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)!
A Long Day at Work
Max exhaled sharply as he set his phone down on the polished wood counter, the device landing with a little more force than strictly necessary. Another message from his salesman—out sick for the day with some vague ailment that sounded suspiciously like a hangover poorly disguised as a stomach bug.
"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face with the resignation of someone facing an inevitability rather than a setback. He loved running the store, genuinely enjoyed the independence of being his own boss and the satisfaction of building something successful through his own efforts, but doing the stock take alone while simultaneously handling customers was a particular kind of retail hell. He rolled his massive shoulders to release some of the tension already building there, stretched his arms outward in a motion that made the fabric of his shirt protest audibly, and resigned himself to the long shift that stretched ahead with no relief in sight.
Max was dressed in what had become his standard work attire—mid-blue gym shorts so perfectly fitted to his lower body that they resembled lycra more than conventional sportswear, clinging to every curve and bulge of his magnificent physique with dedicated attention to detail. His shop-branded polo shirt—specifically ordered in the largest size available, though still woefully inadequate to its task—strained across his enormous chest and arms like fabric under siege, the material pulled so taut that the outline of his pectoral muscles created a topographic map visible from across the room. On his feet, a pair of brand-new white trainers completed the look with their pristine cleanliness, a small concession to professional presentation in an otherwise provocatively casual ensemble.
The morning passed in a blur of minor but time-consuming tasks—checking new deliveries against order forms, logging recent sales into the inventory system, reorganizing stock displays that customers had disturbed with their browsing. He worked methodically, finding a certain meditative quality in the routine movements that had become second nature over years of retail management, though the quietness of the shop made the hours drag with unusual sluggishness. His thoughts occasionally wandered to the previous evening at The Chapel—the incident with the cheese sauce, Ethan's nervous fumbling, Harry's knowing smirk. He had almost convinced himself the whole episode had been nothing more than an awkward accident when the front door's electronic chime pulled him back to the present moment.
He barely glanced up at first, too focused on the inventory spreadsheet open on the tablet before him, mentally preparing the standard greeting he offered to all customers. He bent forward to reach for another box of stock beneath the counter, the movement causing his shorts to stretch even more dramatically across his glutes, when he felt it—a tentative brush against his massive bicep, so light it might have been imagined if not for the unmistakable electricity of human contact.
"Excuse me," came a quivering, young-sounding voice from somewhere to his left.
Max straightened and turned toward the sound, expecting to encounter just another nervous customer intimidated by his size—it happened frequently enough that he'd developed a deliberately approachable demeanor to counteract the unintentional intimidation his physique often caused. Instead, his gaze landed on a face he recognized immediately, a face that sent an unexpected jolt of something indefinable through his system.
Ethan—the student barman from The Chapel, the source of last night's dairy disaster—stood before him, looking simultaneously terrified and determined, like someone who had spent hours gathering courage for an encounter they still weren't fully prepared to navigate.
Max's eyes performed an automatic assessment, a habit born from years of observing people's physical presence, before he registered with mild surprise that Ethan's gaze wasn't focused on his face at all. Instead, the younger man's attention was locked onto his massive posterior, specifically the way his gym shorts clung to the sculpted curve of his glutes with such dedication that they might as well have been painted on. The direction of Ethan's stare was so obvious, so unabashed in its appreciation, that it momentarily threw Max off balance—most people were at least somewhat discrete in their admiration, maintaining the social fiction that they weren't visually consuming his body even when they obviously were.
Max cleared his throat deliberately, the sound finally pulling Ethan's attention upward to connect with his own gaze, though the younger man's cheeks immediately blazed with color at being caught so blatantly staring.
"Something I can help you with?" Max asked, raising an eyebrow slightly, his tone deliberately neutral despite the unusual circumstances of their reunion.
Ethan's face turned an even deeper shade of crimson, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his simple t-shirt. He stammered incomprehensibly, words tumbling over each other in an unintelligible jumble that communicated nothing beyond extreme embarrassment. Fragments emerged from the verbal chaos—something about how he shouldn't have come here, that he was sorry for the previous night's incident, that he was just going to leave now—before he turned abruptly as if to flee the scene of his humiliation.
Max, acting on some instinct he couldn't immediately identify, reached out without conscious thought. His huge hand wrapped completely around Ethan's narrow wrist, stopping him with gentle but unmistakable authority. The contrast between them was stark—Max's massive, tanned hand completely engulfing Ethan's pale, slender wrist with fingers to spare, a visual representation of their physical disparity that stirred something unexpected in Max's chest.
When Ethan finally turned back, his expression a complex mixture of embarrassment and something that might have been hope, Max surprised himself by offering a genuine smile rather than the professional mask he typically presented to customers.
"Sit," Max said simply, dropping himself down onto a nearby bench positioned in front of a display of running shoes. The wooden seat creaked audibly under his sheer size, his massive glutes threatening to swallow half the available surface as he settled his substantial weight onto it. He patted the spot beside him with casual invitation, encouraging Ethan to join him in the small moment of privacy afforded by the empty shop.
Ethan hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught between his desire to stay and his instinct to escape an uncomfortable situation. After a moment that seemed to stretch interminably, he finally sat, perching on the edge of the bench as though ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. His eyes, however, betrayed him completely, immediately locking onto Max's pecs with the dedicated focus of someone studying a particularly complex work of art.
Max, feeling a playfulness he rarely allowed himself in professional settings, flexed slightly—a subtle, deliberate contraction that made the thick slabs of muscle beneath his polo bounce with controlled precision. The movement was minimal, nothing like the exaggerated displays his son often performed, but more than enough to achieve its intended effect.
Ethan let out a soft, barely audible gasp, the sound escaping before he could contain it, his pupils visibly dilating at the display. The reaction sent a surprising thrill through Max's system—he was accustomed to being admired, of course, had built his entire life around his physical presence in many ways, but there was something different about this particular interaction that he couldn't immediately name.
"So, what brought you here?" Max asked, his voice deliberately casual, as though they were simply two acquaintances continuing a conversation rather than near-strangers navigating an unusually charged interaction.
The bench wasn't built for someone of Max's dimensions, and sitting this close meant their thighs pressed together by necessity rather than choice, the massive bulk of Max's quad making Ethan's leg seem almost childlike by comparison. The younger man seemed acutely aware of this contact, his gaze dropping to the point where their bodies connected, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on his knees.
Max reached over with natural ease, placing his much larger hand over both of Ethan's, steadying them with gentle pressure. "It's alright," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that somehow felt more appropriate for this unexpectedly intimate moment. "You can talk to me." The words emerged with a sincerity that surprised even him, an openness he rarely offered to people outside his closest circle.
Ethan inhaled deeply, visibly gathering his courage, his chest expanding with the effort as though physically pulling strength into his lungs. "I... I'm gay," he finally said, the admission sounding more like a confession despite the fact that it would have been obvious to anyone with functioning observational skills. "Obviously," he added with a small, self-deprecating smile.
Max nodded, saying nothing, understanding that this moment required patience rather than response. His hand remained covering Ethan's, offering silent support through physical connection.
"I just... I haven't been able to stop thinking about the night at the pub," Ethan continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as though sharing a secret too precious for full volume. "About you," he clarified, though the clarification was unnecessary given the circumstances.
Max leaned back slightly, his massive frame adjusting on the bench, already anticipating what would come next. He had heard variations of this speech before—so many times that he could practically recite it from memory. The nervous admiration, the stammered compliments, the eventual request for something that ranged from a simple photo together to far more intimate propositions. Usually from women, occasionally from men, but always following the same basic trajectory—admiration leading to desire, desire leading to request. He braced himself mentally for the familiar pattern, already deciding how gently to let Ethan down without crushing his obvious infatuation.
But instead, Ethan surprised him completely.
"I was wondering... if Harry's single," he said, the question emerging in a rush of words. "And if you could maybe pass him my number?" The request hung in the air between them, so unexpected that Max temporarily lost his usual composure.
Max blinked, his mind momentarily short-circuiting as it attempted to process this unanticipated direction. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, words failed him completely. "I—Harry? I mean, uh, I don't—" He paused, running a hand over his face in a gesture of genuine confusion. "I don't think he's gay," he finally managed, the statement emerging more as a question than a definitive answer, his usual confidence noticeably absent.
Ethan frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied Max's reaction with unexpected perspicacity for someone so young. "What do you mean?" he asked, his head tilting slightly to one side in genuine confusion.
Max hesitated before exhaling sharply, a sound that contained unexpected emotion. "This just... doesn't happen to me," he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice unfamiliar even to his own ears.
Ethan blinked, clearly puzzled by this response. "What doesn't?"
Max looked away for a moment, his gaze fixing on a distant point as though the answer might be written somewhere on the shop's walls. "People don't come to me for someone else," he explained finally, the words emerging with a frankness he hadn't intended to reveal. "It's always about me. It's always... I don't know. Expected." The admission hung between them, more honest than anything he'd said to a stranger in years.
Ethan, surprisingly, seemed to gain confidence from this unexpected vulnerability. He leaned in slightly, his initial nervousness transforming into something more assured, his fingertips grazing Max's thick bicep with deliberate intention. The touch lingered, became more definite—a squeeze that tested the density of the muscle beneath fabric.
"Max, are you kidding me?" he asked, his voice carrying a new warmth that hadn't been present before. "You are literally the hottest guy I've ever seen." His fingers traced a path along Max's forearm, following the contours of muscle and tendon with appreciative precision. "Your arms alone could crush someone," he continued, the admiration in his voice unmistakable.
Max scoffed lightly, shaking his head in dismissal of the compliment, but his heart skipped a beat at the unexpected praise. Something was stirring inside him, a response he hadn't anticipated—a switch flicked in some deep recess of his consciousness, allowing something long buried to surface.
Ethan's exploration continued, his confidence growing with each moment that Max allowed the contact. His hand trailed across Max's broad shoulders with deliberate slowness, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Your chest..." He pressed his palm lightly against one of Max's pecs, feeling the dense muscle beneath the fabric with obvious reverence. "Insane," he breathed, the word emerging as though involuntarily extracted by the sheer magnificence of what he was touching.
Max barely breathed, caught in a moment that felt suspended between his normal reality and something entirely new. He had been admired before, countless times, had grown accustomed to appreciation of his physique to the point where it barely registered as noteworthy. But this felt different—more direct, more honest, more...personal somehow.
Ethan's fingertips danced over Max's thick thighs with increasing boldness, his eyes locked on them with unconcealed fascination. "And these?" he continued, his voice barely audible. "Jesus." The reverence in the single word communicated volumes.
Then, he exhaled and smirked, a transformation coming over his features as though he'd made some internal decision. "But I've saved the best for last," he declared, his newfound confidence a stark contrast to his initial nervousness.
Max frowned slightly, uncertain of Ethan's meaning, but before he could formulate a question, Ethan patted his leg with unexpected assertiveness.
"Get up," he instructed, the directive so unexpected coming from someone so much younger and physically smaller that Max complied before his conscious mind had fully processed the request.
He stood, towering over Ethan, his massive frame casting a shadow over the seated figure. Ethan's eyes immediately dropped, his gaze fixing on what Max suddenly realized was the true object of his fascination all along.
Ethan let out a slow, unsteady breath, appreciation written clearly across his features. "Your ass, Max..." he murmured, his voice thick with admiration.
His hands rose with almost reverential slowness, and he gripped the massive globes of muscle with surprising confidence, squeezing, feeling, exploring. His fingers barely made an impression against the sheer density and size of Max's glutes, the muscle unyielding beneath even firm pressure.
"People don't talk about this enough," Ethan murmured, completely lost in the moment, his attention wholly focused on his exploration. "They don't appreciate how perfect this is." The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, the admiration untainted by artifice.
Max's mind seemed to blur at the edges, reality shifting into something dreamlike and unfamiliar. He wasn't just being admired—he was being used in a way he had never experienced before, his body handled with a proprietary confidence that bypassed his usual defenses. And to his immense surprise, he loved it. The realization struck him with unexpected force, a truth he had perhaps always known but never fully acknowledged even to himself.
Ethan continued his unhurried massage, his voice taking on an almost dreamy quality. "Everywhere you go, people stare at you, but they don't see the real you," he observed with unexpected insight. "They think they know you. But I see more than that."
Max swallowed hard, something new awakening inside him with each passing moment, each confident touch. The dynamic between them had shifted so completely from their initial interaction that it felt as though they had entered an entirely different reality—one where the relative size and strength of their bodies meant nothing compared to the confidence with which Ethan now handled him.
"You're more than just a body, Max," Ethan continued, his grip tightening slightly as he spoke, the pressure of his fingers more deliberate. "You're a real man. And I think—no, I know—there's so much more inside you than anyone realizes."
Max barely had time to process these words, to examine the strange effect they were having on him, before Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. His number, handwritten in neat, precise figures.
With slow, deliberate movement that spoke of absolute confidence, Ethan slid the paper into the tight pocket of Max's gym shorts, his fingers lingering on the massive thigh beneath, the touch communicating far more than casual interest.
Then, without hesitation or permission, Ethan's hands slipped under the hem of Max's polo, fingers tracing over the impossibly thick slabs of pec muscle beneath, kneading and caressing as though memorizing every inch through touch alone. The fabric stretched to its absolute limit as his exploration continued, the seams groaning in protest at this additional stress.
Max stood motionless, towering over this young man who had somehow, in the space of a few minutes, completely upended his understanding of himself. He looked down at Ethan, meeting his gaze with an expression that contained equal parts confusion and awakening. His long-suppressed desire to cede control was being realized in this unexpected encounter, with this unlikely person, in the most ordinary of settings.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Ethan pulled back, grinning up at Max with newfound confidence. He winked—actually winked—with the audacity of someone who knew exactly what effect they were having.
"Call me, stud," he said simply, the directive delivered with complete certainty that it would be obeyed.
And with that, he turned and walked out, the electronic door chime marking his departure with cheerful indifference to the significance of what had just transpired.
Max remained standing in the center of his shop—a godly statue, unmoving, still processing everything that had just happened. His entire body seemed to hum with unfamiliar energy, his mind replaying Ethan's touches, his words, the confidence that had transformed him from nervous boy to commanding presence within the space of a single conversation.
For the first time in his adult life, Max had been handled rather than merely admired, directed rather than praised, used rather than worshipped. And the revelation that thundered through him, impossible to ignore or deny, was that he had never wanted anything more in his life.
