By Jockboy

Hour 0: More Than I Bargained For

I thought I was ready for this. Sixty-seven hours sequestered in that rotting tomb of an abandoned prison—facing down four men whose cruelty I’d worshipped and feared online, clinging to the fantasy that this was my forge, my shot at genuine mastery.

Pain isn’t new to me. My body’s been shaped by rugby scrums, USMC infantry runs, and the silence of rooms where control passes on the snap of a cuff or the thud of a paddle. I’m built thick, a compact fortress: broad chest with the striations of hundreds of bench presses, shoulders like capped stone, hands calloused from rifles and barbells and uncounted deadlifts.

My shins and knees bear the roadmap of old wounds—rugby studs, gravel pits, forced marches—etched in white ridges and purpled, weathered skin.

The valley of my spine tells its own stories: lines raised by impacts of whip and paddle, skin around my hips still sensitive, wrists not yet fully recovered from nights stretched out, every muscle twitching on the edge of cramp, quads burning after being held in strict stress holds.

Coaches taught me discipline. Drill sergeants showed me how to grind through nerve pain, sweat stinging my eyes on uphill runs, lungs scraped raw. Dominants taught me humiliation—how to surrender without breaking, how to endure beyond the body’s whimpers and find strength worth begging for.

I learned to bow my head in humiliation, to let my pride hum in the agony, to rise up scarred and beg for more—for proof I could be more.

My shame sits between my legs: a four-inch cock, pathetically small beneath all the muscle and scars.

Years of obsession fed my resolve to experience this place and the men who ran it.  I wanted transformation, even if it meant surrender: the sting of the paddle and whip, the feel and stink of sweat cascading down my chest as every fiber in my body trembled past burning failure; the inhuman ache of hogties and iron clamps, body wrenched past its breaking point—a kind of purification.

I told myself this would strip the weakness, leave something worthy behind. I’d come here to master myself.

Intake was a sensory assault: hood pulled away, lights stabbing at my eyes, the air sour with ammonia, sweat, and the coppery stench of fear—each breath a baptism in panic.

The concrete floor, slick and grimy, sent chills up my calves. The decrepit cinder block walls with layers of peeling paint summoned up the ghosts of past punishments.

I staggered, then heard boots thudding from every corner: slow, heavy, deliberate—the march of something inescapable.

And then they surrounded me: four men—monuments to strength, destroyers of the weak doubt—each a force unto himself.

Alpha: Massive, almost mythic, traps and delts pressing the uniform into straining relief. His forearms were braided steel, glistening with sweat and dusted faintly with chalk, the scent of boot polish following every movement. He radiated silent authority—eyes like cold iron, every step deliberate, a mountain in motion.

Pitbull: Shorter but impossibly wide — pecs jutting against fabric, chest blotched with old scars, the pungent funk of deep, animal sweat clinging to him like a threat. His hands, thick and scarred, flexed like he was itching to break something — preferably me.

Sadist: Lean, cut from barbed wire and twitching sinew, each movement a threat coiled beneath his restless energy. His breathing carried bitter cologne, sharp and medicinal, his grin thin and cruel. Abs and obliques seemed chiseled into living stone beneath the stained navy uniform shirt.

Faggot Trainer: Thighs like marble columns, his stance wide and planted, an enormouys bulge outlined bold under his trousers, as if daring me to measure myself against him. Forearms thick with veins, biceps swelling under crossed arms, he radiated that clinical, predatory focus unique to men who enjoy exploiting your flaws.

Their name tags flashed in the cold white: PITBULL. SADIST. ALPHA. FAGGOT TRAINER. Not so much warnings as sentences.

They didn’t speak at first; their silence was heavier than any shout, and the clack of nightsticks against palms was a grim drumbeat. My heart stuttered.

Suddenly, Alpha barked, “Strip. Everything. Now.”

My breath caught. I fumbled with my clothes, stripping down to the skin as their eyes pinned me. Shame scorched hotter than the overheated lights.

Without warning, Pitbull slammed me forward, others ripping away what little I’d left on. I was naked and shaking, arms clamped hard behind my back, bare against the cold concrete.

The four of them closed in. Nightsticks rose.

They beat me with method, not fury—each blow a lesson in power, each thud a punctuation. Alpha wrenched my wrists high, making my whole back arch, exposing my ribs and spine for Sadist’s whip-like strikes. Pitbull hammered the nightstick across my thighs and ass, blunt and bruising. Faggot Trainer worked the backs of my calves, muscle flaring with pain, the crunch of hardwood echoing through bone. Sadist’s blows were sharp, quick, flaying my shoulder blades and sides.

Each impact sent my body twitching, every muscle flexing first in defense, then collapsing into surrender. I could taste blood and bile at the back of my throat, my vision blurring with humiliation and agony—a punishment meant not just for flesh but for spirit.

When I sank to my knees, trembling, skin already swelling purplish, they twisted my arms behind me. Metal cuffs snapped cold around my wrists, biting bone. Pitbull forced my ankles wide, shoving my legs apart until my groin and glutes screamed. The spreader bar locked on, hips stretched to the point of tearing.

That’s when Faggot Trainer dangled a mangled ball of paper in front of my face—my request form.

He tore it to shreds, scattering the pieces like ashes. He sneered, voice low, words deliberate:

“You really thought we’d read this?  You didn’t wander in by luck—we’ve been setting the bait for years, waiting for you to crawl in, thinking you’d earn some fantasy about being a master. You were never a contender. You’re here to be broken. That’s all you ever were.”

Sadist snorted, wiping sweat from his lip as he circled for another blow. Alpha’s silence pressed down—cold, absolute.

My body trembled, my mind reeling. It hit all at once—there was never any path to mastery here, no trial to pass. I had been dragged here as a sacrifice, not a recruit. My hope shriveled to nothing as I realized: all I could do was survive what they gave me, if I was lucky.

And as I slumped defeated to the concrete, bruised and trembling, it was clear: their world was built for devouring men like me. The real ordeal was only beginning.

Hour 1: Uniform Humiliation

As the final step before my endurance would be tested for hours, the guards produced — like a sick ceremony — a uniform parcel. Not military blue or workman’s khaki, but a one-piece, neon pink, prison jumpsuit.

Its fabric was soft but clingy like a ballet tutu. But stamped across the chest in thick, humiliating stenciled letters:

LESS THAN A MAN

PRISONER 00000-0

No belt, nothing but the jumpsuit. Pitbull removed my restraints and threw it at my feet.

“Put it on. Fast. Then kneel,” he sneered.

I struggled into the suit, every seam catching on shaving burns and raw nicks. Its fit was snug, nearly obscene, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The letters — ink bold and unmissable — sat right above my heart for all to read. It was armor made not to protect, but to expose and wound; a second skin of humiliation.

My shorn head exposed, the pink suit and matching plastic slides marked me as their property and their plaything, stripped of all humanity.

Hour 2: Ritual Humiliation

A steel collar closed tight on my neck; a short leash snapped on. I was forced to kneel, knees wide, arms locked behind. Ankle restraints went back and I was laid flat on my back.

Pitbull pressed his boot against my crotch, pinning it flat on the rough concrete floor.

“Smallest cock we’ve ever seen. You better thank us for giving you any attention at all,” he grinned.

After every blow, slap, or word, they made me chant something else: “Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.”

They made it worse.

“Now say the thanks properly, worm.”

With burning ears and aching voice, I obeyed, then said: “Sir, thank you for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It needs to learn obedience to its superiors, Sir.”

Hour 3: Naked Among Titans

Next up: boot camp circuits, when exercise becomes torture.

They stripped me bare, tossing my flimsy uniform aside.

They barked the first order — Crawl! Naked, cuffed hands scraping raw across gritty floor, my flesh soon streaked red where my bones jarred the surface.

Their boots hovered inches from my skin; one stomped down to pin my shoulder, urging faster. My knees and shins skidded, skin splitting in shallow abrasions.

Heat from their bodies made the air feel suffocating. My own sweat burst out within seconds, stinging every fresh scrape and raw line, dripping over eyes, pooling beneath where my chest dragged for breath.

They forced me to squat — deep, slow, brutal.

Naked, fully exposed, every motion pulled tight at my hamstrings and glutes, the ache burning up into my back. The reps never stopped. Down — pause — up — down.

Their count was slow, stretching seconds into agony. Soon my legs were locked and trembling, sweat rolling down calves, streaking dust and grit. Each time I faltered, a boot caught my ass, correcting my posture with a jolt of pain.

No handed 8-count bodybuilders followed — cuffs still on, wrists aching, my wet chest slapping into the floor.

The guards hovered over me, spit landing sometimes on my shoulders, laughter echoing as my triceps gave out and my body started to shake violently, delts on fire, breath snapped short and shallow by the strain.

My back blistered from the backward bear crawls on scraped concrete, my arms barely moving after timed challenges. The pain swallowed everything.

When they ordered wall sits, they didn’t just watch — they approached with bricks, pressing them into my lap, then stacking them atop my thighs as my pulse thundered in my ears.

My legs howled, quads literally juddering under the punishment, sweat beading down over my knees, tickling and burning through the pain.

Muscles felt like steel cables on fire, nerves ablaze, my vision swimming with each throb of agony.

Every time I dropped a brick or slid an inch down the wall, one of those huge hands would slap me hard — pec, thigh, face — resetting me in place, the sharp burn outdone only by the tearing ache in my legs. My ass and lower back pressed mercilessly to the wall until I nearly screamed.

When my rep counts lagged or my pace faltered, the massive arms yanked me up and forced me to hold planking or nose to wall spread eagle stress positions as punishment.

Wrists cuffed behind my back, shoulders trembling uncontrollably, breath coming in ripped shudders, jaw clenched until I nearly sobbed. Sweat pooled under my belly, dripping from chin and nose onto stone, mixing with tears I tried not to show.

After every completed circuit, they made me say again: “Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.”

And: “Say it — louder! Thank us for making you stronger!”

But I didn’t feel strong; every muscle from neck to toes screamed, nerves raw, skin burning, flesh snapped close to defeat. No set, no rep was for strength — only for breaking, and for showing the pack of muscle what humiliation looked like under the lights.

Hour 4: The Agony of Iron

One too many mistakes earned me a brutal trip — dragged, naked and sweating, across rough concrete before being dumped in the heart of the cell block.

Pitbull’s grip crushed my arms behind my back, bone grinding on bone. Sadist seized my ankles, yanking them up so violently my spine arched, belly hovering off the ground, my breath already ragged.

Iron cuffs snapped closed, wrists and ankles forced together, each click tighter until my hands went icy and bloodless.

But that was only the prelude.

Alpha dragged in a thick iron bar — its cold, chipped surface promising every kind of agony — and jammed it through the D-rings of the cuffs, collar, and a brutal, raw-edged strap cinched tight around my balls.

Steel padlocks slammed shut, chains binding it all together in a web of metal, my chest forced into a contorted arch that made my back scream for mercy. The bar immobilized me, neck jerked back by the collar, each limb shuddering under the iron’s merciless tension.

Every twitch made new pain detonate: the chain chewed my wrists and ankles, the collar compressed my windpipe, and the strap turned every breath, every spasm, into searing agony that radiated from my groin up through my gut.

My shoulders and hips throbbed, elbows and knees sparked with fire as I slipped from pain into numbness and back again. Sweat dripped from my face and chest, puddling beneath where my cheek pressed the filthy floor, the taste of metal and fear filling my mouth.

Sadist crouched beside me, smirking: “Move again and you get another hour. Hell — maybe we’ll find out if your back breaks before your pride does.”

The sensation was a savage cocktail: airless, suffocating restraint meets muscle-tearing torment, the iron grinding your own weight down with every desperate gasp and tremor.

Each tick of the clock stacked more pain — joints shrieking, nerves buzzing, consciousness swimming on the edge of black.

This was torture in the old style: overstretched, hoisted, pushed to destruction, a system built to shatter both body and mind.

The pain came in brutal stages:

• Wrists and ankles losing all feeling
• A spine bent past its design, vertebrae screaming
• Iron bar crushing nerves, shooting pain through arms
• Collar strangling the neck, chain burrowing deeper with every shake or shudder
• Balls crushed by the strap, agony radiating with every spasm
• Fire in elbows, tingling in fingers and toes, and the ache of being pinned and paraded under fluorescent lights.

Sadist leaned close, voice like razorblades: “Real men took worse and begged for more. Be grateful. Now — say thank you, you worthless piece of shit.”

With my lips white and body shaking, I forced the words past the grit and humiliation:
“Sir, thank you for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It needs to learn obedience to its superiors, Sir.”

Hour 5: The Enforcer — Leather, Steel, and Shame

They weren’t finished yet; this was where the lesson carved itself in flesh.

At the bench, Pitbull hefted the Enforcer — an oversized custom leather paddle, grotesquely broad and triple the size and thickness of online toys of the name. At its core: a slab of thick, cruel, unyielding steel wrapped in the leather hide.

It was a diabolically cruel device built to go far beyond harsh discipline and attitude correction. It was built for maximum pain and total surrender.

Sadist’s voice was ice as he delivered the decree: “You will count every strike out loud and thank us after each.”

The first blow detonated across my ass, heat slicing through muscle, the pain spreading in brutal waves. The second landed lower, sharper, igniting nerve endings that hadn’t burned in years.

By the third, the paddle found my thighs — the thud turning my legs to rubber, all strength erased by shock and shame.

After every crack I croaked, breath shuddering: “One Sir, thank you Sir, for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It needs to learn obedience to its superiors. May it please have another, Sir?”

“Two Sir, thank you Sir, for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It needs to learn obedience to its superiors. May it please have another, Sir?”

Every time I faltered, every count misfired, we started again from zero—pain becoming the only language I could speak.

It took an eternity to reach the hundred I owed them.

Bruises blossomed in sick violets and angry reds, pain crawling outward in live, shivering arcs. The guards’ faces stayed blank — no pity, no anger, only relentless control—while their iron grip never let me escape the lesson.

Hour 6: Broken in Iron — Humiliation Etched in Flesh

This time, there was no hiding—the iron punishment became public, for a dozen jeering trainee guards.

The Iron bar locked my limbs, spine bowed so far back that pain blanked out everything else. Sweat and spit leaked from my face, puddling as the guards circled, boots scraping the concrete just inches from my skin. Their taunts were sharp, laughter ricocheting off the walls — every stare grinding me lower.

Pitbull knelt so close I could smell the acrid polish, his boot pressing into my cheek, grinding my face into the floor with slow, remorseless force until hot tears streaked down onto stone.

“Look at you now — chained and twitching like a dog. You make a piss-poor excuse for a man, with that pathetic cock.” he hissed.

Sadist dropped a filthy steel dog bowl at my lips, the stench of their spit curdling the back of my throat.

“Beg for it. Lick it. Now thank us, you useless fuck.”

Humiliation choked me — tongue dragging through filth as laughter thundered all around, cameras flashbulbing my shame.

Sadist snarled: “Clean it or I’ll mop this floor with your face. Every drop, faggot!”

When I finished, Pitbull seized my collar, yanking until I gasped for air.

“Let’s hear how grateful you are to be maggot shit beneath our boots.”

Broken, shaking, I stammered out the words they demanded: “Sir, thank you for punishing this piece of shit prisoner…thank you for humiliating it. It needs to be better. You own me, Sir.”

Sadist’s eyes glinted, cruelty alive in every movement.

“See? Nothing without our pain. Every chain, every humiliation, that’s all you’re worth.”

They made me repeat it, over and over, mantra turning to mockery, until pain and shame bled together, indistinguishable.

When they finally left, I lay trembling, bruised, my face sticky and burning — left in the iron, knowing I’d been emptied out for their satisfaction: submission, broken gratitude, total public humiliation.

Hour 7: The Enforcer — Second Round, Breaking Point

Back on the bench, every bruise an anthem of failure, pain radiating just beneath the surface like fire in the nerves.

The Enforcer loomed again — its broad, steel-lined leather heavier in the guards’ hands, malevolent with intent.

The first blow crashed down, my ass erupting with raw agony, each welt deepening to a swollen, throbbing pulse. No relief, no mercy. The next strike targeted my thighs — muscles convulsed and skin burned, pain shattering every shred of composure. Sweat dripped from my chin and pooled below, mingling with the ugly blotches of bruising that webbed my flesh.

Then came the final, devastating shot. The paddle arced in a merciless curve, landing squarely against my exposed balls — the force of it drew every ounce of breath from my body, an explosion of white, blinding pain that started in my gut and tore through my entire being.

I howled, the sound ragged, animal, then bit back another scream as waves of nausea hit, turning my vision gray. My body crumpled, teetering on the edge of blackout.

A warm, stinging trickle slid down my skin — a thin line of blood marking where cracked flesh surrendered entirely. Chest heaving, I gasped for air, shuddering as the pain carved through every thought. The world had contracted to bench, paddle, and torment. The guards watched, unsmiling, stone-faced, as I learned the final lesson the Enforcer had to give: everyone breaks, and every break leaves a mark.

Collapsed against the bench, chest heaving and vision swimming, I forced myself upright. My voice barely rose above a rasp: “Sir, thank you, Sir, for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It needs to learn obedience to its superiors, Sir.”

The guards exchanged a glance, smiles twisting with fresh cruelty. Without a word, Pitbull thrust out his boot, thick with sweat and grime from hours of pacing the cellblock. Alpha followed, yanking off his own boot and waving it beneath my face, the stench sharp and sour.

Pitbull’s voice dropped to a vicious growl. “Show us how grateful you are. Get your tongue out and clean it, prisoner.”

They pressed their boots to my mouth. The taste of leather, salt, and filth flooded my senses as I licked, each pass of my tongue drawing jeers and smirks. Every glance from above weighed like a brand.

Sadist barked, “This is your place. On the floor, licking up what we walk through. Say thanks for that, too.”

Mouth full of shame, I obeyed, voice muffled by leather: “Sir, thank you… thank you for letting me lick your boots, Sir. Thank you for making me better, Sir.”

Hours 8–15: Pain, Obedience, Submission

• Cycles of hogtie: Back to iron, collar leash yanked tight, arched for display or shame. Guards flex, pose, and jeer.
• Circuits and humiliation: Crawling, bodybuilders, wall sits, leash dragging my head down, all accompanied by barked insults and threats. I spent 8 hours carrying bricks and piling them up … then returned them.
• Forced feeding: Multiple rounds a day at the dog bowl, always on all fours, always under guard laughter.
• Stress holds and sleep deprivation: Every position enforced by iron or leash, eyes always on me for the slightest break.
• Mantra drilled ever deeper: “Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.”
• Push-up after push-up, as the guards’ barks echoed overhead, my shoulders trembled and the muscles along my arms screamed in protest. With every rep, pride bled out of me, washed away by humiliation.
• The tempo of agony replaced the clock: I measured my world in the shaky seconds between each guttural command, each flare of pain, my mind shrinking to a single, pounding pulse before the next ordeal began.

Hour 16: Yet More Ritual Paddling (The Enforcer)

Strapped over a punishment bench, ass bared, iron cuffs locking my wrists and ankles.

Pitbull brings out the Enforcer: the broad paddle reinforced with steel. Guards hold me fast — wrists pinned above, hips locked, ankles wide and bare. Each blow lands with bone-deep force.

• The first snaps through skin and muscle, burning white hot.
• Next across the thighs, cheeks, then crack—pain rippling outward, bruising rising instantly.
• One strikes the base of my balls; agony folds me, but the guards slam me down, demand I don’t move.

After every searing stroke: “Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.”

And if I can speak: “Sir, thank you for punishing this piece of shit. It needs to learn obedience to its superior, Sir.”

Hours 17–66: Repetition and Escalation

It continues:

• Hogtied recovery: Limbs screaming, drooling, guards circling, mocking every broken sound I make.
• More circuits, more humiliation: Relentless crawling and push-ups, wall sits, planks, leash always in use.
• More feeding rituals: Forced to lap the bowl, collars yanked, photographs snapped, “good dog!” and snickers from the guards.
• More stress positions, mantras, and endless denials of sleep.
• Paddling and the Enforcer return: Each time, harder. Sometimes the pain is so blinding I see stars; once or twice, I start to black out, only to be slapped awake, collars and cuffs keeping me from hiding from the agony.
• Everything snapped into place by repetition of the mantra and forced thanks: “Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.”

Hour 67: First of the Forged

At last — body battered, striped with bruises, limbs still quivering from the iron and the Enforcer — I am dragged up, trembling and bare, before the whole pack of guards.

My skin is burning, hairless, marked in purples and reds, trying as I might to stand straight. All around me, muscle presses at navy uniform cloth so tight it looks poured on.

Sadist tosses a bundle at my feet. “You earned it. Put it on.”

For a moment I just stare: navy shirt, crisp with creases, ironed sharp; dark fitted trousers pressed razor-straight; heavy boots polished like glass; a stiff leather belt.

Lying atop the pile is the new nameplate — not my name, but the title I now carry:

MAN MAKER

Before I can reach for it, Pitbull produces a blade and slices his own palm, letting a trickle of dark blood drip across the metal plate. Sadist presses a thumb to the cut, then smears it over the letters, red glistening in the harsh light.

“Pain leaves a mark,” Alpha rumbles, holding my gaze. “The blood on this plate means you carry our legacy and your own scars.”

The nameplate is slick and sticky — the blood still fresh, wet, and almost dripping down the pressed cloth. It stains the fabric, marking me as belonging to a rite older than we are.

I pull the shirt over my aching shoulders, each seam blistering on welts; slide into the trousers, the fabric clawing at wounds and bruises; lace the boots and cinch the belt around my raw waist. The nameplate, MAN MAKER, sits boldly over my heart, blood darkening and drying as I stand in place.

Sadist’s mouth twitches as he nods at the new emblem.

“Let them see it. Let them smell it.”

Pitbull steps in, pressing the Enforcer paddle into my hands.

His voice echoes, heavy: “You’re the first. Weakest start we ever had, but you survived every chain, every lash, every lesson in steel and leather. We build men here. Never seen one last all the way until now.”

Alpha stands behind, arms folded, eyes dark with faint respect: “You came in with nothing — no strength, not even a man’s cock. Today, you earned every mark. You now know what a real man is.”

Sadist barks: “Congratulations. No more nothing. You proved the process works. Wear that uniform — and that blood — proud.”

Faggot Trainer adds: “Let the new ones watch and remember. First to survive, first to thank us, first master made right.”

I am made to say it one last time, throat raw but steady, but with a twist. “Thank you for punishing this piece of shit prisoner. It learned obedience to its superiors, then became one.”

Pitbull nods — tough and impassive, but with grudging, raw respect. “Now show the next batch. Use the Enforcer. Show them how we make men — with iron, leather, fear, and blood.”

I turn to face the new intake — shaved, naked, wide-eyed, trembling.

My uniform is strange armor: every line, every press, and now every fleck of red on my chest, a sign of what I’ve endured.

The Enforcer is heavy and rightful in my grip, and the bloodied nameplate — MAN MAKER — glints darkly. “Nose to the floor. You so much as flinch, you’ll get what I got — and leave your own mark.”

The guards stand silent behind me. Bruises hidden under new cloth, my title fresh and stained, I feel a harsh pride that outlasts pain.

I survived after all. I am the first to be forged.

Obedience is discipline. Pain is transformation. Submission is pride.

And now the cycle begins again. —with iron, leather, fear, and blood marking the future. That’s how men are made.

I survived the furnace. I was obliterated, reshaped — scars burned into my flesh and soul — and now I stand as judge, executioner, and testament to everything you’ll never be unless you crawl through hell to claim it.

This is manhood, branded in iron, shrieking agony, leather tears, days of humiliation—fear that marks you forever, blood that’ll stain you until the day you’re thrown out or finally found worthy to stand proud.

So, answer honestly, reader… do you have the guts, or will you piss yourself at the threshold? Are you actually man enough to crawl, to let us grind your face into the concrete, to bleed and beg and humiliate yourself for a shot at being remade? Or do you just jerk off to the fantasy, fingers trembling, never once knowing what real pain, real transformation, even feels like?

Reader: If you’re hard right now, consider this. Did anyone grant you that right, shithead? Do you agree you need to be punished for your arrogance, just as I was?

Will you earn the privilege to suffer, to be spit on and crushed and maybe, just maybe, become more? Or are you just another pathetic pretender — soft-handed, weak-willed, trembling at the edge of the abyss?

Let’s find out.

Strip right now, pussyboy. Spend ten minutes right now on your knees, back straight, silent and imobile, hands behind back, not moving a muscle, eyes front and unblinking. Repeat your mantras. Out loud.

Here it is — the fork in the road. This is where you decide if you’re ready to choke on sweat and shame, to be unmade and rebuilt, or if you’re just another pussyboy coward doomed to stay nothing forever as you jerk off to the fantasy of what might have been.

Run back to the darkness where you belong.

Or come into the light and man the fuck up.

The choice is yours.

Make it right now in the comments. Say what you need, using proper protocol and obedience and full reporting, after carefully re-reading this last section.

Do it.