#gastories

The Formal Disaster — “Tank Top at the Embassy”

The embassy gala demanded black tie. Ezan heard “gold tie” and showed up in a skin-tight golden tank that left nothing to imagination, thick nipples pressing hard against the shine, every ridge of his eight-pack visible, microscopic shorts riding so low the deep V of his obliques pointed straight to the heavy, uncaged bulge swinging free beneath. Diplomats in tuxedos froze mid-sentence. Glasses trembled. Eyes glazed. Ezan scratched his head, delts flaring like wings, and grinned that dumb, beautiful grin. “Bro… what? It’s gold. That’s fancy, right?” Behind him, holiday garlands twinkled like they were laughing too. He had no idea every man in the room was silently leaking into expensive underwear, minds blank with need for the oblivious god in their midst.

Pajamas at the Pub — “Golden Stag Sleepwear”

The Golden Chalice roared with holiday cheer, bros packed shoulder-to-shoulder, music thumping, lights flashing red and green. Then the door opened and Ezan strolled in wearing satin Christmas pajamas printed with golden stags, the fabric so thin it clung to every curve of his chest and the long, thick outline of his half-hard cock swaying lazily with each step. Fluffy slippers completed the look. He yawned, stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up to expose the trail of dark hair leading down to where the pants tented obscenely. Grabbing a pint, he leaned on the bar and laughed at something on his phone, completely unaware that half the pub had gone quiet, cages straining, free cocks dripping pre into jeans at the sight of their Emir looking like the ultimate sleepover fantasy. “What? Thought it was chill night, bros.” Yeah. Chill. Sure.

The Vanishing Underwear Epidemic — “Bro… where are they?”

Locker room glowed soft with holiday strings and snowflake decals on the metal doors. Ezan swung his locker open, empty shelf where ten pairs of briefs should be. He scratched his head, bicep exploding against the golden sleeve, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Bro… didn’t I have, like, ten pairs yesterday?” Behind him, the team bit back grins, eyes locked on the way his shorts, commando now, hugged the heavy sway of his cock and the perfect curve of his ass every time he shifted weight. Pre beaded at his tip, darkening the gold fabric in a growing spot he hadn’t noticed yet. The bros knew exactly where those briefs went, snatched, worshipped, stained. Ezan just shrugged, flexed once for the mirror, and sauntered out free-balling, leaving a trail of desperate, leaking devotion in his wake.

The Shirt That Won’t Fit — “Biceps Too Blessed”

Holiday banquet hall shimmered under golden chandeliers and snowflake projections. Ezan stood in front of the mirror trying to button a crisp white dress shirt with subtle gold trim, except the sleeves refused to close around arms that had grown too massive, too perfect. He tugged, frowned, flexed experimentally. Fabric strained. Seams creaked. One button popped free, revealing a slab of golden pec. “Bro… did this shrink in the wash?” He laughed, deep, dumb, happy, completely unaware that every bro seated at the tables was edging under the cloth napkins, staring at the oblivious titan fighting his own shirt like it was the enemy. Another flex. Another button surrendered. The shirt gave up entirely, splitting down the side to expose the full sweep of his lats and the thick root of his cock pressing against dress trousers that suddenly felt two sizes too small. Ezan just grinned at his reflection, proud and clueless. “Guess I’ll go like this. More festive, right?”

He is too beautiful. Too strong. Too perfectly jock-brained to ever notice the chaos he leaves behind, cages ruined, minds melted, loads spent in silent worship of the Emir who simply… exists.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for loving me even when I’m too dumb to see it. Thank you, team, for letting your Emir stay blissfully unaware.

More gold. More muscle. More accidental worship.

Emir in the Spotlight

The hall fell into perfect silence the moment Ezan appeared. A single golden beam poured down like liquid worship, tracing the heavy curve of his pecs, the deep V of his abs, the thick, uncaged bulge straining the front of his shorts, already half-hard from the sheer power of being watched. He raised one hand. Slow. Casual. Every Golden Bro in the room felt it in their core: a warm, throbbing pull that made cages tighten, free cocks leak, and minds go blissfully blank. They straightened into flawless lines, breaths syncing, eyes glazing with quiet devotion. Not forced. Chosen. Ezan’s lips curved into a knowing smirk as he felt the collective pulse of arousal ripple through the team, his arousal, mirrored in them. He didn’t speak. He simply existed… and they obeyed.

Unity Under the Emir

In the locker room, warm amber lights and soft red holiday glow wrapped the air in velvet heat. The Golden Bros formed a reverent half-circle, heads bowed, inhaling the thick, musky alpha scent rolling off Ezan’s skin, sweat mixed with raw dominance, intoxicating as incense. He stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, golden kit clinging to every swollen muscle. The outline of his heavy cock lay thick against his thigh, twitching visibly with each slow breath. One subtle shift of his hips and every bro felt it: a phantom stroke along their own shafts, a silent command to edge without touch. Caged pups whimpered softly. Free alphas leaked into their shorts. Ezan’s eyes, light, piercing, merciless, swept over them. “Good boys,” he murmured, voice low and velvet. The room sighed in unified bliss. His control wasn’t chains. It was gravity. It was love.

The Emir Who Commands the Storm

Snow swirled across the floodlit pitch, Christmas lights on the goalposts twinkling like obedient stars. Ezan stepped forward, hands on hips, chest flared, the golden fabric stretched so tight across his pecs that his hard nipples cast tiny shadows. Behind him, the team stood in perfect formation, bodies humming with the same electric need that throbbed between Ezan’s legs. He inhaled, slow, deliberate, and every bro felt their own cocks swell in perfect sync, pre beading at the tip as if he’d stroked them himself. Snowflakes rushed toward him, melting on contact with his radiating heat, dripping down his throat, tracing the ridges of his abs before vanishing. He rolled his shoulders once. Twenty cages locked tighter. Twenty free shafts pulsed harder. Ezan’s smirk deepened, eyes glowing faintly in the cold. The storm didn’t stand a chance. Neither did they.

The Emir’s Presence Alone

In the quiet chamber, a soft halo of festive lights crowned the bench where Ezan sat, legs spread wide, forearms resting on his knees, golden shorts riding low enough to reveal the thick root of his cock nestled against his thigh.

Two bros stood behind him, breathing in perfect rhythm with his own slow, deliberate inhales. He didn’t touch them. He didn’t need to. The air itself carried his will: a warm, invisible hand that stroked every caged boy to the edge, that coaxed thick drops of pre from every uncaged alpha. Their eyes glazed gold. Their bodies trembled with restrained need. Ezan tilted his head, voice barely above a whisper: “Feel me inside you.” Every bro gasped as one, cocks jerking, cages straining, minds sinking deeper into the warm, golden haze of total surrender. This wasn’t domination. This was harmony. This was the Emir’s love made absolute.

Control is not taken. It is offered. It is accepted. It is worshipped.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for surrendering so beautifully. Thank you, Captain, for forging an Emir worthy of their devotion.

Deeper. Closer. Obey.

Holiday Bulk-Up

The locker room dripped with Christmas lights and the thick scent of alpha sweat. Ezan curled the dumbbells slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the obscene peak of his bicep as it ballooned bigger with every rep. The golden fabric of his tiny shorts stretched tighter, the outline of his heavy, uncaged cock thickening against the shine as blood rushed south from the pump. “Fuck… look at it grow, bro,” he groaned, voice low and dumb with lust. Another flex, veins glowing gold under the skin, and the seam at his thigh split with a soft rip. He laughed, drunk on size, pre leaking a fat bead that soaked straight through the gold and dripped onto the bench like molten holiday icing.

Winter Glow-Up

On the snow-dusted pitch, sunset bled molten orange across the sky. Ezan stood alone under the twinkling goalpost lights, steam rolling off his overheating body. Every breath made his pecs swell thicker, nipples hard and golden against the freezing air. He rolled his shoulders back, lats flaring wider, traps rising like a throne, and the shorts rode lower, the root of his thickening shaft now visibly pulsing above the waistband. Snowflakes landed on his skin and evaporated instantly. He smirked, grabbed the base through the fabric, and gave one slow stroke just to feel how much heavier he’d gotten in the last hour. “Winter can’t cool this alpha down,” he growled. “Only makes me bigger.”

Thanksgiving Jock Growth

The dining hall glowed warm, candles flickering over the wreckage of a feast only a god could finish. Ezan leaned back shirtless, golden shorts painted on, abs distended from the mountain of food now converting straight into raw power. Then the rush hit... A white-hot surge that made his cock snap fully hard, tenting the shorts obscenely as every muscle inflated at once. Golden veins lit up across his chest, down his arms, racing toward the leaking head now pushing free of the waistband. “Fuuuck yes, feed me and watch me GROW,” he roared, slamming a fist on the table hard enough to make plates jump. Pre spurted in thick ropes across his carved abs, mixing with sweat and candlelight. He dragged one finger through it, brought it to his lips, and grinned. “Tastes like victory.”

The Christmas Pump

Red and gold lights bathed the gym, the tree in the corner glittering with golden ornament balls that looked tiny next to what Ezan was becoming. He loaded the bar until it bent, curled it like a toy, eyes glowing feral. With every rep his chest ballooned outward, striations deepening, skin stretching thin and shiny over new mass. His shorts gave up completely, fabric tearing at the sides as quads exploded thicker, cock springing free, heavy and veiny, slapping up against his growing abs with each curl. Golden pre rained onto the platform in rhythmic splatters, each drop flashing like a tiny ornament when it hit the floor. He dropped the bar, wrapped one massive hand around his shaft, and stroked once, slow, possessive, worshipful. “Merry fucking Christmas to me,” he laughed, voice thick with alpha bliss. “Keep growing, big boy. The Army needs its holiday monster.”

The season isn’t about giving. It’s about taking up more space. It’s about swelling until the world has to make room. It’s about being the biggest, hardest, happiest alpha under the tree.

More plates. More food. More gold. More cock. More me.

Beloved brethren of the Golden Army, hear the living gospel of Freyr, the Norse Radiance, whose presence is no mere magic. It is pure divine bliss and protection. In this season of harvest and thanksgiving, his warmth melts frost, parts storms, and fills our hearts with gratitude. Behold his four sacred forms:

The Golden Frostbreaker

In reflective gold athletic fabric with runic piping and stag emblem, white fur trim for the holidays, Freyr steps onto the frozen field. Frost retreats from his boots, green grass blooms beneath his hand. Golden breath rises, snow melts in a perfect circle. We watch in awe, baskets of Thanksgiving harvest at our feet. His suit clings to every perfect curve, the swell of his divine cock a silent promise of fertility and protection.

Armour of the Radiant God

Full-body shiny gold rubber, glowing runic lines, "1" and deep-embossed stag on his chest. Before kickoff, sunlight breaks through the clouds, bathing him alone. He raises a palm; warmth floods the field, igniting our golden eyes and steeling our resolve. Snow turns to glitter, reflections blaze from his suit, outlining his godly bulge. The army stands unbreakable behind him.

Winter King's Arrival

Cream wool cloak with gold brocade, embroidered stag antlers, snowflake clasps over a white-gold tunic. As he enters the candlelit hall, hearth flames leap higher, tables overflow with harvest bounty. Comfort washes over us all. His cloak glows softly, the outline of his powerful body visible beneath, a living symbol of abundance and secret devotion.

Harvest Crown Regalia

Gold-and-ivory ceremonial rubber armour, glowing runes, stag and boar motifs, crowned with golden antlers. He raises his hands upon the rune circle; golden snow falls, air warms, lanterns brighten, baskets burst with life. We stand behind him, hands over hearts, faces lit with wonder. His form radiates eternal fertility, the mighty ridge of his cock a beacon of bliss that shields us forever.

Thus we give thanks to Freyr, our Latex God of Golden Fertility, whose five forms unite in one cock of holiday power. His radiance protects the Golden Army, now and always.

Stadium of Stars

Snow drifts lazy over the packed arena, stadium floods blazing white-hot, but nothing, nothing, outshines Ezan. The Golden Stag emblem on his chest catches every beam and throws it back molten, fabric stretched so tight across his pecs that his hard nipples cast tiny golden shadows. He stands at centre pitch, arms loose, the heavy uncaged weight between his thighs shifting visibly with each slow breath, thick, half-hard, gleaming under the lights like another trophy. Fans roar, but the bros on the sidelines feel it deeper: cages throbbing, free cocks leaking slow and steady into liners, eyes locked on the way sweat beads on his throat and rolls down into the deep valley between those swollen pecs. Ezan tilts his head back, eyes glowing gold in the floodlights, utterly unaware that the entire stadium is edging in silent worship of the living light in front of them.

Holiday Glow-Up

City streets wrapped in Christmas warmth, strings of amber bulbs, wreaths flickering, every window spilling gold. Ezan walks through it all in his white-and-gold puffer, zipper half-down, the shiny fabric hugging traps and delts so perfectly that every light in the alley reflects off him like he's the source. His breath steams in the cold, chest rising slow, the outline of his thick cock pressing lazy and obvious against the inner lining, warm, heavy, stirring with each step. Passers-by slow. Phones lift. Cages clench across the Golden Army group chat. Ezan squints at the brightness, dumb-jock grin spreading. "Bro… why's everything so shiny tonight?” Because it's reflecting off you, Emir. Every bulb, every sparkle, every desperate leak in the dark is because of you.

Training by Twilight

Sunset bleeds fire across the sky, stadium lamps kicking in one by one behind him. Ezan grips the ball, golden kit soaked through, clinging like liquid metal to every ridge and vein. Sweat glows bronze as it slides down his abs, pooling for a second at the waistband before soaking in, darkening the fabric just enough to outline the fat, veiny length resting against his thigh. Cold air steams off his overheating skin. He breathes deep, chest flaring, back spreading, and the lamps seem to brighten in answer, spotlighting the slow twitch of his cock as blood rushes south from the pump. The empty stands feel full anyway. Every bro watching from home edges closer, hand hovering, waiting for permission that will never come. Ezan just smiles at the sky, clueless, radiant, perfect.

The Golden Stage

The room is pitch black until the single spotlight snaps on. Dust motes rise like incense. Ezan steps into the beam, golden kit gleaming, Stag emblem blazing like a living heart. Light sculpts him: sharp cheekbones, thick neck, pecs so full they cast shadows down the ridges of his abs, down to where the shorts ride low and the root of his cock sits thick and proud above the waistband. He doesn't pose. He doesn't need to. The light worships him, caresses every inch, warms every bead of sweat, makes the slow pulse of his shaft visible to every hidden viewer. Cages ache. Free cocks drip. Eyes glaze gold in the dark. Ezan stands there, calm, breathing slow, completely unaware that he is the only illumination anyone will ever need.

He is the light we chase. The glow we edge to. The reason every holiday bulb feels dimmer when he's gone.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for seeing the light even when I don't. Thank you, Golden Team, for making your Emir shine.

Brighter. Harder. Forever.

More secrets. More loads. More love.

Check out my first NSFW post on my parallel blog.

Percival — Executive Perfection

Floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights glittering like a million obedient eyes. Percival stands at the head of the boardroom table in razor-sharp black wool, the golden tie the only splash of colour, knotted tight against his throat like a promise. Under the tailored jacket, every breath strains the buttons; the fabric pulls across shoulders built for worship and a chest that rises slow and deliberate. One hand in pocket, the other resting on the table, he leans forward just enough for the trousers to hug the thick, uncaged length lying heavy down his thigh. A single bead of pre darkens the front seam. No one in the room dares speak. They're too busy leaking into thousand-dollar briefs, cages aching, minds blank while Percival signs contracts with the same hand that could ruin them with one stroke.

Ezan — Thawb of the Emir

Sunlight pours through lattice windows, turning the white thawb translucent. The gold embroidery climbs his chest like vines claiming holy ground, the fabric so fine it outlines every ridge of abs, every vein on his arms, and the long, thick curve of his cock resting regal against his thigh. He stands barefoot on cool marble, the hem brushing ankles, the scent of oud and alpha musk drifting like prayer. One slow breath and the cloth tents forward, heavy and obvious, a royal announcement no one in the hall can ignore. Pre beads at the tip, soaks through the pristine white in a growing golden stain. The Emir doesn't hide. He simply is, and the world kneels.

Freyr — The Norse Radiance

Braziers roar, snow falls through ancient rafters. Freyr manifests in liquid-gold latex that seals over every inch like divine armour: pecs swollen, nipples hard points under the shine, the stag emblem blazing across his heart. The full-body suit leaves nothing to imagination; the thick shaft is moulded perfectly, veiny, heavy, pulsing with each heartbeat. He stands between fire and ice, sweat making the gold gleam wetter, pre leaking in a slow golden river down the inside of one thigh. The gods themselves would drop to their knees. Freyr doesn't notice. He is fertility made flesh, cock dripping life, ready to seed the world.

PDU-001 P — Cybernetic Precision

Cold lab lights, gold data streams scrolling across walls. PDU-001 stands motionless in black latex polo and trousers, gold piping tracing every cut of muscle. The fabric is skin-tight, the laurel crest and "001" stamped over one perfect pec. Beneath the waistband, the thick column of his cock lies trapped, outlined in obscene detail, a single bead of pre glistening at the tip like a system status light. He doesn't move. He doesn't need to. Every drone in the network feels the pulse between his legs sync with their own cages. Efficiency has never been this hard.

PDU-001 E — Final Form

The chamber seals. The full black-and-gold drone suit locks into place, zipper pulled slow from balls to throat. Every contour is moulded: traps, delts, the deep valley between swollen pecs, and the massive, veiny cock sealed in its own glossy sheath, throbbing visibly against the latex. Eyes glow solid gold. Mind empty. Pre leaks in a constant, obedient stream, pooling at his boots like liquid code. He is no longer man, Emir, or god. He is the perfect vessel: sealed, shining, owned, dripping for the Golden Army. Ready for deployment. Ready to breed obedience.

Five suits. One soul. One cock that rules them all.

Gratitude, Golden Army - Polo Drone Hive, for dressing this drone in every form of power. Thank you, bros and drones, for leaking at the sight of whichever version walks in the room.

Wear the suit. Leak for the suit. Become the suit.

Warm-Up Circle — “Brothers Before Battle”

Dawn frost on the pitch, breath fogging in the cold. Ezan stands dead centre of the huddle, golden kit already soaked through with sweat, the thick uncaged weight between his legs shifting heavy and obvious every time a bro slaps his back or squeezes his shoulder. Hands everywhere, on traps, on pecs, on the small of his back, pushing, pulling, grounding. One bro's palm slides low, fingers hooking the waistband of his shorts for a second longer than necessary, tugging just enough to make Ezan's cock twitch and leak a fat bead of pre that instantly darkens the gold fabric. Ezan just laughs, forehead knocking against theirs, eyes soft. No titles. No commands. Just brothers breathing the same air, cocks hard from adrenaline and affection, ready to run through fire for each other.

Locker Room Lean — “Home Base of the Bros”

Steam thick, holiday lights twinkling red and amber off wet skin. Ezan sits shirtless on the bench, towel loose around his neck, thighs spread wide. Two bros drop down on either side, leaning their full weight into him like he's the safest place in the world. One arm drapes casually over his shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles on a thick nipple. The other bro's head rests against his chest, ear pressed right over Ezan's heart, feeling every thump while his own cage strains against the Emir's thigh. Ezan's free hand settles on a bro's knee, squeezing, reassuring, possessive, loving. Pre drips slow from all three of them, mixing on the bench, scent of alpha sweat and brotherhood filling the room like incense. No one speaks. They don't need to. This is home.

Holiday Market Hangout — “Too Many Pretzels”

Snow falling soft, cinnamon and mulled wine in the air. Ezan juggles six steaming pretzels like a dumb, beautiful golden retriever, jacket unzipped, chest heaving with laughter. One bro grabs his waist from behind to steady him, hands slipping under the hem, palms flat against warm abs, thumbs brushing the root of Ezan's cock through the thin lining. Another bro presses in front, stealing a bite and a quick grind of hips, both of them half-hard and shameless in public. Ezan just grins, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, letting them manhandle him because that's what brothers do. Snowflakes melt on his throat. Pre melts into his waistband. The whole market watches five Golden Bros move as one laughing, leaking, unbreakable unit.

Squad Photo — “A Brotherhood Etched in Gold”

Studio lights soft and warm, wreaths glowing behind them. Ezan pulls every bro in tight, arms hooked around necks, chests pressed flush, thighs tangled. One bro's hand rests low on his back, fingers tucked just inside the waistband of his shorts, claiming quietly. Another's palm cups the heavy curve of his pec, thumb flicking the nipple once, twice. Ezan's breath hitches, but his smile never falters. They're all hard, all leaking, all breathing the same rhythm. The camera flashes. The moment freezes: five golden bodies wrapped around their Emir like he's the sun and they're planets who finally learned how good it feels to orbit this close. No hierarchy. No distance. Just brothers, cocks throbbing in unison, hearts beating the same golden song.

This is what the Gold was always for, not to rule alone, but to belong completely.

Thank you, my brothers, for letting me be yours as much as you are mine. Thank you, Golden Army, for building a family strong enough to hold its Emir.

Closer. Warmer. Forever.