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)!
Private Contemplations
(Harry’s Perspective)
Shit, what the fuck did I just see?
I couldn't carry on training after looking at that photo. My concentration was completely shot. I had to come home and think about this, try to make sense of what I was seeing. The weights might as well have been made of air for all the focus I could muster after that bombshell dropped on my phone screen.
I'm sprawled across my sofa now, the furniture groaning beneath my substantial weight as I shift positions, trying to get comfortable despite the restless energy coursing through me. My shirt lies discarded on the floor, my skin still carrying a light sheen of sweat from the aborted workout. My chest rises and falls with each agitated breath, the substantial mounds of my pectoral muscles creating deep shadows across my torso as the afternoon light filters through the blinds.
I always knew Dylan enjoyed the attention, like me. That was obvious from day one. The guy never met a compression shirt he didn't try to burst out of. But this? This was different.
The guy's a complete stud, I mean I'm not one to brag but he and I are both on the same level: fucking maximum. Our physiques aren't just developed; they're monuments. When we trained together, it was like watching two Greek gods competing. His pecs have that same perfect roundness as mine, his shoulders that same impossible width, his thighs forcing that same wide stance when he walks.
But, why would he wear that mask? That's what's throwing me. Surely if he wants as much attention as possible he'd show off his looks, why wouldn't he? His face is part of the package – that golden-brown hair, that jaw that looks carved from marble. The mask conceals all that, reduces him to just his physique – just the mountains of muscle that strain against whatever fabric dares to contain them.
And why the fuck is he posing in dad's shop with another bloke? I'm sure Dylan is straight, he said as much when we trained. But this photo has a fucking gay vibe to it. The positioning, the masks, the way they're displayed like merchandise... Perhaps he's bi? But then, I'm not bi but I really get off on men looking at me, touching me, wanting me, but I'm 100% straight. I've never questioned that. I just love the power of being desired, of having eyes follow me wherever I go, of having hands reach out to feel the hardness of what I've built.
God, I'm proper confused!
Back to the shop though, why's he in dad's shop? I mean dad could be using it as a sort of photo studio I suppose. The lighting there is good, the displays are already set up. The photo does have a sort of kinky vibe to it being so public like that—the window displays visible in the background, those podiums that usually hold mannequins now supporting the weight of living muscle.
But surely he'd have mentioned it? We talk about everything. Well, almost everything. I'm his son, why wouldn't he have offered me the modelling job instead of Dylan Fucking Kincaid? My body is at least as impressive—my chest perhaps even fuller, my ass definitely more developed. That's our thing, right? The Schett men and their physiques. Why would he choose Dylan over me for something like this?
Maybe I should just text him and ask.
Wait... hold up, let's zoom in on this picture closer.
The second guy, looks a bit older. His pecs are insane, like two continental shelves protruding from his chest, casting deep shadows beneath them. And those fucking glutes? They're so big, they remind me of my own—two perfect hemispheres that strain against whatever fabric attempts to contain them. It's almost uncanny how familiar that specific development looks, that particular ratio of muscle distribution...
Shit.
Fuck.
Oh my Jesus Christ.
It's my dad!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What the fuck is he doing like that, and with Dylan? Both of them posed like living mannequins, both masked, both wearing nothing but those obscenely tight compression shorts that hide absolutely nothing.
Fuck.
I mean the last few times I've been in the shop it's been pretty quiet, but I didn't think it was so bad that he had to fucking prostitute himself in his own bloody shop! Is the business in trouble? Is this some desperate attempt to generate income? To advertise? My stomach twists at the thought of my dad being driven to this by financial necessity.
I can't say anything, not to him, nor Dylan. Dad must be in a bad way for money if he's doing that now. I'll keep my trap shut, but next time I see him at The Chapel, the drinks are on me. I'll find a way to help without letting on that I know. My physique draws in good tips at the pizza place—maybe I can funnel some of that his way, help ease the pressure without making him feel like a charity case.
Right Harry baby, stop looking at that picture now, it's weird to be staring. But he does look good, I mean he would, he looks like me! I got these genetics from him, after all. Those massive pecs that require custom shirts, those thighs that make regular jeans an impossibility, that ass that always draws stares—all of it passed down, just amplified in my younger frame.
Him and Dylan look great there, I can't fucking deny it. The lighting catches every striation, highlights every curve and valley of muscle. Aesthetically, it's an impressive image. Two physical specimens at the absolute peak of development, displayed for maximum impact.
God I wish he'd asked me instead of Dylan.
The thought slips through before I can catch it, and I feel my face flush hot despite being alone in my flat. What the hell? Why would I want to be in that position? To be masked, displayed, positioned...
But I do. The truth of it hits me with unexpected force. I want to be seen like that. To be put on display. To be used as an object of beauty and desire rather than just admired from a distance.
Maybe dad and I have more in common than I realized.
I toss my phone aside, unable to look at the image any longer, my mind churning with questions I'm not ready to answer. The sofa creaks beneath me as I shift my substantial weight, my body suddenly feeling too large, too visible, too present even in the privacy of my own home.
I need to figure this out. And soon.
