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m/m/f Logan's Turn to Alpha (updated PART 6 - FINALE)


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Hey y'all. Another story here. Couple of things to lay out before getting started:

  1. This story is complete. I'm just posting it in 4-5 portions to keep it digestible, since it's pretty long.
  2. This story is going to end up in a different place than it begins.
  3. No one in this story is particularly nice or gets what they deserve. If you like stories about nice people finally getting their break, this one is not for you.

Hope someone out there enjoys reading this as much as I fuckin' enjoyed writing it.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Final Part


Logan Mitchell sawed off a piece of sumptuous steak and placed it daintily into his mouth, savouring the taste. It had been so long since he had tasted meat. He was celebrating, he needed this.

“No,” he thought, “I don’t need to justify eating meat anymore.”

He had just come off a bad breakup that had caused him to put his entire life into perspective. He’d been working for the last five years at a small tech startup that had consumed his life. They “worked hard, and played hard,” which mostly meant that he worked sixteen-hour days, six days a week, and got to wear a pink tie on Fridays. His girlfriend had gotten fed up with his not spending any time with her and dumped him, and then the week after a large tech giant bought the startup and restructured the entire original dev team out of the company which had left Logan both without work and without the girl who the work was getting in the way of.

It was then that Logan decided his life needed a change. Both work and his girl had controlled him for too long. He was 27, and it was time that he did the things he wanted to do with his life. Luckily for him, he was able to leverage his past experience at his startup into a cushier gig at a more established company, with both a strict 9-5, and what looked like a relaxed management team. His mind reeled at the thought of all he could do with the extra 48 hours per week in his life.

Having finished his steak, he looked at his reflection on the empty metal plate. He took his napkin and wiped the juices off to see himself better. Auburn-haired, 6’4”, with a deep-set brow and decent jawline. He had narrow eyes, but upon close inspection they revealed startlingly green irises. He was a catch, he told himself. He didn’t need that… that… that bitch. He needed to make an effort to spit it out, even in his head.

Under his breath he tried again, “That… b-bitch. Bitch.”

No more vegetarian diet. No more Sunday social justice rallies. No more acceding to her decisions on every wardrobe purchase. No more baby-faced-clean-shaven “I don’t like the way your stubble scratches my skin.” He drained the rest of his beer. No more “alcohol is for wife-beaters and hobos.” He was going to do what he wanted, and what he wanted, was to fuck every bimbo from Calhoun’s to O’Kelly’s looking for a one-night stand. So, he decided he’d better work on himself first to make sure they found him irresistible. He grinned into his reflection. No more moping, no more feeling sorry for himself. He was going to hit the gym first thing tomorrow morning.


It was 5 am, and the gym was mostly empty, by choice as he was sure he was going to embarrass himself. The gym had always intimidated Logan, as his long hours sitting behind a desk had left him with a rather doughy physique. He was 160 lbs and his past few years of vegetarianism had done little to put real muscle on his naturally tall and slim figure. “The very definition of skinny-fat,” he thought, using the new knowledge he had learned from a night of scrolling through every bodybuilding and hardgainer website he could lay his eyes on.

Scanning around, he instead found that only the most hardcore lifters in the gym were around at this time, and his jaw gaped in awe at the ripped physiques around him lifting incalculable weights all the way overhead, then letting hundreds of pounds of iron crash thunderously to the ground. The way those muscles moved and worked… fascinated him. A pang of regret hit him. If only he had even walked into a gym any time since high school, he was sure he’d have fallen into it by now. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

Eventually, his desire to work on himself managed to rip his eyes away. Using video links from a beginner’s routine, he started to teach himself how to do the exercises he had planned for the morning. He was only supposed to use the bar and easy weights, but he felt unsatisfied by the lack of challenge. He decided to add some weight, ahead of schedule. Feeling the resistance as his body worked… the sensation was euphoric. He loved every second of it. By the end of the workout he was sprawled out on the ground with his face to the sky, sweating buckets, the burning soreness hurting so good, his only regret that he needed to wait an entire day before he could do this again. As he showered off the cooling water on his burning up body washed away his fatigue and he began his workday with a focus he never knew he could muster.

That day Logan ate like a madman, gorging himself on meat, potatoes and vegetables and sipping at protein shakes non-stop throughout the day. As soon as he went home, he went right back to researching workouts, diets and supplements that would help him reach his goal. “Thank god,” he thought, “for same-day shipping.”


Two weeks later, after cleaning up from his fifth enormous meal of the day (“code compiling” time became “stuff his face” time twice a day now), he went to the bathroom to do his business. While washing his hands he noticed that his shirt didn’t quite sit on himself the same way. Looking up, he was startled to see his own face, bristling with two weeks of stubble growth. He ran his hands over his growing beard, feeling the hard bristles scratch against his skin. He looked good.

Fuckin’ good,” he corrected himself.

He couldn’t swear at work, so he was still being careful, but he was cultivating a devil-may-care attitude for when he finally worked up the courage to head down to the bar and swim with the fishes. But seeing his face like this was a revelation, a new perspective. He’d been clean shaven all his adult years and didn’t realize how beard could shape his jaw just so, and make him seem, older, tougher, stronger.

“I’m never going to shave again”, he resolved.

He growled at himself, snarling to see how intimidating he could be, and the muscles of his neck tensed, drawing his attention down to his collar that seemed to rise a little bit more than before. He put his hand beneath his shirt and felt it – small hard mounds that had replaced the softness that had previously been there. Nowhere near the size and definition of any of the guys he stared at in his peripheral vision at 5 am every other day, but a far cry from the softness he had felt all over for years. Unable to resist, he pulled his shirt off over his head and looked at himself. He saw pecs. Pecs just on the verge of existing, where you can rub your chest and finally feel some flesh moving underneath. His suspicions confirmed, he donned his shirt again. He rubbed his stomach, still bulging a bit from all the food he had just ate, but quickly put that from his mind. He closed his eyes and summoned the testosterone within him. Imagining it coursing through his veins, addling his brain, giving him confidence. In his mind’s eye, his handsome face and shape clinched it. He was ready to head to the bar.

“Whiskey, neat,” he demanded, for the fourth time straight. Just like the other three, he downed it in a single gulp. From his college years, he knew he needed a few to get the liquid courage going. Slamming the glass onto the bar, he looked up and scanned around the room. The busty babes seemed to glow in front of him. There! One was looking straight at him. Perfect. He flashed her an easy smile, then sauntered on over.

Ten minutes later he was jamming his fuckrod down her throat in a bathroom stall. Waves of pleasure coursing through him, he tilted his head up, closed his eyes and sneered, his growing whiskers opening up to reveal his teeth in a cocky grin. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been. Before he could nod in her general direction and grunt “Yo, wanna fuck?” she had thrown herself onto his arm and they were off to the races. Granted, she wasn’t a bombshell, but what had he even been psyching himself up for? Thirty minutes later, he was done, but his ego demanded more. Three whiskeys later he was on his second lay of the night. Eventually, he blacked out, deliriously happy.

The next morning, at 4 am, still buzzed and roaring with testosterone, he told the bitch to get out, made himself the breakfast of champions, and headed right to the gym, where he hit the weights harder than ever.


Two weeks later, Logan found himself at a gun show upstate. He’d never fired a gun before, except in video games, years ago, before he’d been indoctrinated by his “we need more gun control, and violent video games cause serial killers” ex. Tripping on how much he had enjoyed rebelling against his former, meatless, beardless, tee-totalling self, he was raring to go on the rest of that guns and ‘merica shit. Glancing around the room he knew he had found his type. This is where the real men were – rugged, burly individualists who didn’t take shit from no one. He found himself a buddy in a redheaded giant of a man with a Van Dyke named Bronson, covered head-to-toe in 5.11 Tactical gear. After some good natured offensive jokes and back slaps, Logan found himself down several thousands of dollars and up a glock, an AR-15 rifle, and some tactical wear of his own. Now 180 lbs, he was finally starting to fit into the clothes he owned, which, tailored to more proportionate 6’4” guys, had always swamped him. Nevertheless, he had bigger plans and knew he’d be needing clothes made for beefier folk.

After the show Bronson took him to the range and showed him how to shoot, and Logan fell in love with the loud crack of gunfire and the instantaneous destruction it caused on the other end. He loved the way the recoil kick of the shot would put tension on his frame and body. He resolved to come back once a week and fire to his heart’s content.

“Yee-haw!” Bronson cried, “Next tahm, I’ll take ya huntin’! Shootin’s fun an’ all but there’s nothin’ like killin’ somethin’ an’ eatin’ it right there!” Logan salivated at the thought.

They headed over to a nearby buffet and emptied it out between the two of them, before saying their goodbyes. Unfortunately, Bronson lived two hour’s drive in the opposite direction, so they wouldn’t be able to do much but meet at the range once in a while, but Logan had never before had a real buddy the way men do, who needed few words between them but could shoot and eat a horse together all the same.


An adult male weighs at least 200 pounds.

Logan had read Rippetoe’s words over and over again during he research, and no matter how the ladies grabbed at his muscles, after each personal record set in the gym, no matter how tight his clothes were feeling over his frame, in these long past three months he had never felt adequate because of this phrase. Stepping on the scale after his post-workout shower, his mind seized as he saw the number: 202.6. He ran over to the mirror, nearly bowling over an older man. His scowling, fully bearded face oozed aggression as he tensed every muscle, pumped as hell from the bodybuilding routine he had switched to after hitting his initial 225 lbs bench goal just last week. His eyes glanced at the frail man beside him, then back to himself. He roared and then exhaled powerfully in and out like a gorilla. No one would mistake him for a computer nerd now. In fact, at a company-wide meeting the day before, several of the new hires mistook him as the CEO of the company because of how much his simple presence dominated the room. Right after, he had a performance review with his manager where the portly, bespectacled man stammered and muttered his way through the interview before offering him the biggest raise of his life. No one questioned him about his changes over the past three months, as he was more focused and productive than ever.

Sauntering into his workplace after yet another record-setting breakfast, he winked at the secretary who he’d laid just last week, filled his favourite mug with protein shake from the gallon jug of it he brought every day, then went to his desk, cracked his knuckles, and then had a thought. What he would do with a bit of extra time in his day… He had been enjoying his extra 48 hours a week immensely between the workouts, hunting, eating, binge drinking and fucking but he felt like he could be doing more. A lightbulb went off in his head – automation. For the rest of his day, he browsed Stack Exchange seeing which of his tasks were automatable and what it would take to do them, but it wasn’t easy. Still, he started to imagine what he could do with more “compiling time” in his day and looked forward to the challenge. The day flew by and he was on top of the world.

Feeling high from his progress both on his body and at work, Logan stepped into the bar, downed a whiskey, and arrogantly scanned the room. He wasn’t looking for clearly flirty bimbo this time, he was looking for the most beautiful woman in the room. He found a trophy blonde, beelined for her, tilted her chin up towards him and demanded.

“You. Me. Fuck. Now.”

She giggled, seeming torn somehow, until Logan felt a tap on the shoulder and realized a jacked, stubbly frat boy building like a linebacker was looking up at him. The frat boy shoved himself between the babe and him and snarled.

“She’s mine.”

Logan sneered but before he could say anything a fist was flying at his face. He took a painful stab to the jaw and swung right back at his assailant’s abdomen. The frat boy tackled him to the ground and they wrestled it out, while a circle formed around them, yelling encouragement while the blonde fanned herself, living out a long-imagined fantasy of being fought over by two jacked-up studs. A bouncer came over but a bystander took a swing at him, and soon everyone in the circle had joined the fray. After thirty minutes of wrestling at each other, everyone else long since having dropped out, exhausted, Logan and the frat boy separated, and lay side by side laughing heartily.

“Damn, fucker, you’re strong!” The frat boy picked himself up and offered a hand to Logan, “I’m Darryl. Yourself?”

“I’m Logan. Fuck, man. Don’t I see you at Metroflex all the time?”

This guy had been one of the ripped gymgoers Logan had been so intimated by three months ago. Sizing him up now, Darryl clearly still had twenty pounds on him, but on a 6’ frame that made him seem even more jacked.

“Yeah dude. Join me for a smoke outside.”

It was Logan’s first smoke, but he had grown to love the smell of tobacco at gun shows. He took deep drags that heightened his sensations and he found he could easily stomach a lung full of acrid smoke. He liked smoking. It made him feel tough.

That night, the Darryl and his blonde, Candy, introduced Logan to the concept of a threesome, and Candy took both of their caveman dicks hungrily all night. Logan left that night satisfied by both a good fuck and by having found a new workout buddy.


The next morning, Logan and Darryl met up for their workout and Darryl had a little locker room secret to show him: steroids. Darryl was juiced to the gills for the varsity team and needed to start selling to help pay his monthly costs. Logan didn’t need a second thought – instantly money changed hands and they jabbed each other in preparation for what Darryl promised was going to be a mindblowing workout. Starting to get pumped even before beginning, Logan licked his lips in anticipation.

It was better than he could have ever imagined. Aggression pumping through his brain, seeing red. Logan roared with each rep, smashing each of his previous lifts by thirty pounds each. His pump was so rock hard and ready to burst that he could feel himself squeezing, growing out of his skin each time he flexed in the mirror, hair matted with sweat, wild eyes and a toothy grin peeking through his full beard looking like a wild beast.

“The fuckin’ best part?” Darryl remarked cockily, “on gear you can lift every day. You’ve been around every other day, I know, but you haven’t seen me on your off days since you’re so fuckin’ consistent. It’s time for you to bless this gym daily now. Every. Fuckin’. Day.”

Afterwards, Logan treated Darryl to an all-you-can-eat buffet for breakfast. By this point, Logan barely went to any other kind of eating establishment, and even Darryl could barely believe how much Logan could eat: thirty strips of bacon, sixteen eggs, eight pieces of toast slathered in butter, three bowls of plain Greek yogurt and eighteen sausages, washed down with six glasses of milk. They parted ways and Logan growled, still raring to go.

At work, for the first time ever, Logan couldn’t keep focused. He decided it was time to pull the trigger on his automated scripts. As they ran, he did pushups, dips, pistol squats, anything and everything that came to mind. Once the first script was complete, he found that with the extra exercise he had settled down a bit and could sit down and complete tasks that required his full attention. Every couple of hours he would find himself filling back up with pent up energy. So once again he’d run one of his scripts, workout or eat in the meanwhile, then come back with enough of a clear mind to keep working. By the end of the day he was calm enough to do more complex tasks and so he had a new routine established.

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Hey y'all. Another story here. Couple of things to lay out before getting started: This story is complete. I'm just posting it in 4-5 portions to keep it digestible, since it's pretty long.

PART 2 --- Two months later, Logan had exploded with growth. His new routine had effectively tripled his sets of exercise, and on the cocktail of steroids that the college footballers used t

PART 4 --- Logan was right at home among the grizzled, testosterone-charged, chauvinistic men of the Firebats. Craig Roark, the recruiter who had so convincingly pitched the job just two mon

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YES!  Love this type of story, with the semi-realistic approach to his growth and ascension to alpha status.  I''m really enjoying how he's really growing into all facets of exagerrated masculinity, the fighting, smoking, one-nights stands, gun, the beard.  He's all in and I'm loving in.  Awesome stuff, can't wait to read more! 

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Two months later, Logan had exploded with growth. His new routine had effectively tripled his sets of exercise, and on the cocktail of steroids that the college footballers used to beef up their linesmen, he had thrived, inching his way daily up to his current 235 lbs. He often hung out with the Darryl and the team and learned from them the joys of constant shirtlessness. Even simple tank tops proved too hot for Logan nowadays, as his constantly working, juiced muscles gave off relentless heat that only a direct, cool, breeze could assuage. The cheerleading girls constantly mistook him for one of the team and using this to his advantage he had bagged each and every one of them. By the time they had realized who he was, the memories of his primal lovemaking and rock hard, bulging body and masculinity washed over them, bringing to mind waves of pleasure, and they would approach him again, craving for more. As such Logan spent less time at the bar. Instead he would bring barrels of whiskey to the frat parties and challenge the guys there to wagers for a night with their girl, if he could outdrink them. He never lost once.

Over the next couple of weeks, something was off about Darryl. He had continued to make progress, pushed to his limits by his new, hungry workout partner, and was now 230 lbs, but with each coming week, Logan had overtaken him in some way. While he used to outbench Logan by 60 lbs, Logan could now bench 355 lbs, 20 lbs more than him, even though he had gained strength himself. While he was proud of his 4.6 second 40-yard dash, Logan made a casual attempt himself and had reached 4.5 seconds. For the first month, Darryl had lorded his extra size and weight over Logan, calling him a newbie – but then Logan surpassed him in weight too. For a while, Darryl could ignore the scale and look in the mirror, where his shorter frame packed the muscle on thicker for the time being. But Logan continued to grow and looked to be matching his width too… He just couldn’t compete – he’d been juicing for years now and couldn’t match the progress of a taller man who had just begun and whose body had responded with aplomb. Darryl’s frustrations boiled over during their workouts, and he would yell in frustration at every missed rep. He grew more distant and would begin to skip workouts. He stopped inviting Logan to team events and eventually, disappeared altogether.

Logan couldn’t care less. He was high on his growing size and strength and still on top of the world. As far as he was concerned, there was only two factors that concerned him: 1. He still had a couple of month’s supply of gear left, but his dealer was now gone 2. He was tired of fucking his regular nightly carousel of cheerleaders, and he had no one to introduce him to someone new. The second seemed more urgent at the moment, so after his usual dinner for six, he found himself at the bar, hungry and once again on the prowl. He received winks from some thirsty babes, but he was in the mood for fresh meat. He spotted a curvy brunette across the room and sauntered over. Something about her seemed different, and different was on the menu today.  He caught a glimpse of her face and stopped short. It was his ex! At a bar! He couldn’t help chuckling a bit. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, drew in deeply, and stepped in front of her and blew smoke into her face.

Surprised and offended, she retorted, “Sir, that was rude!”

She just sirred him! Logan supressed his glee. He was unrecognizable to her! Nothing more than this confirmed to him that his transformation – from a meek computer geek, acceding to her every demand, her every whim, to a primal alpha MAN that could take and ravish her right here and now – was complete. But it wasn’t enough. He had grown a need to conquer and dominate, and most of all, to grow stronger still. He couldn’t wait for his next encounter with Darryl, where he’d have an opportunity just like this to assert his dominance.

“Don’t you know that smoking is against the rules in here?” She continued.

“Fuck the rules, bitch” he grunted.

She was offended, but speechless, lost for words. She went to slap him but he caught her hand, and ran it over his boulder shoulder and down over the hill of his twenty-one inch bicep. He cupped her hand in his and made it squeeze the rock hard mounds on his barren chest.

“Aren’t you tired of fuckin’ pussy soy boys?” His voice got more intense with each word, until he was roaring “It’s time you were with a real man. A red meat eatin’ all American MAN.”

She was undecided for a moment, then her expression softened. She threw herself onto him and let him carry her out of the bar.

In bed, he marvelled at how easily he could now toss her around, picking her up and impaling her onto his pike while she screamed as she had never done before.

“Fuck, FUCK, FUCK!!!” She cried. Under such intense pleasure or pain, she could find no other words.

By the end of the night, as they shared a cigarette, she had been converted. She begged him not to leave, fearing that he would now discard her like a used tissue. She could no longer be satisfied by the sensitive submissive boys she had sought out her whole life. By association with her new master, she was now aroused only by pure, unbridled masculinity. She could only be satisfied by the biggest, most hulking, bearded, foul mouthed, tobacco-laced, meat-eating drunkard she could find at the bar or the gym. Her number in hand, Logan discarded it as he left. They hadn’t even exchanged names. He wasn’t coming back.


Six weeks later, Logan found himself sitting in the locker room, giving himself the second last shot in his supply of steroids, when he overheard some of the other meatheads in the gym talking about a new gym that had opened two months ago. Allegedly, some rich, successful businessman had gotten into bodybuilding, but became disgusted that all the other gyms had been infected by casuals looking to “tone” and do Yogalates and so had opened a gym together only for those who were truly dedicated to the iron. 

Logan was intrigued. He had assumed that he’d have gotten a new stack of steroids by now, but surveying around, at 245 lbs, he was the biggest one left in the gym. He wasn’t going to trust a stack from someone smaller than him. Heck, even that pansy Darryl was bigger that almost everyone here by this point. He resolved to make his way over and join.

At the front desk he met one of the football guys, a defensive linesman. “Holy shit,” Logan thought, “Cody is shredded.” The linesman, a 290 lb gainer who always looked like he carried most of his weight from his stomach down, now carried a respectable upper body and had lost a lot of belly fat.

Sizing Logan up, Cody admitted, “I know you’re serious about lifting, dude. I’ll put in a good word for you, but you’ve gotta do a trial week first. Are you ready, bro?”

“Yes!” barked Logan, overeager. After getting his picture taken and card printed, he tapped in and entered the gym. Beneath the fluorescent lights, grunting, totally engrossed in their workouts, stood not a single man under 240 lbs of jacked, solid muscle. Seeing this environment raised Logan’s hackles, his blood racing with motivation. He was going to find a solid stack here. He knew what to do. He scanned the room for the biggest fucker he could find, found a bald, bearded, hairy beast of a 300-pound motherfucker and made a beeline for him, but stopped in his tracks as he saw Darryl’s face.

Darryl took a look at Logan’s astounded face and sneered.

“What’s a fuckin’ weakling like you doing here? I didn’t realize anyone with a goddamn pussy could get in here nowadays. You think you got what it takes to work in with me?”

Logan counted the plates on the bar Darryl was about to bench. Five hundred and sixty-five pounds. He stood, stunned, as Darryl, no spotter, no hesitation, lay onto the bench and pushed out eight perfect reps, bellowing his head off with each rep. After the set, Darryl racked the bar, and jumped to his feet.


Logan had thought his 395 lbs bench impressive, but the feeling of pressing less than four hundred now seemed indisputably puny to him. He put an extra ten pounds on and struggled to push out five slow but decent reps. He had done it, but compared to what he had just seen, he was nothing. Darryl smirked and continued the rest of his workout, feeling secure in his superiority. A fire kindled in Logan’s belly. He had never wanted to be bigger and stronger than he did right now. He wanted to put Darryl in his place. He finished up the rest of his sets the best he could, setting solid, but unfortunately still realistic personal records on each lift once again. As he stormed out of the room Cody gave him a friendly wave.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great, dude! I know I’ll be seeing you tomorrow!”

His first time on social media since his initial breakup, Logan booted up Instagram and took a look at Darryl’s profile. There he was again, a hairy, bald 300 lbs gorilla nothing like the 230 lb jock he had known just two months ago. Logan continued to scroll down, seeing the explosion in reverse, and shifted uncomfortably, fighting and ignoring a growing erection. It hadn’t just been Darryl, though his transformation had been the most dramatic. The whole team was now jacked beyond belief. What had started two months ago as pictures of a bunch of frat boys hanging out with their trophy girlfriends became a flipbook of growing, scowling muscle beasts who now seemed to spend every moment shirtless, working out or flexing. Only two other kinds of postings interrupted these: short videos of the team massacring other teams on the football field, and motivational pictures with their eyes closed and a massive, hulking figure in the background with his arms crossed, cut off at the eyes. Reading the comments, he saw that the team made constant references to “the Master” on each other’s posts. He could only assume that the shadowy background giant was this man. Some kind of trainer, one that guaranteed results like no other. Logan imagined himself blowing up to Darryl’s proportions and his hand flew uncontrollably to his dick, choking it up and down in a death grip. He pounded it faster and faster, gripping it hard and harder as he imagined each of his muscles expanding: his glutes wrenched tight and lifting him off his seat and his and his pecs pushing together and his shoulders hunched over, containing the tension. His bicep pumped up in his working arm, and he climaxed imagining it bigger and bigger and BIGGER.

No girl he laid had ever given him a sensation like that before. Hungry for the real thing, he resolved that tomorrow, he’d meet the Master and pledge his allegiance.

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