with homophobia. You weren't some pussy fucking faggot. You were a red-blooded, white straight alpha.
"This is your life now. You are a straight, white alpha. Please exit to the right," announces the voice on the intercom as the doors open into a blinding white light. You stare into it, your face a mask of cruel anticipation.
You step through the doors and the blinding light resolves into the polished, sterile glare of your kingdom. The air hits you—a curated blend of expensive disinfectant, ozone from the high-tech machines, and the faint, cloying scent of designer perfume. This is your domain. "The Citadel," a fortress of fitness for the rich and the famous. You are the final product. A toxic, disgusting pig. A brutal asshole. A very, very pro-American Republican.
The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over a skyline you own pieces of. The floor is pristine white rubber, and the equipment gleams like surgical tools, all chrome and black leather. Models with hollowed-out cheeks and wealthy bitches with bodies carved by starvation and surgeons move through the space, their eyes darting toward you, a mixture of fear, awe, and naked hunger in their gazes. They know who you are. They know what you are.
And then you see her. Perfect. A bottle-blond Barbie actress, her ass bouncing in tiny pink shorts on a treadmill, her face a mask of manufactured concentration. You know her type. You've had her type. A hundred times.
She's starring in some new superhero movie, the one where they cast a woman to play a man's role. Fucking pathetic. Your new mind recoils at the very idea, a wave of pure, uncut misogyny washing over you. Women have one purpose, and it ain't saving the world.
You move. Not walking, but prowling. Each step is a statement, a conquest of the floor beneath your feet. Your bare feet, still calloused and powerful from the train, make no sound on the rubber. You don't approach her; you invade her.
Your presence is a physical force, a disruption in the carefully maintained atmosphere. You stand directly in front of her machine, blocking her view, your massive, naked frame a wall of tanned, vascular muscle. The treadmill keeps whirring. She has to stop or run into you.
She stops. Her breath hitches. Her eyes, wide and blue, travel up your legs, over the thick, ropey veins of your thighs, past the semi-hard cock that hangs like a weapon, up the chiseled ridges of your abdomen, to the broad, hairy plateau of your chest, and finally to your face. To your cold, sneering eyes. She should be scared. She should be screaming for security. But she isn't. Her lips part, and a flicker of something dark and submissive crosses her features. She loves it. Of course, she fucking loves it.
"Get off," you command. Your voice is a low gravelly rumble, the kind of sound that makes windows vibrate. It's not a request.
She complies instantly, her legs shaky as she dismounts the machine. You don't wait. You grab her arm, your grip like a steel clamp, and drag her toward the bench press. The few other patrons pretend not to see, their eyes glued to their phones or the floor. They know better than to watch. You throw her down onto the leather bench. She lands with a soft oof, her perfect body splayed out for you.
You loom over her, a shadow of pure testosterone. Your biceps surge with new, fresh power as you plant your hands on the barbell above her head, not to lift it, but to cage her in. The muscles knot and swell, the skin stretching thin over the peaks, veins like thick blue worms crawling under the surface.
Your mind grows crueller, sharper, more focused. You look down at her, this symbol of everything you despise: the liberal elite, the "strong female character," the woman who thinks she's equal to a man. Disgust wars with a raging, animalistic lust.
"You want to be strong?" you growl, your voice dripping with contempt. "I'll show you strong."
You don't wait for an answer. You rip her tiny shorts off, the fabric tearing like paper. She's not wearing anything underneath. Of course, she isn't. You position yourself, your cock now fully engorged, a thick, angry beast demanding satisfaction. You enter her in one brutal thrust, not for her pleasure, but for yours. It's not lovemaking; it's a statement. An act of conquest. An act of ownership.
You fuck her. Hard. Unforgiving. Each thrust is a punctuation mark in the sermon of your superiority. The bench groans under the force. Her body is just a vessel, a warm, wet hole for you to dominate. With every savage pump, your hatred crystallizes.
You think of the fags you saw prancing around in your old life, and a surge of violent, homophobic rage makes you fuck her harder, punishing her for their existence. You think of the liberal politicians coddling the weak, and you drive into her, trying to break her in half. You think of the media calling men like you "toxic," and you laugh, a harsh, ugly sound, because they're right. You are poison. You are the cure.
THRUST. You bury yourself to the hilt. A jolt, not just of pleasure, but of time, rips through you. You feel it in your bones, a deep, settling ache. You're 37 now. A new layer of hardness settles over your features. The lines around your eyes deepen, etched not by age, but by contempt. Your first thought is clearer, more vicious: This is all she's good for. The notion of her as a person, an actress, an equal, is utterly annihilated.
"Is that all you've got, you little whore?" you snarl, the words tasting like ash and victory. "I've had tighter pussies on my fist."
THRUST. Another savage pump. Another year. 38. Your shoulders feel broader, heavier, burdened with the glorious weight of your own superiority. A new memory solidifies: you're at a charity gala, not donating, but openly mocking the cause, telling the host that real men build fortunes, they don't give them away to lazy parasites. The memory feels more real, more true than anything that came before.
"Oh, Daddy!" she gasps, her eyes rolling back in her head. The word hangs in the air, perfect, right.
"That's right, I'm your fucking Daddy," you grunt, 39 now, your voice dropping an octave, becoming a true instrument of command. "And Daddy says you're a pathetic excuse for a woman. All this money, all this fame, and you're still just a hole to be filled." Your biceps burn as you grip the bar tighter, the muscle fibers thickening, becoming dense, permanent fixtures of your brutal architecture. You're not just fucking her; you're erasing her.
THRUST. 40. A cruel, sharp pain lances through your left knee. Old football injury. A new memory: you're a star quarterback, not just playing, but ending careers, laughing as you cartwheel over a broken linebacker. The pain is good. It's a reminder of battles won, of dominance asserted. You look down at her, her face a mask of blissful degradation, and you spit. A thick glob of saliva lands on her cheek. She doesn't even flinch. She just moans.
"You like that, you little slut? You like being marked?" 41. Your back tightens, a network of muscle and scars that tells a story of lifting, fighting, fucking, winning. "This is what you were made for. Not for your movies. Not for your magazines. You were made to be a cumrag for men like me." The words don't just come out; they exude from you, a natural byproduct of your toxic essence.
THRUST. 42. Your hair, dark and thick just moments ago, now has distinguished streaks of silver at the temples. Silver earned through crushing opposition. Your mind, already a sewer of bigotry, finds new depths. You're thinking about the "gay agenda," not as a political concept, but as a literal, physical rot you must burn out with fire and iron. The thought makes you harder, makes your next thrust more punishing.
"OH, DADDY! DADDY!" she's screaming now, lost in it.
"Shut your fucking mouth," you command, 43 now, your face a mask of granite. The sheer audacity of her enjoying this, of thinking she has any right to vocalize her pleasure, infuriates you. "Daddy's talking. You just take it." You slam into her, the bench groaning, the sound echoing your philosophy: the strong make noise, the weak take the punishment.
She starts screaming, but it's not a scream of pain or fear. It's a scream of ecstasy, of total and complete submission. She's screaming your new name. "TRAVIS! TRAVIS! OH GOD, TRAVIS!" The name echoes in the cavernous gym, a baptism, a coronation. Each time she screams it, another piece of the old you dies, incinerated in the fire of your new identity. TRAVIS. The alpha. The Republican. The American.
THRUST. The final one. A deep, seismic event. 45. You are fully formed. A monument to toxic masculinity at its absolute peak. Your body is a roadmap of brutal conquests, your mind a fortress of unassailable, hateful ideology.
You are a 45-year-old Republican pig, rich, powerful, and more disgusting than you've ever been. You cum. It's not an explosion of youth, but a deep, volcanic eruption of mature, absolute power. It's a final, definitive act of ownership. You empty yourself into her, and with it, the last ghost of who you used to be is extinguished forever.
You pull out, your breathing heavy but controlled. You stand over her, a 45-year-old god of cruelty, and look down at your work. She's ruined. She's perfected. She's yours. You turn and walk away, not a glance back, your mind already on the next conquest, the next battle, the next wet cunt to conquer. This is your life. And it's exactly what America needs.
You turn away without a word, your work here done. You need a shower. Then you need to find another wet cunt. This is your life now, and it's fucking glorious.
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