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 Investigation
The police station hummed with the quiet efficiency of a Monday afternoon—phones ringing at intermittent intervals, the soft clicking of keyboards, occasional bursts of conversation from the break room. Troy Calloway sat at his computer terminal, shoulders hunched forward, the fabric of his uniform shirt straining across his substantial back as he leaned closer to the screen. The fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows across his strong features, emphasizing the determined set of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes as they scanned the database before him.
He shouldn't be doing this. Troy knew it was against protocol to use police resources for personal investigations, but the events of the past few days had left him with a burning need for answers. The images from The Velvet Stag haunted him—Max Schett on all fours, his magnificent physique transformed into furniture, his dignity seemingly abandoned. Those neon green compression shorts, stretched to their absolute limit across glutes so impossibly developed they created their own topography beneath the straining fabric. The material had been pulled so taut it appeared translucent in places, revealing hints of the extraordinary musculature that had earned Max his reputation throughout the town.
Troy's fingers hovered over the keyboard, a momentary hesitation born not from doubt about his course but from the technical reality that every search would leave a digital footprint in the system. If someone checked the logs...
"This is a legitimate inquiry," he muttered to himself, rolling his thick shoulders to release some of the tension that had accumulated there. "Public indecency complaint. Just following procedure."
The justification rang hollow even to his own ears. A man posing shirtless on a display podium wasn't a crime. Neither was kneeling on all fours while fully clothed, no matter how provocative the clothing or how suggestive the context. But there was something happening in his town—something that felt wrong, that disrupted the natural order as Troy understood it. Men like the Schetts, with their god-like physiques and apparent disregard for social norms, couldn't just do whatever they wanted without consequences.
His fingers began typing: ETHAN.
The system whirred, processing the request, before presenting him with a message that triggered a flicker of frustration across his features: NO RECORDS FOUND.
"Damn it," Troy hissed, the words barely audible even to himself. Of course there wouldn't be anything—the database only contained information on individuals with prior arrests or official interactions with law enforcement. This "Ethan" character was operating below the radar, manipulating these muscle-bound specimens while maintaining a clean record himself.
Troy tried another approach, typing HARRY SCHETT with deliberate keystrokes.
Again, the system returned nothing.
His thick fingers drummed against the desk, a physical manifestation of his growing frustration. Only one name remained, and typing it presented a risk. If Maxwell Schett had any record at all, accessing his file would leave a digital timestamp of Troy's search. If Max were ever brought in for questioning in the future, no matter how minor the offense, that digital footprint could prove difficult to explain.
But he couldn't stop now. The need to know, to understand what was happening, overrode his professional caution.
MAXWELL SCHETT.
The screen flickered, then populated with information that sent a jolt of anticipation through Troy's substantial frame.
There it was—a record. Not the bombshell he'd hoped for, but something: a speeding ticket from three years ago. Troy clicked through to the full report, his broad chest expanding with a deep breath that tested the limits of his uniform buttons. The anticipation faded quickly as he scanned the sparse details. It was hardly the crime of the century, just a routine traffic stop for exceeding the speed limit by twelve miles per hour.
But then, a detail caught his eye—a note from the attending officer mentioning a passenger in the vehicle. Someone intoxicated who had "talked back" during the stop. The passenger wasn't charged with anything, but his name appeared in the report: Declan Kavanagh.
"Kavanagh," Troy repeated, testing the unusual surname on his tongue. No additional information was provided—no age, no address, nothing that would immediately help his investigation. But it was a lead, however tenuous.
Troy stood, his powerful thighs causing the fabric of his tactical pants to pull taut across their impressive girth. The seams strained against his substantial development as he shifted his weight, a subtle reminder of his own dedicated physical conditioning. He reached for his phone, tucked securely in his pocket, but the device was wedged tight against the dense muscle of his leg, requiring him to stand and adjust his stance to extract it.
Once freed, the phone offered a potential avenue that the official database couldn't provide. He opened Facebook, typing "Declan Kavanagh" into the search bar. Several profiles appeared, but one immediately captured his attention—a man who appeared to be in his early forties with a physique that screamed serious bodybuilder.
The profile picture showcased a torso of extraordinary proportions. A black t-shirt clung desperately to a chest that seemed engineered rather than developed, each pectoral creating a hemisphere of such impressive projection that deep shadows formed beneath their substantial overhang. The sleeves were stretched to their molecular limits around biceps that bulged with veins snaking beneath paper-thin skin. The neck of the shirt had been stretched out of shape by traps that rose like mountain ranges from impossibly broad shoulders.
"That's got to be him," Troy muttered, clicking through to examine the profile more thoroughly.
The page was a monument to physical development—photo after photo of Declan in various states of undressed display. In one image, he wore khaki green boxer briefs that appeared painted onto his lower body, the fabric strained to the point of structural failure across thighs so massively developed they forced his stance unnaturally wide. The separate heads of his quadriceps were clearly visible beneath the stretched material, creating ridges and valleys that caught light with almost artistic precision.
A video showed Declan in a blue button-down shirt, the buttons fighting a losing battle against his chest's impossible volume. As he raised his arm to flex a bicep that seemed to belong to a different species of human altogether, the sleeve's seam split with an audible rip, exposing a bulging mass of striated muscle that peaked with shocking height when fully contracted.
Troy scrolled through more content, searching for any direct connection to Max Schett, but found nothing immediately obvious. No photos together, no tagged posts, nothing to confirm that this was definitely the same Declan from the traffic stop report.
"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his short-cropped hair in frustration.
Then, on impulse, he clicked through to Declan's friends list and ran a search for "Ethan." Nothing. But as he was about to close the page, another familiar name caught his eye—Harry Schett.
"Got you," Troy whispered, satisfaction spreading through him like warmth. The connection confirmed his suspicion that this Declan was indeed the same person mentioned in Max's file. They moved in the same circles, knew the same people. It wasn't concrete evidence of anything untoward, but it was another thread in the increasingly complex tapestry he was uncovering.
He clicked through to Harry's Facebook page, which proved to be an extension of his provocative Instagram presence. The same carefully posed shots showcasing his extraordinary development, the same barely-contained physique threatening to burst from clothing deliberately chosen to emphasize rather than conceal.
But then—something new. Something that made Troy's breath catch in his throat.
A shared post from The Velvet Stag—the very image that had started Troy down this rabbit hole. Max Schett on all fours, his neon green compression shorts stretched obscenely across glutes of such extraordinary development they seemed to defy anatomical possibility. But now, Harry had added his own caption:
"Best night of my fucking life! Which item of furniture would you like to see this straight guy used as next? Answers to Ethan Thomas."
And there it was—a tagged profile. A direct link to the mysterious Ethan who had been at the center of this strange web.
Troy's heart pounded against his ribs with increased tempo as he clicked through to Ethan's page. The profile was surprisingly ordinary at first glance—a young man in his twenties with an unremarkable build, nothing like the muscle-bound specimens he appeared to associate with. But the employment section contained the information Troy had been seeking:
Current Employer: The Chapel (Bartender) Other Employment: Muscle Stud Owner
"Muscle Stud Owner," Troy repeated, the words feeling foreign on his tongue, yet somehow perfectly encapsulating what he'd witnessed. The pieces were falling into place, forming a picture that was both clearer and more disturbing than he had anticipated.
He leaned back in his chair, the furniture creaking in protest beneath his substantial weight. His mind raced with implications, with possibilities, with the next steps in his investigation. This wasn't just about public indecency anymore—this was about control, manipulation, the exploitation of men whose physical development had somehow made them vulnerable to Ethan's influence.
Troy closed the browser, clearing the history with practiced efficiency. He would need to approach this carefully, strategically. No more official searches that could be traced, no digital footprints that might alert his targets.
It was time for old-fashioned police work. Surveillance. Questioning. Building a case methodically and thoroughly.
As he stood, his uniform straining across the substantial development of his thighs and chest, Troy felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would restore order to his town, protect men like Max and Harry from whatever hold this Ethan had over them.
And he knew exactly where to start.
