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)!
Owned
Max adjusted the hem of his polo shirt, ensuring it sat just right over the skin-tight blue Lycra shorts Ethan had assigned as his new work uniform. It had only been a day, yet he already felt like it had always been this way—his extraordinary physique fully on display, his choices made for him, his purpose clarified with startling simplicity. The tight compression fabric clung to his thighs and glutes with such determination it might have been painted directly onto his skin, leaving virtually nothing to the imagination. Even now, as he moved behind the counter to prepare for opening, he could feel the subtle stretch and give of the material, the resistance it offered against his massive development—a constant reminder of his new place in the carefully restructured hierarchy of his existence.
The bell above the shop door chimed with cheerful indifference to the internal transformation Max had undergone since yesterday.
Max turned, his heart performing an unexpected stutter-step as he recognized the tall, sharp-featured figure striding inside. Jase. Harry's best mate.
Max barely had a second to compose himself before Jase approached with his usual self-assured swagger, shoulders back, chin lifted, eyes carrying a gleam that suggested knowledge Max wasn't prepared to confront.
"Mate," Jase said, arms open in greeting, his tone casual yet somehow carrying an undercurrent that made Max's skin prickle with awareness. "Good to see ya."
Max responded with a friendly hug, though there was something different about the contact this time—a little firmer, a little closer, a little more deliberate in its exploration of his physical boundaries. The embrace lingered a fraction longer than social convention dictated, Jase's hands pressing slightly against the extraordinary development of Max's back with what seemed like purposeful assessment.
As they pulled apart, Jase's eyes performed a swift, calculating sweep downward, taking in the obscene tightness of Max's uniform shorts before returning to his face. That smirk was still there, now carrying an edge of something that sent a ripple of anticipation down Max's spine.
"So," Jase said casually, glancing around the shop with the air of someone who already knew exactly what they were looking for. "Heard there's something really hot being given away in here."
Max frowned, confusion momentarily overriding his discomfort. He forced a laugh that emerged less convincingly than intended. "Uh... what?"
"Yeah." Jase leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, his posture deliberately relaxed yet somehow commanding more space than his frame alone warranted. "Someone I know told me about it. Said I'd be stupid not to come down and claim it for myself."
Max chuckled awkwardly, trying to shake the feeling creeping up his spine—the sensation of being caught in a conversation with layers he couldn't quite access. "Not sure what you've been told, mate, but we're still charging full price for everything here." The joke fell flat even to his own ears, a weak attempt to regain familiar footing.
Jase let out a low hum, tilting his head with theatrical thoughtfulness. "Nah, see... this ain't about clothing."
Max's stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in his core as possibilities began to align into unwelcome patterns.
Jase tapped his own temple in a gesture of feigned helpfulness. "Still not getting it?"
Max blinked, his mouth suddenly dry. "I really don't—"
And then Jase pointed.
To the name badge.
The one that, as per Ethan's explicit instructions, no longer read Maxwell.
It read Maxy Muscle Boy.
The moment Max registered where Jase was pointing, the floor seemed to tilt beneath him, reality reshaping itself around this new, exposed vulnerability. His heart thundered in his chest, blood rushing in his ears with deafening intensity.
Jase took a deliberate step forward, his smirk widening into something that contained equal parts triumph and anticipation. He reached out with slow, calculated confidence, dragging a firm hand across Max's impossibly thick chest, his fingers pressing into the stretched polo fabric with proprietary familiarity.
Max's breath caught, a small sound escaping him before he could suppress it. His mind screamed at him to step back—to say something—to do something to reestablish the boundaries being systematically dismantled before him. But his body remained rooted to the spot, frozen in a mixture of horror and something far more complex that he wasn't ready to name.
Jase leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that brushed against Max's ear with warm intimacy. "Strip."
The single word hung in the air between them, impossible in its directness, unthinkable in its implication. Max's thoughts raced with frantic energy. How could Jase know? The shop had been locked yesterday, the shutters down, the encounter with Ethan and Dylan hermetically sealed from outside observation.
Right?
His mouth opened, but the words that emerged were feeble, pathetic in their transparent insincerity. "I—I don't know what you mean."
Jase pulled back just enough to meet Max's eyes, his expression containing a certainty that made Max's knees threaten to buckle beneath him.
"You know who doesn't need things explained to him?" His voice was light, teasing, yet carried the unmistakable weight of knowledge that could not be denied. "Dylan."
Max's entire body clenched at the name, a wave of heat washing over him that had nothing to do with the temperature of the shop. The connection was undeniable now—Jase knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew exactly what had transpired.
Max tried to suppress the shudder rolling through his massive frame, but it was useless. His body was already responding to Jase's tone, to the authority it projected, just as it had with Ethan. The realization should have horrified him, should have triggered resistance, rejection—but instead, it sent a pulse of electric anticipation through his system that settled low in his abdomen with unmistakable weight.
Jase's eyes tracked the visible response, his smirk deepening with satisfaction. Then, with both hands, he reached down and gripped the waistband of Max's Lycra shorts with confident expectation.
Slowly, agonizingly, he peeled them down.
The fabric, stretched taut over Max's enormous quadriceps, resisted slightly before surrendering to the inevitable, sliding down in one smooth motion. It revealed one of the boxer briefs Dylan had selected for him yesterday—bright, obscene in its vibrancy, leaving little to imagination despite technically covering more than the Lycra had.
Jase's eyes met Max's as he crouched, continuing to guide the shorts past his knees with deliberate patience. "I'm guessing Ethan never has to ask twice," he murmured, the observation landing with devastating accuracy.
Max felt like he was simultaneously burning up and freezing, contradictory sensations warring within him. The humiliation of being exposed like this, of having his newfound submission discovered and exploited, should have been unbearable. Yet beneath that reaction lurked something deeper, more primal—an exhilaration he couldn't deny, couldn't rationalize away.
And yet.
And yet.
Without conscious decision, Max reached for the hem of his polo shirt.
He pulled it off over his head in one fluid movement, his thick pecs bouncing slightly as they were freed from the constraining fabric. His smooth, tanned torso, carved to perfection through decades of disciplined training, was now fully exposed to Jase's appreciative gaze.
The shop was open.
The windows were clear, unobscured.
Anyone could walk in at any moment.
Max should have felt terror at the possibility of public discovery, at the professional suicide he was potentially committing.
Instead, he had never felt more exquisitely, perfectly alive—every nerve ending singing with awareness, every muscle fiber charged with electric potential. The danger, the exposure, the surrender of control—it all combined into a cocktail of sensation that flooded his system with unprecedented intensity.
Jase took a slow step back, his eyes performing one final, thorough assessment of the magnificent specimen before him—Max Schett, sporting legend, business owner, father, now standing nearly naked in his own shop at the command of a man half his age.
Then Jase turned toward the door, his message delivered, his point made with undeniable finality.
He paused with his hand on the door handle, glancing back to meet Max's eyes one last time.
"You should consider yourself owned," he said, the words landing with quiet devastation.
And then he was gone, the bell chiming with incongruous cheerfulness as the door closed behind him.
Max was left standing in the middle of his own shop, stripped down to nothing but his boxer briefs, his entire body betraying the evidence of just how much he loved every second of it.
