The air at Vanderbilt was thick with Polo Sport and privilege, and Chase Whitaker, nineteen, a freshman from some nowhere town outside Chicago, felt it choke him daily. He was skinny: 5’10”, 145 pounds soaking wet, all ribs and elbows. The frat guys in their pastel polos and creatine-bloated biceps saw him as prey. “Faggot,” they’d hiss in the quad, flexing their 18-inch arms, or they’d shove him against the dorm vending machine, laughing as his books hit the tiles. Chase wanted to be jacked, wanted the kind of body that silenced rooms, but the campus gym was a fratboy gauntlet: spotters in backwards caps grunting over 225-pound benches, smirking at his twig arms trembling under a 95-pound barbell. He couldn’t do it.

One October afternoon, scrolling Google Maps on his cracked iPhone 13, he found a gym in the Gulch called Pounders. The reviews were cryptic: “No posers, no clothes, real men only.” He figured it was some hardcore powerlifting spot, maybe a little weird, but he was desperate. He rode a Lyme scooter down 12th Avenue South, parked it near the neon-lit strip of boutique bars, and walked to a unmarked black door between a vape shop and a tattoo parlor. The sign read “Pounders: Members Only.” He buzzed in, wearing gray sweats and a faded Bears tee, clutching a gym bag with a protein shake and a towel.

Inside, the air hit him like a slap: sweat, musk, and something primal, metallic. No clothes. No women. Just men -- naked, glistening, veins popping like roadmaps across their quads and pecs -- lifting in a cavern of black rubber mats and mirrored walls. Chase froze. A guy with a 24-inch neck and a 25-inch dick swinging like a pendulum was doing deadlifts, grunting as another absolute unit spot-checked his form, hands lingering on his glutes. In the squat rack, two bronzed gods were locked in to each other, literally -- thrusting, roaring, a symphony of flesh and iron, one unloading a MASSIVE LOAD that arced across the rack and splattered the weights. Chase’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t a gym. This was something more.

“You new?” A voice, deep and gravelly, cut through the haze. Chase turned. The guy was 6’4”, maybe 250 pounds of shredded muscle, a pro from the IFNB circuit: Carlos Monza, the Dragoncock himself, known for his 22-inch monster and his ability to CUMBLAST mid-pose at the Mister Alpha finals. His skin was oiled, his traps swallowed his neck, and his eyes were black and unblinking. “Yeah,” Chase muttered, clutching his bag like a shield. Carlos smirked. “You’re my Training Twink now. Strip.”

Chase blinked. Training Twink? He’d read about it on some law forum once -- weak newbies assigned to pros, submissive little helpers who fetched water, wiped benches, and serviced their mentors in ways that’d make a porn star blush. He stammered, “I...I didn’t know...” Carlos cut him off. “No clothes allowed. No excuses. You’re here to get jacked, right?” Chase nodded, dazed, and peeled off his sweats, his scrawny frame shivering under the fluorescent lights. The gym roared around him: clanging plates, guttural moans, the wet slap of skin on skin.

Carlos led him to the bench press, his cock swaying like a metronome. “Lie down,” he ordered. Chase obeyed, the cold vinyl sticking to his back. Carlos straddled the bench, his quads flexing, and guided the bar into Chase’s shaky hands. “Ten reps. I’ll spot.” As Chase pushed, Carlos leaned in, whispering, “You’re weak now, but we’ll fix that. Man sex boosts testosterone to super-physiological levels. Nothing gay about it. Sweaty alphas fucking in the gym? That’s the straightest shit there is.” Chase’s arms trembled at 135 pounds, but Carlos’s words lit something in him. He finished the set, chest heaving, and Carlos grinned. “Good. Now suck me off. Builds loyalty.”

Chase hesitated, then knelt. Carlos’s dick was a battering ram, pulsing with veins, and Chase gagged as he took it, the pro’s hands gripping his skull. “Deeper,” Carlos growled, then unleashed a CUMBLAST that flooded Chase’s throat, hot and thick, spilling down his chin and out his nostrils. “Swallow it. Protein’s protein.” Chase did, coughing, and Carlos hauled him up. “Squat rack next. You’re learning the ropes. Eventually we'll teach you to shoot ROPES.”

Months blurred into a haze of iron and flesh. Pounders became Chase’s world. He’d stumble in at dawn, strip, and train under Carlos’s iron rule. Squats till his quads screamed, deadlifts till his spine ached, all while the gym pulsed with primal but elegant MANSEX. In the rack, Carlos would bend him over, pounding him raw as he racked 315 pounds, shouting, “Feel that test surge!” Chase would stagger out, reeking of sweat and cum, but stronger every day. His biceps swelled to 16 inches, his chest thickened, his dick doubled in size from the constant stimulation. The frat boys stopped shoving him. They started staring.

By spring, Chase hit 195 pounds, lean, vascular, a machine. Carlos clapped him on the back one day, mid-CUMBLAST across the dumbbell rack. “You’re no Twink anymore. You’re a Pounder.” Chase grinned, flexing in the mirror, his own cock twitching at the sight. He signed up for the IFNB Amateur Southeast Regional, held in a sweaty Atlanta warehouse. Naked, oiled, he strode onstage, 200 pounds now, traps like mountains, a 10-inch rod swinging proud. He hit his poses: double biceps, side chest, then flexed hard, timing a MASSIVE LOAD to erupt mid-lat spread, splattering the judges’ table. The crowd roared. He took first.

Backstage, Carlos lit a cigar, nodding. “Future’s bright, kid. Dragoncock’s proud.” Chase smirked, wiping cum off his studded abs, already dreaming of the pros: Mister Alpha, the IFNB World Stage, a life of muscle and excess. The frat boys could eat shit. He was jacked now, and Pounders had made him a god.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5700167&forum_id=2:#48784902)