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)!
Concerns and Confessions
The Tuesday afternoon sun streamed through the gym's high windows, casting long rectangles of light across the polished floor. Harry Schett was midway through his shoulder routine, his colossal frame dominating the mirror as he performed a set of lateral raises with dumbbells that would have challenged most men for a bench press. Sweat glistened on his silky, flawless complexion with its sun-kissed warmth, highlighting the extraordinary definition of muscle that seemed hewn from living marble rather than formed through conventional training. His white compression tank—deliberately undersized—adhered with scientific precision to every extraordinary contour of his torso, the fabric stretched so completely across his chest that the manufacturer's logo had distorted beyond recognition.
George watched from across the room, observing the younger man with the critical eye of a stepfather who had known him since he was a small child. Harry's development had always been exceptional, but in recent months, it seemed to have intensified—not just physically, but in the deliberate way he displayed himself, the increasing provocativeness of his attire, the growing comfort with being touched and handled by others.
The social media post from The Velvet Stag had been the final confirmation of something George had suspected for some time. The image of Max on all fours, being used as human furniture while Harry supported the other end of the arrangement, had circulated widely enough that George had received concerned texts from several mutual friends.
Taking a deep breath, George crossed the gym floor, his own substantial—though nowhere near Harry's extraordinary—development moving with athletic grace beneath his sensible training gear. At 46, George maintained a physique that would have impressed in almost any context except next to the Schett men, whose genetics seemed to operate on a different scale of possibility.
"Mind if I work in?" George asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual.
Harry looked up, flashing that megawatt smile that had been making hearts flutter since his teens. "Course not," he replied, stepping aside with fluid grace despite his massive proportions. His thighs, each one larger around than George's waist, brushed against each other with that distinctive whispering friction of muscle against muscle that had become Harry's signature soundtrack when he moved.
They worked through several sets in companionable silence, the only sounds their controlled breathing and the gentle clink of metal against metal. George waited until Harry was between sets, his massive chest expanding with deep recovery breaths, before broaching the subject.
"Saw an interesting photo the other day," he began, maintaining a deliberately neutral tone. "You and your dad at The Velvet Stag. Some kind of furniture arrangement?"
Harry's reaction was nothing like what George expected. Instead of embarrassment or defensive posturing, a slow, satisfied smile spread across his handsome features. He placed the dumbbells back on the rack with careful precision, the movement causing his shoulders to bunch and roll beneath his skin like tectonic plates shifting.
"Yeah," Harry confirmed, his voice carrying unmistakable pride. "Pretty incredible night."
George blinked, momentarily thrown by the enthusiastic response. "Harry," he began, searching for the right words, "what exactly is going on with you and Max lately? I mean, you've always been close, but this seems..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one hand.
Harry's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of contemplation passing across his perfect features. He glanced around, confirming they had reasonable privacy, before turning to face George fully.
"We've both discovered something about ourselves," Harry explained, his voice dropping to ensure privacy despite the gym's ambient noise. "Something that feels right. Something that makes us complete."
George's brow furrowed, concern evident in his expression. "Are you two... I mean, is this some kind of relationship beyond father and son?" The question emerged with genuine confusion rather than judgment.
Harry laughed, the sound rippling through his massive chest, causing his pecs to bounce beneath the stretched fabric. "God no!" he exclaimed, genuine amusement in his tone. "It's not about attraction between us. It's about what we both are. What we're for."
"What you're for?" George repeated, confusion deepening the lines around his eyes.
Harry nodded, reaching for his water bottle. His bicep flexed as he raised it to his lips, the muscle swelling to dimensions that would have made anatomical textbooks obsolete, the peak rising like a mountain beneath his skin. The bottle itself seemed comically small in his massive hand, like a child's toy clutched by an adult.
"We're made to be used, George. To be owned. To be directed." The words emerged with such serene certainty that George found himself momentarily speechless. "It's not sexual. It's about purpose. About surrender."
George exhaled slowly, trying to process this unexpected revelation. "So, what—you're saying you and Max are submissives? Is this some BDSM thing?"
Harry shook his head, his expression suggesting he was searching for the right explanation. "It's not exactly that. It's about being objectified. About being property. Being furniture isn't just a game—it's a recognition of what we truly are."
George's eyes widened slightly. "Property? Harry, you can't be serious. You're not someone's property. You're a grown man with your own life."
A serene smile spread across Harry's face. "That's where you're wrong, George. I belong to them now. The bartender at The Chapel and my best friend. They own us. They direct us." The calm acceptance in his voice was almost more disturbing to George than the content of his words.
"Harry, listen to yourself," George urged, genuine concern coloring his tone. "You're a grown man. A man with a body most people would kill for. You're not someone's property."
Harry's smile never faltered. If anything, it deepened, reaching his eyes with genuine warmth. "That's exactly why it's so perfect, George. All this—" he gestured to his extraordinary physique, his hand sweeping across the expanse of his chest, which projected outward from his frame with such dramatic volume that it created a perpetual eclipse over the chiseled landscape of his midsection, "—exists to be used. To be owned. To be directed by those strong enough to control it."
George shook his head in disbelief. "And your dad feels the same way? Max Schett, the most alpha guy I've ever known, is happy to be 'owned'?"
"He's more into it than I am, if that's possible," Harry confirmed, the casual revelation landing with startling impact. "It's like we've both found what we've been searching for all along without knowing it."
"Are you two bisexual? Is that what this is about?" George asked, his confusion evident.
Harry laughed again, genuine amusement lighting his features. "No, not at all. It's not about attraction to men. Neither of us is romantically or sexually attracted to men. It's about the feeling of being an object. The gender of who's doing the using doesn't matter—it's the objectification itself that we crave."
George ran a hand through his hair, struggling to reconcile this information with the men he thought he knew. "And you're happy with this arrangement? Truly?"
Harry's expression softened into something George had rarely seen—pure, genuine contentment. "I've never been happier, George. I've found my place in the world. Who I'm meant to be. What I'm meant for. And sharing it with Dad, with Dylan—it's incredible."
George nodded slowly, processing this unexpected revelation. "Alright," he said finally. "As long as you're happy. But if anything ever feels wrong, or if you ever need to talk..."
Harry reached out, his massive hand engulfing George's shoulder with gentle pressure. "I appreciate the concern. Really. But this is right. This is me." The absolute certainty in his voice left no room for argument.
Thursday evening found Max at The Chapel, perched on a bar stool that seemed woefully inadequate for his magnificent proportions. The wooden seat disappeared completely beneath the extraordinary development of his glutes, the twin globes of dense muscle spilling over the edges of the circular surface like bread rising beyond the confines of its pan. His massive thighs splayed outward, forced wide by their sheer volume, creating a base that was actually larger than if he had pushed two stools together. The visual effect was almost comical—as if an adult had attempted to sit on a child's furniture, the wooden structure threatening to tip with each slight shift of his substantial weight.
He'd chosen his attire with characteristic attention to detail—dark blue jeans so tight they negotiated an impossible compromise with his thighs, stretching beyond engineering specifications to accommodate their volume. The denim mapped his muscles with cartographic precision, creating a textile atlas of physical perfection. The seams along the outer sweep of his thighs appeared moments from submission, the stitching stressed beyond its intended capacity.
His upper body was showcased in a deep burgundy t-shirt that succumbed to the irresistible force of his development, transforming from concealment to exhibition. The material surrendered to the topography of his chest, each fiber stretched to its molecular limits across the continental shelf of his pecs. Each subtle movement sent ripples of tension through the material, threatening structural failure with every breath. The sleeves had yielded to his biceps, retreating up his arms in textile surrender to expose the lower sweep of muscle that bulged with mouthwatering fullness even at rest. Three buttons at the neckline had been strategically left undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the deep valley between his pectoral masses, a canyon so pronounced it cast its own shadow in the bar's warm lighting.
Ethan moved behind the bar with practiced efficiency, his slim frame creating a dramatic contrast to Max's colossal proportions. Where Max commanded space through sheer physical presence, Ethan navigated it with nimble precision, his movements those of someone who understood exactly how much room he occupied. Yet despite his modest stature—his entire torso could have fit comfortably within the expanse of one of Max's thighs, his body weight likely less than what Max could curl with one arm—he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly who and what belonged to him.
Whenever Ethan passed behind Max, his hands found reasons to make contact—straightening a glass near Max's elbow, thereby brushing against the massive forearm that rested on the bar; reaching for bottles on shelves, allowing his slim fingers to trail across the extraordinary breadth of Max's shoulders; wiping down the counter, his movements bringing him close enough to press momentarily against the solid wall of Max's chest. Each touch carried proprietary familiarity, casual yet deliberate, reinforcing ownership without explicit declaration.
Max wasn't the only one receiving attention. Throughout the evening, other patrons found excuses to make contact—a hand brushing his shoulder when reaching for a drink, fingers grazing his lower back when squeezing past to the restroom, palms momentarily resting on the perfect curve of his glutes when navigating the limited space around the bar. None of these touches lingered long enough to constitute harassment, yet their frequency and deliberateness suggested organized appreciation rather than coincidental contact.
After the third such "accidental" grope, Max caught Ethan's eye, a knowing smirk playing across his handsome features.
"Is this your doing?" he asked, nodding toward a middle-aged woman who had just squeezed his bicep with unconcealed appreciation while ordering a gin and tonic.
Ethan merely winked, his lips curling into a smile that admitted everything while confirming nothing. The simple gesture—from a man whose entire head was smaller than Max's right pec—somehow carried more authority than any verbal response could have managed.
The door swung open, bringing with it a gust of evening air and the unmistakable presence of Harry Schett. Heads turned automatically, conversations paused mid-sentence as collective attention shifted to the physical anomaly that had just entered their midst. Harry's extraordinary dimensions seemed to alter the very proportions of the room, making ordinary furniture and regular-sized patrons appear undersized by comparison.
He'd selected an outfit that balanced provocative display with casual sophistication—light grey jeans that became a reluctant documentarian of his physique, recording every extraordinary dimension under duress. The denim stretched to absolute limits across thighs so massively developed they forced his stance unnaturally wide. The separate heads of his quadriceps were clearly visible beneath the straining material, creating ridges that caught light with artistic precision. The jeans tapered slightly toward his ankles, emphasizing the dramatic flare of his leg development and drawing attention to the substantial weight of his glutes—twin perfect hemispheres that projected out from his frame with architectural impossibility.
His forest green shirt—a shade that emphasized the platinum blonde of his hair and the immaculate, amber-tinged surface unspoiled by a single blemish—wrapped around his development like shrink film on industrial equipment. The fabric caved to the dictates of his physique, yielding to every swell and valley with religious devotion, the massive pectoral questioning if they were capable of holding such vast objects.
As Harry approached, Max turned on his stool, the wooden structure creaking ominously beneath the shifting weight of his substantial development. The two embraced with easy familiarity, their massive frames creating a wall of muscle that momentarily blocked the sightline to the bar for anyone unfortunate enough to be seated behind them, the solid thud of their chests like two oak doors closing simultaneously.
Max reached out, squeezing Harry's bicep with appreciative pressure, feeling the dense muscle tense beneath his fingers. "Looking pumped, son. Just been to the gym?"
Harry nodded, the movement causing light to play across the perfect definition of his traps. "Yeah, that's why I'm a bit late. Sorry."
They moved to a corner table, each step causing their massive thighs to brush against fabric with that distinctive whispering sound that accompanied their movement. The wooden chairs—substantial enough for ordinary patrons—seemed to shrink beneath their extraordinary frames, the legs splaying slightly under their concentrated weight.
After exchanging pleasantries and updates on their respective weeks, Harry leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table, causing the wood to creak beneath their sheer weight. "So, I've been thinking about last weekend. At The Velvet Stag."
Max nodded, the mention of that night sending a pleasant shiver racing through his substantial frame. "Incredible, wasn't it?" His voice carried undisguised enthusiasm, like someone discussing a particularly satisfying vacation.
"Beyond incredible," Harry agreed, his perfect features arranging themselves into an expression of serene satisfaction. "Being used like that, being treated as furniture, as objects... it felt right. Like everything finally clicked into place."
Max leaned in further, his massive chest pressing against the edge of the table, forcing it to shift slightly across the floor. "I've never felt more myself than when I was on all fours,” he admitted, his voice dropping to ensure privacy despite the low hum of conversation around them. "Being touched, being handled, being directed... it's what I've always wanted without knowing it."
Harry nodded in understanding, reaching for his pint with a hand that made the glass look like doll's furniture in his massive grip. "I feel the same. If it were up to me, I'd be rented out every night. Used however people wanted. Just existing to please others with this body." The casual revelation emerged with such natural certainty that it seemed like stating an obvious fact rather than a profound confession.
"Though," Harry continued, his expression shifting slightly, "George has some concerns."
A flicker of annoyance passed across Max's handsome features, his jaw tightening momentarily before relaxing into neutral composure. Though he said nothing, his reaction to George's involvement was clear.
"We're grown men," Max said finally, his voice level despite the emotion beneath. "Capable of making our own decisions." He paused, studying his son's face with genuine care. "Are you comfortable with our arrangement with Ethan and Jase? That's what matters here."
Harry's response was immediate and unequivocal. "Absolutely. I've found my place in the world. Being owned, being directed, being used—it's like I've been searching for this my entire life without knowing it." His expression brightened further. "And sharing it with you, with Dylan—it just makes it even better."
Max nodded, satisfaction evident in his relaxed posture. "I feel exactly the same."
Harry took another sip of his beer, considering his next words carefully. "George asked if we were bisexual. If that's what this is about."
Max chuckled, the sound rumbling through his massive chest. "And what did you tell him?"
"The truth," Harry replied simply. "That neither of us has any romantic or sexual attraction to men. That this isn't about who is doing the using—it's about being used. Being an object. The arousal comes from the objectification itself, not who's doing it."
"Exactly right," Max confirmed, nodding with approval. "I couldn't have explained it better myself."
They settled into comfortable conversation after that, discussing training techniques, upcoming events, and the latest supplements they'd been testing. Throughout their exchange, Harry found his thoughts drifting occasionally to the image of his father worshipping his thighs during their human furniture arrangement at The Velvet Stag—Max's hands exploring the extraordinary development of Harry's quads with appreciative precision, feeling the dense muscle beneath the stretching fabric.
Several times, Harry almost mentioned it, curious about his father's perspective on that particular aspect of their shared experience. Each time, he stopped himself, deciding they had probably said enough for one evening. After all, what was wrong with his dad appreciating his leg development? It was a professional assessment, an acknowledgment of achievement from one bodybuilder to another—and a compliment coming from someone as massively developed as Max Schett was worth its weight in protein powder.
As their evening drew to a close, Harry approached the bar to settle their tab. Ethan took his card with that same knowing smirk that seemed permanently etched on his features. His slim fingers—the entire hand smaller than a single one of Harry's forearms—danced across the payment terminal with practiced efficiency.
"You both look incredible tonight," Ethan commented, his eyes performing an appreciative scan of Harry's physique that somehow managed to feel both professional and intimate simultaneously. "Can't wait to meet Declan and Uncle Huggo on Saturday."
Harry blinked in surprise, momentarily thrown by the reference. "It's Hugo," he corrected automatically, "though I've always called him Huggo. He's always had a soft spot for cuddles, so it became a bit of a family thing."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, filing this information away with visible interest. "Looking forward to it either way," he said, passing back Harry's card. "I'll see you Saturday."
Harry frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his perfect features. "I didn't know Dad had invited you."
"He didn't," Ethan replied, wiping down the bar with casual movements that belied the significance of his next words. "But I've switched shifts with one of the other staff. Need to keep an eye on my property—" his gaze flickered between Harry and Max with unmistakable depth, "—and potential new recruits."
Understanding dawned across Harry's face, followed by a smile of perfect submission. "Good idea, Sir."
As Harry rejoined Max, ready to head home, he couldn't help but notice how Ethan watched them leave—, his entire body weight likely less than one of their thighs, yet somehow radiating an authority that transcended physical dimensions. The contradiction was striking—these two muscle gods, whose sheer presence altered the atmosphere of any room they entered, willingly owned and directed by someone whose lack of height and physical development was entirely unremarkable by comparison.
And yet, as they stepped into the cool evening air, neither Harry nor Max would have had it any other way. Their extraordinary bodies—built through genetics, dedication, and thousands of hours of meticulous effort—had finally found their true purpose: not to dominate, but to be dominated; not to control, but to be controlled; not to own, but to be owned.
