The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I stood in the squat rack with 495 on the bar—five plates per side—a personal best. Once, a few years ago, I did 315, but after I threw my lower back out—while squatting, ironically—on the advice of my chiropractor, I never did the exercise again. I’d do leg presses, though I never went heavy, and on occasion I’d do lunges on the smith machine, but that was pretty much it. The fire that one needed to properly work legs had never been lit under me. Never the right drive. Never the right motivation.

Until now.

Prince coached me on proper form, but form had never really been the problem. Simply put, I had just never been strong enough to do it right—I’d been weak—and being weak, it was easy to give up, to simply NOT do it. I had never been in love with my legs enough to work them. I’d never found the passion necessary to drive myself.

Until now.

Here I was now with 495 on the bar, wraps tight around my knees, weight-belt cinched tight around my waist, compression shorts tight around my erection, and I knew no fear—only power. Heady, masculine power.

“You got this so easy,” Prince said behind me with a quiet confidence. He wasn’t trying to talk me into it, he was stating fact. “You’re gonna throw this shit up just as easy as the rest of us do. Just once, man. You just gotta beat it once.”

“Let’s go,” I mumbled, stepping under the bar, adjusting my shoulders until it lay just where I wanted it, at the base of my traps, putting my hands wide for balance. I stared at myself in the mirror—I looked hungry. Sexy. My legs had an incredible pump already—they’d never looked better. I’d abandoned the gym shorts two sets ago, and stood now in just my compression shorts and my Under Armor long-sleeve t-shirt, my erection plain and clear beneath the material. I could see the entire sweep of my legs now.

“Drive it,” he said, stepping into the spotter’s position, directly behind me. “Drive it.”

I stood, pressing the weight up off the rack. 495 pounds, almost a quarter-ton. Holding it there, I gained an appreciation for it, an understanding of it. Then I stepped back to squat it. To beat it.

I didn’t know fear. There wasn’t a little warning light in my head, gnawing at my self-confidence like there usually was. Just the opposite, all I knew was desire—all I could feel was power. Prince was behind me—I was aware of his hands on my ribcage, but it was merely supportive. I didn’t need him there. I had this myself.

I sunk to the ground, the weight happy to get back closer to where gravity wanted it, until my thighs broke parallel, then Prince growled, “Now!”

Everything. Everything I had—every cell, every muscle, every conscious thought—it all went into driving the weight up. My legs, my ass, my back, I was an engine. A machine. I drove.

And I stood.

And I flexed my legs at the top of the movement—I thrust my hips and flexed my ass—I drove my cock into the weight and fucked it into submission with a single thrust. I owned it. It was mine. I almost screamed, a primal, instinctual, deeply-buried force.

I almost orgasmed.

“Rack it,” Prince said, guiding me into the weight rack, helping me put the bar down. Then he pushed me to the floor. “Don’t cum,” he said. “Don’t cum. Think about grandma. About puppies. ‘Wizard of Oz,’ whatever. Get it under control.”

Images of Dorothy dancing in her sparkly slippers, melting witches, poppy fields—I started to laugh. What a stupid fucking thing to think about after a set of squats.

But my erection went down. I got it back under control.

I didn’t lose it.

“Good job,” Prince said as my breathing evened out. “You got it, bro. Four-fuckin’—ninety-five.” He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet.

I was laughing. “What the fuck was that ‘Wizard of Oz’ shit?”

He smiled back. “Did you like that? I had to get your mind off it, man. You would of cum.” He shrugged. “It was the least sexual, gayest thing I could think of. You gotta flash on the something GUARANTEED to turn you off when you get like that. Otherwise, you’ll NEVER get through a workout. I use ‘Wizard of Oz’ a lot—sometimes ‘Tele-Tubbies.’”

“Isn’t there a straight-boy joke?” I asked. “Something like ‘think about baseball’...?”

“Thinking about baseball wouldn’t help us,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “It would just make things worse.”

I didn’t mind the joke, but I didn’t laugh, either. He’d inadvertently broached an important subject. “Does this shit we’re taking turn us gay, Prince?” I asked point-blank. “A lot of strange stuff has happened to me over the last couple of days.”

He looked at me like he was weighing his response, then a smirk curled the corner of his mouth and he said, “TURN us gay?” He shook his head. “No. It doesn’t turn us gay. I mean, I’m straight. Hell, dude, I’m married! (Well, I’m separated.) But this shit makes you experience your masculinity in a way that sort of... transcends that boundary, you know? No one understands that except guys who are on it. Same way no one understands being a muscle-guy except another muscle-guy. Fuck man, you and I are standing here facing each other with big hard-ons while we out-squat our max-es, and that feels normal, doesn’t it? We get done with this workout, we’ll probably masturbate together, getting off on our sense of power, we’ll bond, then we’ll leave the gym and go back to our normal lives. Is that what you mean by turns us gay? I think it’s more like it let’s us experience the full range of our masculinity in a shameless way. It opens us up to stuff.”

The moment he said “probably masturbate together,” my dick raged back to life. And with it, another wave of my buzz, like surfing at the beach.

Think about “Wizard of Oz,” I thought.

Prince did his set, blowing out twelve reps with 495 before racking it and struggling with his own orgasm. Hands on his hips, inches from the mirror, he stared intensely into his own eyes and quietly chanted some sort of mantra. When his breathing was under control, he turned and faced me, sweaty, and drawing deep, slow breaths—his erection looked uncomfortable in his lace-front football shorts. “Damn,” he said. “I love leg day.”

“If leg days are always gonna be like this,” I said, nodding, “I’m gonna love ‘em, too.”

At that moment, a scream rose behind us at one of the leg-press machines as the big muscle-fucker who was working there blew his load. Though there was hardly any weight on it at all—just four plates—he racked it and stood, cursing loudly. “Fuck, man, I was just getting started. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The front of his spandex shorts was stained with a mixture of wet and white. “Fuck,” he said, wiping it with his t-shirt, stepping away from the machine and heading toward the locker room. “FUCK!”

“Leg press if free,” Prince said to me. “Let’s grab it while we can.”

As we moved our stuff to the new machine—wraps, clothes, water-bottles and belts—I took a second to look around, to check out the other action in the gym. There were still about ten guys working out at this hour—almost nine-thirty on a Sunday night—significantly down from even a half-hour ago. Those who were left paced around their benches or machines like impatient animals at the zoo, trying not to look at each other, battling their own sexual hysteria. Guys working similar body parts connected on the floor—it didn’t seem like there were a lot of committed workout partners, though the two mid-heavies over on the military press were obviously together, shaved bald and dressed exactly alike in pink and white striped wrestling singlets with the shoulder straps pulled down. Mostly, guys worked out alone, completely focused on themselves, their pump, and keeping their orgasms at bay.

They teased themselves—and each other—by what they wore. Because of the lack of inhibition, guys worked out in whatever made them FEEL their best. Did they feel more masculine, or sexier, in posing trunks? Then that’s what they wore. Did singlets, or football shorts, or jock straps really take them back to their former glory days, real or imagined? Of course not, but if wearing that stuff could help motivate one more rep, if clothes or underwear could make the guy who wore them feel a little better about himself, thereby getting him to put a little more into his workout, then they were worth it.

That’s what kept it from being a little faggy fashion show. These guys were clearly men—sexy MEN—and they wore the stuff they wore to FEEL more manly, not to be pretty. It was a subtle, but important difference.

I didn’t feel bad about wearing just my compression shorts and long-sleeve t-shirt. My legs were pumped like they’d never been before. The feeling I’d enjoyed so much in my chest and back was now finding my legs. I mean, I know I didn’t have the size these guys had—yet—but I was caught up in me, and my own journey, so I didn’t feel at all embarrassed or ashamed of myself. More like, “just watch, mother-fuckers, and see.”

God damn, I was lovin’ this shit!

I was disappointed that we were doing leg presses, though. I wanted to do extensions, or leg curls—you know, get a better pump. Not more pushing.

Prince laughed when I said so. “What’s your goal?” he asked. “Tell me your goal.”

“To get big.”

“Right. Well, you’re not gonna get big doing extensions, bro—that’s for definition. You get big by pushing big weight. Sit down,” he said, indicating the seat of the machine. “You’re gonna press.”

We started with five plates per side—four-fifty, for those of you who don’t want to do the math, plus whatever the sled weighed. Prince made me use a different stance than I normally did, feet close together toward the top of the platform. “It’ll help isolate the hammies,” he said, patting the back of his own massive legs. “Give you some mass back there. Do it.”

So I did it. I did sets as quickly as he could change the weight. After I’d blown through four-fifty, he motioned me not to get up. “Stay there,” he said as he added a plate to either side. Five-forty. “Go again. Give me eight.”

Eight. He was right—my hamstrings were on fire. So strong—so Strong.

He threw on two more—six-thirty, seven plates per side—“Give me six. C’mon, hit it!”

Knees to my pecs, push ‘em away. Knees to my pecs, push ‘em away. My ass was starting to get a pump—my ASS! No, don’t think about it! I thought, just keep flexing the hamstrings. Keep driving. Become the movement. Mind in muscle.

Seven-twenty, eight plates a side. “Just four, big guy. Just four.”

My erection throbbed—my legs did the work, but my cock was their conductor. All my strength funneled through it, all my power centered around it. My cock WAS my masculinity.

And it wanted to grow.

With ten plates per side, the sled was full—the last plate was almost flush with the end of the pipe. “You gotta go for it, dude,” he said, leaning over the weight and coaching me. “Just one. Just one, man. Nine-hundred pounds,” he chanted, clapping his hands a couple of times. “Only gotta get it once. Just once.”

Then he added, “Don’t even matter if you cum, bro. Just get it once. Any way you can.”

It was awesome. There’s no other single word that can encapsulate how it felt to push nine-hundred pounds successfully. How it felt to lower that weight until my knees touched my chest, until my heels became aware of my upper hamstrings, until my ass stretched further than it ever had before, deep, deep muscle, and then to drive that nine-hundred pounds away with nothing but the power of my legs—and my cock. Though the effort was Herculean, my confidence grew as the weight moved, until it seemed like it was nothing but my ego pushing it up.

Nothing but my cock doing the actual work.

At the top of the rep, flexing my legs like the force of that alone would make them grow, I quickly closed the safety guards and pulled myself up out of the machine. I had to flex—I had to see.

Prince was saying, “Yes! Yes!” as I stood. It was the most deserved, earned praise I’d ever gotten, and he began patting me on the back with both hands, like I’d just scored the winning touchdown—which was exactly how I felt. He even smacked me on the ass!

And as I flexed my big, pumped legs in the mirror while Prince pounded on me, I could feel the orgasm rise—and I knew it was uncontrollable.

And I thought, Fuck Dorothy.

“Gonna cum,” I mumbled, flexing harder. Look at those fuckin’ quads! Look at those hamstrings! And how ‘bout that cock?

Prince grabbed by traps from behind, leaned to my ear and chanted, “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” making eye-contact with me in the reflection.

Then it hit me. Thrusting my hips involuntarily, shaking from the exertion, I blew a load unlike any other. I’d like to say that my orgasms were getting better, that this was the best one I’d ever had, but it was getting redundant, because I’d said that about my last one, and the one before that. It suddenly dawned on me that the next one might be the best one too, and the one after that, and after that, and on and on forever. If each orgasm was going to be the best ever, when would it stop? When would it peak? What must they be like for a guy like Prince?

Because the pleasure defeated ME—I couldn’t take it. I screamed while I shot and fell to the floor, my powerful legs lacking the strength to hold me up. It was too much.

It felt too good.

Too masculine.

“Yeah, buddy. Yeah,” said Prince, standing there nodding like a jackass. “Shoot that shit. You deserve it. Shoot it good.”

As my orgasm subsided and I regained control of myself, I pushed myself up off the floor, until I was sitting, and I caught my breath. Panting, I said, “Holy shit.”

Prince offered me a hand, and I smacked it, then we shook like jocks on the playing field, going through a series of complicated hand motions, ending with us making a “snap” by pulling our fingers apart while pressing our thumbs together. “Great set, man,” he said. “Way to end it.”

The compression shorts were good for absorbency—after all, they’re designed for sweaty jocks on the playing field—but they still weren’t able to contain the sheer volume of cum I’d launched. When I stood, what had soaked through the material ran down my leg. It wasn’t until I saw the aftermath of my orgasm that I appreciated it for what it was. It truly had been magnificent.

And this time, I wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed.

Prince tossed me a small hand-towel from his gym bag so I could wipe up. “Thanks,” I said quietly and ran it up the entirety of my left leg, from calf to crotch, catching the spill. “So, I guess I’m done, right? Um... what do I do now, locker room?”

“You ain’t done,” he said, standing by the sled. He shrugged as he corrected himself. “Well, you’re done with YOUR workout, but I’m not done with mine. And I want you to be here for it. There’s something I want you to see.”

He slid into the leg press machine—still loaded with twenty plates (900 pounds, remember?)—and got those huge wheels of his into position. Without even a moment to focus, he unlatched the safety guards and lowered the weight down into a deep rep.

With ease, he pushed it back up. As a matter of fact, it was sort of galling that MY max weight offered him so little challenge. He didn’t even begin to struggle until the eighth rep—the last two looked like they might’ve been work. I was ready to do what he’d done with me—these reverse drop-sets—and was about to grab a couple of plates when he said, “Jump on.”

“What?”

“The sled. Get up on the sled. Hurry!”

“The sled....?”

“Do what I say!”

So I climbed on the sled. Odd perspective, I thought, looking down at Prince like he was on the opposite side of a teeter-totter, staring down at him as he released the guards, then sliding closer to him—his sweaty, muscular mass—and feeling his explosion as he powered the whole of it away. Eleven-hundred pounds—eleven-hundred and five if you counted every ounce of me—and Prince was barely exerting himself. His breathing was controlled and steady, inhale when he lowered the weight, exhalation when he drove it.

We never broke eye contact, not during any of the eight reps.

“Grab one of them hundred-pound plates,” he said to me. “Throw it on top.”

While I got the weight, he blew out a quick set of calves, doing the reps quickly and efficiently. When I got back, I put the plate on top of the sled, then climbed back on. He was up to twelve-hundred pounds.

An easy six.

“Another!”

Thirteen-hundred pounds for four. He made it look easy.

“Two more,” he said to me, “then you’re gonna see somethin’!”

With fifteen-hundred pounds on the sled (including me), Prince adjusted his erection before placing his feet in position. He rocked his torso, psyching himself up for the set. “After I finish this set,” he said, speaking to me but not looking at me, “you’re gonna see what this shit we’re taking REALLY does to a guy. If I don’t cum, I’m gonna go into the second stage of the buzz. It’s what I want you to see.”

“Okay,” I said, leaning forward on the sled. “I’m ready.”

He laughed, and it actually sounded a little evil. “No, you’re not,” he said. “But I sure am.”

With that, he released the guards on the machine and lowered the weight. One thousand, five-hundred pounds—including me—and even though it was clearly his max, he handled it with a confidence that made me forget any nervousness I might’ve felt. He was totally and completely in charge—a force unto himself—all man. All muscle. Although he didn’t scream, he threw his head back and fairly growled in exertion.

But when he looked back at me, there was something different. Something in his eye.

He pushed the weight to the top of the track and quickly racked it. Without breaking his motion, he stood and pulled himself free. Right to the mirror, where he flexed—and while he flexed, THEN he screamed.

He didn’t collapse to the floor like I had, but he did bend over, resting his elbows on his knees, head sunk, like he was trying to resist puking. Of course, because the same thing had just happened to me, I knew he was fighting his orgasm—his breathing alone confirmed it.

And then, suddenly, he stood. He jerked upright, like a jungle cat becoming aware of danger. Throwing his arms out to his sides, legs spread, chest out, Prince roared, flexing every muscle in his body.

But he didn’t cum.

Instead, he stood panting, like a cocaine-addict soaring on his buzz, like a power-mad super-villain as his plan comes together. His gaze lost its tenderness—his attitude became hard. Cocky jock extraordinaire, like every sports fantasy any submissive geek had ever had.

His entire body was pumped—bigger—he was at HIS max.

And his gorgeous, powerful erection stood before him like an unchained force—his ruler, his master. He looked like he existed for no other reason than lift and fuck.

Prince was gone—the creature that stood before me was completely animal. Completely ego. He inadvertently flexed muscle after muscle, punctuated with a quiet, under the breath “Yeah!” or “Fuck!”

Bloodshot eyes glared at me, a cruel smile breaking on the corners of his mouth. When he spoke, I noticed his voice had become rougher, somehow menacing.

“NOW I’m the man!” he barked, reaching out and grabbing the front of my shirt. He pulled me off the sled and threw me to my knees. “Aren’t I? AREN’T I?”

Afraid, instead of questioning what was going on, I quickly mumbled. “Yes! Yes, you’re the man! You’re the man!”

“Goddam right,” he said, pushing me to the floor, like he was simply throwing me away. “I’m the man. And now I’m gonna show your little fag ass just what that means.”

When he closed in on me, I knew I wasn’t gonna be able to resist.

I knew I didn’t want to.