Wednesday, October 22, 2025

Shorts: R/BodyPunching

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

 R/BodyPunching

Thread Title: Any guys in my area into gut work? (Late 30s here)

u/Fit4Life98:
Been lurking here for a while. Finally figured I’d throw this out, take a chance right? Whatever, I'm in my late 30s, decent shape, light hair on chest/abs, always wondered how far my stomach could go. Not looking for anything wild, maybe? Maybe I want more, see how it's like. I really just want to see what my core can actually take when someone’s really testing it. Gloves, bare fists, whatever.


u/BodyShotsFinalBoss:
Same here bro. I'm in my late 30s too, but I’m on the other side of it. I love sinking shots into a tight midsection and watching the hits land. Big, built, and been lifting and boxing most of my life. You sound like you’d be a good challenge. We should have a go. 


u/Fit4Life98:
Challenge accepted?
I’ve trained abs for years, but never really had someone go at me without holding back. Curious if I’m as tough as I think...or if I’ll fold fast.


u/BodyShotsFinalBoss:
Sounds like bro wants to talk trash already. Good. I like that. Tell you what, if we meet, I’ll go steady at first. Let the gloves, let my fists do the talking. Then we’ll see how many rounds you can actually take.


u/Fit4Life98:
You’re already making it sound like a fight night. I’m not gonna back down though.
Where you based?


u/Fit4Life98:
Downtown side of the city. Got a private space I train at, mats, gloves, no distractions. If you’re close, we can set it up.


u/BodyShotsFinalBoss:
I’m across town. Not far. I can make the drive.
So really good with straight gut shots, see how far I can go?


u/BodyShotsFinalBoss:
So good bro. You stand, you take. I punch, I watch. You tap when you’ve had enough, or you don’t.
Sound good?


u/Fit4Life98:
Sounds more than good. Let’s do it.

 

... And that's all it took.  

 

Sunday, October 19, 2025

Story: Punch Drunk

Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building.

 


 

Grayson angled the phone low, abs tight, jaw loose. One quick smirk, one shutter click. He was a natural at this, but he checked the selfie anyways. Had to make sure it was on point, after all. Oh yeah, this would do. Sweat already beading under the collarbone from the warm-up, lighting catching the ridges he had worked months to carve. Chest and abs smooth and catching the light just right? He smiled and hit post to his story with a half second of smug satisfaction. 

“What's the point of looking this good if you don’t post it, right?” 

He muttered, already feeling his bro rolling his eyes. Grayson didn't bother to look, just tossed the phone into his duffel. The fashion moment was over and today? It would be no different than any other day with them at the gym. He and Kevin were going to war the only way they knew how sets, reps, blood and sweat. It was their language, one that many other men knew all to well. As if sensing the thought, Kevin walked in like he always did: solid, unbothered, already rolling his shoulders loose, the faint smell of chalk and coffee trailing him. He clocked the empty racks, the speed bag swaying from someone else’s last burst, the mirror streaked with old cleaner lines. He pointed at Grayson’s phone sticking out of the bag.

“Another thirst trap?” Kevin said, deadpan.

“Community service” Grayson replied. “I give back to the community that gave me so much.”

Kevin grunted like that was funny enough. “We good?”

Grayson tapped the gym clock. “As always.”

They didn’t discuss the plan, they never did or had too. When you got this close, trained this hard together, became brother by way of sweat and pain at the gym? The routine was second nature, already known and already started. Warm-ups, big lifts (bigger grunts), accessories, conditioning, then more. They started with the basics, jump rope. Kevin’s rope clipped the floor in a steady wap-wap-wap that matched his breathing. A little to loud at times, sometimes on purpose with a "yeah I'm doing better than you" smile totally not aimed at anyone. Grayson bounced lighter, quicker, eyes half closed, counting sets in his head. Pretending not to care what Kevin was doing. Despite the unspoken competition, it would soon fall into perfect rhythm. Five minutes in, sweat was already painting their backs. Just how they liked it. 

Phone alarm, time to move on. 

Boxing work next, but more drill than duel. They floated into stance and kept it there, gloves whispering instead of barking. No headhunting to harm; even when a fist rose toward the cheek or temple it was a pulled touch. They tapped and retract, a metronome check, not a shot meant to land heavy. Bodies did the real talking. Hooks skimmed the ribs, shovel shots kissed the mid core, uppercuts rose clean and stopped a hair short of ruin. Kevin’s shoulders rolled like gears, load, unload, reset, his forearms a pair of steady machines that knew the dance. Grayson’s hips snapped like he was dancing with a mean partner, feet stitching angles on the mat: step, slip, turn, feed the line, take it back. Sweat drew bright lines down their backs, dotted their brows, down their chest, beaded at the lip of the glove cuffs until every feint was signed with a fleck of salt. They smelled like crap, but in a way, that just added to the experience. The air in front of them took a beating, but the point wasn’t damage, it was rhythm, control, a work out. Pulled jabs to the forehead to keep the eyes honest, thudding but mindful hooks to the body to keep the lungs respectful, a chest-level check hook that tapped and taught in the same breath. Burn pooled in their biceps and triceps, lactic acid setting a slow fire from wrist to shoulder; they welcomed it, leaned into it, let it teach them. They worked in loops: touch the guard, dig the belly, roll the counter, answer with a pair that landed heavy enough to count and soft enough to continue.....

 Phone alarm again, time to move on.  

“Bench?” Kevin said, sweat clinging to chest hair that Grayson found and caught himself staring at. 

“Bench!” Grayson echoed, trying to get his mind off things. 

They loaded the bar like old enemies stacking arguments. There were quarter plates, then forty-fives, then more, all snapped tight so nothing wandered. Chalk dust turned their hands ghost-white; veins started to stand even before the first rep. Kevin went first. He unracked with a tight back and full breath, lowered on a five count until the bar hovered a knuckle above his sternum, paused, then drove it up like a jack lifting a truck. And yes the idea of benching a truck had crossed their minds, they just were that insane yet.... yet. Each rep was the same: slow move, dead still pause, hard ass press. By rep eight his triceps burned like hell, pecs ballooned, but damn did he feel good. He racked it with a hard clank, elbows flaring wide, chest flushed and pumped, skin tight over everything he had built.

Grayson slid in while Kevin stripped a five, then changed his mind and put it back—“earn it.” Oh it was on. Feet planted, shoulder blades dug into the pad, Grayson was fired off and ready to go, so he took the handoff. The first descent was a hair quick; the bar path wobbled, corrected, then rode the groove. He pressed to lockout, elbows soft at the top to keep tension. By rep six his pecs swelled into the shirt, sleeves biting his biceps; by rep nine his forearms looked like cables. Kevin’s hands hovered over the bar, not touching, just there. 

They pyramid-loaded and marched sets: 8–6–4, back to 8 with a drop, then a nasty back-off set to near failure where the pump turned from pleasant to feral. Between sets they shook out their arms, rolled shoulders, slapped triceps to wake them up. There was no quitters here, only victory and the pump. The bench became a furnace: bar bending a whisper, plates kissing the sleeves, sweat beading on the leather. Their competition was cordial and stupidm adding a plate they didn’t need, stealing an extra rep they shouldn’t... and it always flirted with too much. But hey, that was the point. The pump swelled their chests until the fabric complained; veins tracked across forearms like roadmaps studied by bro-science.

“Last rep was shaky,” Kevin said, more playful mocking than anything else. 

“Like your self-confidence when I post a better pump,” Grayson shot back.

Middle fingers and laughs were exchanged. 

 Phone alarm again, and again and again. Each time, it was time to move on.  

By the end of the day, Grayson retrieved his phone. The mirror across from them showed two men wrecked in the way that makes you feel alive. He lifted the camera, caught both of them in frame, he snapped the shot. The caption? 

Iron sharpens iron. Best kind of bad ideas. #share

 


So do two men do AFTER they destroy themselves at the gym? Chill and get drunk of course, duh! Or at least they did, which is why they wound up back at Grayson's place. Grayson’s place, after about thirty minutes of them being there,  smelled like victory and pizza grease. The low TV murmuring, window cracked to let the night in, two pairs of shoes kicked sideways by the door, all of that just added to the "vibe". They claimed the couch like a trench, legs sprawled, thighs touching sometimes without either of them shifting away. The kind of quiet that happens after you’ve already said everything that matters with a barbell and a bell. It was bro chill time and they both knew it. Grayson keeps the beers flowing from the fridge like he’s trying to be a good host and a bad influence at the same time. At the moment, he was very much succeeding at both. 

“Another?” ... like he didn't already know the answer. 

Kevin didn't bother with words. He just took it, twisted the cap off with that thick-wristed, done-this-a-thousand-times turn, and downs it. Then naturally, grabs another. More laughs, more bullshit. They watch some highlight reel, fighters they both pretend not to study, and offer commentary that’s half jokes, half scouting report.

“Hands too high,” Kevin says.

“Footwork too cute,” Grayson counters.

“Cute gets you winded.”

“Cute gets you paid.”

About ten (or many more) beers in, Grayson pops his bottle, then drags the back of his hand across his mouth and sits forward. The living room light catches the fingerprints still faint across his midsection from earlier rounds. He tugs his shirt up to scratch at his ribs and, oops totally my mistake, and keeps going. Shirt off, totally super by accident he would claim, and of course flexing his abs like a liar Grayson know he is. He checks the TV reflection because he’s not above admiring his own work.

Kevin rolls his eyes. “Seriously....”

Grayson doesn’t stop flexing. “What ever are you talking about?”

With a sigh that’s ninety percent amusement, and ten percent here we go again, Kevin peels his own shirt off and lets it fall wherever. He plants his feet, tightens his core, and hits a slow side chest flex that makes the couch creak under the shift. He’s not as cut, not supposed to be. He’s dense, weight-room strong, life strong. The kind of muscle you don’t spot under bad lighting until it’s bowling you backwards and throwing you around like the bitch you are. 

“Happy?” 

Kevin asks, still holding the pose like a statue who just remembered how to smirk.

“Ecstatic”

Grayson says, trying not to laugh... and trying not to admire. He shakes it off, quickly enough while he hits a three-quarter turn, arms up, then pivots into a front lat spread that would look ridiculous if his back wasn’t muscle on top of muscle on top of muscle. 

“Symmetry check?”

“How about a go fuck yourself check?” Kevin says, deadpan. “Your body is fine, face could use work.”

Grayson barks a laugh that tips his beer, after all its how guys do thing. If your bro insutls you, that means he likes you, and your doing good. They run through two more poses purely to see who could make the other roll their eyes the most, of course another competition. Who was the most muscular, they had to find out because you have to.  A few more poses then a “classic” biceps shot where Grayson overdoes it and Kevin undersells it and somehow both land perfectly in character. More laughs, more beer. Then the moment breaks the way those moments do: the joke’s spent, the point made, the friendship easy again.

They flop back into the sofa like they fell from high up, while bottle caps glitter on the table like cheap medals. The TV keeps talking to itself; a crowd roars for somebody else’s fight. Outside, a siren wails and fades. Inside, the air conditioner hums and the fridge knocks once, water line settling. Grayson thumbs another bottle open and offers it sideways without looking. Kevin takes it, clinks, drinks. They don’t bother with coasters, don’t bother with words. The room holds the day for them: chalk dust in the seams of their hands, the good ache running from sternum to hip, the kind of fatigue that feels like a prize. Grayson shifts, shoulder into Kevin’s for balance, then reclines deeper, beer resting on his stomach. 

He’s a little woozy, they both are, but they doesn’t care.

 

 

Grayson lets his head sink into the cushion, beer balanced on the rise of his stomach. He kinda wanted to close his eyes, pass out, but not yet. The TV washed the room in blue, filling it with the now low sounds of post fight commentary on for background sound than real intent. Kevin’s breathing evens out as well, it was slow, heavy, the kind that says good day, done well. Grayson smiles without moving his mouth. Good day indeed. But then, like it was always there forever but never dare addressed, a thought. Another, then another and... before Grayson can consider things properly, as if he could mostly drunk, he slides over, planting his knuckles in Kevin's body, just under the sternum. Nothing serious, nothing hard (yet), more like a testing press. He feels the wall there, it was like sleeping granite under skin. Grayson huffs a tiny laugh. 

Then another thought.... fuck it.  

He draws his fist back a hand’s length and sets one in gently. A straight shot. Thunk. Not mean. Not a dare. Just a hello. Kevin doesn’t flinch, doesn't even give a grunt. The only change noticeable, is the breath that leaves, then returns like a machine or computer resetting. In the way, that feels like permission. Right? Grayson doesn't waste time. Left to the obliquesthud. Right under the ribs, thunk. Center line, almost covered by all that wonderful body here. Bam! Two in rhythm, pop, pop. His knuckles find the spots they always find, and Kevin’s body answers by tightening a click, then another, automatic, like an old machine that just knows what to do.  He scoots closer on the cushions, plants one knee for leverage, and starts a steady cadence. Half power, all precision. He works high to low and back again, careful not to chase anything but the rhythm. The sound in the apartment is a soft drumline against muscle, the TV crowd roaring for someone else while Grayson practices the quiet craft of hitting what can take it.

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

He times shots to Kevin’s breathing, on the exhale as if to teach the body to take it empty, on the inhale to make the lungs earn their space. Every third, he pauses just long enough to feel the warmth under his knuckles, the iron knitting itself tighter beneath. How good muscle and feel after they been punched... 

Kevin shifts a little, not away but into the line of fire, like his body remembers the drill more than his mind. Or maybe Kevin want's this just as bad as Grayson does. Kevin shifts again, forearms moving to the sides, elbows drifting wide in that familiar dare. Even out, his abs are plate up. It’s the same language they’ve spoken for years: I’m here. Give me work. Grayson, naturally contuines to oblige. A left shovel into the meat above the hip, whump. A right hook to mirror it, whump. Two straights stacked on the solar plexus that bounce back like he’s testing metal armor not flesh. He keeps going, keeps hitting, fueled by that stubborn brand of affection only idiots and fighters understand. Maybe something else, but mostly that.

Kevin answers with a deeper pull of air, chest expanding (damn that meat and hair!) core tightening until the ridges stand like guard rails. Grayson measures out ten count flurries and five count breaks, almost like a bartender to his friend’s resilience. By the third flurry, his knuckles hum and his shoulder feels the good burn. By the fifth, Kevin’s stomach wears a faint map, knuckle marks, slightly bruising, and a bit of red. It was hot, something Grayson would never say out loud. Instead he changes angles, leaning over Kevin to drop a body uppercut dead center. It lands with a dunk, that he feels in his wrist. Kevin’s jaw tightens; a breath jets out sharp. He doesn’t move. If anything, he flexes harder, as if to say, You’ll need better than that.

“Show-off,” Grayson says, annoyed, fond, and a little bit more.

Grayson ratchets down the power a notch but speeds the tempo, working a four shot ladder: low left, low right, high left, high right, reset. The couch squeaks under their shifting weight. The apartment’s thin walls hold the sound like a secret. Grayson continues the pattern, another forced breath... then another. It's low but its there. He plants again and paints another series down the centerline. One, two, three, four, thumb, thud, bam, crack, each placed like a craftsman taps a finishing nail. He ends with a palm press, not a punch, holding heat and pressure over the spot he worked the most. He feels Kevin’s heartbeat under his hand, steady as a drum in a tunnel.

So far, so really really good. 

 

But is he done? Oh hell no... you don't get this very often, and Grayson was damned if he wouldn't use it for all it's worth. Grayson next moved Kevin’s wrists up and planted them over his head on the couch cushion, lacing fingers through fingers for a second to make the point. The stretch pulls Kevin’s torso long, hair across his stomach catching the TV’s blue light. The wall is there, thick, braced, daring him. Begging him.

“Hold,” Grayson murmurs, and Kevin’s body answers by tightening like a cable.

He starts again, not testing anymore, no he was throwing now. A straight down the middle. Thunk. A heavier shovel into the left shelf of muscle. Whump. He shifts his knee for leverage and snaps another into the right, knuckles landing square, wrist true. Kevin takes them like a pro, breath out, breath in, core locking under the impact until the couch frame hums... but still very much out cold. Grayson builds a beat—one-two… three-four… a mean little fifth for punctuation. The sound changes when he digs deeper; the thud gets rounder, the rebound slower. Kevin’s mouth opens once, just a flicker. No words. Just air leaving fast. Then it happens, the first low sound. Not a break, a bleed. A moan pressed through gritted teeth, more vibration than voice. Grayson freezes a heartbeat, grin creeping up without permission.

“There we go,” he whispers. 

Stopping only a moment to adjust his sweats, before his next shot lands just below the sternum, clean as a signature.Kevin’s reply is another moan, longer, swallowed. His elbows twitch like instinct wants them back down, protecting the core. But that won't happen here, drunken sleep has him pinned in perfect form, stretched and stubborn. Grayson adjusts the angle and starts chasing that sound, not sloppy, not cruel, just calibrated. With purpose. He wants more, and he will get it. He halves the space between shots. He ups the force a notch.

Left hook ribs, thud

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 

Right hand centerlinedunk.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm

Hard left digging hit into the meat above the hip, whump.

Gaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. 

 The system continues, reset, then repeat. Each hit stacks on the last until the moans come in counterpoint to his fists, breathier, rougher, marking time. Making music. Grayson laughs under his breath. The smile is all teeth. Will this be the day? The one he finally tips the fortress? He leans in, chest nearly brushing Kevin’s as he drives a tight four piece right down the pipe, the third shot held a fraction longer to sink the message. Kevin’s stomach hardens against him and the moan breaks higher, sharper, like a bell struck off it's center.

“C’mon,” Grayson coaxes, cadence climbing. “Give.”

Low left body blow, meaty. Low right to the side under the ribs but before the liver. Mid left and mid right eating to the hairy center of Kevin's stomach. Top center, forcing more and more air out to bring it all home. A pause, then drops back to the bottom and runs it again. Kevin’s jaw sets, veins stringing across his neck; every breath is a fight to stay square. The moans ride the rhythm now, punctuating the end of each series. Grayson hears them and feeds off them, because that’s who they are... each other’s bad ideas, each other’s engine. Grayson then loads a body uppercut and buries it in the solar plexus. Boom. Kevin’s whole frame jolts, it shakes. A raw sound gutters out of him, half moan, half laugh, all strangled in the middle. Like fireworks, Grayson wants more, and answers with his best work. Six crisp straights, elbows tight, weight rolling through his hips, every knuckle landing flush on the same stubborn target. The sofa springs complain. The room narrows to breath, impact, breath. Kevin’s moans stack closer together, frayed at the edges, but he won’t fold, even out his body refuses to give. He pulls his abs tighter, somehow, stretching the hair flat, daring the next one.

“Almost,” Grayson says, sweat beading his brow in the TV light. “Almost.”

 


Grayson was to into the punches, to into the beating, to into working the main of musky body hair and muscle in front of him to remember just how it happened. One blink it was the sofa, next it’s the bedroom. Sheet rucked down, window cracked, city hush outside. Just enough air flow to keep them breathing, but not enough to get rid of the sweat and smell. In other words, perfect. Kevin was on his back, the good little pain pig, arms still pinned overhead, wrists resting on the pillow. Grayson kneels alongside, breathing hard, sweat cooling. But all would not remain still. It couldn't. He tests the new terrain with a straight down the center abs. From this angle, shoulder over fist elbow stacked, the shot lands vertical and deep. Thunk. The mattress eats some of the return, so the sound goes round and hollow, like a drum with a hand pressed to it. Kevin exhales a compressed hhn, the kind that tightens the whole wall of muscle in one ripple. He, Grayson, shifts a half space toward Kevin’s hip and drops a diagonal cross into the high right ab, shoulder to opposite oblique. Thud-slap. Skin answers first, then the deeper thump arrives. Kevin’s answer is a clipped tch, teeth barely parting, breath cutting across the back of his tongue. Grayson lowers his base and carves a hook up from the hip, his knuckles sneaking under the rib line and driving forward. Whump. It’s a thick sound, cushioned by the bed and the angle, and it pulls a low nnngh out of Kevin’s chest, like a baritone clearing his throat. 

Grayson doesn't bother to hide how it makes his sweats feel anymore. This was way to much a long time in the making, and way to much to enjoy.

Palm to the sheet for balance, Grayson twists a corkscrew straight into the upper abs, turning his fist at the last inch. Tok. Sharper, more focused, like rapping the same spot twice in one motion. Kevin’s reply is a soft ah, that tapers into a satisfied hum as his core plates up even tighter. Still somehow working, still somehow managing to resist.... good. He re-squares and goes for the double tap down Main Street, two quick but hard ones to the solar plexus with no wind-up. Pop-pop. The rhythm forces a staggered ff—ff from Kevin’s lungs, breath released in two neat stutters. The eyes stay closed; the jaw sets; the stomach lifts to meet the next one. Bro wants it bad, wants it more. Grayson slides higher on the bed and digs a left hook across the top row, fist brushing chest hair before biting into muscle. Thup. It draws a half laugh, half groan heh—nn, like Kevin’s body can’t decide which column to file it under. Pain? Pleasure? Both?

Fuck it keep going.... 

He plants a knee beside Kevin’s hip and fires a short body uppercut straight up. Then another, then another. The springs answer this time, a metallic bunk under the meat of the booms, the whole bed agreeing with the strike. Kevin’s sound is pure old-school, oof. Angle change again: Grayson lines his shoulder with Kevin’s left oblique and paints a hook that skims over hair and bites the sidewall. Whuff. Air moves with it. Kevin’s response is a drawn mmm, long and even, the kind of note a man holds when he’s bracing and strangely pleased about it. He tries a spearing straight while sliding backward, a punch that lands as he’s already retreating. Tup. It’s lighter, but it surprises the breath into a quick hah, and the abs flash hard under the strike, reflex ahead of thought. Back to the right side: Grayson angles his fist flat and drives a knuckle line just above the navel. Thm. A muted, padded sound, as if the bed swallowed half the consonant. Kevin gives him a gravelly uhh that sits low, satisfied, unbothered. Grayson leans over and drops a downward hammer straight, elbow high, fist vertical. Thunk. Deeper, almost wooden. Kevin’s chest rises against the restraint of his raised arms, and a short oh slips out before he seals it with a grin he doesn’t open his eyes to show. Another blow, same kind. Kevin answers in counterpoint: hn—nn—ah—mm. Not pain—music. The sort of involuntary chorus that tells a man he’s found the beat.

He softens the power and plays with tempo, three quick taps and a held fourth that sinks an inch and stays. Tap-tap-tap—thud. The held contact coaxes a steady mmm that vibrates under his palm, turning the bed into a quiet resonator. He finishes the set with a traveling hook series, walking the fist from hip to sternum in three overlapping arcs. Whuff—whuff—whuff. Each overlaps, each beautiful overlap, echos over the last, so the sounds braid together. So fucking hot. Grayson repeats, wanting to hear it again. Kevin’s answer unspools into layered notes—nn—ah—hh, breaths and grunts that never fail to please. 


Grayson swings a leg over and settles his weight across Kevin’s hips, knees planted in the mattress, toes digging for purchase. He squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, and starts working like the body beneath him is a bag hung just for him. Ok, time for the school of hard knocks now. 

First volley, tight, powerful as hell straights down the center of Kevin's hairy tempting body. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thudKevin’s breath answers in neat pushes: ff—ff—ff—ff. His abs lift to meet each shot, stone under skin, no give except the kind that springs back stronger. Grayson angles left and carves a powerful unforgiving hook into the sidewall... whump. The bed springs murmur a metallic protest, and Kevin lets a low nnngh ride out of his chest, both (and finally) pain and pleasure released. Right hand diagonal, shoulder to opposite oblique. Thud-slap. Air moves with it; Kevin answers with a clipped tch, jaw squared, ribs flaring once before settling. He crowds closer and rolls a four beat (his favorite set) low left, low right, mid left, mid right. Whuff, whuff, thud, thud. Kevin’s sounds stack to match: hn—ah—mm—oh, each note clean, contained, almost approving. A body uppercut from short distance, knuckles driving up through the stern line, boom. The mattress catches the echo; Kevin gives a another classic oof, then inhales deep, the wall finally failing to brace tighter. Grayson sees it, and knows it. He corkscrews a straight and leaves the twist in at impact, tok. It draws a surprised hah out of Kevin, breath flashing between teeth, eyes still closed, mouth smirking but pain is all there. 

Sweat starts to run, to flow. It moves down Grayson’s throat, across his chest, beading at the edge of his collarbone before dripping onto Kevin’s stomach in cool commas. The drops dot the dark hair, then smear under the next punch. He digs both hands in sequence, left hook above the hip, right hook to mirror, 
whump—whump. Kevin answers with a rumbling mmm, long and even, the kind of note that vibrates under Grayson’s wrists. The kind that does something down there. Grayson shifts his base and fires a six count, no wind-up, all snap: pop-pop—pop-pop—pop-pop. Kevin’s lungs answer in syncopation: ff—ff, ff—ff, ff—ff, breath cut into tidy pieces, control having slipped away. He rides the rhythm harder now, sweat flicking from his forearms, jaw set. A hammer-fist straight, elbow high: thunk. Kevin’s head tips back into the pillow, a short oh sliding out before he locks it down again. Grayson leans, puts his shoulder behind the next series, and sinks the fists in. He drives them deep and holds the last inch like he’s pinning a paper to a board or muscle to the bed. Thud—thud—thud—thud—THUD. Kevin’s reply climbs a register—nn—uh—ah—hh, cracking, louder, but still the resonance of a drum that likes being played. He walks the hooks up the torso in overlapping arcs. Whuff—whuff—whuff, hair flattening, muscle bunching, rebound faded. Kevin steadies into a gravelly uhh—uhh—uhh, every tone getting louder, every tone also weaker. Grayson pushes the pace, this is it, the last ten, best ten. He stamps them in like it's his own high paying job. Bboom. boom. boom. boom. boom. Kevin’s core plates just gives and pays him back with that low, satisfied mmm that says the fortress down. Grayson sags forward on locked arms, chest heaving, sweat pattering onto that unmoved wall that is no longer a wall. 

 


 

It's done, the wall was cracked, the fort broken into. Still out cold, the abs wall could no longer take the hits, and Grayson knew it. So, naturally, Grayson bears down and turns the dial past sensible. Past anything he would lay on a heavy bag when someone was watching. Hips roll, elbows tight, fists firing like pistons that forgot how to slow. A rafter-deep straight,  THUD. Kevin exhales a painful ff, the wall no longer rising to meet it. Double deep blows to the left shelf, knuckles burying to the last inch then a inch more, whump—WHUMP. Diagonal right, shoulder to opposite oblique, sunk and held: thud-slap. The air in Kevin’s lungs slips out long as a clipped tch, then draws back in, but not as much as it should. A short body uppercut, all power no mercy. BOOM. Kevin’s mouth opens, then closes, almost like there is nothing left to give. But yet... he wants to give more. Grayson snarls a grin without teeth. 

“Any other man,” he thinks, and buries a last center-mass straight that lands like a mallet. THUNK.
Kevin’s head tips back; a warm oh slips out... damn that one actually hit hard. The sound, not the hit....

“Bastard,” he says, smiling.

Grayson's hands open, no longer a fist, not longer a tool for pain. No they open, they roam, they explore.

He starts broad, palms flattening over the plane of Kevin’s chest, smoothing the hair with slow passes until it lies in dark tracks beneath his fingers.The grain answers him, coarse at first touch, then soft as he presses, heat rising from underneath like a banked forge. There’s a density to it all, a hardness earned the old way; when he settles the heel of his hand by the sternum, he feels not just a heartbeat but the steady push of breath, the bellows work of a body that knows labor, pain, sacrifice and still power. He cups one pec and tests it lightly, fingers spread, thumb tracing the line where muscle lifts from ribs. It’s firm, heat pushing back into his palm. The hair there has its own map: sparser near the inner edge, thicker toward the outer shelf. He combs through with his knuckles and the bristle scrapes him in a way that makes him grin, it's all to real, to unpolished, to damn good.

Fuck..... 

He leans down. Lips to skin. Salt first, clean and bright, with a whisper of soap that couldn’t quite win against the day. He breathes in that mix, sweat and warmth and the faintest musk earned from the gym, making it all so right. He plants a soft kiss high on the chest, another lower, then lingers at a nipple, just warmth and breath, the gentlest circle, a flick that pulls a pebble trail of gooseflesh across the hair. Kevin answers with a low, pleased mm, the kind of sound that doesn’t move a single inch of him and still says everything.

Fucking fuck... 

Grayson trails to the sternum and follows the seam down, nosing through the thicker thatch where the hair gathers. It brushes his mouth in little sparks. He maps the terrain with his lips: each ab ridge a stone in a riverbed, slick with salt, hard under a living spring. He kisses the left block, then the right, tasting the  brine of sweat at the edges where the fascia stands out. His tongue traces the central groove in a slow lane toward the navel; the hair flattens in a dark swirl, and when he plants a kiss just above it, the whole sheet of muscle tightens on reflex—quiet, perfect answer. He pauses to take it in. The look of it, all of it. The broad and built, hair shining where sweat has lacquered it. The feel, the heat, the pressure, the pushback of muscle that refuses to be anything but present. The smell, the such warm skin and that right kind of musky: gym-earned, sun-dried, human. He breathes it like oxygen.

Seriously fucking hell... 

His hands travel again, thumbs skating along the obliques where the lines braid like rope, fingers fitting the V as if it were made for a grip. HIS grip. He presses with the pads of his fingers and feels the hardness tighten, the heat rise, so damn alive under every inch he claims. He returns to the chest and rolls each delt under his palm, reading the striations like braille. He lifts an arm a notch; the lat flares without showmanship, just substance, and the triceps band under his hand thrums taut as a bowstring. He stops for just a moment, taking a snap shot in his head, wanting to remember this (for purely science reasons) later on. 

 


 

“Magnificent,” he whispers, finally able to speak rather than just think fuck every other thought. 

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and eases it down an inch, then another, revealing the lines of a very nice pair of underwear, white fabric against much darker hair. The contrast makes the rest look even larger, stronger, more finished. Absolutely hot as hell and most definitely worth every sin that was about to be committed. 

“Damn,” 

Grayson says, thinks? He doesn't know anymore, his brain to over delighted, a little reverent maybe, but definitely greedy for more. Unbothered, and not stopped at all, his hands tug more, reveal just a bit more.... 

He shifts to move—

—and jolts awake.

What? Huh? WTF?  

Grayson finds himself back in the living room. Same couch. Same blue TV glow. Same bottle sweating in his hand, not even five minutes old. Kevin’s beside him, not a bruise in sight, giving Grayson the dumbest look in the world. Probably because Grayson looks like the dumbest person in the world right now. 

“What?” Kevin says, flat as a board.

Grayson blinks once, twice, clears his throat. “Uh....Nothing.”

Kevin rolls his eyes, reaches past him, and cracks another beer. Grayson takes his own bottle like a lifeline and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

 

 

Of course this was just a dream.... but damn.... what a dream. 

 


Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire  

Sunday, October 12, 2025

Story: Punchline - Kidnapped

Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building.

 

Aarav’s Journal Entry – Voice Dictation to Alexa

Alexa, start journal entry. Title it… Another Day of Excellence.

They say confidence is earned. Cute. I was born with it. Came out of the womb with a jawline sharper than most men’s careers and a trust fund fat enough to buy your opinion. Rich? Obviously. Good-looking? Undeniably. This body? Sculpted, not in a gym, God no, but by elite trainers and genetic lottery tickets most people can’t afford to dream about. I walk into a room, and time stutters. People stare. They should. Every man wants to be me. Every woman wants to test drive me. Half the men too, and frankly, I don’t blame them. Labels are for bottled water and insecure people. I don’t do limits. I do pleasure. I do power. And I do them both hard. My penthouse sits above the city like it’s judging it. Sleek glass walls, imported leather furniture that probably costs more than your car, lighting soft enough to make anyone look good, though I need none of it. Shirt halfway unbuttoned, as always. I poured a double of that 30-year-old Scotch, the one peasants pretend to appreciate on Instagram. Caught my reflection in the balcony glass. Smirking. Cocky bastard. Can’t blame him. I raised the glass and toasted myself. ‘To the king,’ I said. And damn right I meant it.

Alexa, end entry. Archive it under Perfection in Progress.

 

Saturday, October 4, 2025

Shorts: Never Run your Mouth

 Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 


 

 Vince was new to the gym.

Not new to gyms, he clearly spent plenty of time in them. But this one? He was definitively the new guy and the lowest on the totem-pole. Despite this, and from the moment he walked in, everyone could see the difference from the average Joe or seasoned fighter. Sure, he came in looking good. He was lean muscled, sculpted like a statue, and had the kind of definition you only get from hours of treadmills, weights, and mirrors. But, in a way, that was the problem. Vince here looked great, but he didn’t look like a fighter. No, kid looked like a pretty pretty princess poster. Everything about him screamed show over substance. Likes and subscribing over form and trails. His warmups looked less like drills and more like a performance. Instagram staged, rehearsed, like he was filming content for followers instead of preparing for combat. He flexed between sets but only when someone was looking, adjusted the lighting when he thought it was even slightly off, and angled his phone just right to catch his best side. Where the other men ended their sessions plunging sore muscles into ice baths or wrapping joints that ached from decades of work, Vince disappeared into the locker room with a razor. Every trace of body hair had to go. His chest, his arms, even his stomach and legs, stripped smooth as glass. He spent longer shaving than most men did sparring. His body always had to look “on point”.

While all others who entered this gym bore sweat, scared, bruises and more like badges of honor they truly where... Vince checked mirrors between rounds. Bro just absolutely had to make super sure every strand of hair on his head stayed in place. Where men saw sweat and pain as weakness leaving the body, tot a drip of sweat on Vince was allowed to roll where a camera might catch it wrong. Only approved proper sweat was allowed. His guard, when he practiced or did drills, was neat, polished, practiced. But really, that's was all it was. A stance from a boxing video game copied for maximum effect. A pose from an old movie where the star was clearly paid to much. A grunt like he was a 80's action star. Kid moved like a live studio audience was watching, like the damn bell was just a cue for the next scene. It was obvious to everyone: Vince didn’t come here to fight. He came here to be seen. Which was a huge mistake in the long rung. You see, nothing pissed off the veterans, these men who bled and bruised for every inch of ring space, than watching a glossy show pony strut around their gym pretending to be one of them. It was, to keep it brief, bullshit.


Fitness boy belonged on a fitness magazine cover, not inside a ring.

Personal: 15 mins

Part of the personal series. Personal are short one off stories done by events inspired first by my own life, and then slightly taking a different turn that I WANT to happen. Obviously names and locations have been changed. 

 


 

The phone slammed into its cradle harder than I meant, but at this point I didn’t care. Honestly at this point, I didn't give a crap about anything. If management wanted to scold me about things like tone, manners and being approachable they could shove it. Shove it hard with sandpaper. You see, I just spent ten minutes explaining to a woman why an expired coupon from 2017 was not valid anymore, and you fu- freaking think I just told her I keyed her car in the parking lot. Worse part was, this was the easiest thing of the day. 

Customer service. Retail. What a Gods damn joke. I swear every person who comes through this line thinks I’m the king of the universe with powers to bend reality. What am I Thanos? 

  • Can I honor their expired coupons?

  • Can I adjust prices to whatever fantasy number they dreamed up last night?

  • Can I be personally responsible for shipping delays caused by a blizzard in another state?

Sure. Let me just wave my magic wand.

The worst part? Well one of the worst parts (yes with a s), it's the attitude. No one’s happy, like ever. Nobody walks up smiling, nobody says thank you. Or please. Nope, what I get are sighs so dramatic you think I just ruined Broadway for them. Oh did I mention the eyes rolling so hard I would wonder how they are still attached? Geez, one guy earlier looked at me like I just kicked his puppy because I asked him to swipe his card again. Heaven forbid someone be mildly inconvenienced. And Gods help you if you tell them no. People look me dead in the eye, like I’ve personally betrayed them, like refusing that crusty, crumpled two-dollar coupon is the same as murdering their firstborn.

Screw it, ill say it. Just fuck me.  

So yeah. When my fifteen-minute break finally comes around, that’s my time. Me, me and only me. No fake smiles, no “how can I help you today?”, no playing referee between people who want to fight over the last half price piece of shit blender. Just me, silence, and whatever cheap caffeine I can scrape out of the break room. Really anything will do, just as long as it makes the hurting stop for a few minutes. I want to sit down, stare at the wall, and feel nothing. That’s the dream, baby. Not a beach in Cancun, not winning the lottery, just fifteen uninterrupted minutes where no one looks at me like I ruined their lives by doing my job. Yeah that's me right now. I am one more sigh, one more eye-roll, one more “but the customer is always right” away from snapping.

Sunday, September 28, 2025

Story: The Secret Hands of Felix

Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

Felix Marin had been a professional massage therapist for over a decade. His hands were legendary, strong, intuitive, and impossibly skilled. His clients, from burned-out CEOs to movie stars trying to hide their stress under muscle, swore by him. The man could find a knot buried under layers of tension like a bloodhound on a scent, and melt it away with a practiced press and stroke. Bookings filled up months in advance. No one blinked at the premium price tag. If you wanted the best, you paid for Felix. But behind the reputation, behind the calm voice and essential oils and linen sheets, was something much darker. Something Felix kept buried beneath the lavender scent and smooth jazz playlists of his massage studio.

Felix was a gut puncher.

Not in the bar-fight, rage-fueled way. No, his obsession was more… refined. Methodical. Artistic. There was something deeply satisfying to him about the feel of muscle under his fist, the resistance of hard abs bracing, or the give of a softer belly yielding to his knuckles. He didn’t discriminate either. Six packs, dad bods, gym rats, even the lean and lanky. The large, the hairy, the smooth. All of it fascinated him. He didn’t just crave the physical thrill, he loved testing them. Finding the line between pleasure and pain, strength and collapse.

To indulge his craving without destroying his reputation, Felix developed a method. His hands were skilled, steady, the hands of a healer. To his clients, he was the picture of serenity: a massage therapist with a gift for touch and a gentle, professional manner. But behind the calm smile and soothing tone was a hunger... strange, primal, and secret. He began with the oils. At first, ordinary blends: lavender for relaxation, peppermint for tension, sandalwood for grounding. But ordinary oils could not serve his private desire. He studied and experimented in silence, late at night when his neighbors slept. Ancient texts on herbal sedation, obscure pharmacology journals, and online forums for fringe chemistry filled his shelves and bookmarks. Piece by piece, he refined something new.

The lotion he created was not meant for mere relaxation. It was an alchemy of rare herbs and synthesized compounds, balanced in ratios so precise that even a drop too much could tip it into poison. The scent alone was disarming, warm and faintly sweet, like wood smoke mixed with honey. A client breathing deeply would already feel their chest loosen, their guard drop. But it was when the lotion seeped into the skin, absorbed by the very muscles he kneaded, that the true effect took hold.

It did not render them unconscious. Felix was careful. He did not want unconsciousness; unconsciousness was silence. What he craved was the twilight space between sleep and waking. The lotion drew his clients down into that state: their minds heavy and drifting, their bodies unresponsive, as though weighed down by leaden blankets. They were not gone, not truly. They could dream. They could feel. But their bodies betrayed them, unable to move, unable to resist. Felix perfected the timing. At first, he’d wait, thirty minutes, forty-five, depending on the man’s build and metabolism. He knew the signs intimately: the slowed breathing, the slack in the shoulders, the glassy flicker behind the eyelids as the dreamstate began. He would murmur words of reassurance, as if coaxing them deeper, a guide across the river of waking into that strange half world. And then, when he was sure, when the man was pinned inside his own flesh, floating in paralysis, Felix let the mask slip. His eyes hardened, his mouth curved into a smile that no client ever saw when awake. His hand, still slick with the special lotion, would press against the man’s abdomen, testing, feeling the warmth of muscle under skin. Then, without hesitation, he would draw back his fist and drive it deep into the gut. The reaction was always the same, and yet always new. The body buckled instinctively, straining against the immovable weight of paralysis. Muscles tried to seize, lungs tried to suck in air, but only a ragged half breath escaped. The man would twitch faintly, as though in a nightmare, his face tightening in a pained grimace. Felix’s ears would ring with the soundless scream locked behind clenched teeth.

He would wait, watching, savoring. Then another blow. And another. He was methodical, pacing the strikes, studying the flush of red blooming across the skin, the way the abdomen trembled under the repeated impacts. Each punch was a question whispered to himself: How much can they take? How deep can pain be felt in a dream?

What fascinated him most was the paradox. The lotion held their bodies prisoner, but it did not cut them off from sensation. Quite the opposite. Every punch resonated inside them, raw and unsoftened, like thunder trapped in a cavern. And Felix knew, they would wake remembering flashes. Not clear memories, no. Just fragments: the sensation of pressure, of fire in the belly, the haunting echo of pain without cause. They would call it a strange dream. They always did. And Felix? He would stand over them after, knuckles bruised and chest heaving with exhilaration, and then calmly wash his hands, reapply the mask of the professional. When they stirred and blinked awake, he would smile kindly and say, “You must’ve dozed off. It happens all the time.”

Today would be no different in that sense. But in every other way? Felix was buzzing.

The address he pulled up to wasn’t just a house. It wasn't just simple hole in the wall, or place of residence. No, it was a freaking mansion! Huge! Powerful! The smell of money obvious even to the most simple of people. It was secluded behind tall hedges that whispered in the wind and a black iron gate that slid open with mechanical silence. No neighbors. No noise. Just the low hum of wealth and privacy, the kind of place built not just for living, but for being unseen. Felix’s chest thrummed with anticipation. This was quickly turning into just another gut punch massage into... into anything goes. His newest client had found him not through an ad, not through any open channel, but through whispers. A name passed quietly. A request made without ceremony. Payment offered upfront, triple his normal rate. The message had been clear: this man wanted Felix, and he wanted him badly enough to pay for discretion. That in itself was unusual. And unusual was exciting. Felix parked his sleek black car at the curve of the circular drive. He let the engine hum a moment longer, savoring the silence around him. His hand rested on the leather duffel in the passenger seat. Inside were the tools of his double life: folded sheets, sterile gloves, polished bottles of ordinary oils for the surface show, and at the very bottom, wrapped in a cloth like a sacred relic, the jar of his special cream. His pulse jumped at the thought. Go time. He stepped out, duffel slung over one shoulder, posture composed, smile already fixed, the trademark smile that had disarmed a hundred men before. Gentle, reassuring, trustworthy. The smile that carried them, unknowingly, toward his ritual. Before he could even cross the halfway mark of the drive, the client appeared. The heavy glass door swung open, and there he was.



The man was not just in shape. He was a sculpture come to life, the kind of physique that demanded attention even in stillness. Felix’s eyes flicked across him, cataloguing every line. The torso was broad, chest carved with muscle so symmetrical it looked as though a sculptor’s chisel had shaped it. His stomach, flat and hard, rose and fell with each breath, the faintest hint of veins tracing toward his waist. Not a hair (maybe none? maybe to thin and fine) marred the surface, smooth as marble, the skin stretched tight over corded muscle. Arms thick, but not swollen. Balanced. Legs proportionate, carrying weight with ease.

It was too much, maybe. Too complete. Too perfect. Felix’s smile deepened, though not for the reasons the man likely assumed. Perfect physiques drew him like flames drew moths, not out of envy, not out of lust, but out of a hunger to see them tested. Beauty in stillness was nothing. Beauty under strain, that was truth. Felix wanted to see how those flawless muscles looked when pain rippled through them. He wanted to know how much punishment perfection could endure before it cracked. The man strode forward eagerly, a confidence in his step that matched his body. Perhaps too eager. Felix noted the little things: the way the man’s shoulders squared as though to impress, the slight jut of his chin, the smile that carried more pride than warmth. He was the type who knew the effect he had, who had lived too long under the gaze of admiration. Athletic, yes. Thick with training, with discipline. But also thick with cockiness. That, too, made Felix’s pulse quicken. Cocky men broke differently.

They greeted at the door, handshakes, polite words. Felix’s fingers closed around the man’s palm, noting the strength, the calluses at the base of the fingers, the heat of blood moving through him. Felix’s eyes flicked once more to the torso, the arms, the stomach that seemed carved from stone. He felt as though he was standing before a canvas not yet touched by the brush, a block of marble not yet struck by hammer and chisel. The man didn’t know it, of course. Didn’t know that Felix was already mapping him in his mind. Heavier strikes for the abs, see if they redden, see if they hold. A slower tempo for the ribs, where the bone lay shallow. Maybe test the diaphragm, watch the way the breath stutters.

Yes. Perfect. Too perfect. Perhaps that was the flaw.

Felix’s duffel hung light against his shoulder. Inside, the jar waited. The cream that would draw this flawless creature into paralysis, into that liminal dream state where beauty was no shield. Felix’s smile widened one degree more as the man spoke with easy pride, ushering him in. Felix stepped across the threshold, and in his mind the ritual had already begun.

Thanks for coming all the way out,”

Grant said as he swung the tall glass door wider and stepped aside. His voice carried an easy warmth, casual but edged with pride, the tone of a man accustomed to being served.

I’ve been meaning to book something like this for weeks. Just kept putting it off.”

No problem,” Felix replied smoothly, his tone as polished as glass. He moved with practiced grace into the entryway, the duffel still slung over one shoulder.

“I specialize in clients like you. High-performance bodies. You need recovery.”

Grant arched a brow, half amused, half flattered.

You saying I’m tense?”

More than tense.”

Felix said, and let out a quiet laugh, not too loud, not too rehearsed. His hand adjusted the strap of his bag as though it were nothing, though inside his chest his pulse ticked like a second hand on a clock. Grant chuckled, the sound rich but edged with arrogance.

I don’t feel tense.”

He gave a quick, almost playful flex of one arm, the muscle rising hard under the sleeve of his fitted shirt.

I feel like a damn machine most days. But hey, can’t hurt, right?”

Felix smiled wider, a smile that felt like it could stretch forever without cracking.

Machines still need maintenance. And even the best-built ones break down if they’re pushed too far.”

Grant tilted his head, as if he were about to respond, but instead gestured toward the open living room. Felix followed. The space was expansive, almost cathedral-like, with glass walls that overlooked a carefully arranged garden of stone, still water, and bonsai trees twisted into purposeful shapes. Minimalist, precise, silent. Felix noted it all. The house spoke the same language as Grant’s body: order, discipline, symmetry. He set his duffel down near the edge of a wide leather couch and crouched to open it. His hands moved with professional ease, drawing out folded towels, bottles of oil with elegant, understated labels, a small burner for incense. He placed each item with care, creating the performance that clients always expected: a ritual of comfort and trust. Meanwhile, Grant lounged against the arm of the couch, arms folded across his broad chest.

So, Felix, you really get around, huh? My buddy swore up and down you were the best thing he’d ever done for his back.”

Felix glanced up briefly, smiling.

Word of mouth keeps me busy. I only work with a handful of clients at a time, so each one gets the full benefit.”

Yeah, I heard that too. You don’t exactly advertise.” Grant smirked. “Hard to get on your list, apparently.”

Felix shrugged lightly, as though it meant little, though inwardly he savored the words. His name moving quietly, selectively, his reputation cultivated as carefully as the lotion he brewed.

Quality over quantity. I prefer clients who understand the process.”

Grant gave a small laugh.

Guess I’m honored then.”

Felix didn’t answer right away. He was busy now with the most important item. At the bottom of the duffel, wrapped in a plain hand towel, sat the jar. His jar. He lifted it with the same calm detachment as the rest, but his mind sharpened in focus, every thought bending toward it. The jar looked unremarkable, its lid simple brushed metal, the glass opaque. But Felix’s fingertips tingled slightly as they twisted the lid open with practiced ease. He set it down on the low table within easy reach. To Grant, it was just another cream in the array of oils and lotions. To Felix, it was the lynchpin of the entire evening. He unscrewed the lid as casually as one might open a container of moisturizer, but inside he was holding his breath, savoring the moment. The air filled with a gentle, woodsy scent. Masculine. Warm. There was nothing sharp or chemical about it, no hint of its true nature. It smelled like cedar smoke after a campfire, like leather warmed in the sun, like a forest after rain. A scent designed to slip under the defenses, to invite trust. Grant’s nose twitched almost immediately. He leaned slightly closer, curious.

Damn, what’s that one? Smells amazing. Different from the lavender crap my trainer uses.”

Felix smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the jar.

It’s a blend I’ve been working on. Rare herbs, a few things you can’t exactly buy off a shelf. Tailored for deep relaxation.”

Relaxation,” Grant repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth like he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Well, if it works half as good as it smells, you’ll have me drooling on the floor in no time.”

Felix allowed himself a small laugh, masking the way his knuckles itched with anticipation.

That’s the idea,” he said lightly. “Complete release. Letting go.”

Grant shook his head, amused, and stretched his arms overhead with a lazy groan, the movement pulling every line of muscle taut under his shirt. Felix’s eyes followed automatically, clinically, as though memorizing every inch of form and tension, the way a sculptor might study marble before the first strike of the chisel. He forced himself to look back down, to keep arranging his tools, to keep his expression relaxed and professional. 

 


Soon, Grant lay face-down on the padded table Felix had unfolded and set up near the window. The frame of the mansion’s garden, stone, still water, the whisper of bonsai trees, served as backdrop, but Felix barely noticed. His entire focus narrowed to the man stretched before him. Grant’s back was not just a surface, it was a landscape. Broad shoulders sloped into a powerful V, muscles thick and defined, each line etched with the symmetry of years of training. His skin was smooth, taut, unbroken by hair, like polished stone under the warm light filtering through the glass wall. To most, this was the peak of aesthetics. To Felix, it was something more: a canvas, waiting for the brush. A block of marble, waiting for the hammer. Felix placed his hands gently on the man’s shoulders, testing the texture, the density of muscle beneath. He pressed his thumbs into the thick knots beside the spine, felt the resistance, and then the slow give as Grant exhaled.

Mmmmmmmmmmm,”

Grant grunted, low and appreciative, yet voice still muffled by the padded face cradle.

You weren’t kidding. You’re good.”

Felix let a chuckle escape his lips, banter like this was expected as was his response. So came his chuckle, polished, easy, the sound of professionalism. Inside, though, a thrill spiked through him. His fingertips traced down the ridge of the man’s scapula, across the lats, then lower toward the small of the back. Every sweep was deliberate. Every movement part of the ritual. Without Grant knowing, Felix first applied a thin layer of a unknown substance to his hands, it acted as a counter to the lotion. Then, he reached for the jar. Uncapped it with the same practiced casualness as before, though now the act felt ceremonial. Scooping a modest amount of the lotion onto his fingers, he rubbed his hands together, warming it, activating the scent. The woodsy fragrance drifted through the air, heavy now, curling close like smoke. He began at the shoulders again, kneading the lotion into the flesh. Slow. Even. Patient. His palms spread the sheen down the back in long strokes, pushing the blend deep into the pores. Each pass was precise: the upper traps, the thick cords along the spine, the lumbar curve where tension pooled. He was not just massaging, he was layering the agent into Grant’s body, marking him stroke by stroke. Grant exhaled heavily. His voice came softer now, edges blurred.

That stuff… smells amazing. Feels… warm.”

Felix hummed in acknowledgment, masking the note of satisfaction that coiled inside him. He watched Grant’s breathing carefully: slower, deeper, the rhythm shifting from conscious control to instinct. His hands traced lower, down into the broad plane of the back, spreading the cream evenly. Each time he applied more, he did so sparingly, careful not to overuse. Patience was essential. The effect worked best when gradual, when the descent into paralysis felt like a natural drift rather than a plunge. Minutes passed. Felix’s movements were unhurried, methodical. He could feel the subtle changes under his touch: muscles that once flexed unconsciously now lay heavy, slack. The occasional shift of Grant’s arm lessened, then stilled. Finally, Felix spoke, his voice gentle, professional.

Let’s roll you onto your back. This will let me finish the work on your chest and shoulders.”

Grant, pliant and half-drifting, made a sound of assent. With Felix’s guiding hands, the man turned, slow and clumsy, onto his back. And then Felix paused. The sight before him was its own reward. Grant’s chest rose and fell with measured rhythm, each breath deeper than the last. The pecs stood proud, perfect slabs of muscle, cleanly divided at the sternum. His stomach lay flat and hard, eight symmetrical blocks rising under the skin like bricks laid by a careful hand. The obliques carved sharp lines toward his hips, visible even in the stillness. Arms rested slack at his sides, their density obvious even without tension. Felix studied it all in silence, cataloguing, appreciating. Not sexually. Not covetously. But like an artist studying a flawless piece, asking quietly to himself: How will this look when tested? What will perfection become when pressure is applied?

Felix dipped into the jar again. This time he used a little more, coating both palms thoroughly. He leaned in, spreading it across the chest, working it into the thick slabs of muscle with deliberate slowness. His fingers lingered at the shoulders, pressing deeply into the junction where deltoid met chest. He moved down, smoothing the lotion over the firm rise of the pecs, across the sternum, into the ridges of the abs. Grant made a faint hum, a sound of contentment, though his eyelids fluttered in the way Felix recognized all too well. The twilight state. The edge of the trap. Felix’s hands moved down the arms, coating them as well. He kneaded at the biceps, the triceps, the forearms. All while watching Grant’s face, his breathing. Every detail mattered.

Relax,” Felix murmured softly, the word as much command as comfort.

And Grant obeyed. His body grew heavier under Felix’s hands, his chest rising slower now, his lips parting with the shallow rhythm of someone sinking. The occasional twitch of his fingers ceased. Felix smoothed one last layer of lotion over the chest, carefully, reverently.A minute later, Grant was still. Completely still.

Out.


 

Felix stood at the foot of the table and let himself admire the view. Grant’s torso glistened slightly from the oils. His chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm. And his stomach... holy hell there it was. No flex. No resistance. Just that gorgeous stretch of male flesh and muscle, slightly red already from the heat of the massage. Felix’s fingers twitched. His pulse quickened.

Let’s see what you’re made of, Grant,” he whispered.

And then he reached out... it was the moment he lived for. For his prize was ready. His prize, Grant Wexley lay utterly still on the padded table, his body surrendered to the twilight sleep. The soft sconces along the walls threw a golden warmth across the room, painting highlights along his chest, shadows beneath the ridges of his abs. His arms rested loose at his sides, palms half curled as if he had simply drifted off during some quiet afternoon nap. His lips parted slightly, breathing slow, shallow, steady. No dreams stirred his face. The lotion had worked flawlessly. Felix knew he had time. Not forever, but enough. The blend always gave him a window, a fragile span of minutes where the body was heavy and helpless, yet still present enough to feel every sensation pressed into it. That was the key. That was the beauty. Felix stood over him, rolling his shoulders, steadying his own breathing. His heart ticked quick, eager, yet his outward calm never wavered. This moment was always sacred, the culmination of patience, of careful craft. The setup was gone, the pretense of professionalism dissolved. Now there was only him, and the canvas before him. He let his eyes roam once more across Grant’s torso. The chest, broad and dense, rose with the rhythm of sedation. The shoulders sloped outward, heavy with muscle, tapering down to the hard, even lines of the midsection. The abs drew his gaze most of all, six perfect ridges, not sculpted like an artist’s statue but grown from real strain, real work. They had texture, depth, life. Strong enough to endure, soft enough to feel. Felix admired them with the reverence of a collector gazing at a one of a kind masterpiece. He flexed his own hand, curling it into a fist. Slowly. Deliberately. The motion itself sent a shiver through him, like unsheathing a blade. He lifted it, hovered it above Grant’s stomach. For a moment he simply held it there, suspended, savoring the tension. The stillness. The anticipation of contact.

Felix tilted his head, studying every contour as though memorizing them: the faint rise between abdominals, the shallow dip near the navel, the delicate slope of skin stretched over muscle. His mind whispered a hundred thoughts at once. How will it move under impact? How deep will it sink? Will the skin flush red at once, or slowly bloom?

The thrill was sharp in his chest. At last, the test was coming.

But not all at once. No, he had learned better. The first strike was always gentle, always measured, a probe, a whisper of what was to come. He wanted to feel the reaction ripple outward, subtle as a tremor. He wanted to sense the beginning of the descent, to savor the difference between this still perfection and the living, suffering body it would soon become. He drew in a slow breath, released it through his nose, and let his fist drop. Not hard. Just enough.

The soft hit.

The sound was muted, a dull thud against living flesh. Grant’s body shifted almost imperceptibly beneath it, just the faintest contraction of the stomach, the ghost of resistance that couldn’t rise to meet the blow. Felix felt it all through his knuckles: the firmness of muscle locking tight for an instant, then slackening, powerless to do more. His eyes closed halfway, savoring it, committing the sensation to memory. The beginning was always the sweetest. The moment where anticipation broke and reality rushed in, where canvas became clay, pliant and ready for the sculptor’s hand. Felix lifted his fist again. Slowly. Reverently.

He hit again.

This time, not just a test. The stronger shot.

Felix’s arm snapped forward in a sharper, quicker motion. A jab, precise and clean, driving his knuckles into the ridged wall of Grant’s stomach. The sound was different from the first, a crisp, percussive whap that echoed faintly in the quiet room. His fist bounced back almost instantly, the recoil satisfying, like striking a drum stretched tight. Grant’s body shifted from the impact, just slightly, a faint jostle on the padded table. His head lolled to the side, lips parting as if to sigh, but no words came. No awareness. No resistance. The man remained submerged in that dreamless state, utterly still. But Felix wasn’t watching the face. His eyes were fixed on the stomach. The reaction was there, subtle but undeniable. A ripple rolled beneath the skin, the abs twitching with instinct. For a split second the muscles hardened, contracting against the blow as though they remembered their duty even while the mind slept. And then, as paralysis held, they relaxed again, slackening back into that vulnerable stillness. Felix exhaled slowly, his chest rising with satisfaction. He could feel the echo of the strike still buzzing in his knuckles, a tingling reminder of contact. The body had responded. The canvas was alive.

God, it was beautiful.

Not beauty in the usual sense. Not the smooth symmetry of a magazine model, not the flawless lines admired by crowds. This beauty was different, raw, hidden, revealed only in moments like this. The way strength betrayed itself under pressure. The way a perfect surface twitched and flexed when challenged. The ripple of flesh stretched over muscle, the pulse of life answering impact. It was beauty that belonged to him alone, unseen by the world outside these walls. Felix’s lips curved into the faintest smile as he flexed his hand again, tightening his fist. He watched the rise and fall of Grant’s chest, the faint shimmer of lotion still gleaming across his abs. Every detail mattered. The texture, the sheen, the way the muscle seemed to invite another blow. He hovered once more, his fist poised. Already he was planning the next strike, where it would land, how deep, how sharp. The first had been gentle, the second stronger. The next would carve deeper still.

The ritual was unfolding, step by step, and Felix was savoring every moment.

He adjusted his stance, planting his feet a little wider, grounding himself. One hand spread across Grant’s abdomen, palm flat. The sensation hit him immediately: warm, slick with lotion, the faint tremor of life pulsing beneath. Oiled. Alive. Felix lingered there, fingertips pressing gently, almost caressing, not for comfort, but for calibration. He wanted to know the give, the spring, the exact density of the muscle beneath. He wanted to feel the preparation before he struck. Then, slowly, he peeled his hand away and drew his fist back. The air between them seemed to thicken with anticipation. This time, there would be no half-measure.

A deeper blow.

He drove his fist forward with precision, not recklessly but with a calculated, deliberate force. It wasn’t just a punch. It was a press, a challenge, a controlled invasion into the very core of Grant’s body. His knuckles sank in deep, further than before, through skin, through the surface tension of muscle, pressing into the inner wall where strength gave way to vulnerability. The reaction was exquisite. Grant’s body tried to resist on instinct, the subconscious firing even as his conscious mind lay trapped in paralysis. A flicker, a ripple, a desperate tightening of the abdominals. It was the body saying, defend, defend, but too late, too slow. Felix’s fist had already claimed its place, sinking through the reflex and compressing the stomach like a padded wall being crushed inward.

The sound that followed was music.

A deep, guttural noise escaped Grant’s throat. Not a cry, not a word, just the raw exhale of air forced from the lungs by sheer depth of impact. It was primal, involuntary, the body announcing its suffering in the simplest language it knew. Felix’s own breath hitched. He let it out shaky, shuddering, not from weakness but from the enormity of the moment. His arm still trembled faintly with the aftershock of the strike,  nerves alive, electric. He felt solid, immovable, every fiber of his body locked into focus. He was rock hard, not in lust, but in nerves, in the tensile coil of energy wound tight in his fists and forearms. The intimacy of it hit him anew, as it always did. No audience could ever understand. No client, no colleague, no friend. This was his and his alone: a private symphony of flesh and force, where each punch was a note, each reaction a harmony, the entire body his instrument.

Slowly, reverently, Felix stepped back. His gaze dropped to Grant’s abdomen.

The first mark had appeared.

Not bruised, not yet, but flushed. A red bloom spreading across the skin, hot and tender, rising in heat where the blood rushed to answer the insult. Felix felt his throat tighten at the sight. It was beautiful, yes, but more than that... it was proof. Proof of contact, proof of ownership. A mark that whispered: I was here. I did this.

He let his fist hang at his side and began to circle the table. Each step was measured, almost ceremonial. His wrist rolled lazily, loosening the tight coil in his knuckles, preparing for what was to come. The quiet of the room deepened around him. Only Grant’s slow, shallow breaths filled the air. Felix’s mouth curved into the faintest smile as he muttered under his breath. Not to Grant, Grant couldn’t hear, couldn’t comprehend, but to himself. To the ritual. To the moment.

“This is it,” he whispered, voice low, steady. “One more. One to remember me by.”

He returned to his original place, standing tall at Grant’s side. He let his eyes linger once more on the chest, the shoulders, the flushed stomach stretched like canvas waiting for a final stroke. Then Felix raised his arm. Slowly. Deliberately. His focus narrowed until the world disappeared. There was only him, his fist, and the perfect expanse of muscle beneath. Every nerve in his body thrummed. The room held its breath with him.

The final hit wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t violent for the sake of violence. It was perfectly placed, a culmination of years of control and obsession. His arm snapped forward in a clean arc, straight and true, and the punch landed dead center in Grant’s navel, low and deep. It hit with a muted thud, not loud, but final. The kind of punch that didn’t just strike muscle, it entered it. His fist sunk in so far that for a split second it felt like Grant’s stomach was going to pull it in and keep it there. Grant’s whole body lifted a fraction of an inch off the table from the recoil, a small tremble running through his limbs.

Then stillness.

Felix’s fist stayed pressed in for a few long seconds, feeling the heat of the man’s core. The stomach spasmed once under his knuckles. He pulled back slowly. Grant remained completely still, chest rising and falling like nothing had happened. But Felix knew. That stomach? It remembered. He flexed his fingers. Smiled to himself. This was why he did it. Would always do it.

Felix stood there for a moment, fist still hovering just above Grant’s stomach. His breath was ragged, but controlled. He felt it, the electricity running through his veins, the tightening in his chest and groin. The hunger was still there, gnawing at him, demanding more. It was the way he’d always felt when the punch landed just right, satisfaction, power, and then the inevitable craving for another hit. Another taste.

The rush. The thrill.

He couldn’t stop himself.

Felix leaned forward just a little, and before he could think about it, his knuckles collided again with the soft, yielding flesh of Grant’s abdomen. The strike was quick and harsh, but not as deep as before, just enough to make the skin jiggle, just enough to feel the muscles twitch and fight against him. The smoothness of Grant’s belly was warm under his fist, and the feeling of his hand sinking in, of meeting just the right amount of resistance, shot a rush of heat through Felix’s body.

God, he feels so soft. So warm.

The hairs, so light and unseen before, on Grant’s belly were soft to the touch, barely noticeable until Felix’s fist pressed down, making them rub against his knuckles, almost as if they were reacting to the punch, like tiny little spikes of sensation. Felix’s eyes closed for just a second, feeling each individual hair as it met his hand, each texture, each ridge of muscle. The way Grant’s body tried to resist, to protect itself even in this relaxed state. But Felix knew better. His fingers flexed, getting a better grip on the flesh, and with another shudder, Felix punched again. This time harder. The fist sank deeper, pressing the flesh like a sponge, but the stomach tried to fight it, even in the sleep. The muscle contracted just a fraction, but it wasn’t enough. Felix relished the feel of it, the way the stomach seemed to deflate just a bit under the blow, softening with every strike, but still holding its form, still firm in a way that made Felix’s own chest tighten. Another hit, another rhythmic press of his knuckles into the flesh. He couldn’t help it. His hands moved almost of their own accord, drawn like magnets to the warmth and resistance, like the body was a map and his fist, the compass guiding him. Each punch felt different. Each one sank differently, the skin softening with each new strike, the tension in Felix’s body tightening more and more. It felt like a rush of liquid heat, a slow burn that climbed up his legs, up his chest, and settled low in his stomach. He was starting to lose himself, to get lost in the sensation.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. One more. Just one more....

Felix slammed his fist into Grant’s stomach one final time, the soft impact filling the room with that deep, muffled thunk. He pulled back almost instantly, breathing harder now, his body practically humming with energy. His pants felt tighter now, the pressure building, and he had to take a few small breaths, steadying himself.

Calm down, Felix.

He wiped his brow and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax, to pull back, as if he hadn’t just done what he knew he couldn’t stop himself from doing. Time was running out. He could feel the excitement still flooding his veins, but the clock was ticking, and he had to take control before it all came crashing down. Grant remained still, unaware, but Felix’s mind was racing. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, fighting the burning urge to continue. But he couldn't, not now. The punches to Grant’s stomach was over for now.

But Felix wasn’t finished. Felix stood still for a moment, letting his pulse slow. The echo of each punch still rang through his knuckles like music after the orchestra stops. But he knew better than to linger in that thrill.

Now comes the cleanup.

He reached for a warm cloth, soaked in gentle oils, normal legit ones this time. No sedatives. Just soothing blends meant to repair and restore. He laid it gently across Grant’s stomach, pressing softly, letting the heat seep in and loosen the tension from the brutal massage he had just delivered. Grant didn’t stir. Felix began working the cloth in slow circles, careful, skilled. Every motion was deliberate, thoughtful. He smoothed out the angry red marks blooming across Grant’s midsection, subtly massaging deeper into the muscle. He pressed gently with the pads of his fingers, stimulating blood flow, encouraging the tissue to recover before any lasting bruises could form. He kneaded around the solar plexus with precise control, undoing the trauma his fists had caused moments ago. He admired his own work. The redness had faded just enough to look like heat from deep-tissue massage. Nothing out of place. Nothing to worry about. Grant’s body shifted beneath his hands, just a little. A twitch in the fingers. A small exhale from the nose.

He’s coming back.

Felix took one last moment to admire the landscape of flesh before him, then moved smoothly back into his professional rhythm..soft palms gliding over chest, shoulders, collarbone. He applied a few last strokes of unscented lotion, giving no hint anything unusual had ever happened. Grant stirred again. This time his eyes fluttered open.

 


Whew,” he muttered, voice groggy but peaceful. “That was… incredible.”

Felix smiled warmly, exactly as he always did. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

Grant sat up slowly on the table, blinking the haze from his eyes. His body felt like it had been melted and remade, weightless, warm, utterly content. He stretched once, arms over his head, then looked down.

Huh,” he muttered, fingertips brushing across his abs. “My stomach’s kinda red.”

Felix, already folding towels like a model of professionalism, gave a soft chuckle.

That’s totally normal. The oils I use stimulate blood flow—especially during chest and abdominal work. Should fade in a few hours.”

Right, right....” Grant said. He nodded. But something in his voice… shifted.

Felix caught it.

A small pause. An almost imperceptible downturn of the mouth. Grant looked away a second too long, like he was trying to mask disappointment. Felix didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just observed. Then, gently, he said:

Sir, Mr Gran, You okay?”

Grant glanced up, startled, but the practiced wall didn’t go back up fast enough. The mask cracked. His shoulders tensed, then dropped.

I—yeah. It’s just…”

He exhaled through his nose, then let out a nervous chuckle.

This is gonna sound stupid.”

Felix tilted his head.

I heard a lot in my time, I assure you it won't be stupid. Please, try me.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Grant said it, low and fast, like ripping off a bandage:

I kinda have this thing. For getting gut punched.”

Silence.

Grant chuckled awkwardly, eyes scanning anywhere but Felix.

Like, not in a dangerous way. Just… I don’t know. There’s something about it. The pressure, the impact, the vulnerability… It’s hard to explain. But it does something for me.”

He shrugged.

I was half-hoping that’s where the red came from.”

Felix didn’t say anything right away. But a slow smile tugged at his lips. Not mocking. Not even surprised. Just… interested. Pleased. This was definitely new... very new. He walked back over to the table, calm and measured, his towel now hanging loose in one hand. He stood before Grant, and with the other hand, reached out. His palm pressed lightly, deliberately, against Grant’s reddened stomach. The touch was warm. Confident.

You know,” Felix said softly, eyes meeting his, “maybe…”

His fingers traced the faint lines of Grant’s abs.

“…the session’s not over yet.”

Grant’s breath caught.


Felix didn’t let Grant simply ease himself back onto the table this time. No, this was different. He reached out and slid an arm firmly behind Grant’s back, steadying him, holding him in a precious sacred place. His palm pressed against solid muscle, the heat radiating through the thin sheen of sweat still clinging to Grant’s skin. For a moment, their torsos brushed, the nearness so palpable that Felix could feel the warmth rolling off Grant like a furnace. Grant’s eyes locked onto his, steady, unblinking. There was no haze of sedation clouding them now, no dream-fog or chemical drift. He was here. Fully aware. And he wanted this. Felix could feel it, could feel the low hum running between them, the unspoken charge that made the very air seem thicker, warmer, harder to draw into the lungs. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation, sharp and coiled, a readiness that neither man had to name.

You’re sure?”

Felix asked softly, his voice pitched low. Not because he doubted the answer, but because the question itself was part of the ritual, part of the dance. Grant gave the faintest nod, a crooked grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

I’ve never been more sure.”

Felix swallowed once, steadying himself. He had imagined this scenario a thousand times in silence, perfected it in secret with the unknowing, paralyzed bodies of men who would never remember. But now? Now it was here, alive, undeniable. Not fantasy. Not dream. Reality, sharpened and undeniable. And that changed everything. Felix's arm lingered against Grant’s side, feeling the tension, the heat, the faint thrum of breath through ribs. Grant’s stomach was still marked, redness blooming faintly across the ridges of his abs, the memory of prior blows still etched into the skin. Felix placed his palm there again, slow this time, deliberate, almost possessive. His hand spread wide, covering the warmth, tracing the raised heat that radiated back into his fingertips. He pressed lightly, enough to feel the resistance, enough to remind them both what this body could endure. Grant’s lips parted on a slow exhale, his gaze never breaking. Felix let his thumb drag lazily across one ridge of muscle, studying the texture, savoring it like the page of a book he’d read a thousand times and yet found new meaning in. The charge between them pulsed heavier. Stronger. This wasn’t just control anymore. It was invitation. It was trust. It was the culmination of every carefully guarded secret, made manifest. Felix leaned closer, close enough that their shared heat mingled, close enough that Grant could smell the faint trace of the lotion still clinging to his skin. His breath brushed across Grant’s chest as he whispered,

Then let’s begin.”

It began with a soft, exploratory jab, barely a tap. Grant flinched, but not in pain. His eyes fluttered closed and a quiet, shaky exhale escaped his lips.

Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

Felix’s fist came again, a little harder. Then again. He began to establish a rhythm, light punches, teasing punches. The kind that let the nerves wake up and the muscles react. Grant’s abs flexed under each hit, pushing back with instinctive resistance. Felix loved that. He could feel the tension fighting his knuckles, feel the moment it surrendered with each hit.

You’ve been holding out on me,”

Felix muttered, his fist pressing into Grant’s stomach and staying there, grinding slow circles. Grant’s breath hitched.

Wasn’t sure I’d ever find someone who would get it.”

Felix chuckled darkly, leaning closer.

You found the best.”

 

His punches came harder now. Not wild, not uncontrolled, but heavier, each one measured, each one carrying weight. The first landed with a thud, forcing a short grunt from Grant’s lips. The second followed quicker, sharper, a jab that bounced off with a crisp snap, the sound cutting through the quiet room. Felix felt the way his knuckles drove into living resistance, the way Grant’s stomach compressed then sprang back, a perfect balance of strength and vulnerability. He adjusted his stance instinctively, planting his feet more solidly, testing the table’s give as much as the man’s body. This wasn’t just hitting. This was exploration. Grant took every shot, and he made no attempt to hide his reactions. He wasn’t stoic, he didn’t want to be. His body twitched under each blow, hips shifting slightly, shoulders tensing, his abs tightening instinctively only to be forced open by the next strike. Soft moans escaped him, low and raw, mingling with the bursts of air that punched free of his lungs. His head rolled back and forth, eyes shut, lips parting as if each impact carried him deeper into some dream. Felix’s breath quickened. His rhythm shifted. He gave Grant a pair of quick shots, rapid-fire jabs that drummed into the same spot just above the navel. The sound was sharp, percussive, his knuckles tapping like a drummer finding tempo. Grant’s stomach jerked with each one, a sharp hiss leaving him as he writhed faintly, but then, then he settled into it, almost welcoming the repetition. Felix leaned in, driving a slower, deeper blow this time, his fist sinking in until the skin stretched taut over his knuckles. He felt the core resist, felt it tremble, then yield. The air rushed out of Grant in a guttural moan, a sound halfway between pain and relief.

“Perfect...” 

Felix whispered, more to himself than to Grant. His fist withdrew, hovered, then struck again from a different angle, diagonal, cutting across the line of muscle, testing the obliques. Another shot followed, low, drilling into the lower abs, sharp enough to make Grant’s entire body arch up from the table. Grant gasped, twisted, then let out a ragged laugh, voice husky and charged. 

“God, yes… more.”

Felix’s lips curved into a tight, focused smile. He adjusted his position again, circling slightly, and began to vary his strikes. A sharp jab to the upper abs, a drilling shot lower, then a glancing blow angled from the side that made Grant’s body rock. Each one was catalogued in Felix’s mind, the reaction, the sound, the way the muscles clenched then softened. Grant was alive under him, not just enduring but embracing. Each strike seemed to draw him further into it, like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment, this exact sensation. His body no longer resisted instinctively. It invited. Every moan, every sharp breath, every twitch was a signal: more, harder, don’t stop.

Felix’s fists moved like instruments, exploring. A combination here, three quick jabs, then a pause, then a heavy drive that landed with a deep whump. A drilling series there, his fist hammering the same spot over and over, relentless, until Grant’s abs trembled beneath the assault. The redness spread wider, blooming into angry patches across his stomach, but still Grant welcomed it, his voice raw with exertion and thrill. The room filled with sound now, the dull, meaty impact of knuckles on flesh, the ragged chorus of Grant’s breathing, the quiet, reverent exhalations of Felix as he lost himself in the rhythm. For Felix, it was a symphony. For Grant, it was a dream realized.

It was a language now, one only the two of them spoke.

Punch.

Breathe.

Flex.

Relax.

Repeat.

 


Felix drew his fist back again, ready for another drilling series, when he felt it, fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. He froze. Grant’s hand, strong even in this battered state, had shot up and hooked into the cotton at Felix’s chest. For a moment, Felix’s mind faltered. Was this the signal? The wordless plea that the line had finally been crossed? The command to stop? He looked down, brows knit, studying Grant’s face. Grant’s eyes were half lidded but clear, glowing with the same heat that radiated from his battered core. His lips curled into a grin, ragged, breathless, but certain. 

“Lose the shirt,” he rasped. “Then keep going.”

For a heartbeat, Felix just stared. Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward, a smile breaking across his face. Relief. Amusement. And something deeper, satisfaction that the fantasy was not only alive but evolving, becoming bigger, bolder, shared. He reached down, peeled Grant’s hand gently away from his shirt, and stepped back. In one smooth motion, he stripped the garment off, tossing it aside. His torso was lean, hardened by years of his own discipline, marked by subtle lines of strength. Sweat already streaked across his chest and shoulders from the exertion, catching in the warm light of the sconces.Grant’s grin widened faintly. He gave a nod, a wordless approval, and let his arm flop back to the table, ready. Felix rolled his shoulders, loosening the tight coil in his arms, then flexed his fists. The air between them seemed to crackle. The room smelled of sweat, of lotion, of heat.

“Good,” Felix murmured, more to himself than to Grant. “Now we can get serious.”

He stepped close again, hovering over the stomach he already painted with red marks. His fist drew back, slower this time, deliberate, savoring the tension. Then, he drove it down. The impact thudded deep into the upper abs, forcing a guttural grunt from Grant’s throat. Felix pulled back immediately and followed with another, angled into the side just above the oblique. The body jolted under him, twisting slightly, then flattened again. Grant’s hands curled into fists, gripping the edges of the table, not to stop but to hold himself steady. His moan was ragged, thick with exertion but threaded with something close to pleasure. 

“Yes,” he hissed. “Harder.”

Felix obliged.

He shifted stance, widened his base, and began to unleash in combinations. Two jabs, quick, percussive, followed by a deeper, driving hook that landed low and hard. Then a pause, a breath, before hammering three quick shots in succession to the same spot, drilling until Grant’s entire midsection trembled beneath the assault. The sound filled the room now, thick, heavy whumps of fist into flesh, the choked gasps of air bursting from Grant’s lungs, the rhythmic exhale from Felix’s lips as he worked. Sweat began to bead on his own brow, trickling down his back, mingling with the sheen of lotion on his knuckles. Felix varied it, explored. A sudden uppercut into the solar plexus that made Grant’s chest heave. A low, angled blow to the lower abs that nearly lifted him off the table. A machine-gun flurry of short, snapping jabs that drummed across the ridges of his stomach like fists on a war drum. And Grant took them all. Not passive, not stoic, but alive. He moaned, groaned, twisted under the onslaught, his face tight with strain, his voice raw with gasps and broken fragments of laughter. Every sound he made only urged Felix further.

“More,” Grant rasped. “Come on, give me more.”

Felix’s fists rained down harder now, each strike heavier than the last, the rhythm driving like drums in a storm. The sound was everywhere, thick, meaty whumps echoing off the walls, punctuated by Grant’s ragged gasps and guttural cries. The table beneath them groaned faintly with each jolt of impact, the frame straining to hold the raw energy passing between them. Grant’s stomach was alive under Felix’s fists, muscles flexing, buckling, then yielding again. The redness had deepened into mottled patches, glowing hot to the touch, sweat mingling with lotion to leave his abs shining. Every hit left them twitching, trembling, pulsing with the raw ache of punishment, and every one drew another reaction from him.

“Harder!” 

Grant barked, his voice hoarse, split with exertion. His head rolled back, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut as if he were riding some overwhelming wave. 

“Deeper! Don’t hold back!”

Felix’s grin widened, teeth flashing in the warm lamplight. This was no longer about restraint or testing limits. This was release. He shifted his stance lower, legs braced wide, and let the next blow fly like a hammer. His fist slammed into Grant’s midsection with bone deep force, sinking past taut muscle into the very core. The air exploded out of Grant in a harsh hhuuhhh, his chest buckling, his fists clenching tight on the sides of the table. And then... he laughed. A raw, broken laugh, half-choked with breathlessness but electric with exhilaration. 

“Yes!”

Felix’s pulse roared in his ears. His fists moved with instinct now, guided by the primal urge thrumming through his veins. He mixed it up, two sharp jabs high, a heavy cross into the center, then a brutal hook low that made Grant’s hips lift from the table. The man twisted with every hit, his abs straining, his voice breaking into moans that rolled into demands.

“More!” he growled. “Come on, Felix! Don’t you dare stop! Stronger!”

Felix didn’t. Couldn’t. He was lost in it too, the heat of the room, the sweat dripping from his chest, the intoxicating sight of Grant’s body jolting under every strike. Each punch was a communion, each reaction a confirmation. This wasn’t violence. This wasn’t cruelty. This was something deeper, primal, pure. Two men meeting in a place words couldn’t reach. He leaned in, his fists a blur. Rapid-fire jabs that tattooed the upper abs, drilling shots low and deep, body-rattling haymakers that pounded into the core with merciless precision. Every angle, every power level, explored, tested, conquered. Grant absorbed it all. He buckled, twisted, moaned, but never broke. If anything, the more Felix gave, the more he seemed to awaken—like each hit was chiseling away at something buried, unlocking a truth he had been waiting his whole life to touch. His voice was ragged, guttural, primal. 

“More! Harder! God, don’t stop—give me everything!”

Felix’s knuckles ached, his forearms burned, but the fire only drove him further. He let out a low growl with each punch, his breath syncing to the rhythm, his body alive with the raw charge of it. Sweat ran down his temple, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t falter. One final combination: a brutal series of drilling blows right into the center of Grant’s stomach. Each one deeper than the last, driving him down, forcing his lungs to cough out ragged gasps of air until his whole body was vibrating with the impact.

And still, Grant grinned through the pain, his voice breaking into a triumphant roar. 

“FUCKING YES!" 

Felix drew in a sharp breath, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, and drove another punch into Grant’s gut. The impact sank deep, folding the man’s midsection before springing back. Grant groaned low, but it wasn’t pain... it was release. Another shot followed, heavier, knuckles pressing deep into the reddened center of his abs. Felix felt the tremor ripple outward through Grant’s entire body, a quake that traveled from his core to his shoulders and legs. One more. A brutal, drilling strike. His fist dug in hard, twisting slightly before pulling free. Grant’s whole body reacted. A violent shudder tore through him, every muscle tightening at once, a pulse that shook the table. His chest heaved, air rushing out in a ragged burst, then he stilled. Utterly. His arms slid loose at his sides, fingers uncurled, head tilted back against the padding.

Silent. Still.

Felix froze, hovering above him, fists still tight. He watched the rise and fall of Grant’s chest, slow, steady, calm. Not broken. Not hurt. But done. The shudder had been the peak, the release. And now came the quiet after the storm. Felix let his fists unclench, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion and satisfaction. His eyes traced the red, tender expanse of Grant’s stomach, glowing hot with the marks of his work. Proof of what had passed between them.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

They had gone into this together, and both had found what they came for. Felix had unleashed every hidden urge, given himself over to the rhythm and the ritual. Grant had embraced every strike, taken every blow, and ridden them all the way to that final shuddering release. There was no shame here. No regret. Only silence. The kind of silence that comes after completion.

Eventually, Felix breath slowed. The reality, the wonderful reality of all that happened settling in. His fist uncurled, and he pressed his open palm firmly against the spot he’d worked over the most.

You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he murmured.

Grant’s head rolled back against the table, a smile on his lips.

I hope so.”

For a few quiet moments, Felix just massaged the abused stomach, careful and slow again, easing away the deepest edges of pain but leaving the heat, the flush. He leaned in, close to Grant’s ear.

Next time,” he whispered, “you tell me what you want at the start.”

Grant turned his head just enough to grin back.

Next time,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself.”

Felix’s smile widened.

Next time.

They both already knew... it was going to be a hell of a lot more than just a massage.



 



 

 


Shorts: R/BodyPunching

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be sel...