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)!
Submission, Strength & Control
Harry adjusted the collar of his fitted navy button-up, rolling the sleeves slightly to show off his thick, veiny forearms. The fabric across his torso told its own story of constraint and resistance—the shirt hugged every extraordinary contour of his development, stretched to its molecular limits across the vast expanse of his chest. Each subtle movement sent ripples of tension through the material, the buttons straining valiantly to maintain their tenuous hold against the relentless pressure of his pectoral mass. The shirt wasn't merely worn; it was endured, forced to accommodate dimensions it had never been designed to contain.
He paired the upper garment with black, perfectly tapered trousers that followed the dramatic sweep of his lower body with devoted attention. They were snug enough to showcase the monumental development of his quadriceps—each individual muscle group clearly defined beneath the straining fabric—but retained just enough give to suggest effortless style rather than deliberate exhibition. The balance was precisely calculated; Harry understood the value of suggestion, the power of hinting at magnificence rather than displaying it entirely. Still, there was no disguising the extraordinary mass that stretched the seat of his pants, the fabric pulled taut across glutes so developed they altered his entire silhouette.
His entire ensemble was smart casual perfection. Meticulously tailored, impeccably fitted—yet still impossible to ignore. No amount of sophisticated styling could normalize a physique that defied conventional human development. Even in his most understated clothing, Harry Schett remained a physical anomaly, a living sculpture that commanded attention without conscious effort.
Dylan, on the other hand, had rejected subtlety entirely in favor of bold declaration.
His neon-orange hoodie was deliberately cropped short, the hem hovering teasingly above the waistband of his ultra-snug white cargo joggers, offering tantalizing glimpses of his carved obliques with each movement. The pants themselves were a marvel of textile engineering, somehow containing the extraordinary mass of his lower body while appearing painted onto him rather than merely worn. The fabric clung to every massive contour of his thighs, every sweeping curve of his glutes, stretching so completely that each individual muscle fiber beneath was outlined with photographic precision. The material appeared perpetually on the verge of surrender, every seam tested to its structural limits by the sheer volume it struggled to contain.
Even sitting, Dylan's development was almost alarming in its extremity. His thighs spread so wide they dominated the barstool, the fabric stretching across them like skin on a drum, revealing the separate heads of the quadriceps beneath with anatomical clarity. His sheer width forced him to adjust his position constantly, making ordinary furniture seem absurdly inadequate for his extraordinary proportions.
Harry raised an eyebrow as Dylan joined him at the bar, his skeptical glance acknowledging the deliberately provocative nature of his training partner's attire.
"Subtle," Harry remarked, lifting his glass with a knowing smirk.
Dylan shrugged massive shoulders, the casual gesture sending ripples of movement beneath the tight fabric of his hoodie. "You know how it is," he replied with practiced nonchalance. "Might as well make sure everyone's looking."
Their glasses clinked in mutual understanding, a toast to shared philosophy despite their differing approaches. They were kindred spirits in the pursuit of attention, even if their methods diverged in execution.
Ethan wasn't behind the bar tonight—he was working the floor, weaving between tables with practiced efficiency, balancing drinks with unexpected grace for someone of his unassuming build. But his altered role didn't prevent him from maintaining the ritual that had become a staple of Harry's visits to The Chapel.
Every time Ethan passed behind Harry's stool, his palm found its established territory—pressed firmly against the magnificent curve of Harry's glutes, fingers exploring the dense muscle with proprietary familiarity. There was nothing accidental in the contact, nothing that could be dismissed as casual or incidental. Each touch lasted precisely long enough to register as deliberate, as Ethan claimed Harry's extraordinary development for his own gratification before moving on to his next task, leaving a lingering sensation in his wake.
Dylan, observing from the corner of his eye with growing interest, leaned slightly toward Harry. "You okay with that?" he asked, nodding subtly toward Ethan as the barman passed by again, his hand openly caressing Harry's lower half before continuing on his appointed rounds.
Harry grinned, taking a slow sip of his beer, the liquid catching momentarily on his upper lip before he wiped it away with casual precision. "If it makes him happy," he said, rolling his shoulders in a movement that caused his pecs to shift beneath his shirt, buttons straining further against an already unwinnable battle.
Dylan's expression registered mild surprise at this casual acceptance of such bold liberties. "I figured you'd shut it down. But... you like it?" The question contained genuine curiosity rather than judgment, a recognition of unexpected common ground.
Harry gave a slow, deliberate shrug, completely unbothered by what others might consider an invasion of personal space. "I aim to please," he stated simply, as though the concept required no further elaboration.
Dylan nodded, a smile of recognition spreading across his features. "Can't argue with that," he agreed, shifting his position slightly on the barstool, the movement causing the fabric of his joggers to pull even tighter across his extraordinary thighs.
Harry leaned in slightly, creating a small bubble of intimacy within the public space. "If you've got it..." he began, leaving the familiar phrase intentionally unfinished.
Dylan's smile widened into a grin of genuine understanding. "I've always thought the same," he replied, his tone suggesting relief at finding someone who shared his philosophy. "Never understood why guys get weird about it. I like being touched."
Harry's eyes flickered with recognition at this direct admission. "Yeah, Jase mentioned that," he said, watching Dylan's reaction carefully, testing boundaries with calculated precision.
Dylan gave a nonchalant shrug, completely unfazed by this reference to his encounter with Harry's best friend. "Yeah, doesn't bother me," he confirmed with startling directness. "Straight as they come, but I've got a body worth admiring. Why not let people enjoy it?"
Harry raised his glass in appreciation of this uncomplicated honesty. "To being objectified in the best possible way," he proposed, offering a toast that acknowledged their shared understanding.
Dylan grinned, clinking his pint against Harry's with enthusiastic agreement.
Across the bar, Ethan was watching.
Not subtly.
His eyes darted between the two extraordinary physical specimens, his fingers gripping a dishcloth with unnecessary force. Though beyond earshot, his intense focus suggested desperate curiosity about their conversation, his gaze cataloging every subtle interaction between these walking monuments to physical perfection.
Harry clocked him instantly, his awareness of being observed too finely tuned to miss such obvious attention.
Still smirking, he turned deliberately toward Ethan, raised his pint in a casual, mocking toast, and delivered a slow, calculated wink that acknowledged their unspoken dynamic.
Ethan's lips parted slightly, his brows knitting together in a complex mixture of frustration and intrigued recalculation. The challenging gesture had clearly disrupted whatever scenario he had been constructing in his mind.
Dylan, noticing this silent exchange, concealed his amusement behind his glass as he took another measured sip, watching the power dynamics shift and realign with the precision of tectonic plates.
When closing time approached, Harry naturally assumed Dylan would follow him out, their evening concluding as a shared experience.
He grabbed his jacket, drained the last of his beer with a practiced tilt of his head, and gave Dylan a casual pat on one massive shoulder. "Come on, mate," he said, the words both invitation and instruction.
Dylan didn't move, his substantial frame remaining firmly planted on the barstool. "Nah, I'll get my own cab," he replied, stretching his thick arms behind his head in a deliberately casual movement that caused his cropped hoodie to rise further, exposing more of his carved midsection. "Live in the opposite direction."
Harry frowned slightly, momentarily thrown by this unexpected deviation from his assumed script, but didn't invest further thought into the refusal. He gave Dylan a playful clap on the back, the sound sharp against the solid muscle beneath, then headed toward the exit.
Dylan waited.
One minute.
Two.
Then, when he was certain Harry was far enough down the road to be safely gone, he slipped out the side door and settled his enormous frame against the brick wall, waiting with predatory patience.
His broad shoulders pressed against the rough surface, legs stretched out before him, boots planted firmly on the pavement. His position emphasized the extraordinary mass of his lower body, the white joggers pulled tight across thighs so massive they appeared to belong to a different scale of human development.
He didn't have to wait long.
A few minutes later, the pub door swung open again.
Ethan stepped out, pulling off his apron with quick, efficient movements, shaking out his arms as if releasing the accumulated tension of his shift.
His eyes immediately locked onto Dylan—waiting. Watching. Ready.
Dylan exhaled, rolling his shoulders in a fluid motion that sent ripples of movement beneath his tight hoodie. "Thought you might want to make use of this," he offered, his voice low but carrying clearly in the quiet night air.
He spread his thick arms wide, gesturing to the extraordinary canvas of his body, offering it without reservation or condition.
Ethan didn't hesitate. His smirk widened, eyes calculating even as they appreciated the magnificent offering before him. "I've got another couple of hours left," he replied, checking his watch with deliberate casualness that belied the intensity of his gaze.
Dylan got to his feet in one smooth movement, towering over Ethan's smaller frame with imposing physical presence. Then, without warning or preamble, he reached down, took Ethan's wrist in his massive hand, and placed it deliberately between his enormous thighs.
Ethan's fingers instinctively curled against the warm, solid mass, pressing into muscle so dense it barely yielded to the pressure. His eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating with unmistakable response to this extraordinary contact.
Dylan leaned in, his breath hot against Ethan's ear, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through the smaller man's body. "No rush," he whispered, the words carrying both promise and submission. "I can wait."
Then, with the same controlled deliberation, he pulled back, easing himself down to the ground again, resting his hands in his thick lap with patient acceptance.
Ethan exhaled slowly, running his tongue over his lower lip as he processed this unexpected display of willing submission from such a physically dominant specimen.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click of finality.
Dylan waited.
And when the time came...
he would be ready.
Ethan wasn't sure what he expected when he stepped outside The Chapel, but deep down, he didn't really believe Dylan would still be there.
Nobody waited two hours outside a pub for someone they barely knew.
Not even someone like Dylan Kincaid—a man so physically perfect, so monstrously built, that he could have walked into any room, snapped his fingers, and had people falling at his feet.
And yet, as Ethan exited through the side door, the cool night air brushing against his skin with refreshing crispness after hours in the warm pub atmosphere, he turned to his left and there he was.
Dylan sat on the pavement, his enormous frame folded against the wall, resting his thick forearms across his bent knees. The streetlight cast deep shadows across the extraordinary topography of his physique, emphasizing the peaks and valleys of development that defied his nineteen years. He looked unreal in this lighting, like a fallen titan waiting patiently for resurrection, his massive body somehow even more imposing in repose than in movement.
Ethan swallowed hard, the reality of Dylan's presence registering with unexpected force.
This was real.
Dylan's piercing eyes locked onto him instantly, and without hesitation, he rose to his feet, unfolding himself like a god of war preparing for battle. Every movement was fluid, powerful, controlled—his ridiculous chest stretching the fabric of his neon hoodie with renewed vigor, his powerful thighs shifting beneath his painted-on joggers like tectonic plates realigning.
He stood before Ethan, squared his massive shoulders, and simply asked,
"What would you like me to do?"
Ethan blinked, momentarily thrown by the directness of the question.
His mind stuttered, possibilities multiplying too rapidly for coherent thought.
He hadn't even considered what came next—not really.
Because this shouldn't be happening.
Because things like this didn't happen in the real world.
Yet here he was, standing in front of the most physically overwhelming man he had ever seen, and Dylan was just waiting. Expectant. Ready.
Ethan hesitated, searching Dylan's face for any sign of hesitation, of uncertainty—some evidence that this was an elaborate joke or misunderstanding. But there was none. Dylan's expression contained only serene acceptance, absolute certainty in his purpose.
Instead of responding verbally, Dylan took Ethan's hands, gripping them firmly with gentle guidance, and raised them to his colossal chest. Ethan's fingers connected with the solid wall of muscle beneath thin fabric, the sheer density and warmth radiating through the material.
Ethan gasped softly, his fingers involuntarily squeezing the extraordinary development beneath his palms. The pectoral muscles were like nothing he'd ever encountered—each one larger than his entire hand, so densely packed with fiber that they barely yielded to pressure, yet warm and alive beneath his exploring touch.
And then, without warning, Dylan leaned in.
His lips brushed against Ethan's—gentle, but firm, offering himself, yielding, allowing Ethan to take whatever he wanted.
Ethan responded instinctively, claiming the kiss, deepening it, his grip on Dylan's body tightening, his fingers roaming over every inch of accessible magnificence.
Dylan shuddered under his touch, a ripple of response moving through his massive frame, but never pulled away, never hesitated in his surrender.
When they finally parted, Dylan spoke softly, his voice steady, unwavering.
"I'm straight," he said simply, the statement delivered without defensiveness or conflict. "But my purpose is to serve men however they want. Without question."
Ethan stared at him, searching for any hint of deception or uncertainty in those clear eyes. The contradiction should have been jarring—this monument to masculinity, this physical embodiment of dominance, declaring himself both heterosexual and devoted to male service in the same breath.
"This is bullshit," Ethan said finally, skepticism sharpening his tone. "You really expect me to believe that?"
Dylan just nodded, his expression unchanging. "It's the truth," he replied with the same calm certainty that characterized his every statement.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, challenge rising within him. "Prove it," he demanded.
Dylan didn't miss a beat, didn't flinch at the sudden shift in tone.
"I already have," he said. "With Harry's friend."
Ethan felt his stomach tighten with sudden, unexpected jealousy. "Harry's friend?" The question emerged sharper than intended, betraying emotional investment he hadn't planned to reveal.
Dylan nodded, still utterly calm. "In an office," he elaborated. "He used me however he wanted. Told me what to do. I obeyed."
Ethan exhaled sharply as the implications registered fully.
This was real.
Dylan was real.
Dylan wanted this. Needed this.
"Take me back with you," Dylan said, his voice maintaining its steady, assured quality. "Use me however you like."
Ethan hesitated, conflicting impulses battling within him.
This was too much.
Too sudden.
Too perfect.
Was this some kind of trap? Was Dylan playing him? What if this wasn't genuine submission but some elaborate scheme with unknown purpose?
For the first time since their encounter began, fear flickered in Ethan's mind, injecting caution into his calculations.
What if he got Dylan back to his flat, and suddenly, this beast of a man overpowered him? The physical disparity between them was undeniable. Dylan was twice his size, more than twice as strong. If this was some kind of sick game, Ethan would have no chance of resistance.
He needed a test.
Something that would force Dylan to prove himself, right here, right now.
Something so outrageous, so potentially humiliating, that if Dylan complied, there could be no further doubt about his sincerity.
Ethan inhaled slowly, letting his gaze travel once more over Dylan's obscene frame, then finally smirked, decision made.
"Take them off," he ordered, nodding toward Dylan's skin-tight compression joggers.
Dylan obeyed instantly.
Without a second thought, without looking around to check for potential observers on the deserted street, he gripped the waistband, peeled the tight fabric down over his monstrous thighs, and stepped out of them completely. His golden-tanned skin seemed to glow under the dim streetlight, flawless and smooth despite the extraordinary development beneath.
Then, without being asked, he picked up the discarded garment, folded it neatly, and stuffed it into Ethan's bag with deliberate care.
Ethan swallowed hard, momentarily stunned by this unhesitating compliance.
Jesus Christ.
Dylan was now standing in nothing but a pair of bright red boxer briefs, stretched to their absolute limit over his impossibly thick thighs and gloriously sculpted glutes. The fabric, never designed to contain such extraordinary development, was already beginning to ride up, unable to hold back the sheer force of his powerful lower body. The tight material clung desperately to each curve and contour, revealing rather than concealing the magnificent architecture beneath.
"Turn around," Ethan commanded, his voice gaining confidence with each successful test of Dylan's obedience.
Dylan obeyed without hesitation, presenting his back and lower half for inspection.
Ethan exhaled sharply, his smirk widening as he took in the view.
The fabric had ridden up even higher at the back, the insane mass of Dylan's glutes forcing the material to bunch, barely covering anything at all. The sight was obscene in its magnificence, vulgar in its perfection.
And Dylan just stood there, on display, waiting for Ethan to make the next move.
Ethan had never been so thoroughly aroused in his entire life. The evidence of his response strained against his own clothing, unmistakable in its intensity.
Satisfied with Dylan's demonstration of obedience, he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the young muscle god's waist, his fingers pressing into the unyielding muscle beneath warm skin.
Dylan's breath hitched slightly, the only indication that he was affected by these developments.
Ethan's smirk deepened, satisfaction radiating from him as he recognized the full extent of his newfound power over this physical colossus.
"This way, Muscle Boy," Ethan murmured, the epithet deliberate and possessive.
Without another word, he grabbed Dylan's massive glutes, squeezing firmly, feeling the extraordinary density beneath his fingers, before wrapping an arm around his impossibly wide lower back and steering him down the street.
Dylan followed without hesitation or resistance, his massive, nearly naked body moving in perfect submission, the streetlight casting dramatic shadows across every deep-cut muscle group, highlighting the sheer abnormality of his development against the ordinary backdrop of the quiet town.
Ethan's grip tightened as they walked, his fingers digging into the warm flesh with proprietary confidence. His mind raced with possibilities, with plans, with the recognition of everything this beautiful monster could become in his hands.
Tonight was going to be incredible.
