#alpha deception

Alex Thompson was the epitome of a goody two-shoes. A star swimmer on the college team, he maintained a 4.0 GPA, volunteered at the local food bank every weekend, and always held doors open for everyone—regardless of gender. He believed in equality, climate change action, and voting blue no matter who. Politics wasn't his jam, but he leaned left because it felt "kind" and "progressive." His dorm roommate, Brock Harlan, was the polar opposite: a burly football lineman with a MAGA hat perpetually perched on his head, Fox News blaring from his laptop, and a fridge stocked with protein shakes and Bud Light.

At first, Alex tolerated Brock's rants. "Dude, the media's lying to you," Brock would say, scrolling through Twitter (or X, as he insisted on calling it) while chugging a beer. "They're turning guys like you into soy boys. Real men build walls, not bridges to nowhere." Alex would laugh it off, plug in his headphones, and study for bio chem. But Brock was persistent. He started leaving books on Alex's desk—stuff like "The Art of the Deal" and some underground redpill forums printed out. "Just read it, bro. It'll open your eyes."

One night, after a grueling swim practice, Alex came back exhausted. Brock was watching a Trump rally rerun, pumping iron in their cramped room. "Hey, pussy," Brock greeted with a grin. "Wanna watch some real alpha shit?" Alex rolled his eyes but sat down, too tired to argue. As the crowd chanted "USA! USA!", Brock explained the "deep state," how feminists were emasculating men, and why immigrants were stealing jobs. It sounded extreme, but Brock's confidence was magnetic. "You swim like a champ, but you're soft inside. Time to man up."

Over weeks, Brock's influence seeped in. He dragged Alex to the gym for "real workouts"—no more "pansy laps in the pool." Deadlifts, squats, bench presses. Alex's body bulked up, muscles swelling under his skin. Brock fed him supplements, saying they were "test-boosters for winners." Alex started feeling a surge of energy, aggression bubbling up. Conversations turned into late-night debates where Brock dismantled Alex's views. "Equality? Nah, bro. Hierarchy. Alphas on top." Alex resisted at first, but Brock's logic twisted everything: "The left wants you weak, chasing pronouns. MAGA makes you strong, gets you laid."

The turning point came during a campus protest. Alex had planned to join the eco-march, but Brock convinced him to skip it. "Those snowflakes are losers. Come party with real patriots." At the frat house, surrounded by MAGA bros chanting "Build the wall!", Alex downed shots, felt the alcohol mix with his new rage. A cute sorority girl flirted, and for the first time, Alex didn't hesitate. He grabbed her waist, pulled her close, and whispered, "You're mine tonight." She giggled, and they hooked up in a spare room—raw, dominant, no apologies. It felt fucking amazing.

Back in the dorm, Brock high-fived him. "See? That's the redpill. No more beta bullshit." Alex nodded, his mind foggy but clear on one thing: Brock was right. He started skipping classes, hitting the gym obsessively, his grades slipping as his biceps grew. Brock became his guide, his alpha. "Obey the king," Brock joked, but Alex took it seriously. He ditched his old clothes for tight tanks, American flag shorts, and a red hat. His vocabulary dumbed down: "Bro," "dude," "pussy." Politics? Simple: Trump good, libs bad.

Now, Alex was a full-on MAGA dumb jockboy. He obeyed Brock without question—fetching beers, spotting him at the gym, even sharing girls if Brock commanded. But the real change was the constant itch. Every waking moment, Alex craved pussy. Spotting a girl in yoga pants? His cock twitched, mind screaming to pin her down, pound her senseless, assert his dominance. "Gotta show 'em who's boss," he'd grunt, flexing in the mirror. At parties, he'd corner chicks, growl about "making America great" while thrusting like a machine. No romance, just raw conquest.

One evening, Brock lounged on his bed, scrolling memes. "How ya feelin', jockboy?" Alex dropped to his knees instinctively, eyes glazed. "Ready to serve, bro. Need to fuck somethin' fierce." Brock laughed. "Good boy. Go find us some tail." Alex bolted out, his transformed life a haze of lifts, rallies, and relentless pounding. The goody two-shoes was gone—replaced by an obedient beast, redpilled and roaring.

"I---I will do anything, Sir. J---j--just let me sniff your socks longer,"

"Anything?"

"Y--yes, anything, Sir,"

"Hmmm.....the sorority bitches trust you. Plus, your big sis is a high-ranking member. Then, pour this into their smoothies,"

"W---what is that, Sir?"

"Are you trying to question me, fag?"

"N--no Sir.....it's just---my sister....she's kind, she's nice to me, I---I don't want to hurt her,"

"Well, guess you will never have access to---"

"NO! I'll do it, sir! Please, please, sorry....it was a lapse of judgement,"

*smirked*

"I---I don't give a fuck about her that much, she's just nice to me because she knows our parents will always love her more. Yeah, she's not really actually nice, she just rubbed all her better quality on my face. I'll do it, they all will pass out and you and your bros can do whatever the fuck you want with her and her sisters. As a matter of fact, give me more of it so they all can pass the fuck out for the entire weekend,"

"That's exactly the plan, dude. I'm gonna wear Justin over here and do whatever the fuck I want and in the end of the day, everyone will remember it as Justin's action as they are going to witness him doing all those things. Me? I'll remain the nice and respected high school History teacher for this district. They will buy the idea of me spending my summer studying ancient pyramids in Egypt and Mexico instead of partying with all the local college jocks and hot babes in the frat party under the guise of a fucking entitled douchebag of a redshirt senior. And you can join me too if you want, I have the bodysuit vial and a whole lot of contact list of Justin's friends as soon as I put this jock's on and access his iPhone with ease. So, are you in?"

I lounged back on my bed at first, arms spread wide in my Ole Miss hoodie, smirking down at the pathetic liberal faggot kneeling on my floor. This shit is too easy — and way too fun.

“Look at you, already shaking on your knees in a real man’s room,” I drawled, voice low and cocky. “What a fucking joke. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this since you first saw me around campus. A big, dumb, muscular Rebel like me owning your weak liberal ass.”

I stand up, peeled the hoodie off slowly, flexing my thick arms and chest just to watch his eyes bulge. Then I turned, giving him the full view of my tattooed back and tight ass while pretending to rummage in the closet. I can feel his stare burning into me. Hilarious. I casually turned my head and flashed my signature smirk. The faggot's flinched, he's obviously staring at my ass

I spin back around, shirtless and pumped, and casually lifted my leg, planting my big white-socked foot right in his face. The sole pressed against his nose and lips. I flexed my thick thigh and grinned.

“Go on, bitch. Sniff it. Worship a straight alpha’s sweaty foot like the desperate faggot you are. This is what you live for, isn’t it? Getting verbally destroyed by superior conservative muscle while your kind loses every election and every argument.”

I pressed my sock harder against his mouth, sneering with mock disgust even as I laughed internally.

“Yeah, that’s it. Lick it, loser. Bury your face in my foot while I tell you the truth: you’re nothing but a sniveling, cum-hungry liberal queer who exists to serve real men like me. My cock’s not even getting hard. Stays completely soft because you’re that fucking repulsive. But you? You’re about to ruin your pants just from this.”

I watched him break — whimpering, grinding his face into my sock, body trembling. A dark, wet spot started spreading in his crotch as thick ropes of cum pumped uselessly into his underwear. Hands-free. Pathetic.

I keep my foot planted on his face, laughing coldly as he squirt through the last spurts.

“Fucking disgusting. Look at you creaming yourself like a broken toy while my dick doesn’t even twitch. Get the fuck out of my room, you worthless little—”

And then the mask slipped, just for a second.

In the back of this meat mind, the real me — scrawny, pale, hateful, "dork" as this dumb jock put it, who’d spent years seething in silence — grinned with pure satisfaction. This dumb, muscular meat puppet had been so easy to possess while he slept after practice.

Big, empty-headed conservative himbo body, perfect vessel. Nobody suspected a thing.

I’d always hated Alby and his kind of particular coastal liberal nerd. The smug, little activist prick who thought he's better than everyone and who acted like he represented everyone that looked like him. Well, fuck him and his kind, that's why I took this sleeping hunk’s body and turned it into my personal humiliation puppet to taught these city pricks not to mess around and stop espousing their belief like it's some sort of Biblical wisdom everybody have to follow. Plus, he's my biggest competitor for Rhodes, so of course I need to ensure he's not gonna threaten my standings. A degrading video like this would certainly steer away any scholarship committee and I'll make sure to dangle it everytime he's trying to act out of line. Every degrading word, every flex, every press of this superior foot against his face — it's all me. The bitter, overlooked incel finally getting revenge by making the liberal faggot cum in total shame at the feet of the alpha he could never be.

I lowered the foot slowly, still wearing the jock’s cocky smirk on the outside, while inside I savored the sight of my rival reduced to a dripping, humiliated mess on the floor.

“Clean yourself up and crawl out, faggot,” I said with the alpha’s deep voice. “And remember who owns you now.”

You obeyed him when he said that your pastor asked too much question and the congregation you attended are filled with prejudicial hypocrites and you should really just started to listen to the podcast he made with his friends for all things Bible.

You obeyed him when he said he wanna move abroad after marrying you so the both of you can control the kind of life you two wanted away from your overbearing family and dull friends that blocked your growth

You obeyed him when 2 years in the new country that he told you to resign from your well-paying marketing job because he wanted a 24/7 lived-in cum slut as he worked from home

You obeyed him when he told you that you need to be nice to his friends and let them fondle you in his presence

You obeyed him when he said that you need to keep the apartment doors open for his friends to then do whatever the fuck they wanted from you while he recently moved to a job that required him to work in office

It's the dog tag. The dumb jock is unaware that the dog tag passed by his father actually contained mind-controlling chip that will emit command that his brain unable to resist upon wearing. Just a standard military procedure to create a bunch of obedient, well-disciplined, ruthless drone. Taking it off is the only way for the effect and control to wear off and people with them tend to be very protective and defensive about it, plus the subconscious alteration already imbedded on the tag will create irrational fear, guilt and all sorts of feeling if their mind ever think or swayed to take it off.