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.
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