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 Connection
Jase lay sprawled on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through Instagram on his phone. His muscular frame created a substantial depression in the mattress, the springs beneath offering silent protest against his solid weight. Though not built to the extraordinary proportions of Harry or Dylan, Jase's physique reflected years of dedicated training—his chest creating a noticeable shelf beneath his fitted t-shirt, his shoulders broad and well-defined, his legs thick with athletic development.
He wasn't really paying attention to the endless stream of content—just the usual cycle of gym selfies, lads flexing in front of mirrors, and guys like Harry and Dylan showing off physiques that seemed to defy natural limitations, all wrapped in outfits that appeared to have been spray-painted rather than sewn. He'd followed Dylan recently, not long after their private "session" in the site office, and as expected, Dylan's feed was just as outrageous as Harry's—a relentless parade of muscle posed from every conceivable angle, each image more provocative than the last.
Then, something unfamiliar appeared on his screen.
Jase's scrolling thumb froze mid-motion.
The image wasn't from Dylan's account—it came from someone else's, an unfamiliar username that looked like a random alphanumeric string. But the post itself? It was impossible to ignore, commanding attention with visceral immediacy.
Two men. Both masked. Both standing tall on what appeared to be display podiums, their sculpted bodies illuminated with professional precision. The sheer power they exuded was almost tangible, radiating from the screen with physical force. Jase felt his pulse quicken, a sudden heat rising through his chest as he absorbed the details of the image. The way their muscles bulged beneath golden skin, creating landscapes of light and shadow. The way their glutes curved with architectural perfection, each hemisphere so developed it seemed to belong to a different species of human altogether.
His eyes flicked to the tags.
One name leaped from the screen, confirming what he'd already suspected.
Dylan Kincaid.
Jase's stomach performed a slow roll of anticipation. His thumb hovered over the image as he drew a steadying breath, trying to process what he was seeing. Dylan—displayed like this, his godlike body offered for public consumption, positioned like a store mannequin except infinitely more magnificent. The mask obscured his face completely, rendering him anonymous yet unmistakable in his physical glory.
But it was the comment section that truly sent Jase's thoughts spiraling in unexpected directions.
Dylan had replied to the post. Publicly.
Thank you for using me. It was incredible. Looking forward to next time, and hopefully MMB can join again!
Jase exhaled sharply, the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
So that was it. That was Dylan. No hesitation, no shame, no secrecy—just an outright admission that he existed to be controlled, used, worshipped. The office had been one thing, a private encounter between them, but this? This was public. This was declaration.
Jase frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. MMB? Who the hell was that?
His eyes returned to the image, studying it with renewed intensity. Dylan hadn't uploaded it himself. Some other account had—the username nothing but random characters, offering no clue to its owner's identity. But as Jase stared at the tiny profile picture accompanying the post, a creeping sense of familiarity washed over him.
No way.
He clicked on the account, scrolling through the other posts with growing certainty. More pictures. More men. More muscle. Worship sessions. Videos of hands gripping pecs, thighs, glutes with possessive intent. And then, tucked between these exhibitions of physical perfection, a familiar face emerged.
Jase's stomach dropped with sudden comprehension.
Ethan.
The bloody barman.
Jase couldn't believe what he was seeing. The shy, nervous bartender from The Chapel, the one who practically tripped over himself whenever Harry or Max walked in, had this kind of power? How had he, of all people, managed to get Dylan—this mountain of muscle, this physical deity—to publicly call him owner?
It didn't add up. The pieces refused to align into a coherent narrative.
Jase continued scrolling, his mind racing through possibilities, theories forming and dissolving with each new image that appeared on his screen.
One question kept circling back: who was the other masked figure?
The photos never revealed his face. Either he was turned away from the camera, strategically cropped from the frame, or wearing one of those sleek thermal masks that left only the eyes visible. But Jase could see everything else with unsettling clarity.
And damn.
Jase found himself zooming in on one particular shot, the mystery hunk facing away from the camera, his back a topographical map of extraordinary development. The muscles rippled beneath flawless skin, creating valleys and peaks that caught light with sculptural precision. But it was his lower half that truly commanded attention—glutes that defied conventional understanding of human anatomy, so thick, so round, so perfectly shaped they seemed engineered rather than grown. The kind of development that would break the internet if showcased on a female form.
Jase swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
He had to know.
His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before he made his decision.
DM SENT.
Jase: Hey, mate. I know Dylan. Had a little session with him myself, actually. That other guy in your post... who is he? Because, damn, he is FIT.
Only seconds passed before the typing bubble appeared—Ethan was online, responsive, engaged.
Ethan: Haha, yeah? You and Dylan, huh? Bet that was fun. Look, why don't we meet up? Coffee? Compare notes?
Jase smirked at the screen.
Cheeky little sod.
Jase: Alright. Where and when?
Ethan: Bean & Brew. 12:30.
Jase checked the time. That gave him just under an hour to prepare.
Jase: See you then.
He locked his phone, setting it aside as his mind continued processing the implications of what he'd just discovered. Who was this Ethan really? And who was the mystery muscle god masked alongside Dylan?
There was only one way to find out.
Ethan sat alone at a corner table in Bean & Brew, surveying the café with the calculated gaze of a chess master plotting several moves ahead. He'd deliberately arrived early to claim the perfect position—a corner with clear sightlines to all entrances but partially obscured from general view. His coffee sat untouched, a prop in the scene he was orchestrating rather than a beverage he actually wanted.
Jase was the one who had reached out, but Ethan had every intention of controlling this encounter from the moment it began. He spotted Jase the instant he entered, watched him scan the busy café with searching eyes. Instead of waving, Ethan simply opened Instagram and sent a direct message: Over here.
He observed with satisfaction as Jase checked his phone, then looked up to locate him. Their eyes locked across the crowded space, and Ethan offered nothing more than a slight nod—the barest acknowledgment that established the tone he intended to maintain.
Jase made his way through the maze of tables, his athletic frame moving with natural confidence. Ethan remained seated, not rising for a greeting, instead extending his hand only when Jase reached the table. The handshake was firm, a brief testing of strength that neither man pushed too far.
"Glad you could make it," Ethan said, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone accustomed to others following his lead.
"Wouldn't miss it," Jase replied, settling into the chair opposite. "Been thinking about this conversation since I saw that post."
Ethan gestured toward the counter. "Get yourself something. We might be here a while."
A few minutes later, Jase returned with a fresh coffee for himself and placed a second one in front of Ethan without being asked—a small power play that didn't go unnoticed. Ethan accepted it with a slight smirk, acknowledging the gesture without comment.
For a moment, they sized each other up in silence, two predators recognizing a kindred spirit across a shared hunting ground.
Then, Jase leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice low with barely contained excitement. "Alright. Tell me everything."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his coffee before responding. "Everything? That's a broad request."
"Yeah," Jase grinned, his eyes alight with fascination. "How do you know Dylan? What's your favorite thing to make him do? What does he look best in? I need details."
Ethan set his cup down deliberately, enjoying the way Jase hung on his next words. This was the hook—the moment to reel him in.
"Well," he began, leaning back slightly, "Dylan sort of... offered himself up to me. No hesitation. Full-on submission. No questions. No conditions."
Jase's eyes widened, clearly captivated despite his attempt to maintain cool composure. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Ethan confirmed, savoring each word. "He was waiting for me outside The Chapel after my shift. Said he wanted to be used. Said it was his purpose."
Jase let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement. "Bloody hell."
"Yeah," Ethan continued, growing more animated. "And the thing is... he meant it. I've tested him. Pushed him. Given him instructions I thought might make him balk, but no. He does everything. Happily."
Jase leaned in closer, as if they were conspirators sharing state secrets. "And what do you like making him do?"
Ethan's eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of someone discussing a particularly successful project. "Everything. But I'll tell you what, there's nothing better than dressing him in the tightest gear possible, knowing he loves being seen like that. Lycra. Spray-on jeans. Compression shorts so tight they could be painted on. I like making sure every muscle is on display, particularly those glutes. That ass needs to be worshipped."
Jase shifted in his seat, notepad and pen metaphorically at the ready, mentally cataloging these techniques for his own use. His expression was that of a student learning from a master, though his own confidence never fully receded.
"Alright," Jase said, taking another sip of his coffee. "And the masked man?"
Ethan's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "That's what you really want to know, isn't it?"
Jase shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "I mean, he looked fit. Couldn't tell who he was though."
Ethan leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming against the table with deliberate rhythm. Instead of answering directly, he let his hand drift toward Jase's bicep, giving it a subtle squeeze—testing boundaries, establishing dominance.
Jase immediately grabbed Ethan's wrist, pushing it away with firm but controlled strength.
"Flattered, mate," Jase said smoothly, maintaining his composed exterior. "But I'm the owner of the muscle boys, not the property."
Ethan grinned, withdrawing his hand with no sign of embarrassment—the gesture had achieved exactly what he wanted, establishing the terms of their interaction.
"Interesting choice of words," he observed, his voice carrying a hint of admiration.
Jase raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
Ethan sat back, savoring the moment before his big reveal. "MMB."
Jase blinked. "What?"
"You saw it in the comments, right? Looking forward to next time, and hopefully MMB can join again."
Jase frowned, his brow furrowing. "Yeah. So?"
Ethan's smirk widened, the expression of someone about to play his winning card. "It stands for Maxy Muscle Boy."
Jase's stomach visibly flipped, his composure cracking for the first time.
"Wait..." His expression shifted to one of dawning comprehension. "The sportswear shop, around the corner. You don't mean—"
Ethan just grinned, enjoying Jase's reaction with the satisfaction of a magician whose grand finale has exceeded expectations.
Jase sat up straighter, disbelief written across his features. "You're saying Schett? As in Harry's dad?"
Ethan nodded once, the gesture almost regal in its simplicity.
Jase stared at him for a heartbeat, then laughed—a full, genuine, disbelieving laugh that drew glances from nearby tables. "Bullshit."
Ethan tilted his head, utterly unruffled. "It's not bullshit."
"There's no way," Jase scoffed, shaking his head emphatically. "Harry's dad? Max Schett? No chance. That guy is a proper bloke."
Ethan just kept smirking, the picture of unshakable certainty. "He is. But he's also mine."
Jase shook his head again, visibly torn between fascination and skepticism. "Mate, if you think I'm believing this just because you said it, you're dreaming."
Ethan leaned in, voice lowering conspiratorially. "Want proof?"
Jase hesitated, desire for knowledge battling with disbelief. "What kind of proof?"
Ethan's eyes gleamed dangerously as he leaned in and whispered something into Jase's ear, the words like a detonation code for a bomb about to explode.
Jase's eyes widened, his expression transforming into one of pure astonishment.
"No way."
Ethan pulled back, satisfaction radiating from him in waves. "See for yourself."
Jase stared at him, calculations running visibly behind his eyes. This was insane. This was impossible. But if Ethan wasn't lying...
He stood up abruptly, grabbing his jacket with sudden purpose.
"No risk, no reward," he muttered, adrenaline clearly coursing through his system.
He glanced back at Ethan, who simply raised his coffee cup in a toast and winked, the gesture of a co-conspirator sending his partner off on a mission they'd planned together.
Jase took a deep breath, then turned and walked purposefully toward the door, like a man about to attempt a heist he'd been planning his entire life.
Harry sprawled out on a bench at the gym, chest heaving as he finished his final set of leg presses. His massively developed thighs throbbed with the satisfying burn of exertion, the muscle fibers swollen with blood, creating deep separations visible even through the slick layer of sweat coating his skin. He grabbed his water bottle, took a long swig, and pulled out his phone to check his notifications.
He scrolled through his Instagram feed, pausing on a few gym posts from his mates before something caught his eye—Dylan Kincaid, tagged in a photo.
Harry tapped it open.
It was... undeniably Dylan, standing on some sort of raised platform, muscles flexed to their absolute limit, his insane physique framed under harsh lighting that accentuated every curve and valley. The young muscle phenomenon was barely clothed, his signature compression wear stretched dangerously tight, every cut and ripple of his extraordinary body on display like a museum exhibit.
Next to him, another man—equally developed, equally massive—stood in a mirrored pose.
Both of them were wearing masks. Full, thermal ski masks that covered everything except their eyes and mouths, rendering them anonymous despite their unmistakable physiques.
What the actual fuck?
Harry's eyebrows shot up as he checked the caption. The post wasn't from Dylan—it was some random profile he didn't follow. But what grabbed his attention was Dylan's reply in the comments.
Thank you for using me, it was incredible. Looking forward to next time, and hopefully MMB can join again!
Harry nearly choked on his water, coughing as he recovered from the unexpected revelation.
What. The. Fuck.
He quickly screenshot the post and flicked over to his chat with Jase.
Harry: Oi. Is this what you were on about with Dylan at the office?
Harry: The guy's a total whore!
Harry: 😂😂😂
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with Jase's response.
Jase: Hahaha, you've only just realised? I thought you'd have clocked that ages ago, babes, especially after he gave me a special show at work the other day.
Harry shook his head in amused disbelief, exhaling through his nose. He went back to the post, zooming in on the mystery second figure standing beside Dylan.
The masked man had the same hulking, ridiculous proportions—massive pecs that jutted from his frame like continental shelves, thighs so developed they forced his stance naturally wide, and an ass that looked like two perfect hemispheres attached to a human frame. The level of development was extraordinary, suggesting years of dedicated training combined with exceptional genetics.
Harry smirked, fingers tapping out another message.
Harry: 😂 That second guy though, he's huge. Bloke must be on steroids.
Jase replied almost instantly.
Jase: Haha, if only you knew, babes 😜
Harry frowned, perplexed by the cryptic response.
If only he knew?
He looked at the photo again, this time focusing on the background rather than the muscle-bound figures dominating the foreground.
His stomach dropped.
A shelf full of protein powders.
Branded gym bags stacked neatly.
A row of mannequins wearing the latest release of compression gear.
Harry knew that setup.
Because he'd seen it a thousand times before.
This photo—this entire big-ass scene—had been taken in his dad's shop.
