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 Velvet Stag - A Night of Worship
The Velvet Stag was packed. The air buzzed with a charged energy, a mix of heavy basslines from the speakers and the excited murmurs of the crowd. Rainbow-colored lights swept across the dense sea of bodies, illuminating expectant faces and glistening skin. It wasn't unusual for a Friday night, but tonight was something different. Tonight, two gods among men had walked through the doors, and every head in the room had turned as though pulled by magnetic force.
Harry Schett and Dylan Kincaid had arrived.
They stepped inside like they owned the place, yet they both knew their purpose tonight was to be owned—to be admired, used, and displayed like the masterpieces they were. Their outfits were chosen for maximum impact, calculated to draw eyes and hands alike.
Harry wore a pair of neon-green Lycra shorts that defied the laws of physics. The material clung like a second skin, stretching across the massive sweep of his quadriceps with such determination that individual muscle fibers were visible beneath the straining fabric. Each step he took caused the material to shift and pull, highlighting the extraordinary development of his lower body. His magenta crop top was just as bold, its hem barely reaching his lower pecs, leaving his deep-cut abs fully visible—eight perfect blocks of muscle arranged in symmetrical precision, each one casting its own shadow in the club's dramatic lighting. The contrast between the vivid colors and his golden tan created a visual spectacle that commanded attention from every corner of the room.
Dylan had gone for something even more audacious. Electric-blue spray-on shorts emphasized the massive sweep of his thighs, the fabric so tight it appeared painted directly onto his skin. The material creaked audibly with each step, strained beyond its intended capacity by the sheer volume of muscle it attempted to contain. His white mesh tank top left nothing to the imagination, revealing the extraordinary landscape of his torso through strategic transparency. The harsh club lighting highlighted every ridge and valley of his physique, creating a topographical map of physical perfection that had clearly required thousands of hours of dedicated effort to achieve.
The moment they stepped forward, the crowd responded with a collective intake of breath. Men reached out instinctively, hands brushing against biceps, pecs, and abs, unable to stop themselves from confirming that what they were seeing was actually real, that flesh could indeed be developed to such extraordinary proportions. A few already had their phones out, snapping photos, eager to capture the sheer beauty standing before them, to preserve this moment of encountering physical specimens that defied conventional understanding of human development.
Jase leaned against the bar, watching it all unfold, his smirk barely contained. This was exactly what he had planned. Harry was falling deeper into the role Jase had carefully crafted for him, the transformation from self-admirer to willing object progressing exactly on schedule.
The Show Begins
"Well, boys," Jase said, stepping forward with two drinks in hand, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as he navigated through the press of bodies. "Time to give the people what they came for."
He handed them each a shot, the small glasses almost disappearing in their massive hands. Harry smirked and threw his back without hesitation, the strong liquor burning a path down his throat. He could feel dozens of eyes on him, soaking him in, waiting for him to make a move, to give some indication that what they were witnessing was real and available for their appreciation.
He turned to the nearest guy, a slim man in his early thirties with sharp cheekbones and a tight black shirt, and flashed his signature cocky grin, the one that had been melting hearts and dropping jaws since his late teens.
"See something you like?" Harry teased, flexing his insane pecs, making them bounce with effortless control, each mound of muscle moving independently under his complete command.
The man blushed but couldn't resist reaching out, pressing his palms against Harry's solid chest. The sensation of unyielding mass beneath his fingers drew an involuntary gasp. "Holy shit, mate," he breathed, eyes wide with wonder. "It's like steel."
Dylan was already in his element, surrounded by eager admirers who traced the deep cuts of his abs with reverent fingers, marveling at the impossibly wide spread of his lats that tapered to a narrow waist in defiance of anatomical norms. The air around him was electric with anticipation, with the collective desire to explore this living monument to physical perfection.
A hand gripped his massive shoulder, fingers sinking slightly into the dense muscle, and a voice murmured close to his ear, "Can I kiss you?"
Dylan didn't hesitate. He turned to the man—a bearded, muscular guy in his forties—and leaned in, pressing their lips together, slow and deep, allowing himself to be devoured. His surrender was complete, his body yielding to the stranger's desire with practiced ease.
Harry, watching from the corner of his eye, felt a rush of something unexpectedly powerful. The sight of Dylan submitting so completely, of offering himself without reservation, triggered an answering resonance within him, a recognition of something he had always known but never acknowledged. Dylan was right. This was incredible.
So, when another man—a broad, stocky guy with thick arms crossing an equally solid chest—stepped closer and said, "How about me?" Harry didn't even think twice.
"Depends," Harry said, licking his lips with deliberate slowness. "You think you can handle me?"
The man grabbed Harry's jaw, pulling him in for a kiss that was just as hungry as Dylan's. The bar exploded into cheers, the crowd growing bolder, hands roaming freely over both men's sculpted bodies. Fingers explored the extraordinary sweep of Harry's lats, the impossible breadth of his shoulders, the deep ridges of his abs that seemed carved from marble rather than developed through human effort.
Living Statues of Worship
It wasn't long before Jase upped the stakes.
"Alright," he called out, signaling the bartender, Mick, whose ownership of The Velvet Stag granted him final authority over the events unfolding in his establishment. "I think it's time for the main event."
Mick grinned, wiping a glass with a towel in a gesture that seemed almost cinematic in its timing. "What're you thinking, Jase?"
Jase pointed at the bar, his expression that of a director about to film the perfect scene. "Let's make some space."
The bartenders quickly cleared an entire section, glasses and bottles removed with practiced efficiency, creating a stage for what was about to unfold. The moment the counter was empty, Jase turned to Harry and Dylan, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Boys," he said smoothly, the word carrying the weight of command beneath its casual surface. "You know what to do."
Harry and Dylan knew exactly what was coming—they had both watched the video of Dylan's night at The Chapel over and over again, studying it like athletes reviewing game footage. This was the moment. The culmination of the evening, the transformation from participants to centerpieces.
Dylan climbed onto the bar first, moving with the grace of a trained performer despite his substantial mass. His extraordinary physique seemed to flow rather than merely move, each muscle group engaging in perfect coordination. As he positioned himself, he peeled off his mesh tank in one fluid motion, tossing it into the crowd with casual confidence. It disappeared instantly into a sea of reaching hands, claimed as a trophy by someone who would treasure it long after this night ended.
Then, he lay down face down, his massive chest pressing against the polished wood, his arms folded beneath his chin in a position of complete surrender. He flexed his immense glutes, making them impossible to ignore, the blue fabric stretched so tight across their curves that it appeared on the verge of molecular failure. Hands were immediately on him, gripping, squeezing, worshiping the extraordinary development that defied conventional understanding of human anatomy.
Harry, watching from the floor, felt something snap inside him. A barrier breaking, a new understanding emerging. He wanted that. Wanted to feel what Dylan was feeling, to experience the surrender, the worship, the pure animal pleasure of being handled and admired.
He climbed onto the bar with fluid grace that belied his substantial size, matching Dylan's confidence, his movements carrying the same assurance of someone who knew exactly their place in the world. He let Jase and Mick peel off his crop top, the fabric surrendering to their hands, leaving him in just his tiny neon-green shorts that concealed nothing and revealed everything.
The moment he lay face-up, the crowd descended.
Hands dragged over his abs, fingers brushing his impossibly defined obliques that cut deep channels along the sides of his torso. Someone pressed a pint glass onto his ridged stomach, balancing it carefully before taking a drink, the cold glass contrasting with the heat of his skin.
"Perfect table," a voice murmured appreciatively, and Harry thrilled at the words.
He let his head tilt back, breathing in the pure euphoria of the moment. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the massive slabs of his pectoral muscles shifting with tectonic force. The sensation of being touched by so many hands at once—some tentative, some bold, some reverent, some possessive—created a symphony of physical sensation that overwhelmed his nervous system with pleasure.
Then, Jase stepped forward, holding up two pairs of matching neon-magenta boxer briefs.
"You know the rules, lads," he said, his voice a low command that carried despite the noise of the room.
Without hesitation, Harry and Dylan sat up, peeling down their shorts with synchronized movements. The crowd held its collective breath, anticipation crackling through the air like electricity. They weren't told to do this, weren't forced. They wanted this. Craved it with an intensity that should have been frightening but instead felt like liberation.
They lay back down, now clad only in the vibrant, skin-tight boxer briefs, their bodies displayed like living sculptures. The crowd erupted in cheers that echoed through the room, bouncing off walls and ceilings, creating a feedback loop of appreciation and euphoria.
For the next hour, the bar became their stage.
Dylan, face-down, his glutes never free of adoring hands that explored, squeezed, patted, and worshiped. His back a landscape of extraordinary development, each muscle group clearly defined, separations so deep they cast their own shadows under the bar's dramatic lighting.
Harry, face-up, his pecs and abs used as the centerpiece for a human bar, as drinks were placed, spilled, and licked off his sculpted torso. The cool liquid running across his heated skin sent shivers through his massive frame, while the sensation of tongues lapping it up triggered waves of pleasure that radiated from the point of contact.
Each time he felt a glass touch his rock-hard body, he smiled, knowing he had never felt more worshipped in his life.
And for the first time, he understood.
This wasn't just fun. This wasn't just attention. This was who he was meant to be.
As Jase watched from the crowd, a knowing smirk on his face, it was clear—Harry Schett was finally falling.
And he wasn't going to stop.
