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 Exhibition
The first rays of morning sunlight sliced through the gaps in the hotel curtains, casting golden bars across the plush carpet. The room was quiet save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of its four occupants—two sleeping comfortably in the king-sized bed, the other two positioned on either side serving as living furniture, their extraordinary bodies transformed into functional objects through the night.
Harry's consciousness returned slowly, dragged from the depths of slumber by the simultaneous sensations of Jase's alarm vibrating against his lower back and the electronic chime filling the room. The phone had rested there all night, nestled in the deep valley between the twin hemispheres of his glutes, charging while he maintained perfect stillness. The vibration sent an involuntary shiver racing up his spine, his extraordinary musculature responding with a ripple of movement beneath the second skin that encased him.
The deep blue latex bodysuit clung to every magnificent contour of Harry's colossal frame, hugging each extraordinary curve and swelling with obsessive dedication. The material stretched across his massive chest with such tension that it reflected light differently across the two continental shelves of his pectoral development, creating a topographical map of power beneath the gleaming surface. His obliques were perfectly defined, cutting deep channels into his sides that the latex followed with precision, emphasizing the dramatic V-taper that seemed anatomically impossible on a human frame. Lower still, the material fought a continuous battle against the monumental development of his quads, the separate muscle heads visible beneath the straining fabric as clearly as if they had been sketched by an artist with an obsession for detail.
Across the room, Dylan stirred, his golden-brown hair tousled from sleep, his face—the only part of him not encased in identical blue latex—creasing with the effort of wakefulness. During the night, he had shifted position, causing the small bedside lamp to crash to the floor with a dull thud. Even half-asleep, his conditioning had taken over; he had carefully retrieved it, positioned it back upon the wide, solid landscape of his lower back, and returned to his position of service without fully waking. The evidence of his movement was visible in the slightly crooked position of the lamp, its base nestled in the deep central groove of his spine where it met the extraordinary development of his glutes.
Ethan stirred first, his smaller frame stretching languidly beneath the plush hotel duvet. Unlike his muscled possessions, he wore simple cotton pajamas, the fabric soft and yielding against his skin. His eyes opened, immediately landing on the living nightstands that flanked the bed—his property, his conquests, his toys.
"Morning, boys," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep yet carrying the unmistakable authority that had become second nature. His gaze traveled over Harry's extraordinary form with proprietary appreciation, noting how the latex had shifted during the night, stretching even tighter across the impossible curves of his glutes, threatening to split at any moment from the pressure of containing such magnificent development.
Jase rolled over, groaning slightly as he reached for his phone, which required him to drag his fingers across the warm, firm surface of Harry's latex-covered lower back. The casual touch carried no hesitation, no request for permission—just the entitled confidence of someone handling their personal possession.
"Time to get our heroes ready," Jase announced, sitting up and stretching his arms overhead. The movement revealed his athletic torso, well-developed though nowhere near the extraordinary proportions of the muscle specimens flanking the bed.
Harry and Dylan remained motionless, waiting for permission to move, to speak, to exist beyond their functional purpose. This was the ritual they had embraced, the structure that provided a strange freedom through complete surrender.
Ethan swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet connecting with the plush carpet. He ran his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair before turning his attention fully to his living furnishings.
"Stand," he commanded simply, the word filled with quiet certainty that he would be obeyed.
Harry and Dylan responded in perfect synchronization, rising to their full heights with fluid grace that belied their substantial mass. They stood like twin sculptures, extraordinary in their different yet equally magnificent developments, the morning light catching on the blue latex that encased them from neck to toe.
Jase approached Harry, circling him with deliberate slowness, admiring how the latex had molded itself so completely to his physique during the night. His fingers traced the deep separation between Harry's pectoral masses, pressing slightly to test the extraordinary density beneath the material.
"Absolutely incredible," he murmured, genuine appreciation coloring his tone. "I don't think I've ever seen a more perfect chest."
Harry remained silent, though his skin warmed beneath the latex at the praise, an involuntary flush spreading across his body. After all these months, being appreciated, being handled, being discussed as an object of aesthetic beauty still sent waves of pleasure through his system.
Ethan turned his attention to Dylan, appreciating his slightly different but equally magnificent development. Where Harry's chest projected outward with almost architectural impossibility, Dylan's was higher, rounder, creating perfect half-spheres that strained against the blue material with magnificent tension. Ethan pressed his palms against these extraordinary mounds, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath his exploring fingers.
"I think it's time we got our toys out of their packaging," Ethan announced, his fingers finding the concealed zipper at the back of Dylan's suit. "I want one last look before we put them on display for everyone else."
The latex peeled away with tantalizing slowness, revealing inch after inch of golden, perfect skin beneath. The material released Dylan's torso first, exposing the magnificent expanse of his broad back, each muscle group perfectly defined, creating a landscape of power that caught the morning light with breathtaking beauty. As the suit continued its descent, the extraordinary development of his glutes emerged—twin perfect hemispheres of muscle so round, so densely packed, so perfectly shaped that they seemed designed rather than developed, engineered rather than grown.
Across the room, Jase performed the same service for Harry, removing the blue second skin with practiced care. The latex clung desperately to every curve, reluctant to release its extraordinary contents, but yielded to Jase's persistent fingers. Harry's body emerged like a masterpiece being unveiled, each revealed section more impressive than the last. His shoulders spread impossibly wide, his back a topographical wonder of muscle ridges and valleys. The extraordinary flare of his lats created a dramatic V-taper that emphasized the narrowness of his waist by contrast, and then—the pièce de résistance—the unveiling of his lower body, those legendary glutes that had become almost mythical in their perfect development.
Both men stood completely bare now, facing each other, their extraordinary physiques drawing in the first rays of morning sunlight like they were designed to be admired, to be worshipped, to be owned. Not a single imperfection marred their golden skin—no tan lines, no blemishes, no body hair to obscure the perfect definition of each muscle fiber. They were living statues, breathtaking in their physical perfection, magnificent in their willing submission.
Jase circled them both, eyes drinking in the extraordinary sight before him. He ran appreciative hands over Harry's chest, feeling the warm, solid mass of muscle that seemed to defy natural limitations. His fingers traced the deep central groove between the pectoral masses, then ventured lower, following the carved channels of his abdomen, appreciating the perfect symmetry of development that spoke of thousands of dedicated hours of training.
"Perfect," he murmured, the simple word containing volumes of appreciation. "Absolutely perfect."
Dylan stood equally still under Ethan's exploring touch, accepting the attention with serene compliance. Ethan's hands roamed freely over the magnificent terrain of Dylan's physique, squeezing his boulder-like shoulders, tracing the impressive sweep of his lats, admiring the extraordinary density of his thighs. The muscle beneath his fingers was warm, alive, responsive to his touch despite its impossible hardness.
"Turn," Ethan commanded, and both muscle specimens rotated in perfect synchronization, presenting their posterior development for further appreciation.
The sight was breathtaking—two pairs of glutes so extraordinarily developed they created their own gravitational pull for wandering eyes. Harry's were slightly fuller, rounder, with a deeper separation between them, while Dylan's sat higher on his frame, creating a perfect shelf that appeared to defy physics. Both were magnificent beyond conventional understanding of human development, testaments to genetic blessing enhanced by years of dedicated sculpting.
"I could stare at these all day," Jase commented, his hands cupping Harry's impossible development, feeling the perfect density, the warmth beneath his exploring fingers.
Ethan chuckled, his own hands similarly occupied with Dylan's extraordinary posterior. "We have a whole convention center of people who'll agree with you later."
The reminder of their day's purpose sent a visible shiver through both muscle specimens, a mixture of anticipation and excitement that manifested in goosebumps racing across their flawless skin.
The time had come to transform these perfect specimens into superhero fantasies.
From the hotel closet, Ethan withdrew two garment bags with reverent care. The first contained a sleek, black Batsuit, crafted from the highest quality materials but deliberately sized down to create the maximum visual impact on Harry's extraordinary frame. The second held Spiderman's iconic red and blue, similarly designed to hug Dylan's magnificent physique with indecent closeness.
"Let's get our heroes ready for their adoring public," Ethan announced, unzipping the garment bags with theatrical flourish.
Dressing these physical marvels proved a challenge that bordered on comical. The suits, deliberately undersized to maximize visual impact, fought against the sheer volume of muscle they were asked to contain. It took all four men working together to squeeze Harry into the Batsuit, the material groaning in protest as it stretched across his extraordinary chest. The cowl settled over his handsome features, transforming him while still allowing his perfect jawline to command attention.
"Bloody hell," Jase muttered as the final piece clicked into place. "You're actually too big for this."
He was right. Despite the high-quality construction, Harry's pecs strained the material so severely that a small tear appeared along one of the seams, revealing a sliver of golden skin beneath. Jase quickly addressed the issue, producing a black marker from his toiletry bag and carefully camouflaging the exposed skin with quick, precise strokes.
"There," he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "No one will notice unless they're really looking. And if they are, they'll be too distracted by everything else to care."
Dylan's transformation into Spiderman unfolded with similar difficulty, the red and blue material clinging to his extraordinary physique with determined enthusiasm. The iconic webbing pattern stretched and distorted across his massive chest, creating an almost hypnotic effect as he breathed. His thighs and glutes tested the structural integrity of the suit with every subtle movement, the material audibly protesting when he attempted a deeper breath or more extensive motion.
Once fully costumed, the two muscle gods stood side by side, their extraordinary physiques somehow both concealed and emphasized by their new skins. The superhero outfits, designed to showcase peak human condition, were stretched beyond their intended limits on frames that transcended conventional understanding of physical development. The effect was mesmerizing—fantasy made flesh, icons brought to magnificent life.
"Perfect," Ethan declared, stepping back to admire their handiwork. "Absolutely perfect."
The journey to the convention center was a carefully orchestrated operation. They had booked a private car service with tinted windows to avoid creating a spectacle on public transportation. Even so, the driver's eyes widened visibly in the rearview mirror as Harry and Dylan squeezed their extraordinary frames into the backseat, the vehicle noticeably dipping under their combined mass.
Upon arrival, they were escorted through a service entrance, sparing them the chaos of the main hall as they made final preparations. The exhibition space was impressive—high ceilings, dramatic lighting, and a specially constructed entrance display where three elevated podiums awaited their living exhibits.
And there, already positioned on the central platform, stood Byron Kelly.
The man was even more magnificent in person than in photographs. Clad in Superman's iconic blue and red, Byron's physique commanded attention with such force that even Harry and Dylan paused momentarily to absorb the impact of his presence. The suit hugged every extraordinary curve and swell of his development, the material gleaming under the exhibition lighting, highlighting the impossible proportions that had made him famous worldwide.
His chest strained the emblematic "S" shield to its structural limits, the fabric stretched so completely across his pectoral development that it appeared painted rather than worn. His shoulders spread impossibly wide, tapering to a narrow waist that emphasized the dramatic V-shape of his torso. But it was his lower half that truly distinguished him—thighs so massively developed they forced his stance naturally wide, and glutes that projected from his frame with such perfect roundness they appeared to defy conventional anatomical possibility.
Ethan and Jase approached first, greeting Byron with the enthusiasm of long-time fans finally meeting their idol. Their handshakes transformed smoothly into hugs, allowing them their first tactile appreciation of the Australian model's extraordinary development.
"Welcome to our little show," Ethan said, his hands lingering perhaps longer than strictly necessary on Byron's impossibly solid arms.
Jase didn't even attempt subtlety, his hands sliding immediately to Byron's legendary posterior, feeling the extraordinary density beneath the blue material. The fabric was pulled so taut it appeared almost translucent in places, revealing hints of the perfect musculature it struggled to contain.
Byron laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused. "You blokes don't waste any time, do you?" His Australian accent added another layer of charm to his already magnetic presence.
Ethan stretched up, his smaller frame requiring him to stand on tiptoes to reach Byron's ear. His hands roamed brazenly up the thick slabs of muscle that formed Byron's chest, feeling the extraordinary development beneath his fingertips. "You have no idea, Aussie stud," he whispered, his voice carrying promises of experiences yet to come.
Jase turned, beckoning Harry and Dylan forward from where they had been observing the exchange. "Come meet our third exhibit."
The two muscle gods moved with measured grace, their constrained mobility adding a certain majesty to their approach. Each step caused the material of their costumes to strain audibly, threatening structural failure with every movement.
As they reached for Byron's extended hand, Jase interrupted the conventional greeting with sharp slaps to both their extraordinary posteriors. The sound resonated through the space, a sharp crack against the dense muscle beneath tight fabric.
"You can do better than that," Jase admonished, his voice carrying clear expectation. "Show our guest proper appreciation."
Harry and Dylan exchanged a brief glance, perfect understanding passing between them. Without hesitation, they moved as one, enveloping Byron in a three-way embrace that brought their extraordinary physiques into direct contact. Their hands roamed freely over the Australian's magnificent development, exploring every curve and swell beneath his costume with appreciative enthusiasm.
Harry pressed closer, his latex-covered chest meeting Byron's, creating a tableau of physical perfection that seemed almost unreal in its magnificence. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned in, pressing his lips against Byron's in a greeting that transcended conventional welcome. Dylan mirrored the action, his kiss following Harry's with perfect timing, a choreographed display of submission and appreciation.
Byron remained motionless during this unusual greeting, his magnificent body absorbing their attention like a living statue. His expression registered surprise that quickly transformed into pleasure as he accepted their worship with the grace of someone accustomed to admiration yet still capable of being moved by it.
"Alright, gentlemen," Ethan announced, clapping his hands to reclaim their attention. "Time to take your positions. The doors open in five minutes."
The three muscle gods separated reluctantly, each moving to their designated podium. Byron took the central position, befitting his status as the convention's featured guest. Dylan stood to his left, the red and blue of his Spiderman costume creating a perfect visual balance with Byron's Superman. Harry took his place on the right, the dark severity of Batman completing the iconic trinity of superheroes.
They stood tall, magnificent in their costumed splendor, physical specimens so extraordinary they transcended the fictional characters they portrayed. Each breathed deeply, centered themselves, prepared for the hours of display ahead. This wasn't merely exhibition—it was performance, service, the fulfillment of deep-seated needs that had become central to their identities.
The convention doors opened with a mechanical hum, and the first wave of attendees flooded in. The reaction was immediate and visceral—conversations halted mid-sentence, footsteps faltered, gasps echoed through the space as people registered the physical perfection displayed before them.
"Welcome to Hero Experience," announced a staff member through a microphone. "Our three superhero models are available for photos, and yes—touching is permitted with their consent. Please be respectful but don't be shy!"
What followed was a tsunami of attention unlike anything even Harry and Dylan had experienced before. Hundreds of hands reached for them throughout the day, exploring their extraordinary development with varying degrees of boldness. Some approached tentatively, requesting permission with shy smiles before placing hesitant fingers on bulging biceps or straining pecs. Others, emboldened by the explicit permission and the example of those before them, grabbed with confident enthusiasm, squeezing, gripping, assessing the impossible density of muscle that defied conventional understanding.
Harry's body hummed with satisfaction as he was touched, handled, positioned for countless photographs. One particularly bold woman, probably in her forties, pressed herself against his side, her hands roaming freely over the extraordinary landscape of his torso, feeling the ridges and valleys of muscle beneath the tight material.
"My God," she breathed, genuine awe coloring her voice. "You can't be real."
Harry smiled beneath the cowl, maintained his heroic pose without speaking, allowing her to continue her exploration without interruption. Her hands ventured lower, finding the legendary development of his glutes, squeezing with appreciative enthusiasm that sent pleasant shivers racing through his system.
Across the display, Dylan was receiving similar attention, his red and blue costume becoming a beacon that drew hands like magnets. A group of young men surrounded him, their expressions conveying disbelief even as their fingers confirmed the reality of his development. They positioned him for photos, their hands lingering on his extraordinary physique with each adjustment, their touch conveying appreciation that transcended conventional admiration.
Between them, Byron experienced a new dimension of his usual fame. Accustomed to being admired from a distance, to being desired but rarely touched, the explicit permission granted to these convention-goers created an entirely new experience. His magnificent body, so meticulously maintained, so perfectly proportioned, was now being handled with direct appreciation rather than merely observed.
A middle-aged man approached him with reverent steps, eyes wide with disbelief even as he reached out to place his hands on Byron's impossibly developed chest. The "S" shield stretched beneath his exploring fingers, the material straining as it attempted to contain the extraordinary muscle beneath.
"I've followed you for years," the man admitted, his voice tinged with emotional gratitude. "Thank you for letting us experience this."
Byron nodded, his handsome features arranging themselves into the practiced expression of gracious acknowledgment he had perfected through years of public appearances. But beneath that professional mask, something shifted—a recognition, a realization that this form of surrender carried its own unique pleasure. His body responded to the constant attention with growing enthusiasm, creating a visible reaction beneath the tight material of his costume that mirrored the similar states of Harry and Dylan beside him.
The hours passed in a blur of hands, cameras, and whispered appreciation. What might have been exhausting instead became energizing, each touch reinforcing their purpose, each gasp of amazement feeding something primal within them. They were being used exactly as they were meant to be—as objects of desire, as vessels of fantasy, as physical perfection made accessible for others' pleasure.
By mid-afternoon, even Byron—the most practiced of the three in maintaining public composure—was betraying signs of being affected by the constant stimulation. His breathing had deepened, his skin flushed with a warm glow beneath his natural tan, and the evidence of his physical response strained the front of his costume with increasing insistence. He caught Ethan's eye across the room, his expression conveying something between surprise and revelation.
Ethan merely smirked, nodding slightly as if to say, "Now you understand."
And Byron did understand. He understood why Harry and Dylan had surrendered to this existence, why they had abandoned conventional dignity for the pure pleasure of being used, admired, possessed. He understood the freedom found in submission, the liberation in becoming an object of desire rather than merely a person who was desired.
As the day's exhibition drew to a close and the staff began ushering the final attendees toward the exits, Byron leaned slightly toward Harry, his voice low enough that only his fellow exhibit could hear.
"Does it always feel like this?" he asked, curiosity mingling with something deeper in his tone.
Harry's lips curved into a knowing smile beneath the Batman cowl. "Better," he promised, his voice rough from hours of silence. "So much better when you fully surrender."
Byron exhaled slowly, processing this information with serious consideration. His eyes tracked Ethan and Jase as they approached, their expressions conveying satisfaction and anticipation in equal measure.
"Excellent work today, gentlemen," Ethan announced, his fingers trailing appreciatively over the three extraordinary physiques before him. "But the real show is just beginning."
The convention center lights dimmed around them, staff clearing the final stragglers from the exhibition hall, leaving the three muscle gods alone with their handlers. Jase stepped forward, producing a small key that unlocked a private door behind their display.
"We've arranged something special," he explained, ushering the tired but intrigued exhibits through the doorway. "A private session. Just the five of us."
Byron hesitated for just a moment, standing on the threshold between his familiar world of distant admiration and this new realm of intimate possession. His extraordinary physique caught the fading exhibition lights, the Superman costume gleaming against his perfect skin, the material still straining to contain the evidence of his enthusiasm for what lay ahead.
Then, with deliberate purpose, he stepped through the doorway.
Into surrender.
Into freedom.
Into worship and control.
