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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)!

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The Offering

The porta cabin was quiet, the gentle hum of the computer the only sound disturbing the mid-morning stillness as Jase worked alone, his focus shifting between the screen and the half-finished sketches spread across his desk. Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting long rectangles of warmth across the cramped office space, highlighting the suspended dust particles that danced in the air with each of his movements.

The rest of the team had gone for an early lunch, taking advantage of a rare break in the spring rain, but Jase had decided to stay back. He wasn’t hungry—at least, not for food. His mind was occupied with other appetites, thoughts of his recent experiences with Harry replaying in an endless loop, the memory of solid muscle beneath his exploring hands more nourishing than any meal could be.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his reverie, the sound unexpectedly loud in the quiet cabin.

Jase frowned, pushing back from the desk and standing up. The chair wheels squeaked against the linoleum floor as he moved. Who the hell would be out here now, when most of the site was deserted for lunch?

As he swung the door open, his breath caught in his throat, the words of greeting dying before they reached his lips.

Dylan Kincaid.

The sight that greeted him was like something ripped from a high-fashion fitness magazine and dropped incongruously onto the muddy construction site. It was as if the physical ideal of masculine development had materialized on his doorstep, demanding entry and attention in equal measure.

The 19-year-old muscle phenomenon stood there, towering over Jase despite the cabin’s elevated entrance. His sheer physical presence made the world around him seem to recede, the construction equipment and half-finished buildings suddenly diminished by comparison. Dylan wasn’t just standing there—he was occupying space with an authority that transcended his youth, creating a gravitational pull that made it difficult to look anywhere else.

His jeans—tight, worn, and strategically ripped at the thighs—clung to every carved muscle beneath, mapping the extraordinary development of his quadriceps in detailed relief. Each tear in the fabric provided tantalizing glimpses of smooth, golden skin beneath, the deliberate distressing placed to highlight rather than conceal. The denim stretched across his thighs with such tension that it seemed perpetually on the verge of surrender, the seams visibly straining with each subtle shift of his substantial mass.

The brown lace-up boots, rugged and powerful, had their jeans tucked inside, creating a stance that somehow merged military precision with runway presentation. The utilitarian footwear should have provided a jarring contrast to the carefully cultivated aesthetic of the rest of his appearance, but instead, they anchored his imposing frame, giving him the planted, immovable quality of something that belonged to the earth itself.

And the hi-vis yellow T-shirt—Jesus.

Even with long sleeves that seemed designed to conceal, the fabric betrayed its contents completely, stretched to physical impossibility over an upper body so thickly muscled it barely seemed real. The shirt was fighting a losing battle against the laws of physics, clinging desperately to a torso that defied conventional understanding of human development. The material molded to every curve and valley of his chest, outlining pectoral muscles so massive they created their own topography, an elevated landscape of power that dominated his frame.

The safety yellow fabric, intended to make workers visible from a distance, seemed almost redundant on Dylan. He would be impossible to miss regardless of what he wore, his physical presence demanding acknowledgment with or without fluorescent assistance.

Jase had seen big guys before. He’d seen Harry, after all—had touched him, had explored the extraordinary development of his body with his own hands.

But this? This was something else entirely.

Where Harry was massive, Dylan was monumental. Where Harry suggested raw power, Dylan embodied it completely. The difference was subtle but undeniable—like comparing a luxury sports car to a military tank. Both impressive, both desirable, but serving fundamentally different purposes and projecting entirely different energies.

Dylan cleared his throat, his voice deep but carrying a slight hesitation that seemed at odds with his overwhelming physical presence. “Hey. I’m looking for Jase?” The question was unnecessarily tentative, as though he were genuinely uncertain despite having knocked on a door with Jase’s name clearly displayed on it.

Jase snapped back to reality, suddenly realizing who this magnificent specimen must be. Harry had mentioned him, had texted about finding him work. Dylan—the young powerhouse searching for employment. The physical evidence before him matched Harry’s descriptions, though words had failed to capture the full impact of Dylan’s presence.

Jase leaned against the doorframe with deliberate casualness, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. “That’d be me,” he confirmed, wöorking to keep his voice steady despite the unexpected jolt of adrenaline coursing through his system.

Dylan nodded, offering a firm handshake, his grip powerful but controlled, suggesting a careful awareness of his own strength. The contrast between them was stark—Dylan’s massive, golden-tanned hand completely engulfing Jase’s in a way that made their physical disparity impossible to ignore, a visual representation that stirred something unexpected in Jase’s core.

“Harry said you might know about a labouring job?” Dylan’s question was direct, practical, grounding their interaction in professional purpose rather than acknowledging the obvious impact of his physical presence.

Jase studied him for a moment, noting subtle differences between Dylan and Harry despite their comparable development. Harry was cocky, effortlessly confident, fully aware of his own power and how to wield it for maximum effect. He navigated the world with the casual assurance of someone who had never questioned his place in it, had never experienced sincere rejection or limitation.

Dylan was different—still confident, still commanding attention without effort—but there was something else beneath the surface. A certain accessibility, a willingness to be approached that Harry sometimes lacked. Where Harry projected invulnerability, Dylan suggested possibility.

Jase gestured for Dylan to step inside, closing the door behind them with deliberate care. The small space seemed to shrink further with Dylan’s presence, as though the cabin itself were struggling to contain him just as his clothing did.

“Yeah, we might have some groundwork available,” Jase said, moving toward his desk with measured steps. “You’ll be using those ridiculous muscles for actual hard graft, though. Think you can handle it?” The question emerged with more challenge than he’d intended, something in Dylan’s presence triggering a need to assert himself despite their physical disparity.

Dylan let out a low chuckle, rolling his massive shoulders in a fluid motion that sent ripples of movement through his upper body. The simple action caused his pecs to shift beneath the tight fabric, their extraordinary mass moving with independent life, defying gravity in ways that seemed almost hypnotic.

“This body wasn’t built for sitting behind a desk,” he said simply, the statement carrying neither pride nor boasting, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment of his physical reality. “I can do anything.”

Something about the way he said it made Jase pause.

I can do anything.

The words hung in the air between them, carrying implications beyond their surface meaning, suggesting capabilities and willingness that transcended simple manual labor.

Jase raised an eyebrow, studying Dylan’s expression for hidden meaning. “That right?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the sudden acceleration of his pulse.

Dylan smiled, but there was something strange behind the expression, something calculated and knowing that belied his youth. He glanced toward the window, taking in the view of the construction site beyond, then—without hesitation or explanation—stood up and reached for the blinds.

Jase’s stomach tightened with sudden anticipation, uncertainty mingling with a strange, electric excitement.

Dylan pulled the blinds closed with deliberate movements, each plastic slat falling into place with soft clicks that seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space. The cabin’s interior dimmed instantly, the harsh daylight replaced by filtered shadows that softened edges and created a strange intimacy in what had previously been a purely functional space.

Then, slowly, he turned back to Jase.

And locked the door.

The soft click of the mechanism engaging sent a jolt through Jase’s system, his pulse spiking with a combination of alarm and anticipation. He was alone in a small room with an ungodly amount of muscle, a young powerhouse who could probably snap him in two without significant effort if he chose to.

He swallowed hard, instincts kicking in, uncertainty battling with a growing excitement he couldn’t entirely explain or justify. “Mate, what—”

But before he could finish the sentence, Dylan reached for the hem of his hi-vis shirt with unhurried confidence.

And peeled it off.

The shirt dropped to the floor, forgotten, irrelevant.

What stood before him was nothing short of a living sculpture, a masterpiece of human development that made Jase’s breath catch in his throat. Dylan’s torso wasn’t merely impressive—it was transformative, altering the very atmosphere of the small office with its overwhelming presence.

His pecs were godlike in their proportions, massive slabs of muscle that projected outward from his chest with architectural impossibility. The separation between them created a valley so deep it cast its own shadow, the central division running from his clavicle downward like a canyon viewed from above. Each individual section was clearly defined, striated and segmented with photographic clarity, the result of development that far exceeded his nineteen years.

The deep ridge between his pectoral masses was so defined it could probably hold a credit card upright without support, a testament to both extraordinary genetic potential and relentless dedicated application. Every subtle movement, every breath, caused these massive structures to shift slightly, living proof of their reality despite their seemingly impossible proportions.

Jase barely registered himself moving, barely understood why he had stepped forward like a man entranced. Something deeper than conscious thought was driving him now, a primal response to the physical perfection displayed before him.

Dylan stood motionless, his chest rising and falling with controlled breathing, his jaw set with determination, his gaze unwavering in its directness.

Then, his voice—low, steady, carrying absolute certainty:

“You can do whatever you want,” he said.

Jase’s chest tightened, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. “What?” The single word emerged as barely more than a whisper, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

Dylan didn’t blink, didn’t shift his gaze. “Anything,” he repeated. “No questions. No hesitation.”

Jase felt like he’d been hit by a truck, the impact of Dylan’s words as physical as his presence. Was this a joke? Some elaborate prank orchestrated by Harry? Some twisted test or initiation?

But Dylan’s expression didn’t waver, containing none of the hidden amusement or anticipation that would suggest deception. There was only calm certainty, absolute confidence in what he was offering.

A thought hit Jase with sudden clarity, sharp and electrifying in its simplicity.

He means it.

His gaze dragged lower, moving over the tightly packed eight-pack that decorated Dylan’s midsection like armor plating, each individual section clearly defined, separated by channels deep enough to cast shadows. The obliques framed this display perfectly, creating diagonal sweeps that drew the eye down toward the low-riding waistband of his jeans, toward the deep cuts of his Adonis belt leading downward with unmistakable invitation.

Then, back to those pecs.

Jase swallowed audibly, his throat suddenly dry, his pulse hammering in his ears with deafening insistence.

This was not a chance he was going to waste.

The Worship

What followed was a lesson in power—not the brute force that Dylan’s physique suggested, but the deeper power of surrender, of offering oneself completely for another’s use.

Dylan laid on the floor of the cabin, arms behind his head in casual display, allowing Jase to feel, grip, and explore his extraordinary development with increasing boldness. His massive chest became a landscape to be mapped, his shoulders territories to be claimed, his arms achievements to be measured and appreciated. He accepted each touch with the serene confidence of someone who understood his purpose completely, who recognized his own value without question or reservation.

Dylan bent over the desk, the wood creaking beneath his substantial weight, flexing on command as Jase ran his hands over the impossible width of his back, tracing the complex architecture of muscle that created a topographical display of human potential. The lats that flared outward like wings, the trapezius muscles that rose like mountains from his shoulders, the complex interplay of development that made his back as impressive as his front—all offered without reservation, presented for appreciation and use.

Dylan danced—slow, controlled movements that showcased every muscle group in sequence, letting Jase witness the impossible coordination of mass and movement, the harmony of development that transcended conventional understanding of physical potential. Each motion was deliberate, designed to display rather than conceal, to offer rather than withhold.

And when Jase finally decided to push his luck, when he grabbed Dylan’s face with both hands and kissed him, expecting the muscle beast to resist, to draw a line, to establish some boundary—

Dylan did the exact opposite.

He devoured him.

The kiss wasn’t tentative or uncertain—it was consuming, overwhelming, an extension of the physical dominance his body projected into an act that should have been vulnerable but somehow remained completely controlled. Dylan kissed like he existed, with absolute certainty and purpose, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

The Confession

Jase pulled back eventually, breathless, his head spinning with the implications of what had just happened, of boundaries crossed and expectations shattered. He stared at Dylan, this magnificent creature who defied categorization, whose existence challenged everything he thought he understood about desire and identity.

“You’re the biggest lad I’ve ever met,” Jase admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine bewilderment. His voice carried the unsteady quality of someone still processing a fundamental shift in their understanding of reality. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gay guy built like you.”

Dylan’s expression didn’t change, betraying neither offense nor amusement at the assumption. His response came with the same calm certainty that had characterized everything about this extraordinary encounter.

“I’m not gay.”

Jase’s stomach flipped, confusion replacing the momentary clarity he’d thought he’d achieved. “What?” The question contained genuine perplexity rather than challenge.

Dylan held his gaze with unflinching directness, voice calm, steady, absolute in its conviction.

“But I know my place in the world.”

Jase blinked rapidly, struggling to assimilate this new information into a coherent understanding. “And what’s that?” he asked, genuinely unsure where this was leading, what framework could possibly explain the events unfolding between them.

Dylan’s massive chest rose and fell with a deep, measured breath, the movement causing light to play across the extraordinary development in ways that momentarily distracted from the significance of his words.

“I exist to be used.”

Silence.

Absolute, complete silence filled the small cabin, as though the world itself had paused to acknowledge the weight of this declaration.

Jase had no words.

No comeback. No joke. No witty remark to defuse the intensity of the moment.

Dylan stood there, shirtless, booteded, every inch of him a godly display of physical perfection that seemed to belong in a museum rather than a construction site office. His expression remained unreadable, neither proud nor ashamed of his stated purpose, simply accepting it as fundamental truth.

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)!

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The Power Shift

Harry adjusted his waistband with a subtle motion of discomfort, shifting the black trousers that were never designed for someone of his extraordinary proportions. On an average man, these formal work pants would fit comfortably, allowing for ease of movement and professional presentation. On Harry’s colossal frame, they looked as if they’d been vacuum-sealed to his lower body, the fabric stretched to its absolute threshold across the terrain of his massive thighs and glutes. Every muscle fiber, every curve and swell of his development was outlined with such precision that the pants might as well have been painted directly onto his skin.

The sensation was familiar—fabric pulled taut against his flesh, seams straining at their stress points, the constant awareness that one wrong move could result in a catastrophic wardrobe failure. He had to be careful, maintaining a controlled awareness of his movements. He had a history with these trousers, a past filled with near-misses and actual disasters, and he didn’t particularly fancy a repeat performance of the most recent incident.

Not after last time.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he remembered it vividly—a few weeks ago, mid-shift at the pizza restaurant. He’d dropped a pizza slicer and bent over to pick it up, a motion most people would perform without a second thought.

RIIIP.

The sharp sound of tearing fabric had filled the air, echoing across the restaurant floor like a gunshot in the relative quiet. For a split second, there had been silence, a collective held breath as diners processed what they’d just heard—then—

A table of kids had exploded into laughter, the sound rippling through the restaurant like a wave breaking against shore.

Their mother had been caught between embarrassment and… something else as her gaze flickered over the bright orange fabric of Harry’s boxers, now fully visible through the gaping seam, pushed outward even further by the sheer mass of his glutes straining against the compromised garment. Her eyes had lingered a moment too long, her cheeks coloring with a flush that wasn’t entirely from mortification.

Her husband, however, had been absolutely fuming, his face reddening for entirely different reasons. Probably jealous as hell, Harry had thought. The man’s reaction had been disproportionate to the situation, his glare containing a personal animosity that suggested deeper insecurities triggered by Harry’s physical presence.

Harry had played the part of the mortified employee, apologizing profusely, covering himself up as best he could while backing toward the staff room with exaggerated embarrassment. But inside? Inside, the incident had thrilled him in ways he rarely admitted even to himself.

That feeling—of every pair of eyes locked on him, of people staring, whispering, talking about his body—it was pure electricity coursing through his veins, a high more potent than any substance could provide. The attention was addictive, intoxicating in its raw potency, feeding something in him that craved recognition on a primal level.

The Bucket Incident

Back in the present, Harry sat on an upturned bucket in the storage room of the pizza restaurant, reaching behind him to grab his phone from the shelf. The ordinary task was complicated by his extraordinary physique, requiring a twist of his torso that most people would execute without thought.

Not his best idea.

The plastic bucket groaned beneath him, the material straining audibly under the concentrated pressure of his substantial weight. Before he had a chance to redistribute his mass or stand up—

CRACK.

It collapsed beneath him with startling suddenness, the structure giving way completely. The bucket’s integrity surrendered to physics, sending Harry sprawling backward, his massive frame crashing into the metal rack behind him with enough force to shake the entire shelving unit.

Above, a bottle of olive oil that had been placed precariously close to the edge wobbled ominously, teetering for a heart-stopping moment before—

SPLASH.

A thick stream of golden oil poured straight onto his chest, soaking into his crisp white uniform shirt, seeping through the fabric almost instantly. The oil clung to every contour of his magnificent torso, transforming the previously opaque material into a translucent membrane that revealed rather than concealed. Every ridge of his abs, every curve of his pectoral development was suddenly highlighted with glistening precision, as though he’d been professionally oiled for a bodybuilding competition.

Harry groaned, wiping ineffectually at the mess, his efforts only succeeding in spreading it further across the expanse of his chest. The fabric clung to him with even greater determination now, molded to his physique with revealing accuracy.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, looking down at the disaster with a mixture of annoyance and resigned amusement.

He glanced at his oil-slicked reflection in a nearby metal surface, the distorted image still enough to show the extent of the damage. A reluctant chuckle escaped him as he took in the absurdity of his situation.

“I swear, I keep getting oiled up against my will lately.”

With a resigned sigh, he began unbuttoning the ruined shirt, each movement causing the wet fabric to cling more determinedly to his skin. He peeled it off with careful movements, the material separating from his torso with a soft, wet sound of reluctance. The shirt was beyond salvation, the oil stain too extensive for any amount of laundering to fully remove. He tossed it directly into the bin, not even attempting to salvage the garment.

Now, he had a problem.

What the hell was he supposed to wear for the remainder of his shift? The manager was strict about uniform requirements, and Harry couldn’t exactly serve customers bare-chested, no matter how much some of them might appreciate the view. His only option was the black T-shirt from the other night with Jase, still stuffed in his gym bag from their evening at The Velvet Stag.

It’d have to do.

The Walk Through the Restaurant

With resignation, Harry walked out of the kitchen, bare-chested, through the closed restaurant, heading for the staff area where he’d left his bag. The restaurant wouldn’t open for another twenty minutes, so he was spared the audience of customers, but a few early-arriving staff members stopped to stare as he passed.

Who could blame them? The sight of Harry’s upper body, unconstrained by fabric, was enough to halt conversations mid-sentence. With every step, his pecs moved freely, bouncing in perfect rhythm with his gait. Each muscle group rippled with coordinated precision beneath his smooth, tanned skin, creating a mesmerizing display of physical perfection in motion. The overhead lights caught the residual oil still glistening on his torso, highlighting the deep separations between muscle groups with photographic clarity.

He ran his hands over his chest, massaging the dense muscle, feeling the warmth and responsiveness beneath his palms. The sensation was familiar and strangely comforting—the recognition of his own body, the tactile confirmation of development earned through thousands of hours of dedicated effort.

And in that moment, his mind flashed back to the other night.

Jase.

Jase’s hands worshipping his chest, his fingers gliding over every inch, squeezing, kneading, exploring with reverent attention. The memory was fragmentary but vivid, snapshots of sensation rather than a coherent narrative.

Harry had remembered snippets of that night, more than he’d admitted to Jase during their awkward morning-after conversation. He had deliberately withheld certain recollections, uncertain how to navigate the shift in their friendship that those moments represented.

But he knew.

Jase had loved every second of their exploration. The way his breathing had quickened, the flush that had spread across his skin, the undisguised awe in his eyes as he’d mapped Harry’s physique with his hands—none of it could be attributed solely to alcohol.

And, if he was being honest with himself…

So had he.

The realization wasn’t as uncomfortable as it should have been. Something about Jase’s touch had felt different from the casual, admiring contact he regularly experienced from strangers. There had been intention behind it, appreciation that went beyond surface admiration into something deeper, more meaningful.

Shaking the thought, Harry pulled on the black T-shirt, feeling it scrape down over his immense torso. The fabric fought a losing battle against his development, stretching to its absolute limit across his chest and shoulders. His pecs jutted forward aggressively beneath the material, creating a shelf-like protrusion that cast shadows onto his midsection below. The seams along his biceps creaked audibly as they strained to contain the massive arms they encircled, threatening imminent surrender with each subtle shift of his posture.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders experimentally, testing the garment’s tolerance for movement.

Perfect fit. For him, at least. On anyone else, it would have been comically large.

Dylan’s Message

Back in the kitchen, he grabbed his phone from the shelf where it had miraculously remained during the bucket collapse, thankfully spared from the oil spill. The screen illuminated with a notification—a message from Dylan.

Harry smirked as he read the name. The guy was an absolute unit, no question about it. They’d trained together yesterday after George had made the introduction, and Harry had genuinely liked him—a good lad, eager, disciplined, and completely in awe of Harry’s physique despite his own extraordinary development.

Not that Harry minded the admiration. It fed something in him that craved validation, that thrived on being recognized as exceptional.

Dylan wasn’t gay, at least Harry didn’t think so from their conversations, but his attention had been addictive nonetheless. There was something refreshing about his straightforward appreciation, uncomplicated by the social awkwardness that often accompanied such obvious admiration between men.

They’d talked a bit during rest periods between crushing sets—Dylan was unemployed, looking for work after his last bar job “didn’t work out.” He hadn’t elaborated on the circumstances, and Harry hadn’t pressed. Instead, he’d suggested Dylan try Jase’s building site, offering to ask about any laboring jobs that might be available. The construction industry was always looking for strong backs, and Dylan certainly qualified in that department.

Now, Dylan was checking in, his message flashing on Harry’s screen.

Dylan: Hey mate, any news from your mate?

Harry typed out a quick reply, his massive thumbs moving with surprising dexterity across the screen.

Harry: Yeah, Jase said just go down there during normal hours and ask for him. He’s spoken to the site manager—reckons there might be some groundwork available.

The response came almost immediately, as though Dylan had been waiting with his phone in hand.

Dylan: Mate, you’re a legend. Appreciate it. Enjoy your shift!

Harry smirked at the enthusiastic response. Dylan was grateful, but Harry had the feeling this wouldn’t be the last favor he’d ask for. There was something about the way Dylan had looked at him during their training session—a mixture of admiration and calculation—that suggested he was already thinking several moves ahead.

It wasn’t manipulation exactly, more like strategic planning. Harry recognized it because he employed similar tactics himself when he wanted something. People were generally eager to help someone who looked like him, and he’d learned early on how to leverage that advantage when necessary.

The Game Begins — Ethan Returns

Later that night, mid-shift, Harry was waiting on tables when a familiar face caught his attention amid the crowd of diners. The Friday night rush was in full swing, the restaurant packed with customers enjoying their end-of-week treat, conversations and laughter creating a pleasant buzz of ambient noise.

But through the sea of anonymous faces, one stood out with jarring clarity.

Ethan.

The barman from The Chapel.

He’d already been served by Stella, who was stupidly busy and visibly stressed out, running between tables with increasing desperation as the orders piled up. Harry watched her for a moment, noting the frazzled energy in her movements, the tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she dealt with demanding customers.

“Want me to take over?” he asked, intercepting her path back to the kitchen. “He’s on his own, and I sort of know him.” The offer was casual, helpful colleague to helpful colleague, though his motivations weren’t entirely altruistic. Something about Ethan’s unexpected appearance in his workplace triggered his curiosity.

Stella looked relieved, gratitude washing over her features. “God, yes. Take him.” She thrust the order pad into Harry’s hand with perhaps more force than necessary, already turning toward another table that needed attention.

The Flirtation War

Harry strolled over to Ethan’s table, his movements deliberately measured to maximize the visual impact of his approach. With each step, his extraordinary physique commanded attention, the black fabric of his borrowed T-shirt stretched to its absolute limit across his chest, the material so taut that the outlines of his individual muscle fibers were visible beneath it. His trousers, somehow still intact despite the morning’s oil incident, strained against his massive thighs, the fabric pulled so tight that walking required conscious adjustment of his natural gait.

Ethan looked up as Harry approached, recognition immediately lighting his features. There was something in his expression—a calculation, an assessment—that seemed at odds with the nervous persona he’d projected at The Chapel. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like watching an actor briefly drop character between scenes.

Harry grinned, the expression confident and just slightly predatory. “Thirsty?” he asked, the innocuous question somehow carrying layered meanings beneath its simple surface.

Ethan smirked, his demeanor more assured than Harry had previously witnessed. “Something like that,” he replied, his gaze traveling over Harry’s torso with deliberate slowness, taking inventory of his development with the methodical appreciation of a connoisseur.

Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence though his eyes held knowing amusement. “See anything you like?” he asked, flexing his pecs subtly beneath the strained fabric, making the massive muscles dance with controlled precision. It was a move he’d perfected over years of similar interactions—casual enough to seem unintentional, deliberate enough to be unmistakable to the right observer.

Ethan’s confidence flickered momentarily—a brief crack in his newfound assurance—but didn’t vanish completely. He recovered quickly, his gaze steady as he met Harry’s eyes.

“Depends,” Ethan said smoothly, his voice carrying a subtle challenge. “Do you offer samples before I choose what I’d like to have this evening?”

Harry’s grin widened at the unexpected boldness. This wasn’t the same nervous bartender who had fumbled drinks and spilled sauce at The Chapel. This was someone else entirely—or perhaps the real person behind a carefully constructed facade.

This lad had game.

He took Ethan’s order with professional efficiency, turning to walk away toward the kitchen. But something made him glance back over his shoulder, a sixth sense honed through years of being observed.

Ethan’s eyes were locked onto his lower half, his gaze so intense it was almost tangible. He was studying Harry’s glutes with the focused concentration of a scientist examining a rare specimen, his appreciation undisguised and unapologetic.

Ethan’s gaze flicked up, catching Harry in the act of observation.

Their eyes met across the distance.

But Ethan didn’t look away, didn’t flush with embarrassment at being caught staring. Instead, he held Harry’s gaze with unexpected confidence, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as though they were sharing a private joke.

For the first time in his experience, Harry felt it—a subtle but unmistakable shift in the dynamics between them.

The power slipping from his grasp, transferring elsewhere.

His heartbeat spiked unexpectedly, a rush of something unfamiliar coursing through his system—not fear, not anxiety, but a strange, electrifying excitement that he couldn’t immediately name.

This was new.

This was thrilling.

And he had no idea why it affected him so powerfully.

The Final Move

When Harry returned with Ethan’s pizza, he placed the steaming dish on the table with practiced care, the movement causing his chest to flex involuntarily beneath his tight shirt. The fabric strained audibly with the motion, the seams tested once again by the extraordinary development they struggled to contain.

“Anything else?” he asked, the standard server question somehow carrying additional weight in this particular interaction.

Ethan’s eyes gleamed with something knowing, something calculating. He gestured with his finger, beckoning Harry closer with a simple, confident motion.

Without even thinking about why, Harry obeyed, leaning down slightly to bring himself closer to Ethan’s level. The compliance was automatic, unquestioned—a departure from his usual carefully maintained control of all interactions.

Ethan reached out with unexpected boldness, his fingertips pressing into Harry’s enormous pecs through the sheer black fabric. The touch was deliberate, testing the density of the muscle beneath, exploring its resilience with appreciative precision.

Harry exhaled sharply, caught in a moment that felt suspended between their established roles and something new, something unexplored. The contact sent a subtle current of electricity through his system, his body responding to the touch with an eagerness that surprised him.

“Like what you see?” Harry murmured, the question emerging as a reflexive defense mechanism, an attempt to reclaim familiar territory in an increasingly unfamiliar interaction.

Ethan pulled back, smirking with quiet confidence. The withdrawal wasn’t a retreat but a strategic redistribution of forces, a calculated move in whatever game they were now playing.

Then, he picked up the order pad from Harry’s hand, scrawled something quickly on a fresh page, and tore it out with deliberate precision.

He slid the paper across the table toward Harry, his movements unhurried and assured.

Harry picked it up, curiosity overriding his usual careful maintenance of professional boundaries.

A number.

And underneath, in neat, controlled handwriting:

“Call me if you want an answer to that question.”

Harry swallowed, the fragile paper suddenly feeling like a weighted object in his hand. Without conscious thought, he stuffed it into his pocket, struggling slightly to fit it between the thick, smooth bulk of his thighs and the fabric that clung to them with unrelenting pressure.

His mind was blown, his usual confident equilibrium disturbed by this unexpected development. The entire interaction had followed none of the patterns he was accustomed to, had violated all the usual scripts that governed his encounters with admiring strangers.

And for the first time in his extensive experience of being desired, appreciated, and pursued, Harry Schett wasn’t sure who was really in control of the situation unfolding between them.

The realization was terrifying.

And intoxicating.

The day dragged on. I couldn’t sleep. My mind was still reeling from the humiliation I endured today. I wished it were a dream, but it wasn’t. I kept pondering how to put an end to it. Was there a way to stop this, and who would be the target of my revenge? Why was he doing this to me? What did he want? Anger and frustration surged within me, urging me to kill him. But I was vulnerable right now. He had the upper hand. I needed to tread carefully—one misstep could ruin my entire life.It was the next day. I was getting ready for the office. I had two workstations: one in the city center, where the Accounts, Management, and project teams worked, and another in the ECR city suburb, where my office was located with the design team. I arrived at my office cabin and began reviewing my schedule. Then my personal assistant, Akash, brought me a parcel and said, “There was a delivery for you, sir. We received it this morning.” He returned to his cabin. When I examined the envelope, I saw it was from Dinesh. Damn that jerk—what was he up to now? What could be inside that parcel? I was confused and hesitant to open it. As I was lost in thought, my phone rang. It was Dinesh. I answered but remained silent, waiting for him to speak. He did the same. Finally, he broke the silence and yelled at me: “You’re giving me the silent treatment, you pathetic fool. When I call, you should answer with, ‘Sir, thank you for the call. How may I serve you?’ Do you understand?”I replied, “Sorry, sir.”Master Dinesh said, “I’ve sent you some gifts. Look at them. They come with usage instructions. Get ready for the evening—you have tasks to complete.”I said, “Sir, I have plans with my friends this evening.”Master snapped back, “Shut up, you dog. Don’t tell me what to do. I own you. From now on, you won’t make any plans without my permission.”I said, “Sorry, sir, I understand.”Master instructed, “Wear what I sent you and be ready by 7 p.m. I’ll call you with updates about the task.”I replied, “Okay, sir.”When I opened the parcel, it contained a chastity cage, a nipple clamp, a pair of pink panties, and a 7-inch dildo. I couldn’t believe what he was planning. The humiliation was unbearable. I couldn’t wear this cage, clamp, and panties. There was a note inside the parcel: “Hi, slave. I know it’s hard for you to accept your fate. You still see yourself as a rich, handsome jock. That’s the past. Now, you’re my sex slave. Your duty is to please your master. Get ready in this outfit and call me by 7 p.m. You know the consequences if you don’t comply. I don’t want to keep reminding you. See you at 7. Bye.”Damn it, he was torturing me. What was I going to do? I wanted to scream and smash something, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to cause a scene at work. I still had nine hours to figure a way out of this. I stashed the parcel in my locker and got back to my tasks. It was 6:30 p.m. now. Everyone had left the office. I had only 30 minutes. I realized there was no escape. I had to do this. I stepped outside to ensure everyone had gone. Thankfully, they had—except for my PA. He’d logged off once I finished my work, so I told him to head home. After he left, I returned to my cabin and retrieved the parcel. My hands trembled. What was I doing? Did I really have to endure this humiliation? My life was a mess. Suddenly, I received a text: “Get ready by 6:55. I’ll call you at 7.” Damn it, I had just 18 minutes left.I began undressing, stripping off all my clothes. I started with the chastity cage. What in the world was this? How did it work? I consulted the manual and, after struggling for seven minutes, managed to lock it onto myself. Then I attached the nipple clamp. Oh my God, the pain was unbearable—it targeted the most sensitive part of my body. Unable to tolerate it, I slipped on the panties as well. It was 6:55 p.m. As promised, he called.Master asked, “Are you ready, you wretch?”I replied, “Yes, sir.”Master asked, “Where are you?”I said, “In my office, sir.”Master asked, “Are you sitting in your MD chair?”I replied, “Yes, master.”Master said, “Have you seen yourself in the mirror? With that cage, nipple clamp, and panties, you must look like a prostitute. Are you really sitting in that chair like this?”I said, “Sorry, sir. What should I do now?”Master ordered, “Get down, sit on the floor—no, better yet, get into a doggy position.”Damn it, I did look ridiculous. A few hours ago, I’d been in a tailored suit, sitting like a boss in my own office. Now, I was dressed like some flamboyant performer, crouched like a dog in my workspace. I lowered myself as he instructed. As I settled into position, someone suddenly opened my cabin door. Oh no—it was the maintenance guy. What was he doing here? What could I do now? Sitting like a dog in panties and a cage on the floor in front of my cleaner—this day couldn’t get any worse. I shouted at him, “What are you doing here? Who told you to come in? Get out!” He responded with a sharp slap across my face. I collapsed to the floor. What was happening? Did he just hit me? I was in shock. He said, “How are you, MD sir?” That voice—oh no, it was Dinesh. Was my maintenance guy my tormentor? Trembling, I asked, “Dinesh, is that you?” He slapped me again, sending me sprawling. The blow was so hard it brought tears to my eyes. He barked, “What did I tell you, you fool? Address me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Master.’ Do you understand?”I replied, “Sorry, master. Forgive me.”Dinesh was a middle-aged man, about 180 cm tall, with a dusky complexion and a stocky build. I suspected he might be married. He’d been with my company for five years, but I’d never interacted with him directly. He was managed by the maintenance department supervisor. His duties included opening the company gates, saluting me as I arrived and departed, and overseeing cleaning tasks. I’d never paid him much attention before.He shouted, “Get up and stay in that position.” His tone was harsh and commanding. I rose and resumed the doggy position. He marched over to my desk and sat in my MD chair. That insolent man—how dare he sit in my chair? A minimum-wage, blue-collar worker—he wasn’t even fit to step into this cabin.Master said, “What are you thinking, you wretch? How could this lowly security guard sit in my MD chair? Is that what’s on your mind? Answer me.”I replied, “No, sir. I’m not thinking that.”Master laughed. “Ha! I don’t care what you think. Look at me—a school dropout, a minimum-wage worker, sitting in the MD chair. And you, the MD of this company, educated abroad, now dressed like a cheap fool, waiting for my orders.”He was right. I was the managing director of this company, yet here I was, stripped bare and posed like a dog before my lowliest employee. I couldn’t fathom how this had happened. What had I done to deserve this?Master barked, “Hey, doggy, come here.” I crawled toward him, and he yanked me closer by the chain attached to my nipple clamp.I gasped, “Yes, it’s so painful. Please remove the nipple clamp. I can’t take it.”Master replied, “You’re useless. You can’t even handle this little pain. What am I supposed to do with you?”I pleaded, “Please, sir, it’s my sensitive spot. I can’t bear this, sir.”Master sneered, “Don’t call yourself a gym buff if you can’t handle this. Fine, since it’s your first time, I’ll remove it—on one condition.”I asked, “Okay, sir, what’s the condition?”Master said, “You’ll help me with my work. Once you’re done, I’ll take off the clamp.”No way was I doing his job. I was an MBA graduate from overseas—how could I stoop to maintenance work? Never.Master continued, “What, you think you can refuse? If you don’t, you’ll wear them for two straight days.”I couldn’t endure this pain for 30 minutes, let alone two days. He was right—I had no leverage to refuse. I’d already lost my dignity and self-respect.Master said, “Accept your fate. You’re not the MD anymore. You’re my sex slave. As my slave, your job is to work for your master. Got it?”I replied, “Yes, sir.” I couldn’t believe I was about to become an apprentice to my maintenance worker in my own company. This man would get paid by me for the work I’d be doing.Master said, “Don’t worry—no one will find out about your side gig.”I replied, “Okay, sir. How will I do this?”Master explained, “After you finish your day job at 6 p.m., you’ll start working as my slave here. You were born with a silver spoon—you don’t know manual labor. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you.”He laughed loudly, staring at me. I felt utterly ashamed and exposed. In just 48 hours, my life had flipped upside down—from the MD of the company to the sex slave of a cleaner. What would happen if my friends and family found out? They saw me as a handsome, successful role model and entrepreneur. What if they learned I was now a slave to a janitor? I’d had maids and helpers at home, and now I was a maid and sex slave to a cleaner. I had to find a way out and end this soon.

Author’s Note: Friends, first, I assure you that Preacher’s Son has not been abandoned, I’m in a bit of rut with it (ideas welcome!) plus, again, I’ve been in some pretty dark places mentally. It is not my intention to get into diagnoses and medications etc., but please look after your mental health. Truly, there is no pain worse than what your own mind can inflict upon you.

Let’s talk about this story, though. I wrote it in one sleepless night because of Alex. It felt cruel to ignore his loneliness and his anguish. I typically don’t write in the incest genre and I likely won’t again. I can’t pinpoint an exact inspiration for this piece and it is probably my weakest work with how quickly I cranked it out, so I hope you’re gentle with it. This absolutely will be a one-off. I don’t have the capacity to write an episodic tale and, frankly, I don’t know how I’d continue this story.

Feel free to write to me at [email protected] Your notes and missives give me life, as the kids say (do they anymore?)

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This Place We’ve Come To.

By Alistair Hamish Gospelpipe IV.

The nights when Jackson got drunk were the nights I missed Ted the most. A drunk Jackson was a cruel, violent Jackson. It was always the same: if the car ride home from whichever get together we’d gone to was quiet and tense, I knew I was going to get it. We’d enter our apartment, he’d fix himself a drink and then snarl,

“What the fuck was that, Alex?”

That’s how it always started. “What the fuck was that, Alex?” I couldn’t tell you why.

It could be anything: maybe I’d told a funny story about a camping trip where we got lost (“How dare you embarrass me in front of those losers?”), maybe I’d asked him to take a minute to sober up before he drove (“You want those trash friends of yours to think I’m a drunk?”)…who knows? Who could predict it? What was predictable was him shaking me hard enough to make my teeth rattle screaming in my face that I was a waste of space. His fists flying at me? Also predictable. Predictable, too, was the lost, bewildered look he got after he’d hit me, as if he didn’t quite understand what had happened. If I weren’t on the ground writhing in pain, I’d probably gather him in my arms and tell him that everything was going to be okay, he didn’t need to look so sad, so broken. How does that Lana del Rey song go? He hit me and it felt like a kiss? Yeah, that was the vibe. He’d leave the apartment, then. I never knew where he went. I didn’t care. I’d lie on the ground; my cheek pressed to the cold linoleum and think about Ted.

Ted, my brother, always my protector. Ted, who, at 18, had scored a full ride to the University of Michigan. I was 14 when he left for school. I wanted to be him: smart, kind, strong in body and principles. Ted was a wrestler in high school, and I envied and coveted his physique. “You’ll get there, little dude!” He’d say. “But you’re perfect, okay?” If that kind of sappiness between two brothers sounds unusual, it’s because we were in unusual circumstances. Our parents are not bad people, no. They’re simply people who should never have had children. They were too self-involved, too focused on their careers and their professional jealousies that had them bicker over…finance stuff. I don’t really understand their jobs. Theirs was a true enemies-to-lovers story whose sequel was a lovers-to-glorified-colleagues story. They’d fucked twice at least, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had their assistants arrange it. But, yeah, Ted and I were an afterthought. It was a great upbringing, don’t get me wrong. We never wanted for anything. We went to great schools. We were given every opportunity to succeed. And we took them, too.

When it came to affection, though, I just had Ted. Even when we were kids, Ted would beat up the kids who bullied me. Ted would help me with my homework. Ted was my best friend. I’d openly cried when he was packing up for college.

“I always got your back, little dude,” he’d said. “I’m always a phone call away.”

“Stop with the “little dude” stuff!” I’d sniveled, “I’m fourteen, Teddy!”

“As long as I’m Teddy, you’re little dude, okay?” He’d laughed before he pulled me against his strong chest, his arms enveloping me.

I was in a desert of sorts after he left. We talked or texted often even though I was busy with school, track and field, and he with college and collegiate wrestling. He began to feel distant after a year or two. I didn’t understand it. I also didn’t worry: graduation was coming up and he’d be home again!

“Ted joined the army,” Mom said matter-of-factly one evening over dinner. “I just don’t understand why that boy couldn’t wait one more semester to graduate.”

“Such poor planning,” Dad responded.

“Honestly!” Mom said rolling her eyes. “Anyway, this whole thing with Nguyen fund…”

My world fell apart. How could he? Why did he…? Why didn’t he say anything? WHY DIDN’T HE SAY ANYTHING! My shock turned to anger rather quickly. Have it your way, Theodore, you don’t want to talk? Neither do I. I was never going to text him or call him or talk to him. Never.

Jackson is younger than me. He was 21 and I 23. I had just started my doctoral studies here at Chapel Hill. Neuroscience. Jackson was an undergrad; he worked the front desk of the university gym and flirted shamelessly with me when I’d come to get a workout in. I was both confused and flattered: I’m a decent looking guy: built lean from running, tawny hair…pretty plain otherwise. But Jackson, swarthy, muscled and charismatic, was not just out of my league but in a whole other galaxy.

“I can’t take it anymore!” He’d said in mock exasperation one day when I came up to the front desk. “You’re such an idiot!”

“HEY—” I’d started.

“I’ve been hitting on you for, like, 17 years now and you can’t seem to take the hint!”

“I wasn’t sure…” I said a bit taken aback.

“Ugh, so stupid, so adorable!” He said, shaking his head, a dazzling smile on his face. “Fucking get a drink with me Thursday?”

That’s how it began. It was wonderful at first: he doted on me. A little too much at times, but I didn’t mind. He felt warm, safe. Ted would have liked him, I thought back then. In time, it became clear that Jackson couldn’t handle his alcohol. His debilitating insecurities oozed out in the ugliest of ways and nothing that happened was ever his fault. He could have gone to Harvard, but affirmative action fucked him over. He deserved a prestigious internship, but his asshole dad refused to put in a good word for him. He could have dated hotter, but I’d ensnared him with my “pathetic kicked puppy routine.” Every time he hit me, he’d come home the next day blubbering with the ritual offering of flowers and a heartfelt apology.

In an interesting turn of events, my advisor, Dr. Zhang, called me into his office.

“Sit, Alex,” he said in a genial tone. Too genial. “There’s something I have to ask you.”

“Dr. Zhang, I know I’ve been a bit lax with…”

“Alex,” he said holding up his hand. “I’m concerned, and I’m sorry if I’m overstepping here, but is there…are you—um—experiencing partner violence?”

“What?” I laughed bitterly. “No, sir, not at all!”

“So, the bruises? The black eye from last month?”

“I’m just…such a klutz, sir.” I said and Dr. Zhang’s expression told me that he wasn’t buying it,

“You can always talk to me, Alex.”

“I know.”

A week or two later when Jackson charged at me again, I begged him not to leave a mark because Dr. Zhang had noticed.

“You been talking shit about me?” He yelled. “You’re a fucking snake, Alex, ruining my reputation…”

“I didn’t say anything!” I protested. “He noticed…”

“Fuck you!” He snarled, pushing me to the floor. He landed on top of me, rendering me immobile as he yanked my shorts off.

“Spread your fucking legs, fag!” He commanded.

“Jax, no…” I hated how weak I sounded. What a loser,

“Don’t worry, babe,” He said evilly. “I won’t leave a mark.”

Except he did; he bit me on neck when he came inside me. He took me dry and he took me rough. It wasn’t about pleasure, it was about dominion. I hurt so much: from the savage way his cock assaulted me, the bites, the nasty, degrading words, his spit on my cheek delivered right before he left the apartment for the night. Something broke in me that night. I couldn’t stay with him anymore. I saw with startling clarity that this was a new phase. He’d gotten away with the beatings and he’d get away with…this, if I let him. So the next morning, I got up of the floor and left. It was Dr. Zhang who put me up at his place for a few days. Dr. Zhang helped me file the restraining order. Not mom and dad. Not Ted. Fucking Ted. Ted, who always had my back, allegedly. No, it was a stranger who showed up for me and this very stranger, my boss, banished me from the lab for the summer.

“Come back to the bench refreshed,” Dr. Zhang advised. “Take the time to put all this behind you. Your project will keep.”

And that’s how I ended up home.

My parents, when they were home, were polite but clearly not interested in whatever was going on with me once I’d assured them that I hadn’t gotten kicked out of school. The verdant running trail nearby became my best friend. My days were spent reading (fiction, not neuroscience…well, a little neuroscience!), running and watching TV. I had no interest in catching up with high school friends or whatever. The thought of idle chatter and feigning interest made me want to scream.

It was on an evening run that my cell phone rang and I answered it absently, yet very quickly realizing that maybe I’d stepped into a trap laid by Jackson. Except this was something else entirely.

“Hey.” Oh my God, I’d know that baritone anywhere.

“Hi.” Eloquent as always!

“Alex?” He asked. “That you? This still your number?”

“Yes.”

“How are you, little dude?” There was a catch in his voice; he quickly cleared his throat. “You good, man?”

“Yes. Ted. Fine here.” I said sounding like a bitchier Siri. “What do you want?”

“I’m coming home.”

“Why?” He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to walk in and out of my life on a whim.

“Um, I’m done. Honorably discharged and all that!” The cheeriness was fake. I knew him. My “why?” had wounded him. “Can I come to Chapel Hill? To see you? Missed you like hell, little dude.”

“I’m not at school, Ted,” I said evenly. “I’m home.

“Shit, voluntarily? Again, is everything okay? You can tell me.”

Oh, Teddy, no, I can’t.

“Yeah,” I responded. “My boss said I was showing signs of burnout, apparently.”

“You always were the hardest worker, little dude!” The pride in his voice was like cold water hitting hot glass. I want to shatter, but in his arms. The pride in his voice makes me forget, just for a second, that I am damaged goods.

“Anyway, I can’t wait to see you, Alex!” He continues, that infectious golden retriever energy bursting through my outdated Samsung. “And you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to, okay?”

“Yes.” It’s all I can manage before hanging up and finally allowing myself to cry.

Dad has booked Ted a car. Both parents had a lot to do at work before heading off to some retreat to decompress or whatever. I hadn’t slept a second the night before Ted was due. All day, I cursed at the sun for not ascending faster and making afternoon happen. The clock was also being a real bitch and not moving fast enough. Finally, I heard a car pull up, a door slam closed and the doorbell ring. I’d raced to the door when I’d heard the car, but I stand before the closed door for a whole minute. Can’t appear too eager.

When I do open the door, a frisson works it way through my whole body. Ted. My brother. My confidante and protector. Finally. The army issue olive t shirt he wears strains at his chest and his beautiful blue eyes are obscured by a pair of aviators. The stubble on his typically clean-shaven face is new, but it accentuates that square jawline beautifully. That goofy guy from my youth had become Captain America. He has a duffle bag slung over his shoulders and his arms bulge enticingly through his sleeves. Like I said, Captain America.

“Alex,” He says grinning. “You haven’t changed a bit, little dude!”

“Meanwhile you seem to have taken some kind of super soldier serum,” I observe drily. “Come on in.”

“You think so?” He laughs. “You think I look buff?”

“Still so vain, Ted.” There is an interpretation of my words that could be read as good-natured teasing, but I am absolutely being mean.

“How was your trip?” I try sounding normal.

“Not too bad,” He smiles from the couch. “Short layovers.”

I’m standing stiffly over him and I make things even more ridiculous when I say “I’ll see about lunch.”

“You do that,” there’s a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes. Super serum or no, he’s still Teddy. “I need a shower.”

I make him a Croque Monsieur because I know he loves it and probably hasn’t had one in years. By the time I bring a plate up to him, he’s in shorts and a t shirt that dates back to his high school days. It is ridiculously tight over his thick pecs. It’s hard not to stare.

“Here.” I say setting the plate down and make to leave.

“Don’t go.” He says softly.

I awkwardly perch on the edge of his bed and watch him positively devour the sandwich. I did good, clearly.

“That really hit the spot, Alex!” He says. “Thank you.”

“Do you want another?”

“No,” he responds. “Stop trying to leave, man. Stay a bit.”

“Sure.”

“I sure did miss you a lot, little dude.” Ted says breaking the awkward silence that had descended between us.

“Did you?” I say icily.

Anger flashes across his handsome face and is quickly replaced by remorse.

“I did.” He says sternly. Defensively.

I want to tell him that I missed him all the time. I missed him when I graduated college because he would have been in there in the stands on graduation day cheering me on. I missed him when mom and dad forgot my birthday (again) because he would have made the day special just by being there. I missed him when Jackson visited his terrors upon me because he would have kicked his ass.

“Not one phone call or text over four years!” I say through clenched teeth. “Four fucking years, Ted.”

“Alex, little dude…” He starts, unable to meet my eye.

“I’m not your little dude.” And with that, the unkindest cut of all, I storm out of his room.

Ted and I live like roommates over the next few days. Civilly occupying the same space, but clearly leading lives that do not intersect. When mom and dad return, they treat him not like the son who has come home from war, but like a houseguest. With perfunctory politeness they ask all the right questions and express approbation when he tells them that his upcoming plans entail finishing up his undergrad and getting his Master’s. Oh, where? Chapel Hill. My head snaps in his direction when he shares this information at dinner. He winks mischievously. I’m very, very annoyed with myself for rewarding him with a smile.

“Have they gotten weirder?” He asks after dinner, referring to our mom and dad.

“You’ve been out of the game too long,” I respond and start to make for my room trying to avoid banter. “Anyway…”

“Hey,,,” Ted says grabbing onto my wrist. “Can I say something? Please?”

“Fine.”

He leads me to the basement which is currently a hodgepodge of books, a sofa and TV, and Ted’s dumbbell collection. We settle on the sofa like we used to as children watching R-rated movies in secret.

“I’m sorry, little dude,” he says. “Please. I’m really sorry I left you, man. I wish I’d done things different.”

“I know you’re sorry,” I say softly. “I want to understand why, why did you just disappear like that?”

“I felt worthless,” he says after a pause. “I’d stopped going to my classes, I’d started drinking a lot. No, like, A Lot. I was sleeping around, new girl every night. I flirted with coke, meth…man, I wanted to die.”

His eyes, blue as can be, are shining with tears.

“I joined up hoping the army would either straighten me out or it would kill me.”

“Oh, Teddy…” I want to hug him so so bad. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“Nah, man,” He says wiping his tears before they fall. “I couldn’t put that shit on you, little dude.”

“So your solution is to join the army?” I punch him in the arm. “Did you consider, I dunno, THERAPY? Jesus Christ, Teddy…”

“You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?” He says smiling wide.

“I have done no such thing.” I declare huffily.

“Yeah, you have!” He teases.

“Have not!”

“Teddy,” he says suddenly bashful. “You wouldn’t call me Teddy if we weren’t all good.”

I hated him so much, the goofball!

We fall into a habit of going running together in the morning. It’s a fun, competitive time, but I live for the moments when Ted peels his sweaty tank top off, revealing his exquisite body. His thick pecs with a smattering of hair on them make my mouth water. His abdomen isn’t as six-packed as it was during his wrestling days, but it looks firm and I long to touch, to follow his treasure trail down to…I’ve fallen into a habit of jerking off to these images of Ted. I squirm in bed, shaking my cock, whispering his name, imagining what it would feel like to have his weight on top of me, his cock stretching me open, what was his cock like anyway? These thoughts are wrong. They are taboo. I shouldn’t be thinking them. The very idea of being with Ted like that should fill me with disgust. Why doesn’t it, though?

He catches me staring one morning.

“Like what you see, little dude?” he says laughing and flexing. I want to touch the hard peaks of his biceps.

“Get over yourself.” I roll my eyes.

“I’m not ashamed to say that I like what I see!” He retorts. For me, at least, time stops.

“I’m serious, dude,” he continues. “You’re in phenomenal shape, all lean and shit. I’m really impressed by you.”

“Don’t be.” I mean it. There’s nothing impressive about someone stupid enough to keep going back to his violent rapist of a boyfriend. There’s nothing impressive about a grad student so useless that his boss must pack him off home to heal or whatever.

“Well, I am and you can’t stop me!” He says affectionately squeezing my shoulder. “Seriously, Alex, you’re doing so great. I’m gonna be calling you Dr. Little dude one of these days!”

I don’t say anything.

“Say,” Ted suggests. “Wanna eat back all these calories at Joe’s?”

“It’s eight in the morning!”

“Ice cream has the perfect macros for breakfast!”

That feels incorrect, but I don’t question it. Of course, Ted is impulsive enough to choose ice cream for breakfast. I love him for it.

“You are a horrible influence!” I say exiting the ice cream place having stuffed myself on two mighty scoops of rich double chocolate ice cream.

“And you are a slob.” Ted says sweeping the side of my mouth with his thumb and licking up the smidgeon of ice cream that was had lingered there.

My eyes meet his. He just shrugs and makes for the car.

“Can I say something sappy?” he says later that day as we take a break from video games. We’re back in our sanctuary of a basement.

“Oh, God…” I act exasperated, but I am curious.

“Don’t be mad at me for saying this, but I love having you back. Like, back to yourself, you know?”

“Stop being weird.”

“No, for real! There was something off about you, little dude,” Ted elaborates. “First I thought that you were just mad at me, but it went deeper. You were kinda wounded, I guess? Quiet. Scared, even. I don’t know what that was, I’m just happy that you came back to me.”

It was time.

“Jackson,” I say softly. “My ex. He’s why I was the way I was.”

“Oh, shit, bad breakup?”

Yup, it was definitely time.

“Teddy, I’m gonna tell you some things, but I need you to not interrupt me, okay?” I say. “Please it is very important that you let me say it all because if I stopped, I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish, okay? Okay?”

“Yeah, Alex,” Ted says nervously. “Totally okay.”

I launch into the whole violent saga with Jackson: his drinking, his need for control, his rages, the black eyes, the bruises, my ritual reward of flowers, apologies and a cold pack, the rape, Dr. Zhang’s intervention…all of it. There are times in the telling where I want to defend Jackson, downplay his actions, but I actively talk myself out of doing so. I tell the whole story without falling to pieces. I tell it like I’m reading someone else’s ordeal out loud from a book. I see Ted’s countenance grow stormier and stormier. He is literally shaking with anger.

“Where is he?” He demands his voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to rip his balls off and feed ‘em to him.”

“Don’t,” I say. “It’s all over now. I’m just sorry I let it go on as long as it did.”

“You didn’t let anything happen!” Ted is vehement. “A situation like that…you were in survival mode, little dude! And that fucking chode was only making it worse!”

“I told mom, you know?” I share. “She told me that she didn’t have any ideas for someone who was being a doormat and not standing up for themselves.”

“Fuck.” Ted mutters sharply.

“She’s not wrong, though,” I say matter-of-factly. “It took me a whole year to leave him. I was stupid to keep giving him chance after chance…who does that?”

“Come here.”

I approach him and Ted sweeps me up in his powerful arms.

“You’re not stupid, Alex,” He says before kissing my forehead. “Don’t talk shit about my brother—my little dude—okay? You’re not stupid. You’re strong. You did it. You kicked his ass to the curb. I’m proud of you.”

A dam breaks within and I am, embarrassingly, wracked with sobs.

“E-e-evrytime h-he hurt me…I m-m-missed you…so…much,” I am barely coherent. “T-t-teddy could make it s-s-stop…b-but you were…w-w-where were…y-you w-w-weren’t there!”

“I know, I know,” He’s rubbing my back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, little dude. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Maybe they’re right when they say that the truth will set you free. That invisible wall between Teddy and me which we were slowly chipping away at dissolved completely once we’d told each other our truths. We still did the same things: running, video games, movies, talking late into the night, but unencumbered now of weighty secrets.

“You think you’ll ever date again, Alex?” he asked. We were in the balcony that projected from master bedroom, our parents’ bedroom. The gloaming sky was creamsicle-colored. Ted, leaning against the balustrade, capped shoulders bulging from his t-shirt looked distractingly sexy.

He must have thought of my silence as me being startled or offended by the question because he began to apologize.

“No, Teddy, it’s fine! It’s a great question, actually,” I assured him. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but you know what, yeah. Yeah, I do want to date again.”

“Cool,” he said. “Cool, cool, cool! We’ll have to find you a nice guy. I’ll vet him myself!”

“What about you?” I countered, turning the question around. “Any special ladies in your life?”

“Or guys.” He amended nonchalantly.

“Gu—Teddy! Are you serious?”

“The army changes you, little dude, what can I say!” He winked mischievously.

“I don’t even wanna know!”

“You do, though!” he teased, “Maybe just a little bit.”

“Stop!” I laughed and strode over to him. We stood side-by-side: I looked to the sky and he seemed to be looking at me.

“So,” he said. “What kind of guy are we looking for for you?”

YOU! I wanted to scream. THERE’S NO NEED TO LOOK! HE’S RIGHT HERE!

“Someone kind,” I said carefully. “Protective, goofy…”

“Yeah?” When had he moved so close to me? The heat of his breath against my ear was driving me crazy.

“Yeah,” I said turning my head towards him, our faces almost touching.

“How many inches?” He whispered sensuously.

“What?”

“Biceps!” He said shrugging, but the knowing glint in his eye spoke volumes. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“You’re such an asshole!” I said punching his shoulder. Solid to the touch. He probably felt nothing.

“Ow!” His cry was far too exaggerated. “I guess I deserved that.”

“You deserve worse, actually.”

“Holy shit, little dude! Give a guy a break!” He was grinning broadly. “Okay, how about I make it up to you by taking your sexy ass to Blackport tomorrow? It’ll be just like the old times. Maybe even better!”

“I’d love that.”

His smile could have reversed the sunset.

Blackport is the most adorable coastal town in the country, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. Our parents used to take us there when we were young but, when we got older and no longer interesting to our parents, we’d jump on the commuter rail and go ourselves. For a town called Blackport, it is crazy colorful. All the fishing shacks on that beautiful harbor were in scarlet, pea green, azure…One of those azure ones, in fact, was where you could buy giant scrumptious lobster rolls. It took us forever to find it this time because Ted refused to look up where it was, convinced that his adolescent memories would just lead him to it. We did look it up after all.

If you got lobster rolls, you had to get soft serve after. To look at us, we seemed like grown men. But we were dumb carefree teenagers again, stuffing our faces and spending money on kitsch. Ted did take his shirt off to try on a t-shirt and that caused quite a stir. I, feeling bloated, hated how flat his stomach was despite all the (very unhealthy) food we’d eaten.

“You were never going to buy that t-shirt, were you?” I teased as we walked along the beach. “You just wanted to show off.”

“You’ve got no proof!” He said ruffling my hair.

“Unbelievable!” I sighed, “It’s getting late, though…” It was.

The sun had begun to set. I had no idea where the day had gone.

“Don’t you want to check out the tidal pools, little dude?” Ted asked sweetly. “Maybe you’ll finally meet that starfish of yours!”

I could have kissed him. The tidal pools were my favorite part of coming to Blackport. I was kinda superstitious about starfish in the way some people are about shooting stars: if you sight a starfish, things are about to change for you and for the better. Don’t ask me how I came up with this: I was a kid. Kids are dumb. But over the years, finding a starfish in one of the tidal pools became a bit of a bucket list item for me. I searched every time we came here and always left disappointed.

The search today was beginning to feel futile, too, and it was getting dark. It wasn’t all that bad: it was cool seeing all those anemones, mussels…tidal pools, in general, are amazing little universes unto themselves.

“Alex…”

I looked over to Ted pointing at this regal five-armed starfish: a deep blue body but with a border of reddish gold.

“He’s perfect.” I said.

“He’s amazing!” Ted gasped. “What do we do? You wanna take him home, little dude? You think of a name for him?”

“No, Teddy,” I said smiling at his enthusiasm. “We’re gonna leave him to get on with his life and we’ll get on with ours.”

“So what big changes d’you think are coming now that you saw him?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I have a good feeling. And, man, we should start getting home. It’s almost dark.”

“So?” Teddy says. “Let’s stay on the beach little bit longer!”

“At night?”

“That’s the best part!” He says squeezing my shoulder affectionately. “It’ll be quiet. We can hear the ocean and, look, full moon tonight.”

I relent and I’m glad I do because soon we’re lying on the cool sand, the salty ocean breeze igniting my nerves as it delicately caresses me because I’m wondering what it would be like if Ted touched me like that.

“Teddy.” I say.

“Hmm.”

“Thanks for today.”

“Any time, little dude,” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I had a blast!”

“I wish it were always like this,” I say willing myself not to cry. “I’ll go back to school and so will you.”

“But for now, we’re both right here.” His warm calloused hand covers mine. “Come here.”

He pulls me to his chest and I don’t resist.

“Hi.” He says smiling, looking deep in my eyes. I blush.

“Hi.”

“You’re a hell of a guy, you know that?” His thumb caresses my cheek. It feels wonderful.

“Thanks.” I squeak. His laugh is like warm honey.

“And a looker, too,” His thumb traces my jawline. “When did you get all handsome, little dude?”

“I…don’t know…” I can barely breathe.

“Hey, little dude?” Ted says, his voice low. “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay? Is that okay?”

I nod. I want so badly for him to possess me completely.

His lips meet mine, softly at first: they’re warm, wet and taste mildly like the Big Red he’d been chomping. But his kissing grows urgent, intense, and I match him. I have hungered for him for so long. He presses my palm against the crotch of his jeans, his shaft hard and thick as thrusts against my hand. He pulls away, only to return to my lips almost immediately. He kisses me and he kisses me, until we break apart laughing. He runs a hand through his hair, the moon illuminating the planes of his face: he has never looked more handsome.

“Wanna get outta here?” He says suavely really playing up the cliché that that phrase is.

“Yeah.”

We walk to the car holding hands. He has me pressed against the car door now.

“I gotta kiss you some more, little dude,” He says before crushing his lips against mine.

“I like kissing you,” he says between kisses. “It’s my new favorite thing to do.”

“Mine, too.”

“There’s lost of other things I’d like to do to you, too…” he says wickedly.

“Really?” The heat flares in my cheeks but I must know. “Like what?”

My hand is against his hard cock again, its heat radiating through the denim.

“I’ll let you wrap those pretty lips around my big cock,” he whispers in my ear, his voice suffused with desire. “And I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you deep and slow. Sound good?”

That fucking starfish really came through for me.

Driving an hour back home was not gonna happen. We couldn’t wait that long. I began to worry that my first time with Teddy was going to be at some shitty Motel 6, but my brother had a different idea. He drove us 5 minutes to an old lighthouse.

“I used to bring girls here,” He says cheekily as he gathers a large bulky blanket and a bottle of lube from the trunk. “Pray they didn’t board it up or whatever.”

They hadn’t.

As soon as we are inside Ted’s hulking form has me pressed against the stone wall. He crushes his lips to mine and kisses me ravenously. His big hands are under my clothes. His touch is warm and makes my body sing. I moan and shudder when he presses the hard nubs of my nipples down. Now his hands are in my pants, squeezing my ass.

“Nice ass, little dude!” He murmurs. “Been going crazy for that ass all summer…”

He kisses me again, biting my lower lip gently. He has me on my back now, on that blanket. It doesn’t do much to ease the hardness of the floor, but I don’t care. Ted is fumbling with my pants. I tremble and hiss when he reaches into my boxer-briefs and his skin makes contact with my hard cock.

“Oh, damn!” He says looking at my cock. “I gotta stop calling you little dude, little dude!” He winks before he takes me into his mouth.

“Oh God! Oh…TED!” His mouth is hot and wet. He runs his tongue over the length of my shaft and then swallows me whole, all the way to the back of my throat.

“Teddy!” I squeal.

His eyes flicker up at me. He holds my gaze as he bobs up and down sucking me. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever experienced. I run my hands through his thick, wavy hair. He moans against my cock when I tug at it. He slows down as if giving me permission and I take it: I thrust upward fucking his face, my cock hitting the back of his throat. Teddy’s hands ride up my shirt again: he teases my nipples, caresses my sides. My orgasm builds. I want to shoot so so bad.

“S..swallow?” Is the best I can do. I can see a twinkle in Teddy’s eyes and he gives me a thumbs-up. He places both his hands around the base of my cock and bobs up and down, spreading the spit. The effect is electrifying,

“Oh, FUCK!” I shoot my first volley of cum. “Oh, fuck fuck, FUCK!”

Ted comes off my cock, dregs of my cum dribbling down his chin.

“You look content!” He teases.

“That was amazing!”

He pulls my shirt off and I lie before him completely naked. With Jackson, I was always a little embarrassed of my nude self. I mean, Jackson was an Adonis. I have no such misgivings around Ted. He looks at me as if he’s ready to devour me. The tent in his shorts proves this.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, his gaze drinking in my body.

I feel beautiful.

“Why aren’t you naked?” I demand.

He laughs and starts to strip. No matter how many times I see him shirtless, I gasp at the perfect squares of his meaty pecs, covered with a light fuzz, the engorged veins in his thick arms…but his cock is another story altogether. He’s uncut which is a surprise since I’m not. I can’t put a number to the length but it’s long. It’s not beer can thick…more like a remote control. It’s so very veiny, though. I want to trace each vein with my tongue. Memorize it.

He practically pounces on me and kisses me deeply while I touch the muscular planes of his upper body: his wide lats, his broad back alive with muscle.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, little dude…” He sighs.

“Me, too,” I agree.

“I’ve been hinting pretty strongly!” He says between kisses.

I can’t respond because his fingers are rubbing the outside of my hole.

He’s on his side now. “Spread your legs, little dude.”

Every time Jackson said that, it sounded like a threat.

He puts a spit-slicked finger into me and I shudder.

“Oh, yeah?” And he slips in another.

He’s stretching my hole and my cock starts to rise again.

“I wish you could see the hungry look in your eyes…” Ted says continuing to finger me.

“Teddy…”

“What’s up, little dude? Tell me what you want.” He’s smiling wickedly, the fingering continues and is driving me out of my senses.

“Your cock,” I manage to intone. “In me.”

His fingers slip out of me and he grabs me by the legs and pulls me towards him. He places my ankles on his wide, capped shoulders. The lube he rubs into my hole is cold but I know it won’t be for long.

His cock is pressing against my hole now and Ted bears a serious expression. “I’ll fuck you so good, little dude.”

I feel a burn with the stretch as my hole welcomes his hardness. He goes slowly, pushing in inch by inch. Every inch makes me gasp. I look down between us and see that he isn’t halfway there. Maybe he is very big after all…

“Give me all of it, Teddy!” I beg. “Please!”

“You sure, little dude? I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“You did say “please””

And with that he plunges into me.

“TEDDY!” I grip his substantial biceps hard.

“You okay?” He says, but his question is lost to a deep moan that emanates from deep within him.

“Perfect, perfect hole…” He says before he starts to move.

His cock alive and throbbing in me feels correct. I feel like my hole was molded for him, like I was especially made for him.

He’s fucking me in earnest now: hard and fast, hitting my prostate so often that I can see stars.

“Teddyyyy…” I whine in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice when he truly begins to pound me. He cries out when my nails dig into his muscular back.

“Get on top of me!” He huffs and rolls us over.

He grips my hips with his big, calloused hands and guides me onto his hard cock. My erection slaps against his stomach as I start to ride him. My hole is stretched tight around his girth.

“Teddy…” I cry out, a sheen of sweat beginning to form on me. “Teddy…”

“Yeah?” He asks from below. Damn, he so handsome.

“I love your cock.” I say jerkily for I have not stopped riding him.

“Thanks, I grew it myself!” He chuckles.

He takes control. He grips my hips hard and starts to thrust into me. My eyes roll back into my head.

“This what you wanted?” He pants.

I can’t respond because I’m on the verge of cumming. A few more thrusts later, I come undone and I shoot a load covering Teddy’s torso.

“Hell, yeah, little dude!”

His thrusts pick up pace.

“Oh…” He groans. “Oh, shit. Oh, shiiiiiiiiiiit! Alex! AAAAAHHH! AH-AH-AHHHH!”

The sudden heat in my hole tells me that he’s marked me with his seed. I look down at him: his muscles shine with sweat. He’s perfect. He’s mine. When I get off his cock, cum seeps out of me and pools around his cock.

“You shot a lot!” I exclaim.

“All for you, little dude!” He sighs, wiping his sweaty forehead with his hand.

We lie together after wiping down. Me against his imposing form. He was, obviously, big spoon. Maybe this is what post-nut clarity is because as the endorphins start to ebb away, it hits me that we’ve violated a major taboo (why does that make what we did hotter?). Like, we did it. It seemed less scary when it was tucked away in my fantasies. But this was real. We actually did it. We fucked. I can’t discern the way forward. I don’t want to give him up, not so soon after getting him back, not ever.

“Teddy?”

“Little dude?” He kisses my neck.

“What happens now?”

He pulls me tighter against him. I can’t see his face, but I know he knows what I’m asking.

“I don’t know, Alex.” He says, his voice steady, determined. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.”

“And little dude?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll always protect you.”

“I know.”

Hi all – apologies for such a long delay – I was sick for a while there and while I was writing, I did take a break from posting – so the good news is that there is a large backlog to come!!! 

Hope you all enjoy 🙂

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A morning wank to get past the hangover

——–Ricky’s POV——–

The following day I lay there in bed as still as I could, my mouth dry, head pounding. I looked at my alarm. It was midday

“Fuck.” I had drank too much last night. I tried to remember the number of beers and shots I had taken, but lost track about midnight.

But it had been a good night. My mind sprang back to Me, Sarah and Jake heading into the dunes. When I, kissing them. When I fingered her. Watching her and Jake together. And especially blowing my load down Jake’s eager throat.

This hangover was fucking worth it. 

After the three of us fucked and dressed I split off leaving the two of them alone, while Jake walked Sarah back to hers. I had high hopes for Jake, hoping he didn’t chicken out and stayed the night with her. He had spent all the time since he met her pining over her. I was glad he got the chance to be with her before we left town. And I really hoped he was getting the chance again this morning. 

My mind flashed back to watching Sarah ride him, his lean body lying there on the blanket, the stupidest expression on his face as she plunged up and down his hard cock.

She had been so wet for us, and seeing Jake finish her, then seeing him finish in her, fuck, my morning wood was twitching at the thought of the two of them. 

I wondered what he would do to her if he did get to stay the night. I pictured Jake bending her over doggy style, railing her while holding her mouth, muffling her squeals. “She certainly wasn’t quiet.’ I laughed to myself.

My hands slipped into my boxers now as I started to stroke slowly, still acutely aware of my hangover. I had always found a quick stroke the best remedy, it always made me feel better as long as I didn’t go too fast. And the way my dick was leaking, it would be a quick one.

A carousel of different position that Jake and Sarah could get into whirled around my mind. Him spooning her and slipping in, her riding him again, him spreading her open in missionary. The possibilities just kept appearing, and each one was hotter to the last.

But then maybe Jake just got to wake up to a warm sloppy blowjob. I thought back to last night, Jake on his knees in front of me. I didn’t think Sarah would give head as good as him. I thought she’d try though, after seeing his performance. I hoped Jake would get to be her practice dick for a while. But not enough it would keep him from me.

I was still bathing in the memory. Jake has been so enthusiastic; I might have thought it was Stephen swallowing me instead. A drip of pre-cum escaped from my tip at that thought. I rubbed it into my skin with my thumb.

Jake had tried hard, real hard last night. And he had done real fucking well. I loved everything about it.

But, but there was something about getting sucked off by Stephen that hit different. Maybe it was just how submissive he was, or how much I could see Stephen was enjoying just getting me off.

With Jake it was a competition – hot, sweaty and fun.

But with Stephen, with Stephen it was a prize.

I started wishing Stephen was there beside me, to take care of my raging hard on for me. I knew he’d be eager to, dipping under the covers to take care of, no, to fucking worship my shaft.

I absently grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I hadn’t heard from him since last night. I had walked back to the bonfire after I had left Jake and Sarah, seeing various other couples return from the dune in their strides of pride. But he had gone. And there were no texts this morning. I thought about messaging him, sending him a photo of me stroking, maybe even asking him to come over.

But I was too hung over for that shit.

I slipped my boxers down further and started wanking faster. My forehead pulsed at the vigour I was stroking with. But it wouldn’t be long, and it would be worth it.

I pictured Stephen lying in front of me, licking my shaft, that I could grab his head roughly, run my fingers through his blonde hair, thrust hard into his mouth. He’d be e moaning, even while he had my dick in his mouth.

But I wouldn’t be satisfied with just that. I wanted more from him. I could picture grabbing and lifting him, before spinning him around, getting to that thick tight ass of his. I imagined smacking it, feeling it, spreading it, rubbing it, my fingers slipping in preparing him –

I started to cum, my head pounding with every wave of my orgasm, mouth even drier as I pumped a small load into my hand. I felt dizzy and lightheaded as the hangover punished me. But the pleasure was worth it as I just kept stroking wishing it was Stephen’s ass and not my hand that I was cumming in. I couldn’t fucking wait to Tuesday.

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Hi all, thank you so much for reading. I will always continue to post here, however if you want up to date content, some exclusive works, or even just to support me please consider checking out my Patreon below.

https://www.patreon.com/JRSTales

All Out Confessions

Once again, I found myself in Corey’s big arms, crying into his chest, breathing in his scent, hoping it could anchor me – begging it to comfort me. For the second time this morning, I felt completely broken, my composure was shattered into so many pieces I didn’t know if it could ever be put back together.

I pulled away, leaning back into the chair. “I’m just so lost. I don’t understand anything anymore.” My voice weak, barely audible. “I don’t know what’s real, or what I’m imagining, or what I was trying to wish into reality. Corey, I like – no, I’m sorry – I think I almost fell in love with you.”

I couldn’t look at him as I spoke. My words tumbled out, raw and jagged. “But I get it now. All your kindness and caring… that’s just part of your job, right? To make people feel comfortable during a really ‘intimate and exposed’ test. But I – I started reading a lot more into it than I should have. You’ve made me realize how much I miss having a best friend, a big brother, a dad – just… someone.”

I forced myself to take a shaky breath, ignoring my tears that were threatening to fall again. “And I really need to leave now. Because I know that someone can’t be you. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. Please, sir, I just need to go.”

Corey resumed our hug and his arms tightened around me, holding me in place. “Ollie,” he said softly, his voice steady but tinged with something I couldn’t yet determine, “listen to me. There’s so much you don’t know. So much I probably – no, definitely – should have told you sooner.”

He leaned back just enough to make me meet his gaze, his hands firm and warm on my shoulders. “Let me start with my confession. If you think you were ‘juvenile’ for slowly falling for me over two hours, imagine how childish I felt when I started falling for you at first sight.”

I blinked, stunned, my mind racing again to catch up with his words.

“When I opened the waiting room door this morning and saw you – this big, beautiful boy who was trying so hard to be brave, but was so obviously terrified and alone – I felt instincts shaper than I’d never felt before. I wanted to grab you, hold you close, take you home and protect you forever. From then on, the more you shared with me, the more I knew my first impression was right, and the more I found myself completely falling for the amazing person you are.

“Ollie, everything we’ve done today has been 100% legit, but I couldn’t stop myself. I knew it was professionally, well, risky, but I had to give you all the comforting touches I could – more than I’ve ever given a patient before. I’ve even lost count of all our full-frontal hugs. I don’t usually, okay ever, do that. And by the way, no – that was not a normal rectal exam or prostate massage. I mean they were mechanically correct, but I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted to make sure you enjoyed it. I wanted you to feel the extra care I was putting into it.

“And it wasn’t just that. I hope you felt the same with – sorry – the enema. You’re absolutely capable of staying upright on your own without my arm across your chest. But I… I wanted to hold you. And I thought you wanted to be held, too.

“When I kissed your armpit, Ollie, yes. I was trying to distract you. But I can’t lie; I loved it. And when I saw that you did, too… I realized I might’ve crossed the line from risky over to dangerous. I lost my nerve and tried to blow it off like it was nothing. Please believe me when I say this: I’ve never, ever, pinched another patient’s nipple.” He chuckled lightly as his cheeks flushed a soft pink.

“Then I saw the shift in your eyes, and I realized I’d done something far worse than crossing a line – I made you feel betrayed. Or at least tricked. And I panicked. I couldn’t let you leave like that. From the little slip-ups you made during our conversations, I had a strong suspicion that you didn’t have a real home to go back to. And I’m so, so sorry for asking you that awful question when you were at your most vulnerable. I only did it because… because I hoped it would make you stay long enough for me to recover from my mistake.

“Ollie, yes, I like you. More than I should probably admit. I want to be your friend, your big brother – or something more, if that’s what you’d ever want. But whatever it may be, I just want to be here for you now. Please forgive me?”

Tears were streaming down my cheeks once again, but they had changed. They weren’t sad anymore. Instead, they were hopeful – almost happy. I wiped at my eyes, failing miserably, and said the first dumb thing that popped into my head: “Buddy, when you decide to make a confession, you go all out.”

I chuckled through my tears and leaned forward to hug him in tight, wrapping my arms around him like I’d never let go. For the first time, I felt my need echoed in his embrace – like he’d never let go either. I noticed a few tears on his face too.

Chapter 13: The First Kiss

Corey leaned back, straightened up, sniffed his tears away, and with a small but reassuring smile, Nurse Corey had regained control. “Ollie, I know I might be pressing my luck here, but I’m serious. You’re still very naked, and you still need to, well, have a release. I can leave the room and let you handle it on your own, or I can stay and help give you the ending you deserve. It’s totally up to you, but you’re not leaving here without having an orgasm first.”

He chuckled softly, a hint of nervousness making him even more endearing. “And here’s one more confession – there’s absolutely no way this is a standard part of the test.” His grin turned playful. “Except for a couple of very unintentional accidents, I’ve never helped a patient have an orgasm before. I mean, I do give them the same speech I gave you, about why it’s important. But then I send them on their way. And they are. On. Their. Own.”

His expression brightened; his voice suddenly inviting. “So, if I may… Would you like to follow me back over to the exam table, one last time?”

I was back in his care again. “Yes sir!” I replied; my dick was already hard and enthusiastically pointing the way. I tried not to run over to the padded table at the back of the room.

“Are you ready to take this to the next level, my boy? Just hop up and lie back with your knees bent up. I think the best way I can help is by tickling your new favorite body part with one hand, while my other hand finds its own kind of mischief. All while you s-l-o-w-l-y take matters into your own hand. There’s no need to rush this, you deserve to savor every feeling you’re about to experience.”

I jumped on the table and lowered my back down onto its padding, I raised my knees and looked over at Corey. I was hard as a steel pipe and was already worried that my dick was going to rush our time whether Corey wanted to or not.

I saw him get the tube of lube again and start slicking up two fingers on his right hand. And I involuntarily uttered, “Um, aren’t you going to use a glove?”

“The test is over Ollie. I’d really like to touch you with my bare hands if you’re okay with that. And before we get too much further, do you want any lube for your part of the task?”

I grinned, “Nope, it’s one of the joys of being uncircumcised.”

Corey returned to the table with a nearly predatory smirk, “Okay my boy, raise your knees to your chest and show me your playing field one more time.”

I did, only this time, I didn’t feel like I was simply exposing myself to Corey. I felt like I was offering myself and inviting him in. My anticipation was off the charts and I was starting to shiver again.

Then… everything stopped when I felt his fingers finally touch my expectant hole. I whimpered and involuntarily raised my bottom to better greet his fingers.

Corey gave me a corrective look, “Easy Ollie, I said we’re going to take it slowly this time. That way we can do new things, like this…”

His face quickly changed into the most passionate smile. He kept his fingers firmly on my hole as he moved his body closer to mine, leaning over me. Face to face. His eyes silently asked the question I was longing to hear. And my eyes screamed “Yes!” in return. He lowered his head and our lips touched for the first time.

Every kiss I’d ever had before simply vanished into nothingness, erased in an instant. This will forever be my first kiss. His beard brushing against my skin, his scent enveloping me, his breath merging with mine – it was all-consuming. I wanted to cry out, overwhelmed with pure joy. But all I could do was let his probing tongue part my lips exactly at the moment his two bare fingers slid past my resistance. I moaned into his mouth, and pushed my hips up even higher, to make his flingers slide in deeper.

Corey eventually broke our kiss and gazed into my eyes. “How are you liking our new level my beautiful boy? Before you answer, consider this…” As his fingers finally connected with their target.

My enthusiasm exploded, but my words were primitive, “Damn! Please, just never stop Corey. Ever. Oh my god! Um, I have no idea why I ever said ‘no’ to you.”

There was a trace of regret in his always kind eyes, “Because I accidently upset you. And I promise that I’m so going to make it up to you.”

Corey unexpectedly slipped back into nurse command mode, but with a playful twist: “You can lower your feet back to the table now Ollie, I’m where I need to be. And how ‘bout you raise your left arm please. Oh, and feel free to continue your task with your right one.” He raised an eyebrow, “but remember, slowly.”

I happily complied. As soon as my blond pit curls were again in his view, Corey leaned back down and nuzzled his nose in as far as he could. There was no quick sniff and lick this time. I reveled in the prolonged sensation and was almost on the verge of overstimulation.

He took a deep breath and then started sensually rubbing his chin and beard all up, down, and around my pit.

Forever the mind reader, he slowly moved back over my face and seductively said, “It’s the best part of having a beard. I’m scenting it with my Ollie’s musk. Now I’ll never forget it.” As he kissed me again, I could smell my scent on him. Damn. My joy was racing up so many new levels.

As overwhelmed as I was, there was absolutely no way I could coherently express any of the new desires rushing through my overloaded mind. So, Corey did it for me. “My Ollie, there are a lot of things I can’t do here, but if you’d like, I can at least make this a little less one-sided.”

I just nodded to his offer and started involuntarily quivering once again. But then immediately almost let a word of protest slip past my lips as I felt his fingers slide out of my playing field.

He caught my confused look, “Shhh, no worries my boy, they’ll be right back. I just couldn’t do this without leaving you untouched for a second.” With that, Corey faced me like I had faced him hours ago. He crossed his arms and quickly removed his scrubs top.

He gave me a sheepish grin, his voice quiet but playful, “Sorry, I can’t remove my bottoms. At least not here. We’ll have to save that level for a more appropriate place.” My Norse God stood there, modest smirk intact, as if waiting for my approval – a living, breathing masterpiece offering himself to my gaze.

I froze, caught in the now-familiar spell of Corey’s presence. Somehow, I managed to stammer, “C-Corey! You’re… beautiful. You’re, um, like my fantasy man – times ten.”

His smile brightened into something even more radiant, and his voice carried a warmth that melted the last of my worries away. “Aww, I’m honored. Just understand Ollie, I’m never going to slap you to the floor, and I’ll always be here to hug you, no matter how old you get.” Joy exploded from my chest, filling every corner of my soul.

Corey was a work of art. His dark blond fur, slightly thicker and deeper in tone than how I remembered my father’s, framed his broad, rounded pecs perfectly. A triangular treasure trail disappeared into the waistband of his scrub bottoms, the soft lines of his tummy fur enhancing the hard ridges of his abs. And his pits – dark, damp, and utterly intoxicating – radiated masculinity. In that moment, I knew: I had found a new home. Or at least, I was about to feel truly safe and protected for the first time since fleeing mine.

He leaned back over me with his fingers gently yet expertly returning to their playing field. While I thought he was about to resume our kiss, instead he raised my left arm back up over my head and planted his tongue firmly in my curly blond tuft. Heaven again. Except he wasn’t done, he maneuvered his left pit so that it was over my face. And I instinctively accepted his offer.

I dove in. His scent was grounding; it was a bit like mine; and yet it was still all Corey. And just like our kiss, I will always remember my first time of being offered this man’s scent. It’s indelibly stamped into my brain. As I continued to lick and suck and sniff, it was as if we were, well, I guess, 69-ing each other’s musk makers. And in doing so, creating our own unique combined scent.

Once again, I was overwhelmed and said those two most contradictory words, but gentler this time with less urgently. “Cory, stop – please. Just for a second. I don’t think I can hold off much longer, and I really want to be kissing you when I cum.”

He smiled at me and softly said, “Your wish is my command.” We laughed at the cheesiness until his fingers suddenly got even more serious with my prostate and his lips reconnected with mine.

As my pressure built and my stroke speed increased, I once again had to hold back tears from running down my cheeks. It didn’t matter, because just three quick breaths later, and both Corey and I had something other than tears streaming down our cheeks. Or maybe that should be “gushing.” I shot all over our beards, my chest, my abs and finally, just dribbled into my bush. Would it be redundant to say that my first shared climax had also just wiped all prior orgasms from my memory?

Corey’s fingers slowly slipped from my soul, but his lips remained on mine as we both continued reveling in my post orgasmic bliss. But as I came down from my high, I started giggling – uncontrollably. Wait, what?

I finally managed to calm my giggles and give Corey a sheepish grin. “I swear, that was so incredible and so not funny. I mean, it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. But I’m just well… happy. I haven’t felt this good, this carefree, in… well, since you know.” My voice trailed off, but the joy in my chest was undeniable.

With a tenderness that made my heart sing, Corey gently brushed his fingers through my hair. “I couldn’t be happier either, Ollie. And trust me, we’ve only scratched the surface. There are so many more levels for us to explore together.”

He paused in realization, giving me a funny-but-pained smile. “But right now, we need to clean up and get out of this room before someone starts knocking.” His hand lingered on my cheek for a final moment before he reluctantly pulled away. “Just lie there, my beautiful boy and catch your breath. I’ll grab a washrag. You’ve got a lot of little baby Ollies in your beard – and, well, just about everywhere else. I was right, you definitely needed that.”

Chapter 14: Super Mario Cart

I waited in my Bronco as Corey pulled around in his car. Dang – a Mustang Mach E! My man is electric. It’s funny, I always thought the EV Mustang looked like a muscle car in its third trimester, but now? Seeing Corey in his, I’ve reassessed its merits. It’s officially the coolest car on the planet. And of course, it’s the most appropriate chariot to carry my Norse God. He parked next to me and strolled over to my window.

“Ollie, now that I’ve found you, please don’t let me lose you,” he said with a half-smile that was equal parts playful and sincere.

I beamed and held up my iPhone. “No worries, I’ve got Google Maps. Where are we going?”

“It’s almost lunchtime, and I’m guessing neither of us had breakfast this morning.” His eyes danced over me knowingly. I didn’t feel the need to admit I hadn’t eaten dinner last night either, so I just nodded.

“Cool. Trust me on this, put ‘4434 Harry Hines Blvd’ into your phone. Got it? Show it to me – let me see.” LOL, he definitely wasn’t about to lose me.

“Awesome. It’s a little place called the Original Market Diner. It’s a real diner so we can decide whether we’re feeling more like breakfast or lunch when we get there. And Ollie…” He paused, his tone turning serious, “don’t overthink it too much, but, we really need to talk. Just… not on empty stomachs.”

I gave him a questioning look, “I promise I won’t, but um, can’t I just follow you?”

“Of course you can – that’s the plan. But this is Dallas traffic. In case anything happens and we get separated, I want you to know where we’re going. And duh! We need to exchange contacts while we’re at it.”

We began our maniacal Super Mario Kart race straight into the heart of Dallas. Back in Michigan, I’d always done my best to avoid Detroit craziness for all my driving life, but Dallas and Fort Worth traffic made Detroit look absolutely sane. Between reckless drivers – Turn Signals? We don’t need no stinking Turn Signals! – and random unexplainable pockets of construction – oh and even a freaking car on fire – it really was like driving through a video game freeway obstacle course.

During rare gaps in the bumper-car chaos, I caught a few glimpses of downtown Dallas. The city had a big, brash, boldness about it. As if it was something whose only reason for being, was to be huge and impressive. Through it all, I managed to keep my eyes glued to Corey’s sleek EV taillights, determined not to lose him either. I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally entered the tiny parking lot of our little diner – undented and unscratched – and found two open parking spots. 

Chapter 15: Everyone Needs an Ollie in Their Life

As soon as we stepped out of our vehicles and reconnected, Corey pulled me into another hug, completely unconcerned with the world around us. For a moment, I stiffened. I don’t know… doing this so boldly and out in the open was really new to me. I felt almost embarrassed – or at least a little self-conscious. I know Corey felt my concern. He confidently looked into my doubting eyes to reassure me, “Ollie, it’s all okay. You don’t need to hide anything anymore.”

He smiled and quickly returned to the task at hand, “Let’s go get some food, and I’ll try my best to explain everything you don’t know – in a way that won’t leave you feeling embarrassed, exposed, or tricked again.”

I raised an eyebrow and retorted, “You do understand that you’re supposed to be the older and wiser one, right? So, you gotta know that wasn’t your best opening line.” I gave him a chance to see my mischievous grin before continuing, “This place better have some amazing food to make up for it.” His face registered a hint of respect at my attempt to recover from my little blunder.

We walked across the parking lot toward the diner, as I took it all in. This place was like stepping into a time capsule – like episodes of Happy Days had never ended. Or better yet, like they’d been real all along. The wait staff inside were either 50’s-era moms personified or, well – gay. And at least a few of the tables had couples or groups that were pretty obviously gay too. Hey, maybe that was what the ‘50s were really like – just hidden under its happy surface.

The hostess led us around a display of rotating pies, past the register and into a second dining room. And finally gestured to the last booth on the left – back by the far wall of the building. As soon as we slid in and opened our menus, Corey gleefully switched into big brother mode, recommending his two favorite menu items. One if I wanted breakfast, the other if I was leaning toward lunch. The breakfast option – something called “Sam’s Benedict” – sounded really delicious, so I ordered it, plus a side of pancakes. I was absolutely starving.

As she took our orders, our waitress – definitely one of the “moms” – was clearly trying to figure out exactly what Corey and I meant to each other. I couldn’t blame her. Heck, I was trying to figure that one out myself.

Corey waited until our “mom” left, before leaning across the table, his gaze kind but serious. “Okay, my Ollie, you’ve had forty-five long minutes alone in your car. I know that overthinking brain of yours has been hard at work, writing lots of new inner monologue. So… how are we doing?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding and relaxed. “Hey, you’re the one who keeps dropping ominous hints about things I don’t know. You’ve already ripped two painful band-aids off me today. Could you maybe just please… rip this one off now too?”

“Fair enough.” Corey’s expression turned solemn, his hands resting on the table between us. “So, remember earlier, when I asked you that awful question? The question I already suspected I knew the answer to?” His voice caught slightly, and he cleared his throat. “God, Ollie, I’m sorry I had to do that. And you… well, you said, ‘It’s all I have.’” He paused, his voice trembling just enough to let me know how deeply my revelation had affected him.

“Ollie, please don’t get upset. But your Bronco isn’t even close to being all you have. While we may have just met in person this morning, I’ve actually known about you for a lot longer.”

My eyes were threatening to get real damp again, and it kind of looked like Corey’s might start dripping as well. I swallowed hard and gave him a small nod to urge him to continue – unsure if it was really what I wanted him to do.

Corey gave a weak smile and attempted to lighten the moment. “Hey, instead of raising your arms above your head this time, maybe you could just hand me your car keys?”

Without thinking, I actually started to. He chuckled softly but didn’t take them. Instead, he just firmly held my hands over the table.

“Ollie, I don’t think you realize the kind of impression you leave on the people you meet. You deliver an impact that makes everyone instantly deeply care about you. Your whole team at work absolutely adores you. They see your talent, your kindness, and your determination.

“And believe me, they’ve been watching you, and worrying about you. They knew you were going through some really tough times. So, they kept trying to find ways to get you to ask them for help. But apparently, if there’s one thing you don’t do well, it’s to admit when you need it. Which, in its own way, makes them care and worry about you even more.

“They don’t know the full story of what happened during your fight, or even why it happened. I think I’ve figured some of it out, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that the fight’s consequences gave them the opportunity to intervene with your personal life. It gave them an excuse to care for you the way you deserve.

“And, Ollie…” Corey hesitated for just a moment, his tone more serious than ever. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about it, but you’ve never asked me about my last name. It’s been on my scrub’s name tag all morning, but I’m guessing you’ve had, well, you know, other things on your mind.”

He gave a small, nearly playful smile, “So, my brave boy, here goes your last band-aid: Hello Oliver Carson, it’s been amazing getting to know you this morning, I’m Corey Rainer.”

I froze. My mind buffering the unexpected details for several seconds before their understanding hit me – harder than the pain from tape being ripped off my most sensitive parts earlier this morning. My breath caught. “Wait – you’re Dr. Rainer’s son?!”

“That’s right my boy – yes. And as I’ve asked you to do so many times today, please don’t freak. Just let me explain. And, well… maybe really, give me your car keys.” Corey winked, flashing an impossibly sweet smile; it worked.

It was more than enough to keep me from bolting up and out of our booth. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure I could bolt anyway. Lurd! Why was everything so tiny in this quaint little place? Was everybody really that much smaller back in the ‘50s? Or – was this why Corey brought me here, to trap me in a nostalgia-filled cage where I couldn’t make a quick escape?

Corey fixed me in his gaze once again as he continued. “Here’s the whole story. My dad – your urologist – isn’t just a good friend of your mentor, Ted. They’ve been a couple for the last 20 years and married since 2015. So! What that means is, right now, you’re sitting across from the result of my dad’s one and only ‘practice’ with a real girl.” He punctuated his revelation, “See? I really have been listening to everything you’ve shared with me today.

“Dad and Mom tried marriage for a while, but it wasn’t the right thing for either of them. I mean, they both loved me very much, but they also knew that staying together wasn’t going to make anyone happy in the long run.

“Like you, I’ve always been my father’s son. I love my mom, and I got to see her as often as I wanted, but my dad was – and still is – my world. So, when you told me your story, Ollie… it shattered my heart. I cried because I could imagine exactly how devastating it would feel to lose that connection.

“Unlike you, I had a happy ending. When I came out to Dad, he just hugged me, laughed and said, ‘Well, I guess you got all my best genes. I love you son.’ That’s what you deserved to hear too – the simple acceptance and understanding from the person you loved and needed most.”

Corey pivoted slightly, realizing he may have accidently given me a new cause for concern, “And please don’t worry. You haven’t been outed to anyone you’re not ready to tell. No one on your team knows you’re gay – though, believe me, none of them would care. They all just think you’re the greatest co-op they’ve ever known. But ‘Uncle Ted’ – yep, that’s what I call him – strongly suspected it and yes, he knows for sure now. That was kinda unavoidable.”

Corey paused, watching me closely. “You’re awfully quiet, but you don’t look like you’re going to faint or flee. Are you okay?”

I let out a shaky breath. “I have no idea. I can’t figure out anything to say yet. So… what else?”

“So, it was a no-brainer for Ted to send you to dad… Er, Chris… Ah, Dr. Rainer. And when it became clear that you needed this test, they asked me to step in. They trusted me to take care of a boy they had both gotten to know and love.”

I blinked hard at the word “love” but stayed silent.

Corey continued; his reassuring baritone keeping me calm. “I was supposed to do the test and discreetly get as much personal information out of you as I could. They both suspected you were living in your Bronco, but they wanted me to confirm it. So that they could help you.

“I agreed to their plan, but what I never imagined was that I’d immediately fall for you too. At first, I was just trying to get information – to help you and do what I’d promised. But after only our first few minutes together, everything changed. I suddenly needed to know everything about you – not because I had been asked to, but because I realized I cared so much about you.

And, in a strange way – even for today – I knew I had to earn your trust. In fact, it became the most important thing for me to do. Yet I still came so close to blowing it, and losing you. I’m so sorry my Ollie.”

His look saddened until he paused and regrouped.

Corey’s voice grew more confident and he straightened up. “Ollie, what I’m trying to say is – again – your Bronco isn’t even close to being all you have. You’ve got a whole team of people at work. You have two new dads, well, maybe granddads – don’t you dare repeat that!” His mischievous grin had returned. “And you’ve got me. All of us care about you and will always be here for you, whenever you need us.

“Congratulations, Oliver Carson. You’ve managed to ace the hardest test this life has ever thrown at you.”He reached over and gently cupped my cheek. “Like I said, everyone needs an Ollie in their life. Please, be in ours… Please be in mine.”

I didn’t think my insides could melt any more than they already had today, but they absolutely did. 

Chapter 16: Learning Texan

Even after such an amazing moment, Corey smoothly shifted back into his mischievous mode. “Oh, and just so you know, Dad and Ted have already set up a room for you at their place. I think you’ll like it… it used to be mine.”

“Wait, what?” My jaw practically hit the table. “You’re telling me all of this… Pulling me into this… This amazing new world, and I’m supposed to just accept it without winding up with you?”

Corey leaned back, his soft chuckle was warm and disarming. “Ollie, my boy, this isn’t some fantasy porn story. There’s no way we get to just skip ahead to living happily ever after together. We have to be real; I just turned 29 and you’re only 19 – fine almost 20 – but still in school, and just now starting to figure out what being gay means to you. I care about you way too much to rush into anything and wind up putting unnecessary pressure on you to figure everything out all at once.”

He gave me another gentle, knowing smile, “Remember how embarrassed you were – just a little while ago – out there in the parking lot? You’re still learning Ollie. And that’s exactly what you need to do, you just need space to do it.

“When I stepped out of our room earlier this morning for those ‘administrative items’ – while you were trying to pee, I gave Dad a call. I filled him in on how everything was going and, I gave him the rest of the story from my car on our way here. He’s as shocked – and thrilled – as I am about what’s happened between us. But his dad genes roared into overdrive. He’s already laid down the law. And honestly, I can’t disagree with him.

“Ollie, you’re so new to all this and so vulnerable right now. You’ve been through so much abuse recently. None of us – me, Dad, Ted – can bear the thought of you being hurt any more. I know it might be hard to understand, but moving in with me, right now, would probably only add more stress to your life. And that’s the last thing I want for you.

“Believe me, I want to be with you. I want to learn you, to give you everything you deserve. But if we ever have a fight – and we will because even the happiest couples do – I don’t ever want you feeling like your only option is to go sleep in your Bronco again. I want you to have a safe place, one that’s yours, no matter what’s happening with us.

“Please don’t doubt what happened between us today. It was real. It is real. I haven’t felt this way about someone in… well, ever. But we’re not on equal footing yet. I need to make sure you’ll always be okay, Ollie, even if -” his voice faltered, as his sky-blue eyes sought reassurance from mine, “- even if we don’t work out. I need to know that you’ll be safe.” His smile quickly returned, “And if you’re wondering? Yes. I’m hoping with all my heart that we do.”

“While we’re exploring us and figuring out exactly what we are, I want you to be safe and secure with Dad and Ted. I’ll even spend the weekend with y’all to help you settle in. And don’t worry, I only live a neighborhood away from your new home. We’ll always be close. So, Ollie, will you make it official: mi padre’s casa es tu casa. Si?”

I rolled my eyes, “Corey, I’m from Michigan. I don’t speak Texan.” I managed a genuine, carefree chuckle, my first one in what felt like forever.

When I was unexpectedly banished from my home three months ago, I’d never felt more lost and alone. I thought back to my exodus down I-69 – getting sick along the side of the road, realizing I had no idea what to expect and no one to turn to. But now, on this unimaginable morning, I regained something I thought I’d lost forever: People who cared about me. People I could be good for. People I could make proud. And maybe, people I could love – and who would love me back.

A long-forgotten, but welcome feeling washed over me.

“Corey,” I said, suddenly laughing at the absurdity of it all, “where’s the restroom? I really, really need to go pee.”

Corey’s face lit up with his trademark mischievous grin. “It’s just right over there. That’s my boy!”

Afterword

Thank you for reading Ollie’s Test. This story means more to me than I can fully express, and I’d like to share why.

When I was a couple of years older than Ollie – fresh out of my co-op program, about to start my career – I had an experience that left a lasting mark on me. During what I thought was going to be a routine physical, a doctor crossed a line. It wasn’t violent or forced, but it was deeply inappropriate, and I didn’t know enough to recognize it at the time. I was naïve, trusting, and completely unprepared for the humiliation that followed. When the inevitable happened, the doctor laughed at me – convincing me it was my fault. I left the building in tears and didn’t see another doctor for over a decade.

Years later, a psychiatrist friend gave me an idea: take that moment and turn it into fiction. Reclaim control. Rewrite the narrative so that, instead of shame and helplessness, the main character could find strength, protection, and understanding.

Then, just a few months ago, I underwent the same urodynamic flow study that Ollie experiences in this book. The nurse performing it – a kind, middle-aged mother of two – confided in me that late-teen and early-20s boys often struggled during the procedure. Many became overwhelmed, some broke down in tears. I suddenly found myself reliving my own past, but this time, I had an outlet. I had an Ollie. And I invented a Corey – Ollie’s champion and protector – to make sure the story played out the way I wished it had for me.

That’s why I wrote this book. I had to. I needed Ollie (and me) to have someone in his (our) corner, and I hope his journey resonates with you as much as it has for me.

Thank you for being here, Mark

Another Mack Adventure

Seduced By A Coach

Situations like this tended to be the loneliest for Mack Carmichael.  Even though the league made money hand over fist…more money than it really knew what to do with, gone were the days that officials could fly in the day before a game and then fly back home the day after…unless it was a Sunday Night or Monday Night game.  Cost cutting measures, supposedly…  Nowadays, they had to fly-in game day morning and leave right after they’d wrapped up their post-game duties.  Anyway, most officials had other jobs to get back to…not to mention their families, so it wasn’t really a big deal.

The only reason Mack and his crew had been given this waiver to arrive a day early in the city of the game they were tasked with calling that week was because bad weather was in the forecast and there was a concern that flights would be canceled or delayed the morning of.  Much to his surprise, although he’d been a single guy for most of his life until he married Teresa roughly ten years ago, he often found himself feeling lonely when he was away from she and the kids.  Because of their open arrangement that any fun either of them had outside their marriage be kept secret from each other, Mack made a promise to himself to never line up any action when he was at home.  That’s part of why game day was so special to him.  It wasn’t just the thrill of being a part of the game that had been such a huge part of his life for so many years.  It also meant getting to have the man-to-man connection that he craved so much.

Being in a hotel on a Saturday night in a sleepy Midwestern city – at least 12 hours away from any possible alone time with anyone from either of the two teams playing tomorrow – was pure torture for Mack.  He’d caved in and gone on Grindr to see if he could find anything that floated his boat.  No such luck.  The only thing his phone gave him was a text from Gerry Phillips.  The hookup he’d had with the hunky front office exec before the game a couple weeks ago had been super-hot…and spending the night with him to wake up to morning sex had been even hotter.  Even though the man had echoed Mack’s insistence that the two of them getting into a regular involvement wasn’t on the table, he’d texted Mack a few times over the intervening couple weeks.  It was obvious the exec was angling for another fuck.  Mack wouldn’t ever turn down that down…not after feeling like the 50-ish stud’s ass was made perfectly for his cock, but he didn’t want to lead the guy on either.  He wasn’t in the market for a regular side piece.

Mack read the text:  “Still can’t get that dick of yours off my mind.  I went three fingers deep last night while I beat off, remembering how good you felt in me.”

“Fuck!”  he uttered underneath his breath, totally turned on by how hot Phillips seemed to be for him.  He surreptitiously reached down and squeezed his cock in his jeans.

Even though he wanted to keep an emotional distance from Phillips, reading the text made his ego – and, honestly, his cock – swell.  Briefly, it crossed Mack’s mind to see if he could arrange a video chat date with Phillips.  Maybe they could get each other off.  But then he thought better of it.  “Gotta stay strong,” Mack thought to himself, turning the phone face down and trying to put the hunk out of his mind.  Instead, he was now reduced to sitting at the bar in the practically empty hotel lounge, nursing a Tom Collins to pass the time.  He was just about to give up, settle up with the bartender, and go back up to his room to inevitably fall asleep in bed watching reruns on TV when he saw someone in his peripheral vision walk up to him.  He turned to face the person, preparing to hear some form of, “Hey, are you Mack Carmichael?  That stupid penalty you called cost my favorite team a win, Asshole!”

Instead, he was greeted to the sight of a familiar face.  It was the head coach of the home team.  “Mack Carmichael,” the man about 15 years Mack’s junior – putting him probably in his early 40s – said with a big smile on his face, extending his hand to Mack, which Mack stood and shook.

“Good to see you, buddy!” Mack replied.  “I’m surprised to see the home team coach walk into a hotel bar!  I figured you’d be at the team facility, planning out your strategy for tomorrow.”

“Ah, I got a couple guys on the other team’s staff that are friends of mine.  They wanted me to meet them here for a drink, so here I am!”

“You sure it’s here and not a bar at another hotel?  The league is pretty big on avoiding the optics of impropriety.  Me and the other guys on my crew are staying here.  They don’t usually have anyone from either team staying at the same hotel as the officials calling the game.”

“Oh.  You’re right,  Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Coach said, looking perturbed.  He pulled out his phone and looked like he was typing a text…probably checking to make sure where he needed to go to meet his buddies.  After a few moments, he slipped his phone back into his pants pocket.  “You mind if I hang out with you for a few minutes until either they show up or they send me a text telling me where I’m actually supposed to meet them?”

“Not at all, man,” Mack gestured to the seat next to him.

Coach caught the attention of the bartender.  “Bring me whatever he’s having, please.”

“One Tom Collins, coming up!” he replied before hurrying off to prepare the drink.

“A Tom Collins?  Really?” Coach turned to Mack, questioningly.  “I’m more of a bourbon man, myself.  But I like a little gin every now and then.”

Mack grinned and reached over to pat the younger man on the back, “I like things that go down real smooth.  Give it a shot.  You’ll like it!”

Coach grinned.  “I’ll hold you to that.”

Although there hadn’t been a hint of anything sexual yet and this particular head coach – although pretty attractive in a boyishly handsome way – hadn’t really been on Mack’s radar, there was something about the look he’d just given Mack that made him wonder.  The bartender brought Coach his drink and moved down to the other end of the bar to attend to another patron who had just walked up.

Coach took a sip of his drink, “Mmm!  Now I see why you ordered this.  This is some good shit!”

“Told ya, buddy!”  For some reason, Mack felt compelled to pat the man on his back again.  Something felt like it was happening without Mack putting much effort into it.

“You know,” Coach kept talking, “I’m really glad I ran into you, Carmichael.”

There it is, Mack thought to himself.  Coach must’ve been backing into The Talk all along and he hadn’t recognized the signs.  As furtively as possible, he gave the younger man a once over.  Not necessarily his normal type, but he could definitely have a lot of fun with the younger man if that’s where this was going.  “Oh yeah?  Why’s that?”

“We both played for the same alma mater.  I was looking forward to tomorrow, hoping to snag a few minutes with you out on the field during warmups to swap war stories from college.”

Admittedly, Mack was a little bummed that this is where the conversation had gone instead of the coach asking for leniency during tomorrow’s game in exchange for sex.  He had attributed feeling down in the dumps to being away from his family without the hustle and bustle of game day to distract him.  But maybe he just needed a good lay and had gotten his hopes up that that’s the direction this was going in.  Oh well.  He DID love talking football and especially loved running into guys who’d played ball for the same college as him.

Half an hour had gone by and the two had gotten lost in talk of their time playing for the college team.  Conversation had turned to how the younger man liked coaching and he’d even been curious about why Mack hadn’t pursued going pro all those years ago.  He’d really drawn Mack in and the two men had made a connection.  But it dawned on him that so much time had gone by and Coach’s friends from the other team still hadn’t shown up or responded to his text.  “Hey, uh… You know we’ve been sitting here yakking away for a long while now and your buddies still haven’t shown up.  Should you be getting worried?”

Coach blushed and looked uncomfortable.  He downed the last of his drink and turned to face Mack.  “I guess it’s time for me to make a confession.”

“What’s on your mind, Coach?”

“I’m not actually meeting anyone here.  I came here hoping to run into you.”

This was a surprise to Mack, although it shouldn’t have been.  “How’d you even know where I’d be staying?”

“I checked with a couple of people who’ve been with the team for several years.  They both told me this is the hotel that they used to put officials up in when they allowed Saturday night arrivals.”

“I gotta tell you…  I’m not sure I like you going to all that trouble to track me down so we could talk about playing for the same college team.  That conversation took what…half an hour or so?  We could’ve chatted tomorrow before the game,” Mack said, sternly, adding in his mind ‘if I wasn’t already busy getting naked and sweaty with some other guy.’

Coach grinned.  “I like talking with you, man, but conversation isn’t really why I’m here.”  Looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, Coach slid his hand across and placed it on Mack’s upper thigh, still not breaking eye contact.  “You catch my drift?”

Mack looked down at the hand on his thigh and then back up at Coach.  “I think I do.  But I like it when guys are direct.  Spell it out for me, Coach.”

Coach leaned in and spoke softly.  “Ever since I watched you call the big game a few years back, you’ve been at the top of my wish list, Carmichael.”

“Yeah?”  the chubby Mack had already started to get earlier when he read Gerry Phillips’ text was being put into overdrive at the prospect of him getting some action tonight after all.  He’d been around the block enough to know why guys were hot for him, but he wanted to egg the young coach on…play this out a little while longer.  Sex was always better when it was preceded by a little anticipation.  “I think I’m pretty plain to look at.  What’s so special about me to you?”

“Fuck,” Coach practically growled lowly.  “What isn’t special about you?!  Those muscular arms of yours and the way your chest fills out your uni.  Gets me rock hard just thinking about it.  Not to mention that cute little ass of yours.”

This was a new one to Mack.  He wasn’t strictly a top and he’d been fucked on more than a few game days, but no one had ever specifically complimented his butt before.  “You like my ass, huh, Coach?!”

“Oh yeah.  Like is a gross understatement.”

“I don’t know.  No one would mistake me for a tight end out there.”  It seemed to Mack that – per capita – most of the best asses on the field at any given time during a game belonged to a tight end.

“It’s true I like a nice shapely, muscular bubble ass,” Coach admitted.  “But you’ve got a cute ass and it’s always gotten my attention.”

Mack took a sip of his drink, looked at the boyishly handsome 40-something head coach, and gestured toward his left hand.  “I see you’ve got a wedding band on your finger.  I’m kinda surprised you’re after me.”

Coach grinned and his eyes sparkled.  “I could say the same thing about you, buddy.  You’ve got your own shiny band on your ring finger.”

“Yeah,” Mack retorted.  “But I was sitting here minding my own business, not out looking for dick.”

“Shit!  A man like you shouldn’t have to look.  It should always come to you.”

It was like deja vu from a couple weeks ago.  Coach was putting on a full court press to hook Mack just like Phillips had.  And just like Phillips, Coach’s efforts were working like a charm.  He had to admit he loved it when guys appealed to his ego like that.  The two were as good as naked on the bed in Mack’s hotel room, but he decided he’d make the kid work for it a little bit more.  “You think your wife would mind if she knew you were here right now, offering to…bring me dick?”

Coach took a sip of his own drink and looked Mack in the eye, not shy at all about what he wanted.  “Christine and I have an arrangement.  Probably like you and your wife.  She knows I love her.  But she knows I also love being with a hot man whenever I get a chance.  We’ve spent a lot of time working through it and we’re both at a place in our marriage where we each get what we want.”

Mack downed the last of his Collins.  “And what is it you want tonight?”

Not flinching or breaking eye contact, Coach responded matter of factly.  “I’m looking at him.  Like I said before.  You’ve been at the top of my wish list for a while.”

Fuck!  The time for making the young coach wait had just ended.  He definitely knew how to sweet talk.  Mack turned and signaled to the bartender.  As the man approached, Coach got up from the stool, put his hand on Mack’s shoulder, and pulled his wallet from his pocket.  “I got this, buddy.”

“You sure?” Mack questioned.

“Yeah.  I got it.”

As the bartender took the credit card to process the payment, Mack leaned in and spoke softly.  “Just so you know, I’m not going to let you have your way with me just because you paid for my drink.”

“Oh no?” Coach looked surprised.

“Absolutely not.”  The bartender returned with Coach’s credit card and the receipt, interrupting the conversation what Mack was about to say.

After Coach signed the receipt and both men traded pleasantries with the bartender, he looked at Mack, expectantly.  “Now, where were we?”

Mack grinned.  “I was about to tell you that I’m going to let you have your way with me because I’m horny as fuck, you’re just the kind of guy I like spending time with, and you’re a fuckin’ grade-A sweet talker.”

Coach grimaced a little.  “Unnnhhh!”

“You okay?”

Coach leaned in to whisper in the ref’s ear.  “Fuck no.  You got me so hard right now.  And I can’t reach down and readjust because we’re standing in the middle of a hotel bar with people around us.”

“Maybe we should go somewhere more private so we both can get comfortable.  That sound okay to you?”

Coach bit his lip and stood aside.  “Lead the way…”

***

Mack was surprised when, once they stepped on the elevator to go up to his room, the Coach pulled him into a kiss, kneading his ass as he took the lead in their surprise make out session.  Mack was as versatile as they came, but being treated in such a possessive way was a new experience for him.  He could get used to this sort of behavior from a man.

It was even more of a surprise when, as they walked down the hallway to Mack’s hotel room, Coach kept his left hand on the older ref’s ass.  Kind of a brazen way to act.  Luckily enough, they didn’t pass anyone on their way.

After another extended make out session and extended foreplay, the two men were completely naked on the bed, the studly coach on top of Mack, pounding him for all he was worth.  Mack was used to being on top of things more times than he got to the bottom of issues, but he had to admit, if more guys were as adept as fucking as Coach was, he’d definitely be open for more times as a catcher.

Although toned in his own way, Coach was more beefy and meaty than muscular, which isn’t the type of guy that usually rang Mack’s bell.  But – again – what he lacked in being Mack’s usual type, he’d more than made up for in sweet talk, persistence, and sheer skill.

It had been a true full service affair.  After shooting his load deep into Mack’s ass, Coach crawled down to the foot of the bed and began felching his own cum out, which had turned into a full-fledged rim job.  When Coach saw how much Mack’s completely engorged cock quivered from the expert rim job, he shifted his attention and egged the ref on to giving up his copious load down the forty-something’s throat.

An hour later, the two men were still in bed together, kissing and touching each other.  Mack leaned in for another kiss and – after pulling back – he ran his hand over Coach’s meaty pec.  “You’re probably gonna catch hell from your wife when you get home.  It’s late.”

“I know,” Coach said with that damn desirable boyishly cute smile of his.  “But I didn’t want to cum and go.  Whenever anyone does that with me, I always end up feeling like a whore.  I’ve wanted you for too long to make you feel like that. Truth be told, I don’t want to go now. If I could get away with staying here all night, I would in a heartbeat. “

Mack felt himself blush.  “Damn you and your sweet talk.  You know all the right things to say, don’t you?“

Instead of responding verbally, Coach reached up and put his hand on the back of Mack’s neck and the two men met in another slow-burning, passionate kiss.  After a couple minutes, they parted and Coach gave Mack a long, smoldering look…the kind of pained expression a man gives when he doesn’t want to leave, but he knows he has to.  “I really hate to go, but you’re right.  Christine won’t be happy that I’ve been out so late.  You mind if I shower before I go?”

“Not at all.  Go right ahead.”

Coach stood up and Mack got another look at the not overly long but just thick enough tool swinging between his legs.  He couldn’t believe he’d taken that thing when it had been fully hard.  He was pretty sure his ass would be sore in the morning.  Coach leaned down for another quick kiss and then headed for the bathroom.  Mack couldn’t help but admire the younger man as he walked away.  He had a pretty nice ass on him.  If they ever got together again, Mack wondered just how versatile Coach was.

Awkwardly enough, Coach hadn’t disappeared into the bathroom 10 seconds earlier when Teresa called to chat.  It got even worse when she put their kids of the phone to “say goodnight to dad.”  They were still on the phone a few minutes later when Coach emerged following his shower and the younger man had just finished re-dressing when the phone call ended.

Mack sighed.

“You okay,” Coach asked.

“Yeah,” Mack responded in a tone that led the coach to believe he wasn’t – in fact – fine.  “Even though Teresa knows the score with me and she says she’s okay with it, it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know what you mean, buddy.  Believe me.”

“I know you do,” Mack agreed as he climbed out of bed and slipped on his boxer-briefs.  He strode across to the hotel room door where Coach was standing, ready to make his leave.  “But regardless of how that phone call made me feel, it doesn’t change the fact that I had an amazing time tonight.  Sneaky pretext or not, I’m glad you tracked me down tonight, Coach.”

“I am too, Carmichael.  See you around the stadium tomorrow.”

“Sure will, bud,” the ref said, regret that this was ending so soon heavy in his voice.

Coach opened the door part of the way, then turned back around.  “Hey, uh, Carmichael?”

“Yeah?“

For a moment, silence hung in the air.  The younger man stood there as if he wanted to say something.  Finally, after several seconds, he said something, fumbling over his words.  “J-just… I just wanted to say…..thanks for this.”

“You bet, hot stuff,” Mack responded, pretty sure that whatever the coach wanted to say isn’t what he’d actually said just now.  “Thank YOU!”

Coach gave the older man one last smile and then he was out the door.  After he left, Mack walked up to the door and leaned against it, feeling more than satisfied, once again completely alone, and also – strangely enough – feeling empty with the forty-something coach gone.

This was a totally familiar yet completely different feeling.  That’s when it dawned on Mack.  “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed out loud to an empty room.  “I’m Phillips and Coach is me!”

He was standing there, his back leaning against the hotel room door, wishing he and Coach were still in bed kissing.  He now knew exactly how Gerry Phillips had felt two weeks ago and probably in the days since they’d fucked.

Coach had gotten through his walls and burrowed his way into Mack’s heart and mind.  Mack Carmichael couldn’t let this feeling stand.  Tomorrow, he’d find someone – maybe more than ONE someone – to get Coach out of his head.  Either that or he’d have his fun trying!

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 Temptation

The Chapel was alive, the low hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of glasses and the warm glow of dim overhead lights. The pub had settled into its usual Thursday evening rhythm, the after-work crowd transitioning into the more leisurely night patrons, creating that perfect atmosphere of comfortable sociability without excessive crowding.

Harry sat beside Max at the bar, radiating confidence, his bright magenta T-shirt stretched taut over his colossal pecs, practically painted onto his torso. Nothing about his appearance suggested subtlety or restraint—the eye-catching color was deliberate, designed to draw attention to what was already impossible to ignore. Paired with stone-washed denim shorts, cut dangerously tight, they clung to his huge thighs, the fabric straining with every shift of his body, like it had been molded to his massive development rather than merely worn. The seams along the sides seemed to be engaged in a constant battle against the extraordinary mass they contained, visibly stressed with each subtle movement.

If Harry was a walking advertisement for being looked at, then Max was the refined version—less flashy but equally impossible to ignore. His jet-black polo shirt hugged his upper body with the desperate determination of fabric that knew it was outmatched, the sleeves gripping his massive biceps like tourniquets, the material stretched over his broad chest so completely that it revealed rather than concealed. The fabric dipped slightly where his pecs forced the material outward, creating shadows that only emphasized their extraordinary volume. His dark grey jeans fit too well to be standard off-the-rack items, shaped by thick thighs and an undeniably powerful lower body, proving that even without neon colors, he could command attention through sheer physical presence alone.

And Ethan?

Ethan had made a habit of touching Harry.

It had started off subtle.

A fleeting brush of fingers. A casual pass behind him, the smallest graze of contact that could be dismissed as accidental in the confined space behind the bar.

But now?

Now it was deliberate.

Every time Ethan walked past, his hand lingered longer, squeezing, brushing, gripping just enough that it couldn’t be called an accident by any reasonable observer. The touches had purpose, intent, a clear pattern of escalation that might have been alarming if not for one crucial factor:

Harry loved every second of it.

He never acknowledged it out loud, never made a scene, but inside, he was thriving on this new, bold attention. The secret thrill of being handled without asking, of someone taking liberties with his body that would have earned others a swift rejection, created an intoxicating undercurrent to his evening.

It was a weekly ritual now. Ethan wasn’t shy about it, and Harry wasn’t stopping him. The understanding between them remained unspoken but mutually acknowledged, a private game playing out in public space.

But tonight?

Tonight, Harry wasn’t the only one getting Ethan’s attention.

As Ethan moved behind the bar, wiping down the counter with practiced efficiency, he glanced over at Max.

And then—

A ghost of a kiss.

Barely there. A quick, almost invisible flicker of movement, a subtle pucker of lips directed exclusively toward Max. It happened so fast it might have been imagined, yet its intention was unmistakable.

But Harry saw it.

And so did Max.

The reaction was instant—but not from Harry.

Max’s fingers tightened around his pint glass, the pressure turning his knuckles white. His jaw flexed, the muscles along the side of his face contracting visibly. A flicker of tension ran through his broad shoulders, a momentary stiffening that betrayed his composure more eloquently than words could have.

Harry turned slightly, glancing between them with growing curiosity.

Ethan, as always, just kept moving. Unfazed. Confident. Knowing exactly what he was doing and precisely what effect it would have.

But Max?

Max was flustered.

Completely thrown.

Harry stared at his dad for a long moment, his lips curling slightly around his glass.

Tiny, unimposing, student bartender Ethan…

Had just rattled Max fucking Schett.

Harry took a slow sip of his drink, hiding his growing grin behind the glass. The implications were too fascinating to ignore, too intriguing to dismiss.

This?

This was going to be fun.

The Shop — The Next Day

The day was non-stop.

Max had barely stopped moving, caught between serving customers, managing stock, and answering staff questions. The constant activity had kept him physically engaged and mentally distracted, which, in a way, was a blessing.

At least it meant he didn’t have to think about last night.

He’d been too flustered, too thrown off by Ethan’s tiny, harmless, insignificant little gesture—

“Mad one today.”

Max looked up from the inventory list he’d been reviewing.

George.

He was leaning on the counter, arms crossed, watching Max with that casual, knowing smirk that suggested he’d been observing longer than Max had realized.

Max exhaled, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension that had accumulated there. “Yeah. Barely had time to breathe,” he replied, attempting to maintain his usual composed professionalism despite the chaotic day.

George glanced around the shop, taking in the relative quiet of the current lull. “You got time to talk, or shall I piss off?” The question was direct but carried the easy familiarity of long acquaintance.

Max hesitated.

Then—

“There’s something I wouldn’t mind your advice on,” he admitted, the words emerging before he’d fully committed to sharing.

George’s smirk widened into something more genuine. “That so?” Interest sparked in his eyes, recognizing the rarity of Max seeking counsel.

Max nodded, closing the inventory binder. “Man to man. Coffee?”

George shrugged, already moving toward the door. “Yeah, alright.”

Bean & Brew — 20 Minutes Later

Max pressed send.

He felt sick.

The simple action of tapping a glass screen shouldn’t have generated such physical discomfort, such visceral anxiety, yet his stomach clenched as though he’d done something irreversible, something that might alter the course of his carefully structured life.

George grinned, watching him with undisguised amusement. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” he observed, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone whose advice had been followed despite reluctance.

Max exhaled, setting his phone down on the table like it had suddenly become radioactive, dangerous to touch. The seconds that followed stretched into eternity, each moment of waiting for a response extending beyond normal temporal boundaries.

Then, with startling immediacy, the reply came.

Ethan: Well, well. Took you long enough. Good to hear from you, Maxy Muscle Boy x

Max stared at the message.

At the words.

Maxy Muscle Boy.

Boy.

The term reverberated through his system with unexpected force. He was anything but a boy. He was huge, dominant, undeniable—a fully grown man who commanded respect through sheer physical presence alone.

But Ethan had called him that.

Had made his name sound diminutive, submissive, yet still highlighted his muscular development, still made it about his body, creating a strange contradiction of power and subservience in three simple words.

Max swallowed, a complex mixture of emotions churning inside him. There was something about the casualness of it, the assumption of intimate familiarity, that both unsettled and excited him in ways he couldn’t immediately articulate.

George smirked, tapping his coffee cup against Max’s in a gesture of congratulation.

“See? That was easy.”

Max barely heard him.

His attention remained fixed on the message, on those three words that somehow managed to reduce his imposing physicality to something manageable, something that could be owned or controlled rather than merely admired from a distance.

He was locked in.

And he was desperate for more.

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)!

---

Can I Leave?

Jase’s heart pounded against his ribs, his thoughts racing to process what he’d just heard, what he’d just experienced. This wasn’t just about physical attraction or momentary indulgence—this was something deeper, something that challenged conventional categories of sexuality and desire, something that offered possibilities he’d never seriously considered.

“…Give me your number,” he finally managed, the request emerging with unexpected authority despite his internal turmoil.

Dylan complied without question, quickly scrawling the digits onto a scrap of paper torn from a notepad on the desk. The action was performed with the same calm efficiency that characterized everything about him—no hesitation, no uncertainty, just immediate response to direction.

“Good,” Jase said, shoving the paper into his pocket with more force than necessary, as though afraid it might disappear if not secured. “I’ll be needing you again.”

Dylan nodded, accepting this as expected rather than surprising.

Then, quietly—

“Can I leave?”

The question jolted Jase back to himself, to the reality of their situation, to the recognition that what had begun as a job inquiry had transformed into something far more complex and significant.

He let out a slow exhale, composing himself, smirking to reclaim some semblance of his usual confidence. “Yeah, mate. But before you do…”

Without warning, he reached out and delivered a firm slap to Dylan’s massive, sculpted rear, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. The muscle barely yielded to the impact, as solid and unyielding as the rest of his extraordinary physique.

Dylan didn’t flinch, didn’t startle, didn’t react beyond the slightest shifting of his weight. The contact registered, but didn’t disturb his fundamental equilibrium.

Jase grinned, feeling some measure of control returning, of normalcy reasserting itself in a situation that had spiraled far beyond ordinary experience. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll talk about the groundwork.”

Dylan nodded, expression serious despite the surreal nature of their interaction.

“Thanks,” he said, the word simple but laden with layers of meaning. He paused, then added with careful precision: “For both the job info… and for using me this morning.”

Jase watched him walk out, the door left slightly ajar behind him, sunlight spilling back into the cabin in a sudden intrusion of ordinary reality.

He leaned back against the desk, its edge digging into his palms as he gripped it for support.

Heart racing. Mind blown. Body humming with energy he couldn’t immediately identify.

And completely, utterly addicted to the experience that had just unfolded.

The Next Move

Jase sat back against the desk, still buzzing with the aftereffects of Dylan’s visit, his mind racing through the implications of what had just happened, what possibilities it suggested for the future.

His phone sat beside him on the desk, screen dark, waiting.

Without overthinking, operating on pure instinct, he picked it up, unlocked it, and pulled up Harry’s chat thread. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for only a moment before he began typing with decisive purpose.

Jase: Oi, you never told me that Dylan was a proper head trip.

The three dots appeared almost immediately, suggesting Harry was holding his phone, waiting for contact or already engaged in conversation with someone else.

Harry: Huh?

Jase smirked, anticipation building as he composed his response.

Jase: I mean, he’s a muscle monster, yeah. But he’s also… weirdly into me. He kissed me, mate.

A pause.

Then—

Harry: No way!

Jase laughed under his breath, fingers tapping quickly, building the narrative with deliberate care.

Jase: Yep. Full-on kiss. Lad was all over it. Then, two seconds later, he’s telling me he’s straight.

Another pause, longer this time, suggesting Harry was processing this unexpected information.

Harry: Pfft. Mate. He’s full of shit.

Jase raised an eyebrow, reading something in Harry’s dismissal that wasn’t immediately obvious. Jealousy, perhaps? Disbelief? Or simple categorical rejection of the possibility that challenged his understanding of straightforward sexual categories?

Jase: I dunno, Haz. Starting to think I’ve got some kind of power over straight muscle lads.

He didn’t say it outright, didn’t make the connection explicit. He didn’t need to.

Harry would get it.

The drunken night, the oil, the worship—it was all still there, sitting beneath the surface of their friendship, unacknowledged but undeniable.

Harry’s reply came with surprising speed.

Harry: Dylan’s got nothing on me.

Jase grinned, the response confirming everything he’d suspected. Harry wasn’t dismissing the possibility—he was asserting his superiority within it, claiming his position at the top of this new hierarchy they were establishing.

Jase: Oh yeah? Maybe I should test that theory.

A longer pause this time, loaded with potential, with consideration, with the weight of a friendship balancing on the edge of transformation.

Then, finally—

Harry: Anytime.

Jase stared at the word, his pulse quickening with the recognition of its significance. A single word that contained worlds of possibility, that suggested pathways previously unconsidered, that promised experiences beyond conventional boundaries.

He knew Harry wasn’t entirely serious. Knew his best mate was throwing down a challenge, refusing to be outshone even in this unfamiliar territory, maintaining his competitive edge through reflexive posturing.

But Jase?

Jase wasn’t messing around.

He flicked the phone screen off, leaned back in his chair, and smiled to himself with quiet satisfaction.

If Dylan had taught him anything today, it was this—

Some men didn’t know their place in the world… until someone put them there.

And Jase?

Jase was about to do exactly that.

EPILOGUE

Dan Malloy leaned over Fenn and whispered his name.

“It’s time to get up,” he told him.

Fenn yawned and put his head in the pillow, but finally turned to look up at the man with the grey blue eyes and the grey golden hair.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be off to meet Brendan or something?” Keith McDonald demanded, leaning against the door of the spare room.

“I need coffee,” Fenn said. “And cigarettes.”

“If you’d gotten up two hours ago,” Dan said on his way out, “we could be gone by now.

“Thackeray’s been up for hours.”

“I thought you might be dead, Dad,” Thackeray said as Fenn came out of his room.

“We need to make a run,” Dan said. “Go to the store for some things.”

“Can I go?” Thackeray asked Fenn.

“Of course you can. And don’t forget your scarf and gloves.”

    

While Fenn sat in what three months out of the year was the sun room, looking at the partially frozen lake, Keith McDonald sat down beside him.

“Could I possibly get a cigarette?”

Fenn smiled at him.

“I had no idea!”

“Dan doesn’t either.” As he took Fenn’s lighter, Keith said, “He doesn’t need to know everything.”

Fenn exhaled a long blast of smoke and Keith said, “Was that Paul Anderson who called last night?”

“He was one of the calls,” Fenn said.

“He was never right with Dylan and Elias. He called to say he was sorry about that. Why he called last night I don’t know. Christmas?”

“Anyway, the last call was Todd. He always calls me before he goes to bed.”

“That’s nice,” Keith murmured. “Thirty years, huh?”

“Oh, God,” Fenn shook his head. “How amazing is that?”

The two of them sat quiet, looking at the lake, and then Dan came in, crying, “Keith!”

He quickly stubbed out the cigarette while Fenn raised his high in salute.

“Good God! And now you’re poisoning my husband as well!”

Dan put down the grocery bag and the skull cap on his head was hanging loose.

“Your head looks like a navy blue condom,” Fenn noted.

Dan frowned, shook his head and said, “Are you ready? Thackeray’s in the car.”

“Bags are right there,” Fenn gestured to them.

    

The drive was long, sun and sun through shadows of tree limbs, white snow, sharp blue sky, asphalt, poor brave cows out in fields. The drive was the peace of being with Dan at last. How long he had been away. Fenn would turn and look at him, and Dan, knowing he was being looked at, would smile.

The first year he’d left the priesthood he was glad to be gone. He had been so desperately lonely and the Church felt so dead, so on its way out as if two thousand years was all it could stand. For a very long time he didn’t set foot in one even though Keith said Mass every Sunday.

And then, when they had moved to Michigan, he’d begun to help out in the shelters around town and, at last, he had come to the small church in town. He understood then why he wasn’t going. If Dan went, if he saw his lover lift that wafer and that cup, he would realize it was the same Body and the same Blood he’d lifted in Catholic churches, and he needed to do this again. There had been the relatively brief work of becoming an Anglican priest. It was the psychology of switching churches that lasted far beyond the paperwork. For some time he didn’t know if he was Anglican or if he was Catholic.

“You are alive,” Fenn said. “And you are with God. And that’s all that matters.”

“There were times when I wondered if you were right to let me go,” Dan told him.

“Surely you don’t wonder now. I think Keith took care of that.”

“No. Keith is something different. I wanted to be with you. I loved being a priest and a Catholic priest, but I would have put it all away to be anything for you. A lot of men would have let me. When Keith came I was done with that. It was a whole different thing. We hadn’t just let each other go, you and me. We had become something entirely different.”

Dan shrugged, “So we weren’t the issue. Not then. No, I learned that you were right much earlier.”

“When?”

“When I saw who was right for you. The same way that the Church and then Keith were right for me.  It was Todd. I wasn’t jealous at all. I was glad. When Todd finally came, I understood.”

 

---

 

“I’M THINKING OF joining the army.”

“You telling or you asking?”

“I’m stating an option,” Todd said. “Feeling around to see how you feel?”

“What does it matter how I feel?”

“Why do you pretend it doesn’t?”

“If you go off to the Persian Gulf, or wherever they send you—And why, in God’s great ass would you want to go into the army?—then it’s really your business, not mine.”

“Firstly,” Todd said, folding his hands, “I want to go into the army to do something for my country. And secondly, I want to make a man out of myself.”

Fenn turned away from him and said, “I can’t even believe you said that shit. Not to me. Not with a straight face.”

“Can I come over tonight?”

Todd had learned to love. He had learned how important it was and that it could not wait. Bryant had taught him this.

 

“I go to horrid man after horrid man thinking that this dick’ll fuck me so hard it’ll get all the bad stuff out of me. Or get the part of me that liked the bad stuff out of me.”

“Fenn’s not that man.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying,” Bryant said, “I know how you feel about him. I don’t know if anyone else knows. But I see it. I think there are two sorts of guys you need. The love of your life, and the fix it guy, the one who sort of… preps you for the love of your life, or does what the love of your life can’t do.

“I want to offer it to you. I want to sleep with you, Todd. Alright?”

Todd caressed Bryant’s hand and then their hands folded firmly together, and Todd Meradan said:

“Alright.”

 

The bulk of his life Todd had simply not understood anything. The time with Bryant was like understanding for the very first time. Bryant taught him friendship and love. And it was a friendship. There was nothing else to call it. Bryant taught him how to be with someone who valued him. He could tell all of this to Fenn one day. Maybe. Not today. Today he spoke to the man he had left alone for a year, the man he was going to have.

 

“I’m coming over tonight,” Todd said. “I’ll be over at about eight. The guy from the army is coming around here this afternoon and we’re going to talk.”

“He just wants to get you killed.”

“I’m not going to be some grunt who just goes and gets shot. I’ve got a degree in journalism. They’ll have a good use for me.”

“I just don’t know why you don’t write for a newspaper.”

Todd said back, “You know what?”

“No. What?”

“I think you do. I think you know why I do everything, but you just string me along. You just make me work for the littlest thing.”

“Todd. I will be thirty-two. You might be twenty-three. Up until now I never made anyone work for anything, and look where it got me.”

“Yeah, with your own house that Tom made the down payment on, and the only theatre in town.”

 

When Todd arrived that night he didn’t tap on the door.

“You didn’t even knock.”

Todd pretended not to hear him as he crossed the room.

“What if I gave up on you?” Fenn said. “You’re taking a lot of chances. What if I said to hell with you and moved on?”

“What if you did?” said Todd

“What if—?”           

“Fenn Houghton!”

Todd leaned down and put his mouth on Fenn’s. Fenn cupped Todd’s face in his hands and ran his hand over the thin black beard growing along Todd’s jaw line. They kissed awkwardly like that, catching each other’s waists. Fenn reached up to touch his hair, to hang from the warm pulsing of his neck.

“You’re not pulling back,” Todd said, in wonder. “You always pulled back.”

Fenn held Todd’s face in his hands.

They freed themselves just long enough to get to the sofa, and then continued again, for a long time, tired of all games, finding everything useless but this. A loud car came down Versailles playing mariachi music, and then there was silence.

They parted.

“Is there one reason we shouldn’t just do this shit? Is there one reason we shouldn’t just take this to the bedroom?”

“Or the floor?” Fenn mouthed on his neck.

Todd’s mouth parted and he whispered, “or the kitchen table.”

They nuzzled for a long time. Fenn reached for Todd’s face, and holding it in his hands, staring at the dark eyes ringed by their constant olive shadow, at the straight fall of his slightly hooked nose, at his full mouth, the little beard, the little soul patch under his mouth.

Fenn placed his mouth upon Todd’s, opened to the wetness. He pulled away, he stood up, for just a moment, his knee telling him he wasn’t twenty anymore. No, but he didn’t want to be twenty anymore.

He held out his hand.

Todd took it in his larger one. In the darkening house Fenn could just see the fine hair going up Todd’s arm.

They didn’t say anything. Fenn just led him upstairs. Head hanging in obedience, penis thick and rising with longing, Todd walked up after him.

“No one’s here.”

“No one’s here,” Todd said, hooking his hands into Fenn’s pants.

“No one’s here,” the word here was crushed by Todd’s mouth on Fenn’s.

They kissed for a long time. No one was going anywhere. Nothing was pressing. No one had better show up. The boy who had always been a fact, and a factor on the edge of his mind, was a real thing, and a thing to be made love to, grown up now and free. And maybe, Fenn thought, he had grown up too.

He unbuckled his belt, and Todd held him. Todd shuffled off his jeans and lay on his side, letting Fenn pull down his dark blue briefs, letting his sex fall slowly out of them. While Fenn pulled underwear slowly down Todd’s thighs, Todd pulled off his work shirt, and pulled off his tee shirt, and lay naked. All of his long body, that olive color, the dusting of black hair deeper, thicker on his chest, toward his groin where his sex was dark as Fenn’s nearly, and he pulled at Fenn now, at his trousers, at his underwear, while Fenn’s hands kneaded him, stopped to kiss him on his hips, on his stomach, stopped to take his penis deep in his mouth, as far as possible. Todd, who had gotten to Fenn’s pants and underwear and now had his hands under his shirt, moaned. He clenched his teeth, hands opening and closing impotently, finally playing with his own nipples, rubbing his own chest and stomach, swearing before he sat up and, laying Fenn down, returned the favor.

That very first time it was early evening, gathering twilight, with not much certainty of what would come after, only what was right now. After they’d been steady at tasting each other’s bodies for the better part of an hour, Todd dipped his finger in the olive oil, slid it into Fenn and then, with deliberation, placed himself in Fenn, and began fucking him. He felt Fenn’s smaller, stronger hands on his waist, Fenn’s body under him.

Under him, eyes wide, Fenn pulled him deeper inside. He beheld Todd, neck arched, mouth parted, eyes wide and shining as they looked down on him with a demon light, and then back up to the ceiling. Todd knelt on the bed, fucking him deeply, the long arm reaching down to stroke his cock with a gentleness countering the fierceness of his fucking until, with a startled shout, eyes shut, dry mouth open, hands clenched into fist, they came so hard both all but passed out.

 

The room went from twilight to dark while they lay there and, at last, Todd rolled to his side.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Fenn’s voice was very quiet, almost a ghost of a voice.

“You’re so quiet,” Todd said.

“I just didn’t have anything to say,” Fenn told him. “And I am not in a hurry to speak, or move, or do anything,” Fenn continued. “Because…”

“Because I’m here now.”

Fenn agreed: “You’re here.”

---

 

 

“You look like the Two Wisemen,” Todd greeted Dan and Fenn as they entered the kitchen.

“Why not the Three?” Fenn asked. “Thackeray is with us.”

“I think it’s because we’re old,” Dan said with a crooked smile.”

“Dan, get yourself some punch,” Todd told him, squeezing his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around Fenn and told him, “We are equally grey and equally old now, Houghton.”

“Actually,” Fenn pointed out, “you are grayer than me.”

“You would hold onto that.”

“Of course I would,” Fenn squeezed Todd’s ass.

“He’s grown so big,” Dan marveled over Raphael, and Sheridan said, “Bren’s been waiting for you guys.”

“Me or Fenn?”

“Both.”

Dan looked toward Fenn, and Fenn, beside Todd shrugged.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Fenn said. “Where’s Bren?”

“In the apartment.”

“I’m going to the restroom first,” Fenn decided.

“You’re back!” Laurel cried as her uncle entered the kitchen. She hugged him, but said, “If I know you, you’re on the way to the bathroom?”

“Exactly.”

“When you get out I have to show you something,” Laurel told him.

“Show me now,” Fenn said.

Smiling, Laurel held out her finger and Fenn murmured, “Goddamn, it’s the North Star.”

“I tried to tell her the size of the diamond wasn’t important,” Caroline said.

“But you didn’t believe it, did you?” Fenn asked his niece.

“No,” Caroline confessed. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“It’s going to be outdoors. Lane Brown’s doing it,” Laurel explained. “It will be Reform, so everyone will compromise and no one will be pleased!”

 

When Fenn came out of the bathroom he met Dan, and they left the house to go down to the apartment. The door was open and the place was, if not crowded, well occupied.

“Dad!” Dylan greeted him.

“You need to go over to the Andersons my oldest apple,” Fenn said, wrapping an arm around his son. “In fact, take Thackeray with you. In fact,” Fenn looked around the whole living room, seeing that Brendan was sitting pensive at his old writing desk—

“Take Lance and Elias too.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Lance said.

“It is,” Fenn told him, someone shortly. “Now go.”

And so they did, and when Fenn had put them out of the house and Brendan had turned his chair around, looking a little weary, Fenn said, “So what is the problem, Mr. Miller?”

Brendan stretched out his limbs, yawning like a lion.

“I am so glad to see the both of you,” he said to Fenn and Dan. “I’m almost finished with the story.”

“I thought you were finished when I read it a month ago.”

“I was, but I was putting in some last bits and… now…”

Dan was reading the last paragraph, and he said, “From what I know of books, it seems like a good place to close.”

“But you haven’t actually read the book,” Fenn and Brendan said together, and then they looked at each other. There had always been something between them, Layla’s uncle and Layla’s oldest friend, Todd’s husband and the first boyfriend of Todd’s niece. This was the apartment Fenn had made for him, the first place he and Kenny had lived together. For that matter, the first place he’d made love to Sheridan. Fenn came to the screen and read it saying: “Oh, Bren, I have read the whole book. And I think you’re afraid to let it go.”

“It’s not missing anything?”

Fenn stood straighter. He took a deep breath and said, “Move over, and trust me in this, okay?”

“A’right?” Brendan raised an eyebrow, and scooted his seat over while Fenn bent down in front of the computer and said, “It’s only missing two words.”

And then Fenn Houghton hit the caps lock and smiling, swiftly he typed:

 

THE END