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)!
It's Time
The Chapel was dimly lit, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air with a comforting ambiance. Amber light from vintage fixtures cast a warm glow across wooden tables, illuminating faces in golden hues that softened the edges of reality. It was a Thursday night—not too busy, but not dead either. The perfect environment for what was about to happen, the ideal setting for a transformation to be acknowledged.
Max walked in exactly as instructed, his entrance creating an immediate ripple through the space. He was dressed in his night out uniform—skin-tight denim shorts that clung to his extraordinary lower body with such determination they appeared painted directly onto his skin. Each step caused the fabric to strain audibly, threatening surrender at any moment. His royal blue t-shirt stretched to its absolute limit across his monumental pecs, the fibers visibly straining to contain their impossible volume. The neckline was cut just deep enough to expose the thick striations of his colossal chest, revealing valleys of muscle that seemed carved rather than developed. His quads flexed involuntarily with every step, the separate heads of muscle visible beneath the straining denim, creating a walking display of physical perfection that commanded attention without effort. Heads turned as he made his way toward his owners, conversations pausing mid-sentence, glasses halting halfway to lips.
Jase and Ethan sat in their usual booth, backs against the leather seating, watching him with satisfied amusement. The contrast between them was striking—Ethan's slighter frame and Jase's athletic build seemed almost ordinary in comparison to what approached, yet their expressions carried an authority that transcended physical development. They didn't wave, didn't call out—just waited with the patient confidence of men who knew their property was coming to them. Max wasn't here as their equal, and they wanted him to understand that with every fiber of his being.
Max reached the table, his massive frame casting shadows across its surface. He looked down at them expectantly, his posture perfect despite the extraordinary mass he carried.
"Good evening Sirs," he said, nodding his head as if addressing royalty, his deep voice carrying the respectful tone of someone who had accepted his place.
"Sit," Ethan ordered simply, the single word carrying unmistakable authority despite his smaller stature.
Max slid into the seat between them, the booth creaking audibly in protest against his substantial weight. His thick quads barely fit beneath the table, the wood pressing against them as he tried to position himself in the limited space. He shifted, attempting to find comfort, but Jase placed a hand on his thigh, pressing down firmly—a silent reminder of who was in control, who made the decisions about Max's comfort or discomfort.
Max didn't flinch. Not anymore. The rush of submission hit him like a drug, flooding his system with a warmth that radiated from the point of contact outward, settling low in his abdomen with pleasant weight.
Ethan took a slow sip of his rosé wine, then rested his elbow on the back of the booth, his fingers drifting lazily over Max's enormous shoulders, tracing the deep muscle grooves that defined each separate development. The casual possession in the touch conveyed volumes about their dynamic, each stroke a reminder of ownership.
Jase, on the other side, ran a hand down Max's arm, squeezing his unreal bicep, feeling the sheer size of it under his grip. The muscle barely yielded to the pressure, solid and warm beneath his exploring fingers.
Max didn't react. He didn't need to.
There was nothing to react to—this was who he was now. Their hands on his body, the way they possessed him in public, the way Ethan's fingers danced over his pecs, just grazing his nipples under the fabric—it was all just normal now. A fact of his existence rather than an extraordinary circumstance.
The only part of him that reacted was his thighs, the subtle flexing between them betraying just how much he loved being handled like this. His body responding with an honesty his composed expression tried to conceal.
Jase finally spoke, voice calm, deliberate, commanding.
"We need to talk about Troy."
Max swallowed, his throat working visibly beneath his perfect jawline.
"That dickhead cop?" Ethan chimed in, rolling his eyes with theatrical disdain.
Jase nodded, his expression carrying a seriousness that contrasted with their usual dynamic. "Yeah. He came into your shop, made a scene, embarrassed you."
Max frowned, his brow creasing with genuine confusion. He hadn't been embarrassed—he had loved it. Being called out, put on display, humiliated for his body. The memory sent a pleasant shiver through his substantial frame, though he kept this reaction carefully contained. But he didn't say that, didn't contradict Jase's interpretation.
Jase continued, voice low, intimate despite their public setting. "Thing is, Maxy Muscle Boy… you need to make sure this never happens again. You need to come out."
Max's heart skipped a beat, the rhythm faltering momentarily before racing ahead.
He turned to Jase, confused, a flicker of fear flashing in his eyes, his composure cracking for the first time.
"Come out? But I—I'm not gay," he stammered, the words emerging with unexpected vulnerability from a man whose physical presence suggested nothing but strength and confidence.
Jase and Ethan exchanged a glance—they were expecting this, had anticipated this resistance.
Ethan smirked, swirling his drink before setting it down with deliberate care. He leaned in, his voice smooth, teasing, carrying none of Max's uncertainty.
"No one said you were, Maxy."
Max still looked rattled, his extraordinary chest rising and falling with slightly elevated breathing, the fabric of his shirt shifting with each inhale.
Jase placed a firm hand on his thick, exposed thigh, fingers pressing into the solid muscle with reassuring pressure.
"This isn't about being gay, Max," Jase said, his tone gentling slightly though the authority remained. "It's about who you really are. It's about what you exist for. You think we don't know?" He squeezed, almost reassuringly. "You were made to be used. Made to be controlled. You're a muscle toy, Maxy."
Max felt his stomach flip, a physical reaction to emotional truth. His skin tingled with recognition, with the relief of being seen, truly seen.
Because they were right.
This was what he had always been, what he had always craved beneath the carefully constructed façade of confident masculinity.
Ethan ran his fingers down Max's pecs, the touch deliberate and possessive, then flicked the neckline of his compression top, letting it snap back against his perfect skin.
"You're too beautiful to hide this," Ethan whispered, the compliment delivered with the casualness of stating an obvious fact rather than offering praise.
Max swallowed, staring down at his drink, the amber liquid catching light from the bar's fixtures.
"I—I don't know…" His voice wavered, uncertainty bleeding through despite his attempt at composure.
"You do," Jase interrupted, brooking no argument. "You do know."
Max exhaled sharply, fingers gripping the edge of the table, knuckles whitening with pressure. He wanted this. He needed this. The acknowledgment, the freedom of living his truth openly rather than behind closed doors and drawn shutters.
But then a name slipped from his lips, his only hesitation left in the world.
"What about Harry?"
Jase and Ethan stilled, the question hanging between them with sudden weight.
Max lifted his gaze, eyes pleading, conflicted, desperate. His massive shoulders, capable of carrying extraordinary weights in the gym, seemed momentarily burdened by something heavier than physical resistance. "He's my son. What if he… what if he stops talking to me?"
Silence settled over them, heavy with implication.
Then—a shift in the air, a change in energy.
Jase leaned in, lips just beside Max's ear, his breath warm against his skin, carrying words meant only for him.
"Maxy…" Jase whispered, the diminutive name both affectionate and controlling. "You and Harry have more in common than you realize."
Max's chest tightened, the extraordinary development beneath his shirt suddenly feeling constraining rather than powerful.
His mouth went dry, anticipation building with physical intensity.
Jase pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow, patronizing, owning. The gesture domestic yet dominant, intimate yet controlling.
Max turned, searching Jase's eyes, needing more. More answers. More certainty. More guidance through this transformation.
But Jase just smirked and squeezed his thigh again, the pressure a promise without words.
Ethan, watching the moment unfold with calculating eyes, finally leaned in and whispered, his usual smirk playing on his lips.
"He's right, Maxy Muscle Boy." Then, he blew Max a kiss, the gesture both mocking and affectionate.
Max's entire body burned with undeniable truth, heat spreading through his massive frame, settling into a certainty that couldn't be ignored.
He reached for his beer, gulped down a mouthful, and stretched both his enormous arms around Jase and Ethan's shoulders. The movement caused his shirt to ride up slightly, exposing a strip of perfectly defined abdomen, each muscle block clearly visible beneath golden skin.
Without another word, he kissed them both on the cheek, then pulled back and murmured, voice steady, certain, powerful—
"Thank you… for owning me."
Ethan smiled, satisfaction radiating from him.
Jase smiled, pride evident in his expression.
They raised their glasses, the gesture ceremonial despite its simplicity.
"To Maxy Muscle Boy."
The world was about to know who Maxwell Schett truly was.
