Yuppie Type Forcemasc

20s Get smarter, work harder, take life by the reins. You're born to be on top, that's what it means to be a man.

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Blog content will feature forcemasc, corpo culture, and unironic corpo praise.

You can use my content freely. Repost/reupload/modify at your leisure.

That is all, I will not reblog or include sexually explicit images on this blog.

[femaletohimbo]

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born to do cutthroat acquisitions in a luxury top floor office suite while the sun sets over the city's skyline, forced to be the reason for a zoom meeting pronoun circle only to get misgendered as a they/them anyway

Hey, at least you can still shoot for the job position and learn how to drown your misery in luxury. Never give up.

[xxxsugarcyanidexxx]

Need American Psycho type forcemasc. Forcemasc that makes you a capitalist slave instead of a sex slave. Do you understand. Wear the suit. Buy the cologne. Read the Wall Street Journal. Buy over priced whiskey and work for a penthouse to fill with everything your empty soul desires. Become a sex god. Become a real god, carved out of marble from Italy.

[yuppie-forcemasc-caption]

A FORCEDmasc story inspired by a post on here. This is a repost, I messed up the previous post.

Plot: Being targeted by a man who find and beat you up once a week, every week. The beatdown will continues until you successfully become a man.

You might be a spineless creature, but after getting beaten up regularly, you realized that there's no other way out, and your fear morphs into the desire to fight back and survive.

Maria had grown to fear the shadows he cast. The man, whose real name she never managed to learn, was broad-shouldered and scarred, the kind of man whose fists had done the talking in a thousand fights. His eyes held no pity, only disdain and cold calculation.

“You still look like a scared little girl,” he sneered, “I thought you were trying to be a man. Guess that was a lie.”

Maria clenched her jaw. She hated him. Hated his voice, hated the way his words seemed to crawl under her skin. But most of all, she hated the truth in them.

She barely had time to catch her breath before the man’s shadow loomed over her, his presence almost as suffocating as the blow that knocked the air out of her lungs. She crumpled, gasping and cradling her midsection, her knees scraping against the concrete. Pain shot through her body, zapping any energy she might has mustered.

He stood over her, cold eyes narrowing, his voice rough and cutting. “You’re weak,” he said, “And if you stay that way, this will never stop.”

Maria wheezed, trying to gather herself. Her hands shook, her heart pounding with fear. She wished she could melt into the asphalt, disappear where he couldn’t reach her. But he wasn’t done. 

With a swift, merciless kick to her side, he sent her sprawling. She choked on a sob, feeling the sting of gravel against her cheek. Her tears were hot, burning trails down her face, mixing with the ache in her ribs. The man knelt beside her, fingers tangling harshly in her hair to drag her gaze up to meet his.

“You think someone’s gonna pity you? You think crying is gonna make you safe?” He pushed her away, letting her crumple back down. “You’re nothing. Weak. Soft. You call yourself a man?”

“Get up,” he demanded. “Or don’t. I guess cowards like you never learn unless someone forces them.” He hauled her up by the collar, her limbs weak and unsteady. “People like you, too soft to fight for what they want, don’t deserve to have anything. You know that, right?”

Maria’s sobs were muted, and her body trembled, not just from the pain but from the weight of his words. Somewhere deep inside, a small, flickering ember of anger smoldered, but it was so buried beneath layers of self-doubt and defeat that it barely registered.

The man stood, hands on his hips as he watched her crumpled form. “I’m doing you a favor,” he declared, his voice oozing disdain. “Until you can stand up for yourself, until you can make me back down, this is how it’s gonna be.”

That ember in Maria flickered out, swallowed by the overwhelming darkness of her helplessness. She tried to crawl away, but he kicked her back down. Mocking laughter followed, harsh and unrelenting.

“Running? Pathetic.” He sneered, leaning down close enough that his breath brushed her ear. “You wanna live like a rat? Always scurrying, always cowering from anyone stronger than you? No matter where you go, I’ll find you. And then what?”

He straightened, and his fists came down like a hammer, one punch after another. Maria did what she always did: she covered her head, tried to protect her face, and flailed, weak and ineffective. Her body jolted under the impact, each hit a fresh reminder of how small and powerless she was.

When it was finally over, she lay there, dazed, sobbing, and humiliated. The man shook his head, disgust dripping from every motion. “You don’t even fight back. What a joke.” He walked away, leaving Maria broken in the alleyway.

---

The bruises never had time to heal before fresh ones layered over them. One day, under the weight of perpetual fear, Maria broke. Not outwardly, but something cracked in her heart. She couldn’t keep living this way. If she wanted any hope of peace, any chance of survival, she had to fight. She has to get stronger.

The place felt alien. Clanging weights, grunts of exertion, the smell of sweat. Everything felt too loud, too sharp. Her heart pounded in her chest as she spotted him, the same man who had beaten her down countless times. He was leaning against a punching bag, wrapping his hands. He didn’t acknowledge her.

For a moment, doubt paralyzed her. Why was she here? Why was she even trying?

But his voice cut through the noise, directed at her, calm but mocking. "You gonna train or just stand there looking useless?"

Her fists clenched, anger flaring up. It was the only thing she had left to hold on to. She walked over, every step feeling like a battle, and forced herself into a routine she had only half-remembered from YouTube videos she’d watched months ago.

The man didn’t help her. He barely looked her way. But when she fumbled a lift or hesitated too long, he came over, correcting her form with a harshness that made her grit her teeth. He didn’t let her quit. Every time her insecurities bubbled up, every time she whispered she couldn’t do it, he barked at her.

"Shut up," he’d snap. "Do you want to stay weak? Do you want to stay at the mercy of anyone stronger than you?"

It was agony. The weights felt crushing, her body protesting every motion. She had never felt so small, so inadequate, but she couldn’t let herself stop. The memory of his beatdowns drove her forward, a fear that sharpened into determination. She pushed herself to the brink, but every time doubt crept in, he was there, snarling at her to stop whining. To be a man.

---

Weeks blurred together in a fog of pain and exhaustion. Her body began to harden, muscle slowly weaving into the places where soft curves had once betrayed her. But the man’s torment didn’t end. Whenever he thought she was slacking, he showed up like a nightmare, reminding her she wasn’t free yet.

“Fight back,” he’d taunt, delivering blows that never quite broke bone but felt like pure agony. He knew how to make pain sear without causing lasting damage, a skill honed from a past he never shared. Maria learned to guard herself better, to strike back even when she wanted to curl up and cry.

And in that grim, relentless world of survival, something began to change. Maria still feared him, but she feared her own helplessness more. Each time she clenched her fists, she tried to beat back the voice that said she’d never be strong enough. She had to be. She had no choice. 

The nights were still brutal. Whenever he decided she wasn’t working hard enough, he’d find her. Another fight. Another reminder that she had a long way to go. But the difference, however small, was there. She began to anticipate the blows, to guard herself better. Once, her fist even connected with his rib, and though it wasn’t enough to do any real damage, the spark of defiance inside her flared brighter.

The man only grinned, something dark and satisfied flickering in his eyes. "There you go," he taunted. "Finally acting like you want to survive."

---

As the days bled into each other, he noticed subtle but striking changes in himself. His mind, once clouded with depression and self-loathing, was now sharp, clear. The looming dread of the weekly fight, the anticipation of pain, had somehow burned away his old insecurities.  

The world seemed more manageable, even welcoming. Where he used to shy away, he now walked taller, he met people’s eyes, even spoke without the nagging fear of judgment or rejection. The fight against the man made everything else seem trivial, as though the world had shrunk to the relentless need to survive the onslaught, and to overcome it.

The man had planted something stubborn in his mind, a challenge that felt both like a weight and a promise: Until you believe you can win, you never will. The words echoed in his head, taunting him. There was truth in it, he realized. His doubts, his timidity, they were all fuel for the man’s fists, weaknesses the man exploited again and again.

In the gym, he trained harder than ever, feeling the testosterone surge through him, his thoughts aligning with a sharper edge. Every time he hit the punching bag, he pictured the man’s face, his mocking grin. His fists landed harder, more controlled, less flailing, and his frustration transformed into raw, driving energy.

The softness he hated gave way to muscle, his jawline sharpening, his shoulders broadening. He was still lean, but now there was power hiding beneath the surface, coiled like a spring.

But no matter how much Mark changed on the outside, the beatdowns never stopped. Every week, the man would show up like a shadow Mark couldn’t shake, ready to test him, to challenge everything he had fought so hard to become. Mark knew that if he ever let his guard down, if he ever slacked in his training, the man would crush him without a second thought.

It was this knowledge that kept Mark on edge, kept him moving forward. He no longer felt the suffocating depression that had once anchored him to his bed, drowning him in hopelessness. He was too busy bracing for the next fight, too focused on trying to land a punch that mattered. The dread of the weekly beatings replaced the old emptiness, and strangely, it felt like a kind of freedom. He had something to fight against, something other than himself.

One evening, Mark stood in front of the mirror in the gym locker room, studying his reflection. His shoulders were broader now, his arms roped with veins and muscle. His jawline had squared, and his voice had deepened to a steady baritone. He hardly recognized the person staring back at him, and for the first time, that felt good. Pride replaced old self-loathing, but it came with something more: a hunger. He was still fighting, still growing, but he wanted more. He wanted to win.

The man never stopped pushing him, even outside the gym. “You think just looking like a man is enough?” he’d sneer. “Where’s your conviction? Where’s your will to fight?”

Mark gritted his teeth every time he heard those words. It hurt. It hurt because there was a grain of truth buried in the cruelty, and it struck at the core of who he had been. He remembered the trembling, fearful girl he used to be, filled with doubt and desperation. But now he could feel something new — a simmering heat, a desire to prove himself, to wipe that mocking smirk off the man’s face. It was like a fire in his veins, no longer just from testosterone, but from something deeper.

“You’re never going to win,” the man taunted one day, as they faced off under the flickering alleyway light. “Not until you believe you can. You can pack on all the muscle you want, but if you don’t have the guts, you’re just another coward pretending.”

The words sank into Mark, igniting a fuse. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked. Something inside him shifted, clicked into place. He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He wanted to win. He wanted to put an end to this, to prove he had become everything he had once dreamed of.

---

Then, one night, the weekly showdown came again. But this time, he felt it in his bones – a readiness, a certainty. He could see it in the way the man smirked, in the way he cocked his head, watching, as if testing. There was a silent dare in the man’s eyes, one he’d seen a hundred times, but only now did he fully understand it.

The man swung, fast and brutal, but Mark anticipated it, dodging just enough that the blow skimmed his shoulder instead of shattering him. Before the man could recover, he countered, throwing a punch that connected with the man’s jaw. The man staggered, just slightly, his eyes flickering with something almost like surprise.

“Finally,” the man muttered, a grin pulling at his lip despite the blood that trickled down. He didn’t waste a second, charging again, but Mark was faster, dodging, weaving, and then landing another punch – this time harder, square against the man’s chest.

The fight went on, brutal and unrelenting. But he didn’t feel the desperation he used to. Every punch, every movement was intentional, focused. When the man tried to corner him, he slipped out, throwing a jab that left the man momentarily off balance. And then he was on him, throwing his weight into each punch, channeling everything he’d been taught.

With a final, well-placed punch, he watched as the man fell back, hitting the ground, laughing even as he wiped the blood from his mouth. The guy’s fists ached, his knuckles raw, but he felt an unshakable thrill as he looked down at the man, victorious.

Mark’s fists clenched, and for a moment, the rage he had suppressed for so long exploded. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him, and drove punch after punch into him, the pent-up anger and humiliation pouring out like a dam breaking. The man took it, laughing through the pain, until Mark’s fury finally spent itself.

Breathing heavily, Mark let the man drop back to the ground. He took a step back, his heart pounding with a strange mixture of triumph and exhaustion. The man’s laughter tapered off, leaving a quiet, heavy silence between them.

“You… you’re messed up for doing this to me,” he said, voice low, struggling with the words. But his gaze didn’t waver. “But… you were right.” Mark looked down at his bloodied knuckles and then at the man. “I’m not… her anymore”

The man grinned, wiping blood from his mouth, and gave Mark a grudging nod of respect. “Took you long enough. You were pathetic back then. But now?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re worth something.”

He stepped back, his face setting into a calm, unbreakable resolve. He was no longer the shattered, self-doubting girl he’d once been. The man had stripped him bare, ripped away his illusions, and forced him to confront every flaw, every weakness. Now, he stood as a man. Not the hesitant shadow of manhood he once imagined, but a true one. A man who acts. A man who faces, who does not falter. 

In the end, he understood, to be a man is to choose action over fear. It wasn’t exactly the dream he’d had when he’d first started testosterone. It was something grittier, harder, and strangely, it was better.

With a final nod, he turned and walked away, knowing that he didn’t have to look back. 

[spinmagazine]

you bitches arent even doing forcemasc youre doing NICEmasc. it's the most consensual thing i've ever seen. stop being lame. get rapey with it

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I got inspired and wrote one for you. Here's the story if you want to check it out.

[scramratz]

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First, I just wanted to say, I love your blog and I’ve been so desperate for forcemasc that isn’t ”dumb puppy boy uwu”.

Second, do you have any opinions on music that would fit a yuppie (aside from anything featured in American Psycho)? Personally I like jazzy film soundtracks, seems like something an elegant, respectable guy would listen to. Anyway, I’ll take any recs.

I think any popular music from the 80s would do, it's the time where the yuppie type are the most active. They went extinct after the market crash unfortunately. The closest thing we have to them in 2024 are finance bros.

Personally I listen to these bands so maybe you can check them out: Duran Duran, Daryl Hall & John Oates, Talking Heads, Fleetwood Mac

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have you seen mackenzie william's videos

I wished I had half his discipline.

[testosteronecigarette-deactivat]

[theforcemascofdoriangray]

Everyone loves forcemasc dumbification but I need the opposite SO BAD

Academic validation forcemasc. Telling him how smart he is. Lending him old, queer books with underlined passages about the beauty in his masculinity, in loving men as he does. Take advantage of his need for knowledge, for validation. Give him the information he never knew he needed and praise him when he starts to internalize these ideas. Bring him to write his own experiences and compare him to those poets he reads so much.

[latexmasc]

its rlly funny that the current crop of content for forcemasc is either inspiring but rather erotically void motivational posters, or just saying "be gross and disgusting and violent" like thats what men are supposed to be.

the real sensual appeal of forcemasc, to me, is someone grabbing you by the hair, looking you in the eyes, and saying "I know what you are. And I'm going to drag it out of you. And you're going to love every second of it."

it's having someone not only affirm your internal view of yourself, but demanding it be brought to fruition at their hands. Someone who's completely uninterested in the girl-shaped shell you've been living inside of, and wants to extricate you, raw and wanting, from inside of it. They want to mold you like clay in the image of a strong, confident, beast that knows how to obey.

it's having your body examined and sized up, being praised for how far you've come and getting punished for backsliding. it's getting called a 'good boy' every time you take your shot straight-faced. it's tussling in the backyard and getting that little smile when you stand back up instead of tapping out. it's building your tolerance, your confidence, layer by layer until that shy, scared little girl inside of you that people forced you to be is gone, and all that remains is a very, very good boy.

[m4nc4v3-2000]

[2-gay-2-furious]

[2-gay-2-furious]

[dogboy-ish]

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I’m a trans man and dig what you’re doing but also this is the fucking funniest blog I’ve ever seen

I'm sitting here for 15 minutes now trying to figuring out which part of this blog you find funny. But I think you might be onto something.