Imagine the scent of a sweaty gym locker room, amplified a thousandfold. This is the world of our gym-himbo faggot, his senses overwhelmed by the pheromone-laden audio commands of his alpha male master. 'Sniff,' the voice growls, and the himbo, helpless, obeys, his nose buried in the alpha's musky armpit. 'Worship,' the voice commands, and the himbo, lost in a fog of lust, begins to lick and adore every ripple of muscle on the alpha's divine body. This is mind-control at its most primal, most intoxicating, most inescapable.