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)!
Time Passes
Over the next several months, the ownership of Max and Dylan continued to progress, their immaculate bodies being used and exposed to greater effect.
Chapter 20.1 — The Gym: Public Offerings
Max stood near the squat rack, his body wrapped in a compression top so tight it may as well have been painted on. The white fabric strained against his extraordinary development, mapping every contour of his torso with photographic precision. Each fiber of the material seemed to be engaged in a constant battle with the sheer volume of muscle beneath, threatening to surrender with any sudden movement. His mid-blue Lycra shorts clung to his massive thighs and glutes with similar desperation, the seams visibly strained, the fabric pulled so taut that even the outline of his black boxer briefs beneath was completely visible through the translucent material.
The gym was bustling with the usual after-work crowd, the familiar soundtrack of clanking weights and rhythmic breathing creating the perfect backdrop for what was about to unfold. Max positioned himself deliberately in front of the mirror wall, the overhead lighting accentuating every curve and valley of his extraordinary development. His reflection stared back at him—a physical specimen so perfectly sculpted it barely seemed real, the result of decades of dedicated training now offered for purposes he never would have previously admitted to desiring.
Jase was there too, watching from a nearby bench, arms crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Jase's presence wasn't accidental—it was orchestrated, planned, another piece in the elaborate game now unfolding around Max's new existence.
Ethan arrived late, slipping through the gym entrance with understated confidence, his slight frame creating a jarring contrast with the developed physiques surrounding him. Max hadn't noticed him at first, too focused on his set, until he felt it—a presence, a gaze so intense it seemed to carry physical weight.
He turned, breath catching slightly when he saw Ethan strolling toward him, eyes already locked on his body like a connoisseur examining a prized acquisition. Ethan moved with casual authority, completely at ease despite being physically overshadowed by virtually everyone in the facility. He approached Max with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what belonged to them, stopping just close enough that their conversation wouldn't carry to curious ears.
"Still think you're the king of this place?" Ethan teased, nodding toward the gym floor where several members were sneaking appreciative glances in Max's direction.
Max opened his mouth to answer, but Ethan held up a hand, the simple gesture silencing him instantly.
"Don't speak. Show me."
Without even a second of hesitation, Max obeyed, feeling a profound thrill course through him at the prospect of this public display of control and humiliation, surrounded by people he was accustomed to seeing on a regular basis. His submission, once confined to private spaces, was now emerging into the light—terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
He spread his quads slightly, shifting his stance to emphasize the sheer power of his legs. The Lycra stretched even tighter, hugging each massive muscle group with such dedication that individual fibers became visible beneath the straining fabric. The outline of his black boxer briefs was now completely obvious, the contrast visible through the mid-blue material that had become almost transparent under tension.
Ethan grinned, his gaze dropping to the supersized water bottle on the floor beside his muscle property, recently refilled and beaded with condensation. He gently removed the cap, the action casual yet somehow carrying immense significance. Max's stunning blue eyes reflected confusion as this was something new, a deviation from their established patterns.
Ethan stepped forward, his movement unhurried, deliberate, and slowly poured the water over the front of Max's skin-tight shorts. The liquid darkened the fabric instantly, rendering it completely transparent where it made contact. The cold sensation against Max's skin sent an involuntary shiver through his massive frame, but he remained motionless, accepting whatever Ethan chose to do to him in this public space.
Max, rather than expressing anger or embarrassment, experienced a wave of profound satisfaction unlike anything he'd previously known. He was on public display, being deliberately humiliated, used, and treated with casual disregard—and he loved it with an intensity that should have frightened him but instead felt like coming home.
Ethan calmly resealed the bottle, then turned his gaze toward a group of younger guys by the cable machines, who had watched the spectacle with undisguised fascination, their workouts temporarily forgotten.
"Hey—come take a look at this," Ethan called, his voice carrying just enough to reach them without announcing to the entire gym what was transpiring.
Max's stomach performed a slow roll of anticipation, a mixture of mortification and excitement flooding his system. The public nature of this display should have triggered resistance, yet he found himself hoping for more, craving deeper submission, more thorough examination.
The three men—probably college-aged, lean, and clearly dedicated to their training—walked over, curiosity visible in their expressions. They approached with the slightly hesitant movements of people unsure if they were being invited into something inappropriate, yet too intrigued to decline.
Far from wanting to disappear, Max found himself hoping these three young men would at the very least touch him, perhaps even something more involved and demeaning. The yearning was written across his handsome face despite his attempts to maintain some semblance of neutral composure.
Ethan's expectant stare reminded him—this wasn't about his desires.
He was here to be displayed.
"What do you think?" Ethan asked casually, gesturing toward Max's quads as though presenting a prize specimen for evaluation.
The first guy—a tall, lean swimmer-type with broad shoulders—let out a low whistle of appreciation.
"Jesus, mate. Your legs are insane."
The second one, a stockier guy with the solid build of a rugby player, reached out as if to touch, then hesitated, uncertain of boundaries in this unusual situation.
Ethan smirked. "Go ahead. He doesn't mind."
Max felt his skin prickle with heat, a flush spreading across his chest beneath the compression top. But he didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't give any indication that this treatment was unusual or unwelcome.
The first touch sent a shock through him—the firm grip of a stranger's hand trailing over his flexed quad, fingers pressing into muscle so dense it barely yielded to pressure.
Then another hand joined in.
And another.
Three pairs of hands ran over his thighs, testing the solid muscle, fingers pressing, squeezing, exploring development that exceeded what most considered humanly possible.
"This doesn't even feel real," one of them muttered, genuine awe in his voice.
Ethan's voice was low and satisfied as he observed the scene unfolding. "That's because he's not real. He's a muscle toy. A trophy to be used however we want."
Max's breath hitched at these words, a small sound escaping him before he could suppress it. The characterization should have offended him, should have triggered resistance. Instead, it resonated with something deep inside him, something he'd spent decades denying.
He wasn't being complimented. He was being studied. Owned.
And the worst part?
It felt good. It felt right. It felt like the culmination of years of seeking something he couldn't articulate even to himself.
He wasn't a man anymore.
He was a monument to muscle.
Ethan let it go on for another full minute, watching with pure amusement as these strangers explored his property, before finally stepping closer.
He placed a firm hand on Max's pecs, pushing gently but with unmistakable authority.
"That's enough for now."
The guys stepped back, nodding appreciatively, giving Max one last lingering look before heading back to their machines, already discussing what they'd just experienced in hushed, excited tones.
Ethan's smirk never wavered as he leaned in, his lips close to Max's ear.
"You really are the perfect little exhibit, aren't you?"
Max didn't speak.
Just nodded.
Because it was true.
And there was no turning back now.
Chapter 20.2 — The Shop: Public Obedience
The afternoon rush had died down, leaving Max alone behind the counter of the sports shop, tidying a few stacks of folded training shorts. The tight blue Lycra shorts he wore as part of his "uniform" clung to his body like a second skin, hugging every extraordinary contour of his colossal thighs and glutes. The white polo shirt, stretched to its absolute limit, barely contained the heavy slabs of muscle that formed his pecs, the fabric straining with every breath he took, threatening to surrender completely if he made any sudden movement.
It had been weeks since Ethan and Jase had rewritten the rules of his life, transforming him from respected business owner to willing property, and yet Max still felt that familiar mixture of thrill and apprehension whenever the door chime rang. Today was no different, the sound sending a small jolt of anticipation through his system.
The bell jangled, and as Max instinctively looked up, his stomach clenched with immediate recognition.
Ethan. Jase. Dylan.
The trio strolled in as if they owned the place—which, in a sense, they did. Their physical presence alone transformed the atmosphere of the store, creating a charged energy that was impossible to ignore.
Ethan led the way, smirking as he spotted Max behind the counter. His smaller frame should have been overshadowed by his companions, yet somehow he remained the gravitational center of their group, the authority around which the others orbited. Jase followed closely, eyes sharp and assessing as they performed a deliberate evaluation of Max's appearance. Dylan trailed slightly behind them, his massive frame poured into compression gear that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, the fabric stretched so completely across his extraordinary development that it appeared more like body paint than actual clothing.
Max's pulse increased, the familiar mixture of anxiety and excitement flooding his system. Even after everything, the sight of them together like this still sent a wave of anticipation through him that settled low in his abdomen.
Ethan didn't even need to speak. He simply flicked his fingers in a silent command that Max had learned to recognize and obey without question.
Without conscious thought, Max stepped out from behind the counter, moving into the center of the shop. The space felt too open, too exposed, yet his feet carried him forward without hesitation. This was his new reality—to be displayed whenever and however they chose.
Jase and Ethan exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them, before Jase leaned casually against a rack of gym hoodies, his posture relaxed yet somehow commanding.
"Alright, let's see it," he said, the instruction deliberately vague yet perfectly clear to Max.
Max didn't ask what they meant. He knew.
His body reacted before his mind even processed the order. His pecs flexed, the massive slabs of muscle bouncing with controlled precision, demanding attention. He raised his thick arms, biceps swelling against the fabric of his polo, triceps etched like stone against the undersides. He spread his quads slightly, the sheer thickness of his thighs making the Lycra shorts stretch even tighter, the material creaking audibly with the increased tension.
From the side, Dylan let out a confident, self-assured question. "Would you like me to feel him, gentlemen?"
Jase nodded, and Dylan moved forward immediately, his hands roaming freely over Max's gigantic pecs, tree-trunk thighs, and impossibly developed glutes. Despite his own extraordinary development, Dylan's touch contained a reverence, an appreciation of the magnificence before him. His fingers explored every curve and valley of Max's physique with knowing precision, testing the density of muscle that had taken decades to perfect.
A few customers were still browsing, their glances flickering toward Max's impromptu display with varying degrees of curiosity and appreciation. A couple of younger guys at the running section chuckled, nudging each other with knowing looks. A middle-aged woman by the protein supplements gave an appreciative glance before returning to the shelves, trying to appear casual in her observation.
They all assumed it was just some lighthearted moment between friends or colleagues—perhaps a demonstration of proper form, or a friendly competition between fitness enthusiasts.
Only Ethan, Jase, Dylan, and Max knew the truth.
This wasn't for fun. This wasn't a joke. This was ownership, displayed in public for anyone to witness, though few would recognize what they were truly seeing.
Jase stepped forward, his eyes drinking in Max's obedience with undisguised satisfaction. He reached out, trailing his hand down Max's chest, fingers dragging over the massive pecs that stretched the polo to its structural limits.
Max froze, his breath catching in his throat. The conflict was visible on his face—the struggle between his former identity and his new reality, between resistance and surrender. The most profound aspect of this transformation was how much he loved it, how completely he had embraced this new existence despite its contradiction with everything he had previously understood about himself.
Jase leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, meant for Max alone.
"Take off your shirt."
A shudder ran through Max's substantial frame.
More customers could walk in at any moment, even his staff! The shop wasn't empty. The potential for discovery, for public humiliation, was real and immediate.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Without hesitation, Max gripped the hem of his polo and peeled it off over his head in one smooth motion.
His pecs bounced free, the sheer weight of muscle shifting with the movement, settling into their natural, magnificent state. The thick ridges of his abs flexed instinctively beneath the suddenly bright shop lighting, his skin smooth and flawless, the result of years of meticulous grooming and care.
Ethan's smirk widened at this display of complete obedience. "Good boy."
The words sent a bolt of heat through Max's chest, a physical response to verbal acknowledgment that he was fulfilling his purpose correctly.
Jase gave an approving nod, eyes raking over every inch of exposed muscle with proprietary satisfaction.
Max was bare-chested in his own shop, on display like a product to be examined.
And he never felt more at home.
Chapter 20.3 — The Gym: Public Submission
Max stood in front of the mirror, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath from the last set. He had been going heavy today—squats, deadlifts, anything that would force his glutes and legs to swell beyond their already massive proportions. His neon-yellow Lycra shorts clung to him like a desperate lover, each movement making the fabric strain audibly, warning that one wrong move could see them split at the seams. His black compression shirt had been discarded earlier in the session—removed at his owner's request, but only by the hands of a skinny, nervous gym newbie who had been sneaking glances at Max for the past twenty minutes.
The kid had hesitated at first when Max walked over, towering over him, sweat glistening down his colossal pecs. "Hey, mate—mind doing me a favor?" Max had said casually, rolling his shoulders in a movement that made every muscle in his upper body ripple beneath his skin. The kid had stared, swallowing hard, completely overwhelmed by the physical presence before him. "Take it off for me," Max had gestured to the shirt, following Ethan's earlier instructions perfectly.
Wide-eyed, the lad had reached up with trembling hands, gripping the fabric stretched taut over Max's massive chest, peeling it away like it was shrink-wrapped onto his extraordinary development. As the compression released, Max's bare, sweat-slicked torso emerged, pecs bouncing slightly as they settled into their natural, perfect roundness. The kid's face had been a mixture of awe and disbelief, his fingers lingering on the fabric as if it were some sacred relic, some connection to the physical perfection before him.
"You can keep it," Max had said, voice deep, dominant, yet containing the subtle undertone of submission that only those who truly knew him might recognize. He had smirked, watching the way the kid clutched the damp shirt like a prize possession, something to be treasured simply because it had touched Max's extraordinary body.
Now, back at the squat rack, Max felt the eyes of the gym on him—as always. But there was one pair in particular that mattered above all others. Ethan. He was here. Watching. Assessing. Max didn't need to turn his head to confirm it. He felt it, the weight of his owner's presence settling on his skin like an invisible hand, guiding him, directing him, controlling him even from a distance.
Max adjusted the loaded barbell across his broad, thick shoulders, tightening his grip before sinking into the next squat. His glutes expanded and stretched against the Lycra, the neon fabric visibly trembling from the sheer pressure of his massive muscles swelling beneath it. He pushed back up, controlling every movement, knowing Ethan was studying every inch of him, evaluating his performance not just as a lifter but as property.
Another rep. Another chance to impress.
The moment he racked the barbell, he heard it—the soft shuffle of Ethan's footsteps approaching.
A single finger traced down the deep valley between his pecs.
Max froze.
The touch was barely there, but it was enough. The humiliation of being tested in public—the thrill of being at Ethan's mercy where anyone could see—sent a lightning bolt straight through his system. He clenched his jaw, fighting the involuntary shudder that ran through his enormous frame. His body was not his own. It was Ethan's to admire, to control, to touch whenever and however he pleased.
"Good boy," Ethan murmured, just loud enough for Max to hear, not caring who else might notice this unusual dynamic between them.
Max exhaled shakily.
He was being watched. He was being tested. And he would never disobey.
Chapter 20.4 — The Chapel: Servitude in Plain Sight
The Chapel was buzzing with the kind of energy that only a Friday night could bring. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation—all of it filled the space with an electric charge, a vibrant atmosphere that made even ordinary moments feel somehow heightened and significant. But tonight wasn't just any night. Tonight, something extraordinary was unfolding before an audience entirely unaware of what they were truly witnessing.
Tonight, Dylan Kincaid was the main event.
The moment he stepped inside, heads turned with magnetic inevitability. The regulars knew why he was here—they'd seen the posters circulating for weeks on social media, on flyers pinned to the pub's bulletin board, even whispered about in private chats. Ethan, ever the manipulator, had convinced Mags that this was the best business move she could make. A kiss-o-gram, he had pitched, but with a twist.
People wouldn't just be watching Dylan.
They'd be using him.
The advertisement had been explicit in its offering while maintaining plausible deniability: Come and enjoy him. No limits. No exceptions. Dylan is yours for the night.
Jase guided him to the center of the room, every step Dylan took a slow display of his sheer size and physical magnificence. His uniform for the night—chosen by Jase with deliberate purpose—was almost scandalous in its presentation: his tightest pair of denim shorts, clinging to his colossal thighs like they had been vacuum-sealed to his skin, and a white muscle-fit t-shirt stretched to near transparency across his extraordinary chest. His entire body looked sculpted specifically for this moment, for this public offering of physical perfection.
Jase took his seat, casually sipping his pint with the air of a conductor about to command his orchestra. Then, with a smirk that contained equal parts anticipation and satisfaction, he issued the first command.
"Show them why you're here, Dylan."
Dylan turned to the crowd with practiced ease. Without hesitation, he flexed—his pecs bouncing slightly beneath the straining fabric, his biceps swelling against the sleeves of his too-tight shirt, his abs clenching into a deep, perfect grid visible even through the material. The room responded with cheers, laughter, and the first few brave hands reaching out to touch this living sculpture. A woman traced a finger down his pec, biting her lip in undisguised appreciation. A man clapped his shoulder, testing the density of muscle that seemed too solid to be real.
Then, the first kiss.
A man—probably late 20s, clearly straight but emboldened by alcohol and the festive atmosphere—grinned at his mates before stepping forward. "Screw it," he muttered, grabbing Dylan's face with both hands and pulling him into a deep, full-mouthed kiss that would have shocked his friends in any other context.
The crowd erupted in whistles and applause, the spectacle transcending ordinary boundaries of behavior.
Dylan didn't react with surprise or resistance. Didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.
He simply let it happen, accepted it, embodied his purpose.
Then another. A woman this time, blonde, mid-30s, absolutely giddy with excitement at the opportunity. She ran her hands over his abs with undisguised appreciation before pressing her lips to his, lingering, sighing against his mouth with theatric enjoyment.
The floodgates were open.
Soon, Dylan was being passed around like a prize at a raffle.
Men. Women. Some straight, some not. Some tentative and teasing, others bold and commanding. Hands raked through his hair, gripped his biceps, caressed his thick, muscular thighs, explored his colossal glutes with possessive enthusiasm. He was being consumed, enjoyed, used, owned. Just as promised in the advertisements plastered throughout the town.
And Dylan loved it. The submission was written across his handsome features, the satisfaction of fulfilling his purpose radiating from him with almost physical force.
Jase leaned back in his chair, watching the show unfold with smug satisfaction. This was better than he ever could have imagined, his control over this physical god on public display for all to see, though few understood the true nature of what they were witnessing.
But he wasn't done. Not yet.
"Take off your shirt," Jase said, his voice commanding but casual, as if he were merely suggesting another round of drinks rather than orchestrating a public spectacle.
Dylan peeled off his shirt with slow, controlled movements, revealing every inch of his godlike physique to the appreciative crowd. His pecs, his abs, the deep ridges of his obliques—everything was on display now, nothing hidden, nothing held back. Hands immediately reached out, trailing fingers down his torso, exploring the tight ridges of his body with uninhibited enthusiasm.
Then, the final step.
"Shorts too."
Dylan unbuttoned them without hesitation, sliding them down over his massive thighs until they pooled at his ankles. Now, the only thing he wore was a pair of bright orange boxer briefs, the fabric stretched so tightly across his glutes and thighs that it might as well have been painted directly onto his skin. The entire room gasped collectively—both at the sheer boldness of the act and at just how utterly perfect his physique was, how completely it transcended ordinary human development.
"Up on the bar."
Dylan obeyed without question, stepping onto a stool and hoisting himself onto the wooden counter with a fluid grace that belied his extraordinary size. The entire pub had a perfect view of him now—laid out before them like an offering, face grinning as if this were the most natural thing in the world, his body displayed for their collective appreciation.
Then, the drinks came.
Someone placed a pint on his abs. Another on his pecs. His thighs became surfaces for bottles and glasses, his massive body reduced to nothing more than a human table, a functional object for their use and amusement.
Then, a pint tipped slightly, spilling cold liquid onto his enormous pecs, the golden beer running down between the cavernous division that separated the massive slabs of muscle.
A man chuckled, "Whoops!"
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and licked it off.
The pub exploded in cheers of approval and astonishment.
Dylan didn't move. Didn't react with surprise or discomfort.
He simply existed, a possession, a plaything, a spectacle to be used.
And he had never felt more at home, more fulfilled, more aligned with his deepest purpose.
Jase smirked, finishing his drink with satisfied slowness. Dylan was his. He had been since that first day in the office.
And next?
It was time to push things even further.
