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 Morning After
The morning sun filtered weakly through the cheap blinds of Ethan's student flat, casting thin stripes of light across the tangled sheets. Dylan was still exactly where Ethan had left him—motionless, silent, perfectly still, as if awaiting further instructions. His colossal frame remained in position through the night, his extraordinary musculature maintaining its rigid form despite what must have been uncomfortable hours of immobility.
Ethan stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders as he sat up in bed. His gaze dropped to the side of the mattress, where Dylan was still on all fours in complete submission, face down, his monstrous back and glutes forming the perfect resting place for Ethan's possessions. The magnificent curve of Dylan's lower body had served as a makeshift nightstand all night—his solid form holding Ethan's phone, a half-empty glass of wine, and a desk lamp wedged between the deep, cavernous division of his spectacularly developed glutes.
The sheer absurdity of it made Ethan smirk with satisfaction. The visual contrast was almost comical—this small, ordinary lamp nestled between two hemispheres of muscle so large they seemed to belong to a different species of human altogether. The glass perched precariously on the unyielding surface of Dylan's lower back, the liquid inside barely disturbed throughout the night despite the slow rise and fall of Dylan's breathing.
He had never expected to find someone like this—someone built like a gladiator, yet utterly devoted to being used like an object. It was intoxicating. His control over Dylan had been cemented last night, not just through words but through action. He had tested Dylan's devotion, pushing boundaries, seeing just how deep this desire ran. And Dylan had not only accepted it—he had thrived on it, his eyes reflecting a profound satisfaction that transcended conventional understanding. Ethan had a made a conscious decision not to push it too far with Dylan, at least not yet, preferring to play this game slow and steady, ensuring his newest muscle toy was moulted into the most perfect form of obedience imaginable.
Ethan trailed a lazy hand down Dylan's thickly muscled back, feeling the warmth of his skin radiate against his fingertips. Each individual muscle group was clearly defined, separated by valleys so deep they cast their own shadows in the morning light. Dylan didn't move, didn't even twitch under the contact, as if waiting for explicit permission to react to being touched.
"You sleep alright?" Ethan asked casually, his tone conversational despite the extraordinary circumstances.
"Yes," Dylan murmured, his voice muffled slightly against the mattress. The single word contained no complaint, no discomfort, despite having maintained this position for hours.
Ethan grinned, a slow spreading of satisfaction across his features. He withdrew his feet from where they had rested against Dylan's side and allowed his new possession to finally sit up. Dylan moved with surprising grace for someone of his size, unfolding his massive frame in careful stages, each movement controlled and deliberate. His extraordinary musculature rippled beneath golden skin as he straightened, his broad back creating its own topography of peaks and valleys.
"Good," Ethan said, swinging his legs off the bed and standing with a stretch that emphasized the dramatic physical disparity between them. "Because today, you've got a job to do."
Dylan didn't question it. He never did. He simply turned to Ethan with that same unreadable expression, his massive shoulders rotating with fluid precision, waiting for further instruction.
Ethan moved across the small room, his steps light compared to the thunderous impact Dylan's feet made when he shifted position. "You need some new clothes," he said, turning back to face his willing captive. "Something appropriate for next time."
Dylan nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, sir." The honorific emerged naturally, though Ethan had never explicitly requested it.
Ethan smirked at that. He hadn't told Dylan to call him sir, but he wasn't going to correct him. The term of deference from someone so physically imposing sent a thrill of satisfaction through him.
"You don't have much cash, right?" Ethan asked, though he already knew the answer from their conversations the previous night.
Dylan shook his head, the movement causing the thick muscles of his neck to shift beneath his skin. "Not really," he admitted without embarrassment.
Ethan grabbed his phone from where it had spent the night nestled against Dylan's magnificent glutes. "That's fine," he said, his tone deliberately casual despite the electricity humming through his veins. "I know exactly where we can get you something—with a discount." He turned the screen toward Dylan, pulling up the location of Schett's Sportswear.
Dylan's brows lifted slightly in recognition. "Harry's dad's place?"
Ethan nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face as the pieces of his plan aligned perfectly. "Yeah. You've met Harry, but you've never met Max, right?"
"No," Dylan replied simply, still awaiting instruction rather than questioning Ethan's intentions.
"Well," Ethan smirked, standing up and pulling on a hoodie with deliberate slowness, "you're in for a treat."
The Sportswear Store — Max's Turn to Break
Max wiped down the counter with practiced ease, enjoying the rare lull in customers. The shop had been unusually quiet this morning, giving him time to restock shelves and reorganize the latest shipment of compression gear. His movements were methodical, controlled, each action performed with the precision of someone who understood their physical impact on the world around them. He ran a hand over his polo shirt, smoothing out a slight wrinkle over his pecs, the fabric stretching taut across their extraordinary volume.
He should've been relaxing. But his mind was elsewhere.
Ethan.
That kid had him twisted in knots. The text—Maxy Muscle Boy x—had been playing on a loop in his head for the past twenty-four hours. No one had ever called him that. No one had ever owned him like that, even if just through words. It was both infantilizing and strangely thrilling, reducing his massive, imposing physique to something diminutive and controllable.
And he had liked it.
God, he had liked it too much.
The realization unsettled him, challenged the carefully constructed image he'd maintained for decades. He was always in control, always the one people admired from a respectful distance. Never the one being directed or commanded.
He was still deep in his own head when the bell over the door chimed, the sound yanking him back to the present. His eyes flicked up automatically, professional smile already forming.
What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
Ethan walked in first, looking effortlessly confident, wearing his usual slim-fit jeans and an oversized hoodie that emphasized his slight build. But it wasn't Ethan who stole Max's attention and derailed his thoughts.
It was the mountain of muscle behind him.
Max had seen plenty of big guys in his time—hell, he was one of them. But this? This was something else entirely, something that existed in a different category of physical development.
The young man that followed Ethan was an absolute colossus—bigger than Harry, broader than Max himself, his skin-tight compression shorts leaving nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to his thighs like it had been painted on, each individual muscle fiber visible beneath the straining material. His hoodie was stretched to breaking point over his chest, the fabric molded to his pecs so completely that the central division between them was clearly visible despite the thickness of the material. The zipper strained to contain what lurked beneath, creating tension lines that radiated outward from the epicenter of pressure.
Every inch of him radiated sheer, raw power—yet the way he moved suggested complete control. He followed Ethan like a shadow, a respectful half-step behind, his massive frame somehow deferring to the smaller man's presence. It was a study in contradiction—this physical behemoth willingly following someone half his size, his posture suggesting deference despite his overwhelming physical advantage.
Max swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as the implications began to register in his consciousness.
Ethan strolled right up to the counter, grinning with the confident ease of someone who knew exactly what effect they were having. Before Max could say a word of greeting, Ethan reached out and ran a slow, firm hand over Max's pec, squeezing lightly through the uniform polo.
Max sucked in a breath, eyes darting around the empty store, completely thrown off by the sudden contact. The touch was proprietary, claiming, as if Ethan were handling something that belonged to him by right rather than crossing a boundary that should have been inviolable.
"Good to see you, Maxy Muscle Boy," Ethan murmured, his voice dripping with amusement, the nickname from his text now spoken aloud, made real in the physical world.
Max felt his entire body react to that name, to the sheer confidence in Ethan's tone. He should've stepped back, should've said something, should've established a boundary—but instead, he just stood there.
Still.
Waiting.
Accepting.
Ethan leaned in just a fraction closer, voice lowering to an intimate register that carried barely beyond the two of them. "Be a good boy and lock the door. Close the shutters. Trust me, it's in your best interest."
Max blinked, momentarily confused by the request. "What?" The single word emerged hesitant, uncertain.
Ethan smiled, the expression containing equal parts warmth and authority. "It's a surprise. But a good one."
Max had no reason to obey. No logical reason, anyway. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to refuse, to maintain professional boundaries, to assert control over his own space.
And yet, before he even processed what he was doing, he was moving—walking to the entrance on autopilot, turning the lock with a soft click. His hands found the controls for the shutters, and moments later, the store was sealed from the outside world.
No interruptions. No prying eyes.
When Max turned back, Ethan was watching him with an expression that made his stomach flip with nervous anticipation. Something primal and knowing lurked in those eyes, something that recognized a truth about Max that he had never acknowledged even to himself.
"Good boy," Ethan said softly, the praise emerging with genuine approval rather than mockery.
Max shivered.
He had never been called that before. Never. His whole life, people had looked at him with admiration, with envy, with awe. No one had ever looked at him like this.
Like he was theirs.
Like he existed to be controlled rather than admired.
He barely had time to dwell on it before Ethan beckoned him closer with a simple gesture.
Max obeyed before his conscious mind even processed the request. He stepped toward the smaller man, until Ethan's palm was once again resting against his massive chest, fingers splayed across the expanse of his pectoral muscle.
Ethan let out a small, approving hum, fingers flexing slightly against Max's pec, before he finally gave his next instruction.
"Take off each other's clothes," Ethan said, his voice smooth and commanding. "But leave your underwear on."
Max's breath hitched.
His heart pounded in his chest like a drum.
His hands clenched by his sides, muscles tightening with tension.
And then, without a word, without hesitation, he moved.
So did Dylan.
They reached for each other at the same time, as if choreographed.
And for the first time in his life, Max let himself be led.
Max's Reflection
I don't know who I am anymore.
I know I'm straight. I've always been straight. That isn't even a question.
And yet, I just had my hands all over another man. My lips locked onto his, my body pressed against his, my muscles tangled with his—because I was told to.
Because Ethan told me to.
And now?
Now, I'm standing here, still breathing heavy, still feeling Dylan's heat against my skin, and I can't even hide what it's done to me.
I won't hide it.
I want Ethan to see.
Because this—this is what he's done to me.
He told me to take off my clothes. I did.
He told me to kiss a man. I did.
He told me to own it—to sink into my place, to accept what I really am.
And I did.
And my body loved it.
The weight between my legs is proof.
I don't try to hide it. I don't shift my stance, don't adjust my waistband, don't do anything to mask the fact that I—a straight man—am standing here hard, throbbing, aching from the rush of submission.
Ethan sees it.
I want him to see it.
I want him to know that he owns me now. That he's broken me down, piece by piece, and rebuilt me into exactly what I was always meant to be.
A muscle-bound toy.
A straight man controlled by another man.
And the worst part?
I don't just accept it. I crave it.
