In the pulsing heart of a high-end gym, the clanging of weights and the low hum of treadmills play a rhythmic soundtrack. Amidst the sheen of polished chrome and the smell of rubbed-down leather, a striking figure stands out. Clad in fitted workout gear that accentuates every ripple and curve, a young man with the refined poise of an alpha moves through his routine with purpose, his every action fluid poetry.

This twenty-year-old Korean alpha male, Joon, boasts an Adonis-like physique, his skin smooth like polished marble. His chiseled abs ripple with each lift, the veins on his arms tracing a map of strength that leads to powerful shoulders, broad and ready to bear any weight.

As he shifts into a squat, muscles tensing, his glutes flex powerfully, outlined clearly under the tight fabric of his shorts. Onlookers can't help but admire his form—muscular, yes, but with the grace of a panther, coiled and explosive. His finely crafted ass is both his armor and his allure; it's as if Michelangelo decided to sculpt in flesh rather than marble.

He flashes a smile, teeth unnaturally white against his tan skin, and his eyes, dark and deep, hold the echoes of an old soul, kind and respectful. His voice, when he does speak, is soft yet resonant—like velvet soaked in warm honey—echoing the same politeness etched into his every move and gesture.

He holds himself with an air that speaks volumes of his upbringing, each move calculated and smooth, his demeanor untouched by the grunts and groans of effort that fill the gym. He lifts, and as he does, his ass clenches—a sight that draws wandering eyes.

Yet, despite the show he inadvertently puts on, Joon has eyes for nothing but his own reflection in the gym's mirror—not out of vanity, but focus. Watching his own contraction and release, he maintains perfect form, the curve of his muscles telling of hours of dedication and discipline.

Joon, fully engrossed in his regimented set of squats, oiling his muscles with sweat, doesn't immediately notice the subtle shift in the air—the faint scent of perfumed age that begins to linger around him. The gym's background noise of grunts and weights clanking fades into a dull buzz as he finishes his set and stands, gulping down water, chest heaving with exertion, his skin glistening.

She appeared seemingly out of nowhere—a crone amongst gods, yet she moves with an odd spark of youthful intent. This old woman, her skin a map of life's trials, works at the gym in some ancillary role. Her gaze locks onto Joon, not with the timidity one would expect from her age, but with a brazenness that belies her years.

There should have been a cautionary distance, a respectful gap between the bloom of youth and the wilt of age, but she bridges it with a predatory grace. Her eyes roam over Joon's tight abs, and wrinkle-lined lips part with a breath that seems to sizzle in the cooler gym air.

"You're quite the vision," she rasps, her voice a mix of gravel and silk, one polished fingernail tracing a liver-spot-patterned arm as she approaches.

Joon, ever the gentleman, infused with politeness from his wealthy upbringing, meets her gaze with a respectful nod. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm just here to work out," he replies, the smooth baritone of his voice betraying no discomfort. Yet his lips, curved in well-rehearsed niceness, hide a flicker of something else—a twitch of wariness, perhaps, or the stir of an unease that clings like the sweat to his skin.

Her response is a chuckle, throaty and full of unspoken promises. "I've been watching you, young man. It's not just muscle you're building, it's art."

Joon shifts, maneuvers his toned frame with a grace that seems both defensive and practiced. He's cornered by her words, yet the dance has just begun. "I'm flattered, ma'am, but I really should focus on my workout," he says, his cheeks flushed with more than just the exertion of his exercises.

The old woman's steps close the distance as Joon's gut tenses—the kind of tension that's a blend of anticipation and something akin to primal alarm. The old woman's wrinkled hands, surprisingly steady and firm, grip the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt. "You won't be needing this," she croaks with a twisted smirk. She holds the power of maintenance access over him—a threat to revoke gym privileges should he resist.

Bound by the unsaid rules of his respectful demeanor, Joon hesitantly raises his arms, allowing the shirt to slide off, revealing his statuesque torso, an expanse of smooth skin, the abs tight and defined. The shirt peels away with a whisper of fabric against sweat-glossed skin.

The old hag, with a boldness that clashes with her fragile frame, steps even closer. Her tongue darts out, dry and rough, as it traces a line across Joon's collarbone. Her breath, tinged with the taste of something ancient and slightly decayed, heats his skin as she laps at the salt of his body, slowly moving down his chest.

Joon stifles a guttural sound that threatens to escape his throat—his body reacts despite his controlled exterior. His abs clench involuntarily, and the muscles across his chest dance under the old granny's moist trail. With every lick, his nipples stiffen, and a shudder runs through him, a mix of repulsion and a twisted thread of arousal he can't untangle.

Her hungry eyes gleam, locked onto Joon's face as she watches every flicker of emotion battle across his features. She lives for these reactions, the power she wields in her gnarled hands—a perverse pleasure derived from the duality of control and providing illicit ecstasy.

Joon, bound by the silent promise of gentlemanly conduct, bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron. "Please, I must insist..." he tries to protest between ragged breaths, his entire body singing a reluctant chorus of arousal, "We should stop this."

Her claw-like hands fumble with the waistband of his shorts, her eagerness a contrast to Joon's reluctance. "You don't have to do this..." Joon's voice is a whisper of composed panic as he feels the last piece of his fabric armor sliding down his toned thighs, leaving him exposed, his cock already betraying him with a twitch of interest.

He stands naked and vulnerability writ large across his body, the gym's fluorescent lights casting stark shadows over the ripples of his muscles. The wrinkled bitch's ancient gaze devours every inch of him, taking in the way he towers above her, yet brought low by circumstance.

Joon steps back, his bare foot brushing against the cold gym floor, even as she advances with the inevitability of a closing vice. "I really think..." He starts again, a politeness so drilled into his being that it persists even here. But his words are cut by her assured, "Hush."

She's on her knees now, face level with Joon's stiffening manhood—a symbol of youthful vigor within her grasp. With one last fleeting glance up at him, seeking a defiance she knows won't come, she envelops his cock with her mouth.

The sensation is unlike anything Joon expected—her mouth is hot, experienced – a cauldron of mingled heat and practiced skill. Every polite instinct tells him to pull away, to resist, but her mouth is insistent, and she sucks him with a desperation that leaves no room for gentlemanly refusals.

Joon's fists clench at his sides, his nails biting into his palms in a vain attempt at self-control. The building pleasure is undeniable, a growing pressure that threatens to undo his composure, a testament to her skill or perhaps to his own human frailty.

With a cocky smile plastered on her weathered face, the old witch dismisses Joon's feeble protests and a stream of cold lube cascades down his muscular back. Her hands follow the path of the liquid, boldly kneading into his flesh, spreading the slickness over the tense fibers of his muscles.

Joon, struggling to remain upright, feels the chill of the gel mixing with the heat of her palms, an unwelcome pleasure that makes him bite back a groan. His arms tense by his side as he feels the pressure of her probing fingers circling the cleft of his ass—an invasion he's powerless to stop under her ministrations.

"Madam, is... is this really necessary?" His voice trembles with a polite uncertainty, an edge of distress hidden beneath layers of etiquette. But she's relentless, her fingers smearing more lube, her touch growing bolder, dipping past the entrance of his rear.

With a press that’s both firm and unyielding, one finger breaches him. Joon's back arches instinctively, a gasp slipping free—the perfect picture of reluctant acceptation, of a body responding despite the mind's decorum.

She digits him slowly, a torturous pace that forces him to acclimate to her intrusion. Each push and pull draws out a sound from the depths of his throat, a symphony of suppressed desire and the fight for self-control.

Joon leans forward, his hands planted on the wall for support, his gentlemanly façade cracking with each invasive stroke of her finger. The sounds of slick movement fill the air, stark against the silence of the gym.

Her movements grow more confident as she senses his weakening protests, the tension in Joon's body serving as an unintended guide for her encroaching digit. The old granny adds another finger, doubling the penetration, stretching and preparing his tight passage. A muted animalistic grunt escapes Joon's throat, a ragged sound that is both unfamiliar and uncontrollably raw.

Joon attempts to regain some semblance of control. "Truly, we shouldn't..." His words clash starkly with the rhythmic pushing and pulling of her fingers, a statement incomplete and helpless against the unspoken demand of her actions.

Even as his brain commands him to flee, to spurn her touch, Joon's hips rock back into her fingers, betraying his internal struggle. His gentlemanly poise is crumbling, igniting a flame of victory in her bitchy eyes, relishing the crumbling of his resistance.

The old hag's fingers crook, hitting a spot within him that elicits a moan so carnal it vibrates through the gym. Joon's knees falter, his gentlemanly inhibitions washing away in a tide of pleasure that pounds against the shores of his mind.

She senses his impending climax, the clenching of his muscles around her fingers a clear indication of his body's surrender. Her tempo increases, her touch whispering promises of release. Joon's breaths come in short, sharp gasps, his composure a distant memory as he loses himself to the sensation.

Gritting his teeth, Joon tries to summon every ounce of his willpower, attempting to wrench his hips away from the old woman's mouth. But she's got him locked down, her hands firmly gripping his ass, pulling him deeper into the wet embrace of her lips.

"Don't you fuckin' dare to spill inside my mouth yet," she commands roughly, eyes glinting with a mixture of command and depravity. "I want you filthy, boy...tell me the dirtiest shit that's rotting in that pretty skull of yours."

Joon's face twists with the effort to fight back an orgasm that's bubbling at the edge of his control. "Please...I can't—" he starts, but her sharp bite on his shaft silences any more pleas, leaving him teetering on the precipice, but denied the fall.

With each pull back, she releases his cock from her mouth with a pop, trailing off with, "Talk dirty... now." Her tone leaves no room for gentlemanly charm or decorum; it's a demand, stark and raw.

Joon's mind races, humiliation and arousal twisting together. With a shaky breath, he spits out a string of obscenities, "I'm your little bitch, ain't I? Use my filthy man-pussy, make me your slut..."

The vulgarity of his own words shocks him, the act of voicing them heightening his arousal. She smirks, a devilish grin of triumph, and her mouth engulfs him once more, her tongue swirling in appreciation of his submission.

Her mouth works over him with renewed vigor, each suck a promise of release yet each pause a reminder of his denied pleasure. She teases him to the brink of madness, pulling back each time his hips instinctively buck for more.

With a lewd smirk, the old hag raises an eyebrow, "Keep it coming, sissy boy. Tell me how much you need it, how much you want it." Her words are like daggers, forcing him deeper into the murky waters of degradation.

Joon's thighs tremble, pleasure coursing through his veins, tangled with shame and the heat of exposure. He's panting now, the words spilling from him like a twisted prayer. "Please, I need it so bad, I'm just a little sissy slut for you..."

His voice fades into broken moans as she grazes her teeth against his sensitive flesh. The crafted persona of the gentleman is shattered, replaced by the base needs of his flesh, all orchestrated by the lecherous skill of the old woman's mouth.

She hums against him, sending vibrations through his cock, the sensation almost cruel in its sweetness. "That’s it, you’re doing beautiful, sissy..." Each word of praise is soaked in depravity, fueling Joon's humiliation and his dark, consuming pleasure.

The old woman’s twisted game continues relentlessly. "You wanna spew that load, you filthy sissy? You're gonna have to work for it—and I mean, fucking work for it, like the cock-hungry whore you are." Her voice drips with derision, eyes gleaming with the raw power she wields over him.

Joon's gaze is clouded with desperation. She withdraws her mouth, leaving his cock twitching in the chill air. "Get down on your hands and knees,” she commands. He complies, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind a jumble of dread and desire.

With a salacious glint, this old bitch positions herself behind him. "Beg for it. Beg like the good little bitch you are," she insists.

Joon's voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper but filled with the disgrace of his own debasement. "I beg you, please let me cum. I'm just a pathetic sissy slut... please."

The words barely leave his lips when she slams into him, her makeshift dildo finding its mark. Joon's whole body jolts with the impact, a strangled cry torn from his throat, laced with humiliation and an undeniable surge of pleasure.

She works him roughly, each thrust a testament to his debasement. Joon's hands claw at the ground, his grunts and moans a chorus of self-surrender. The ugly granny leans forward, her breath hot against his ear. "Now cum, like the dirtiest whore on this fucking planet."

His orgasm rips through him with the force of a tidal wave, his cum spilling onto the floor beneath him as he shrieks, voice soaked in the ultimate humiliation—his gentlemanly façade obliterated in a moment of utter depravity.

Post-orgasm, Joon collapses, his chest heaving, his face pressed against the cool floor. She steps back, her eyes appraising him, a predatory smile playing on her lips.

"Look at you, just a mess of cum and spit, splayed out for anyone to see. You liked that, didn't you, you filthy slut?" she taunts, prodding at his ego, already bruised and battered beyond recognition.

Joon, still trembling from the aftershocks of his release, can’t find the strength to speak. Instead, he nods, a silent admission of his newfound lascivious identity. He feels the weight of her gaze, each second reaffirming the depth of his transformation.

In an unexpected move, our trashy granny fetches a collar, studded and harsh against his bruised skin. She fastens it around his neck, a symbol of his submission and his acceptance of his new role. "From now on, you’re mine, my pretty little slut. You'll come when I say, dress how I like, fuck whoever I want you to—understood?"

Joon gazes up at her, the last shreds of his former self vanishing behind the glaze of submission. He utters a broken, "Yes, Mistress," his voice resonating with the totality of his sissification.

She drags him up by the collar, his legs wobbly, his mind afloat. With a devious grin, she whispers, "Now, let's go find you some proper whore attire. We have clients to please.