On a quiet morning, I stopped pretending my life was fine. I had built my days around discipline and denial — work, gym, sleep, repeat — until a single encounter at Grindr using the explore option stirred something restless inside me. David, an older, mature, politician in DC, where I was planning to go, carried himself like a man who had already survived several lives. There was something unsettling in that confidence, a mix of warmth and control that I felt long before I could name it.
At first, our conversations circled harmless topics — training routines, nutrition, discipline — but they always drifted back to my body and its supposed “potential.” He spoke about strength like a religion and about limits as if they were a personal insult.
The first time Mateo mentioned injections, he did it casually, as if it were just another step in my self-improvement — a favor, almost, something I “deserved” after working so hard. I laughed (by text) it off, uncomfortable, but I didn’t walk away. That was the detail that kept me awake at night later: the word “steroids,” the needles, but the way I froze when the option was placed in front of me, unable to say yes and yet somehow unable to say no.
I did not expect David’s messages to move from training tips to money. At first, it sounded harmless: he said he could “help” with some extra cash if I ordered a few products online, using my account because, according to him, “you get better rates there.” I felt a knot in my stomach when he asked, but I ignored it. It was easier to pretend it was just generosity than to admit I was letting someone cross a line.
Then he added the condition, almost like a joke: “You show me how they do it there, how they inject you or even yourself , and I’ll cover the whole order. We can even later plan a weekend at my place, or going to you to explore the results.” He wrote it with emojis and laughter, but underneath, I could feel a different tone. I realized that somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about training and started to be about control.
The more we talked, the more the “deal” sounded wrong. He wanted proof of everything: screenshots , photos of receipts, and videos of me at the gym, showing how my body was changing. Each request came wrapped in compliments about my discipline and “potential,” as if flattery could hide the pressure. Doing myself the injections were the most difficult part. Pain and more pain. In one time I did in video call. He was with other friend of him looking how I received the order of how much and how to do it in my butt. I can only dream how can be that be done by others while being myself restrained.
The trip to his house became a recurring topic. He described parties, “toys,” and “experiences” with other people that he said would “free” me from my inhibitions. Instead of feeling excited, I felt watched. The idea of traveling to meet him stopped feeling like a reward and started to feel like walking willingly into a place where my “no” might not matter. That was the moment I understood that the problem was not steroids or sex itself, but the way he wanted to own my decisions.
One evening, after a long shift and a heavy workout, I read his latest message: “Book the tickets, send me the screenshots, and we’ll plan everything. Don’t overthink it. Trust me.” My heart was racing, but not from excitement. I could almost see the future that waited if I said yes: my money in someone else’s hands, my body performing for a person who treated me like a project instead of a human being.
I told him I was not comfortable sharing my bank details, he send me money by various ways, one time even with a friend who was visiting my country. Filming or taking photos of the process makes me fell owned. But I wanted more. I wrote that if he wanted to see me, it had to be in public places, with clear limits, no parties, no “deals,” no pressure. His replies came fast at first — guilt-trips, sarcasm, small digs at my “fear.” Then the messages slowed and finally stopped. The silence hurt, but underneath the hurt there was a new sensation: felling abandoned.
In the weeks that followed, I caught myself almost texting him again, just to prove I was not “weak”.
Finally, a message came. He suffer a heart attack. That was the reason to stop texting me. He wanted me to go to DC and meet other friends and being finally used. Clear messages: going bottom was required for me. Forced enemas will be done to me. Toys will be used. My ass will be used by first time in some sorts of ritual.
Days after a new heart attack was too much and one of his friends told me: died.
Still want to find another master to repeat all the process a finally being transformed into a muscled bottom slave.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
