This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The Offering
The porta cabin was quiet, the gentle hum of the computer the only sound disturbing the mid-morning stillness as Jase worked alone, his focus shifting between the screen and the half-finished sketches spread across his desk. Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting long rectangles of warmth across the cramped office space, highlighting the suspended dust particles that danced in the air with each of his movements.
The rest of the team had gone for an early lunch, taking advantage of a rare break in the spring rain, but Jase had decided to stay back. He wasn't hungry—at least, not for food. His mind was occupied with other appetites, thoughts of his recent experiences with Harry replaying in an endless loop, the memory of solid muscle beneath his exploring hands more nourishing than any meal could be.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted his reverie, the sound unexpectedly loud in the quiet cabin.
Jase frowned, pushing back from the desk and standing up. The chair wheels squeaked against the linoleum floor as he moved. Who the hell would be out here now, when most of the site was deserted for lunch?
As he swung the door open, his breath caught in his throat, the words of greeting dying before they reached his lips.
Dylan Kincaid.
The sight that greeted him was like something ripped from a high-fashion fitness magazine and dropped incongruously onto the muddy construction site. It was as if the physical ideal of masculine development had materialized on his doorstep, demanding entry and attention in equal measure.
The 19-year-old muscle phenomenon stood there, towering over Jase despite the cabin's elevated entrance. His sheer physical presence made the world around him seem to recede, the construction equipment and half-finished buildings suddenly diminished by comparison. Dylan wasn't just standing there—he was occupying space with an authority that transcended his youth, creating a gravitational pull that made it difficult to look anywhere else.
His jeans—tight, worn, and strategically ripped at the thighs—clung to every carved muscle beneath, mapping the extraordinary development of his quadriceps in detailed relief. Each tear in the fabric provided tantalizing glimpses of smooth, golden skin beneath, the deliberate distressing placed to highlight rather than conceal. The denim stretched across his thighs with such tension that it seemed perpetually on the verge of surrender, the seams visibly straining with each subtle shift of his substantial mass.
The brown lace-up boots, rugged and powerful, had their jeans tucked inside, creating a stance that somehow merged military precision with runway presentation. The utilitarian footwear should have provided a jarring contrast to the carefully cultivated aesthetic of the rest of his appearance, but instead, they anchored his imposing frame, giving him the planted, immovable quality of something that belonged to the earth itself.
And the hi-vis yellow T-shirt—Jesus.
Even with long sleeves that seemed designed to conceal, the fabric betrayed its contents completely, stretched to physical impossibility over an upper body so thickly muscled it barely seemed real. The shirt was fighting a losing battle against the laws of physics, clinging desperately to a torso that defied conventional understanding of human development. The material molded to every curve and valley of his chest, outlining pectoral muscles so massive they created their own topography, an elevated landscape of power that dominated his frame.
The safety yellow fabric, intended to make workers visible from a distance, seemed almost redundant on Dylan. He would be impossible to miss regardless of what he wore, his physical presence demanding acknowledgment with or without fluorescent assistance.
Jase had seen big guys before. He'd seen Harry, after all—had touched him, had explored the extraordinary development of his body with his own hands.
But this? This was something else entirely.
Where Harry was massive, Dylan was monumental. Where Harry suggested raw power, Dylan embodied it completely. The difference was subtle but undeniable—like comparing a luxury sports car to a military tank. Both impressive, both desirable, but serving fundamentally different purposes and projecting entirely different energies.
Dylan cleared his throat, his voice deep but carrying a slight hesitation that seemed at odds with his overwhelming physical presence. "Hey. I'm looking for Jase?" The question was unnecessarily tentative, as though he were genuinely uncertain despite having knocked on a door with Jase's name clearly displayed on it.
Jase snapped back to reality, suddenly realizing who this magnificent specimen must be. Harry had mentioned him, had texted about finding him work. Dylan—the young powerhouse searching for employment. The physical evidence before him matched Harry's descriptions, though words had failed to capture the full impact of Dylan's presence.
Jase leaned against the doorframe with deliberate casualness, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. "That'd be me," he confirmed, wöorking to keep his voice steady despite the unexpected jolt of adrenaline coursing through his system.
Dylan nodded, offering a firm handshake, his grip powerful but controlled, suggesting a careful awareness of his own strength. The contrast between them was stark—Dylan's massive, golden-tanned hand completely engulfing Jase's in a way that made their physical disparity impossible to ignore, a visual representation that stirred something unexpected in Jase's core.
"Harry said you might know about a labouring job?" Dylan's question was direct, practical, grounding their interaction in professional purpose rather than acknowledging the obvious impact of his physical presence.
Jase studied him for a moment, noting subtle differences between Dylan and Harry despite their comparable development. Harry was cocky, effortlessly confident, fully aware of his own power and how to wield it for maximum effect. He navigated the world with the casual assurance of someone who had never questioned his place in it, had never experienced sincere rejection or limitation.
Dylan was different—still confident, still commanding attention without effort—but there was something else beneath the surface. A certain accessibility, a willingness to be approached that Harry sometimes lacked. Where Harry projected invulnerability, Dylan suggested possibility.
Jase gestured for Dylan to step inside, closing the door behind them with deliberate care. The small space seemed to shrink further with Dylan's presence, as though the cabin itself were struggling to contain him just as his clothing did.
"Yeah, we might have some groundwork available," Jase said, moving toward his desk with measured steps. "You'll be using those ridiculous muscles for actual hard graft, though. Think you can handle it?" The question emerged with more challenge than he'd intended, something in Dylan's presence triggering a need to assert himself despite their physical disparity.
Dylan let out a low chuckle, rolling his massive shoulders in a fluid motion that sent ripples of movement through his upper body. The simple action caused his pecs to shift beneath the tight fabric, their extraordinary mass moving with independent life, defying gravity in ways that seemed almost hypnotic.
"This body wasn't built for sitting behind a desk," he said simply, the statement carrying neither pride nor boasting, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment of his physical reality. "I can do anything."
Something about the way he said it made Jase pause.
I can do anything.
The words hung in the air between them, carrying implications beyond their surface meaning, suggesting capabilities and willingness that transcended simple manual labor.
Jase raised an eyebrow, studying Dylan's expression for hidden meaning. "That right?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the sudden acceleration of his pulse.
Dylan smiled, but there was something strange behind the expression, something calculated and knowing that belied his youth. He glanced toward the window, taking in the view of the construction site beyond, then—without hesitation or explanation—stood up and reached for the blinds.
Jase's stomach tightened with sudden anticipation, uncertainty mingling with a strange, electric excitement.
Dylan pulled the blinds closed with deliberate movements, each plastic slat falling into place with soft clicks that seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space. The cabin's interior dimmed instantly, the harsh daylight replaced by filtered shadows that softened edges and created a strange intimacy in what had previously been a purely functional space.
Then, slowly, he turned back to Jase.
And locked the door.
The soft click of the mechanism engaging sent a jolt through Jase's system, his pulse spiking with a combination of alarm and anticipation. He was alone in a small room with an ungodly amount of muscle, a young powerhouse who could probably snap him in two without significant effort if he chose to.
He swallowed hard, instincts kicking in, uncertainty battling with a growing excitement he couldn't entirely explain or justify. "Mate, what—"
But before he could finish the sentence, Dylan reached for the hem of his hi-vis shirt with unhurried confidence.
And peeled it off.
The shirt dropped to the floor, forgotten, irrelevant.
What stood before him was nothing short of a living sculpture, a masterpiece of human development that made Jase's breath catch in his throat. Dylan's torso wasn't merely impressive—it was transformative, altering the very atmosphere of the small office with its overwhelming presence.
His pecs were godlike in their proportions, massive slabs of muscle that projected outward from his chest with architectural impossibility. The separation between them created a valley so deep it cast its own shadow, the central division running from his clavicle downward like a canyon viewed from above. Each individual section was clearly defined, striated and segmented with photographic clarity, the result of development that far exceeded his nineteen years.
The deep ridge between his pectoral masses was so defined it could probably hold a credit card upright without support, a testament to both extraordinary genetic potential and relentless dedicated application. Every subtle movement, every breath, caused these massive structures to shift slightly, living proof of their reality despite their seemingly impossible proportions.
Jase barely registered himself moving, barely understood why he had stepped forward like a man entranced. Something deeper than conscious thought was driving him now, a primal response to the physical perfection displayed before him.
Dylan stood motionless, his chest rising and falling with controlled breathing, his jaw set with determination, his gaze unwavering in its directness.
Then, his voice—low, steady, carrying absolute certainty:
"You can do whatever you want," he said.
Jase's chest tightened, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. "What?" The single word emerged as barely more than a whisper, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.
Dylan didn't blink, didn't shift his gaze. "Anything," he repeated. "No questions. No hesitation."
Jase felt like he'd been hit by a truck, the impact of Dylan's words as physical as his presence. Was this a joke? Some elaborate prank orchestrated by Harry? Some twisted test or initiation?
But Dylan's expression didn't waver, containing none of the hidden amusement or anticipation that would suggest deception. There was only calm certainty, absolute confidence in what he was offering.
A thought hit Jase with sudden clarity, sharp and electrifying in its simplicity.
He means it.
His gaze dragged lower, moving over the tightly packed eight-pack that decorated Dylan's midsection like armor plating, each individual section clearly defined, separated by channels deep enough to cast shadows. The obliques framed this display perfectly, creating diagonal sweeps that drew the eye down toward the low-riding waistband of his jeans, toward the deep cuts of his Adonis belt leading downward with unmistakable invitation.
Then, back to those pecs.
Jase swallowed audibly, his throat suddenly dry, his pulse hammering in his ears with deafening insistence.
This was not a chance he was going to waste.
The Worship
What followed was a lesson in power—not the brute force that Dylan's physique suggested, but the deeper power of surrender, of offering oneself completely for another's use.
Dylan laid on the floor of the cabin, arms behind his head in casual display, allowing Jase to feel, grip, and explore his extraordinary development with increasing boldness. His massive chest became a landscape to be mapped, his shoulders territories to be claimed, his arms achievements to be measured and appreciated. He accepted each touch with the serene confidence of someone who understood his purpose completely, who recognized his own value without question or reservation.
Dylan bent over the desk, the wood creaking beneath his substantial weight, flexing on command as Jase ran his hands over the impossible width of his back, tracing the complex architecture of muscle that created a topographical display of human potential. The lats that flared outward like wings, the trapezius muscles that rose like mountains from his shoulders, the complex interplay of development that made his back as impressive as his front—all offered without reservation, presented for appreciation and use.
Dylan danced—slow, controlled movements that showcased every muscle group in sequence, letting Jase witness the impossible coordination of mass and movement, the harmony of development that transcended conventional understanding of physical potential. Each motion was deliberate, designed to display rather than conceal, to offer rather than withhold.
And when Jase finally decided to push his luck, when he grabbed Dylan's face with both hands and kissed him, expecting the muscle beast to resist, to draw a line, to establish some boundary—
Dylan did the exact opposite.
He devoured him.
The kiss wasn't tentative or uncertain—it was consuming, overwhelming, an extension of the physical dominance his body projected into an act that should have been vulnerable but somehow remained completely controlled. Dylan kissed like he existed, with absolute certainty and purpose, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
The Confession
Jase pulled back eventually, breathless, his head spinning with the implications of what had just happened, of boundaries crossed and expectations shattered. He stared at Dylan, this magnificent creature who defied categorization, whose existence challenged everything he thought he understood about desire and identity.
"You're the biggest lad I've ever met," Jase admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine bewilderment. His voice carried the unsteady quality of someone still processing a fundamental shift in their understanding of reality. "I don't think I've ever seen a gay guy built like you."
Dylan's expression didn't change, betraying neither offense nor amusement at the assumption. His response came with the same calm certainty that had characterized everything about this extraordinary encounter.
"I'm not gay."
Jase's stomach flipped, confusion replacing the momentary clarity he'd thought he'd achieved. "What?" The question contained genuine perplexity rather than challenge.
Dylan held his gaze with unflinching directness, voice calm, steady, absolute in its conviction.
"But I know my place in the world."
Jase blinked rapidly, struggling to assimilate this new information into a coherent understanding. "And what's that?" he asked, genuinely unsure where this was leading, what framework could possibly explain the events unfolding between them.
Dylan's massive chest rose and fell with a deep, measured breath, the movement causing light to play across the extraordinary development in ways that momentarily distracted from the significance of his words.
"I exist to be used."
Silence.
Absolute, complete silence filled the small cabin, as though the world itself had paused to acknowledge the weight of this declaration.
Jase had no words.
No comeback. No joke. No witty remark to defuse the intensity of the moment.
Dylan stood there, shirtless, booteded, every inch of him a godly display of physical perfection that seemed to belong in a museum rather than a construction site office. His expression remained unreadable, neither proud nor ashamed of his stated purpose, simply accepting it as fundamental truth.
