SIGNED BY MASTER – I mark every worn item with my hand.
Worn by your gay Master during 2 full days out in the streets.
Not cleaned. Full of real life sweat, steps, and presence.
No fantasy. Just reality.
A gay slave knows his place: under what I wear.
169,00 $
description
Gay Master’s Jogging – Not Just Worn, Lived In
This isn’t just a pair of pants. This is a daily tool of domination. This Nike/Lacoste jogger isn’t folded in a closet. It’s been lived in, breathed in, stretched by the movements of a gay Master owning the streets and commanding the air around him. This is what wraps my legs. This is what absorbs my sweat, my walk, my rhythm. And now, it’s what you’ll bow to.
Two Days. No Wash. No Mercy.
I wore this jogging for 2 full days. No break. No rinse. No pause. The streets of the 93. Metro heat. Grocery line sweat. Slouched on my couch, legs wide. My scent spreading. Everything this jogger touched — seat, fabric, balls, thighs — it kept. Every flex. Every step. Every fart. I didn’t hold back. Why would I? A slave doesn’t deserve clean. He deserves the full dose of who I am. And this piece gives it.
Made for Movement. Soaked in Presence.
This isn’t some vintage fantasy. This isn’t cosplay. This is my real gear. I moved in this. I commanded in this. I spat in this. I yelled at losers in this. I sat legs spread in this and had bitches kneel. The fabric’s worn from life, not for show. That’s what a gay Master wears — what’s functional, dominant, and full of power.
You Won’t Wash It. You’ll Sniff It.
Once you open the package, it’s not clothing. It’s an order. The crotch? It holds the weight of sweat and heat and testosterone. The waistband? Still marked with my skin. The thighs? Rubbed raw by movement. You’ll bury your face in it. You’ll whimper. You’ll get hard. But you won’t wash it. That would be betrayal. A gay slave keeps it dirty. Keeps it close. Sleeps next to it. Breathes it deep. Over and over.
Not Made for You. Made to Crush You.
You’re not buying fashion. You’re buying a reminder. You’re not worthy of wearing it. You’re worthy of smelling it. Of kneeling before it. This jogger isn’t a gift — it’s a punishment you paid for. Because the truth is, you’re weak. You crave your Master. And now, you get to suffer from having a piece of what he wears, without being able to touch him.
Signed by Master. So You Never Forget.
Inside the jogger, on the waistband, I left my mark. Red. Raw. Permanent. Because you don’t deserve anonymous gear. You deserve to know — and be reminded — that this was owned by someone real. Someone you’ll never be. Someone you will kneel to in your mind every time you reach for the crotch of these pants. That’s domination.
Every Stitch Remembers Me. You Will Too.
I walked 7 kilometers in these. Took stairs. Sat with thighs spread. Sweated at the metro. Got hard in them while mocking a slave online. Everything soaked into this pair. They’re still warm with that energy. The heat may have left my skin, but it stayed in the fabric. And soon, it’ll invade your head.
This Jogging Trains You Too.
Even if you never wear it, you’ll be trained by it. The scent trains you. The folds train you. The weight trains you. Each time you hold it, smell it, stroke it, you fall deeper. You become what you are — a submissive. A buyer. A slave. A nothing, compared to the man who wore it. That’s the truth you paid for.
Master’s Gear Is Power. This Is Your Proof.
Think of it as a relic. A relic of sweat, sex, authority. It didn’t ask to be sacred. It became sacred by being soaked in my reality. You’re not buying comfort. You’re buying discomfort. A slap in your face. A reminder of where you stand. And of the gay Master above you, who makes you hard and ashamed at the same time.
The Price of Reality
169$. That’s the cost to kneel in silence. That’s the cost to sniff my scent. To touch something I wore. To feel something you’ll never earn. It’s not cheap. It’s not clean. But it’s real. And for a slave, real is the highest currency.
