Shorts: The Ride

 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. 

 

Max’s muscles still throbbed from the last set, heavy bench press, max weight, no spotter. It was the kind of lift where you grit your teeth so hard you feel it in your skull, where your chest feels like it might split open, but you push anyway because stopping isn’t in you. Stopping is what the loser bitches in this gym did. On the bench he stopped for a moment, and took a moment for himself. His pecs still felt carved from granite, every fiber swollen with that hard-earned pump. With a push off he was off to the looker room, no need to clean the machine he just used. The gym had hired idiots for that lowely work. Max, after all, had better things to do. He now stood in front of the locker room mirror, steam drifting around him from the showers in the next row. Outside, rain hammered against the narrow windows, but Max barely heard it over the thrum of his own pulse in his ears. His thick chest hair lay plastered to his pecs, dark and gleaming under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Over and over, in his mind, one thought commanded acknowledgment.

Damn.

I look good.

I look powerful.

I look, I am dangerous.

 

Despite his arrogant persona, the truth was still the truth. His was the kind of body that didn’t happen by accident. Max smirked and gave his reflection a slow nod, as if to say, Yeah, you’re the man. He rolled his shoulders, savoring the way his delts bunched and released, tracing the perfect taper from thick shoulders down to a tight waist. He flexed his arms once, not for anyone else, just to watch the peak rise and fall, then ran a hand down his torso, across abs that were still humming from a brutal round of weighted crunches. He lingered there, fingers brushing each ridge, checking for weakness and finding none.

Greatness. Perfection. Divine.

Pulling out his phone, Max thumbed open the rideshare app. The rain outside had gone from bad to biblical, hammering against the locker room windows in sheets. There was no way, absolutely no way, he was walking home in that. Besides, Max decided, today he was feeling generous. He’d allow some underpaid, overworked stranger the privilege of ferrying him home while basking in the sight of his hard-earned physique. He briefly wonder if that counted as the tip for the ride. In any case, five minutes later, the app pinged, Your ride is here. Max slung his gym bag over his shoulder and stepped outside. The rain hit him instantly, sliding over his skin in clean, cold rivulets, cutting through the heat still rolling off him from his workout. Each drop traced its way down his broad chest like water over polished stone. His strides were unhurried, confident. He scanned the street for the car, his gaze narrowing. No sedan. No driver waving him over. What the hell was this- then he saw it, his ride, already passing by, the driver oblivious. Max threw up an arm and waved, a sharp, commanding motion meant for summoning, not requesting. The car’s brake lights flared, then it slowed… and kept going. Max grit his teeth, standing there in the downpour, water plastering his hair to his head and streaming down his jaw. He watched with mounting irritation as the sedan crept to the next intersection, executed the slowest turn imaginable, and finally began the awkward process of doubling back toward him. By the time it pulled to the curb, Max was drenched to the bone, but not in a way that made him look any less impressive. If anything, the rain made his muscles stand out more, every contour defined by the sheen of water. Still, the frown that formed had nothing to do with the storm raging around him.

 

 

It was the car.

A beat-up grayish sedan, paint dulled by years of neglect, windows fogged and streaked from the damp air. This crap was the chariot sent for him? Max shook his head slowly. What was the world coming to? With a heavy sigh, and really what else could be done, he yanked the rear door open and slid inside, drops of rain rolling from his shoulders and pooling instantly on the cracked leather seats. He caught his reflection in the driver’s rear view mirror and smirked. Yeah. Still looked like a beast. If nothing else, the view in the mirror would be enough to distract him from whatever indignity this… car represented.

The driver couldn’t have looked more... more ordinary if he had tried. Late twenties maybe, pale like he was allergic to the sun, soft around the arms, no way filling out his shirt. Max sighed and didn't bother to hide it. This loser was the kind of guy whose gym membership was just a key tag on his keychain, probably along with a bunch of other discount cards that "omg saved me so much money lol". His polo shirt was rumpled, his hair doing that defeated flop that said I stopped caring halfway through getting ready this morning. He was, in every way, not built for the man-mountain now occupying his back seat.

Ben, Max caught the name on the little driver ID clipped to the dash, gave a quick glance in the rear view mirror. The second their eyes met, Ben’s expression shifted. Not fear exactly. More like regret. The I should have let someone else take this ride kind of regret. Max saw it of course, he always saw it. He leaned forward just enough for his shadow to fall across the man’s shoulders, the leather of the seat creaking under the shift in weight. His voice didn’t need to say a word, his presence said it for him.

Say something. Go ahead. I dare you.

 

 

Ben’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Naturally, he didn’t say a thing. Just flicked the turn signal and merged into the slow crawl of traffic, tires hissing on the rain slick pavement. Max leaned back again, sprawling across the seat like he owned it, like he owned the car, maybe even the whole damn street. He watched the raindrops streaking across the fogged window, then his gaze slid back to the mirror. Ben’s shoulders were hunched, his posture awkward, like a kid driving his dad’s car for the first time. Max smirked. This was what power looked like, not just in the gym, but out here in the real world. Even average guys like this could feel it, and more importantly fear it.. They could sense when a man like him was in the room… or in this case, in the back seat. The car rolled on, but Max already knew, Ben wasn’t about to forget this ride any time soon.

Ben didn’t know how much time had passed. Two minutes? Five? Ten? It all blurred together under the steady hiss of the rain and the dull rhythm of the wipers. What he did know was that every second felt longer than the last. The cab of the car was filled with the sound of Max’s breathing, deep, slow, self satisfied breaths that made Ben want to roll the window down just to escape it. Every now and then, the giant in the back seat would shift, leather creaking, droplets of water pattering down from his chest and arms onto the upholstery. The cracked leather seat, already worn and tired, was quickly darkening in big, irregular patches. Max didn’t care. Not even a little. Ben, on the other hand, felt every drop like a personal insult. His back seat wasn’t much, but it was his, and here was this half-naked gorilla of a man treating it like a park bench. He took a deep breath. He tried to focus on the road. He tried to keep his breathing even. But the longer the silence dragged, the more his shoulders tightened. He sighed. Huffed. Even puffed out his cheeks once without meaning to. Then another sigh. Then a longer one. Finally, he worked up the nerve. His throat felt tight. His palms, sweaty against the wheel. He had half a mind to just finish the ride and be done with it, but his training, and company policy, nagged at him like a stone in his shoe.

He cleared his throat.

“Sir,” Bensaid, trying for calm but hearing the hesitation in his own voice, “You need to put on a shirt or get out. Company policy. Sorry, but I don't make the rules, just gotta follow them to pay the bills.”

Max’s head turned slightly, just enough for his eyes to catch Ben’s in the mirror. Then, slowly, the smirk formed, a deliberate, lazy thing. It was infuriating to say the least.

“Nah,” he said, low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “I’m good.”

Something in Ben knotted up tight. He felt his pulse in his temples. He could let it go, could keep driving, say nothing, eat the complaint later, but something inside him decided it had been enough. He pulled over, tires hissing against the wet pavement, and eased the car to a stop. Engine off. Then, without a word, he opened his door, stepped into the rain, and slid into the back seat, shutting the door behind him. Face-to-face now with the man who looked less like a passenger and more like he’d just walked out of a weightlifting magazine cover shoot. Max continued to sit there like he owned the car. Shoulders relaxed. Chest hair still glistening with rain. Gym bag shoved into the corner. He didn’t flinch when Ben leaned forward slightly, close enough to smell the faint mix of rainwater and iron.

“Get. Out. NOW!” Ben said. Firm. Low. All bluff.

For a moment, Max blinked at him. Then his lips curled into something darker than amusement. a rich, mocking laugh that filled the back seat.

“This your big move, huh?” he said, spreading his arms so his soaked, hairy chest rose like a mountain between them. “You really think you can make me? How about you be a good bitch boy and get back to work.”

And in that moment, Max’s mind clicked over. The flicker of worry he had felt when the driver climbed into the back seat was gone. Wiped clean. This was his world. Nobody told him what to do, not in the gym, not on the street, and sure as hell not in the back of some beat-up rideshare sedan.

 

 

Ben didn’t even feel the decision happen, there was no thinking, no weighing of consequences. One second, Max was sitting there smirking like he owned the car, the street, and the air they were breathing. The next—

THWUMP!

Ben’s fist buried itself deep into Max’s exposed stomach, right below the sternum. The impact was a thick, wet thud, the kind of sound that stayed in the air a second too long. Max’s body jerked forward, his arms twitching instinctively toward his midsection as the shock hit before the pain.

“What the—?”

WHUD!

The second punch landed lower, right into the meat of his gut. Max hadn’t braced. Not even close. His prized, gym-chiseled abs were relaxed, open, ripe for the pounding. The muscle gave way under Ben’s knuckles, folding inward with a fleshy resistance that sent a sharp, forced exhale ripping out of Max’s mouth. His cocky posture sagged for the first time. And that was it. The crack in his confidence was all Ben needed. Max wasn’t Max anymore. He was the face of every smug customer who ever snapped fingers at him. Every coworker who thrown him under the bus. Every bully from school. Every voice that ever told him he wasn’t enough. Ben didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His fists would do the talking now.

THUMP!

THUMP!

THUD!

Each blow came fast, a vicious rhythm drilled into Max’s core. No breaks. No breathing room. Knuckles slammed into skin and unprepared muscle, each strike sinking deep before the recoil. Max’s chest heaved. His back hit the seat. His jaw slackened, lips parting in a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, wasn’t quite a gasp, just raw breath being driven out of him over and over again. Ben kept going, his arms pumping like some type of crazed machine, channeling every ounce of buried resentment into each gut shot. The car filled with the thick, meaty percussion of fist on flesh... Ben didn't want it to end. Max’s precious abs, always tight and ready for admiration, were taking the kind of pounding they weren’t built for. Max, despite all his ego and mouthing off, was always just for show. But now? His abs were soft, vulnerable, absorbing punishment they couldn’t deflect. Red blotches were already blooming across his midsection, each one a marker of Ben’s rage.

And still, Ben swung.

Ben's fists were red, knuckles raw, but he didn’t stop. He was in a blur, rage-fueled, sweaty, breath steaming in the cold car. Max’s abs, those sculpted, gym-tempered bricks, were starting to tremble. The strikes were adding up. The iron shell was denting. Max groaned, his voice guttural. His arms were up now, half-trying to defend but not committing, like his brain hadn’t caught up to the betrayal his body was going through. But they were cast aside, easy, as if they were nothing at all, like they were always nothing.

THWUMP!

A punch just above the navel, Max’s whole body lurched.

THUMP!

Another to the solar plexus, Max’s face twisted, chest shuddering, a strangled breath escaping his lips.

Ben leaned in. Close. His voice was low, hot in Max’s ear.

"Still think I won’t make you?"

Max wheezed in response. Ben drew back, coiled all the weight his soft body could muster, and drove his fist deep into Max’s midsection, right at the center of his prized six-pack.

WHUMP.

Ben could feel it coming before it happened.

Every punch had been driving deeper, shaking the foundation of Max’s core, loosening it piece by piece. Those thick, rain slick muscles that had been Max’s pride, the thing he flaunted to strangers, were starting to give way under his knuckles. The resistance was fading. The flex wasn’t there anymore. He changed his rhythm, slower now, more deliberate. A punishing press after each impact, his fist sinking in, grinding just enough to feel the muscle shift under the skin. He was testing the walls before kicking them down.

THUD.
A grunt from Max.

THUMP.
A sharp inhale through clenched teeth.

WHUMP.
His body folded further than before.

Ben felt the moment of collapse.

Max’s abs gave out. They didn’t just relax, they folded, cashed out, all the strength bleeding out at once. The firmness collapsed like a tent with its poles kicked out, the proud wall of muscle caving inward around Ben’s fist. Max’s head dropped forward, a sharp, pitiful gasp tearing out of him as every scrap of air was forced from his lungs. His hands twitched like they wanted to protect his gut but didn’t have the will to move.

That was it. The fortress was down. The core was broken.

Ben didn’t want stop immediately, but this was just to good! He knew exactly what had happened, and the knowledge curled his lips into a slow, wicked smile. He pressed another shot deep into the ruined muscle, just to make sure. The soft give, the absence of fight, oh yes, it was real. Max slumped in the seat, his smirk gone, his ego ripped out of him along with his breath. The only sound in the car now was the steady patter of rain on the roof. His breaths came in ragged pulls, each one shuddering through a chest that could no longer protect the broken core beneath. His once-proud abs, those carved bricks built over years of lifting—were now nothing but warm clay. Soft. Quivering. Red. Ben leaned back slightly, still smiling that dark, satisfied smile. He had felt the moment Max’s pride cracked… and it was glorious.

Ben didn’t need to hit him anymore. Max was finished, done in a way that went beyond the fight, beyond their little altercation, beyond the moment. His abs were gone. Not just relaxed, not just winded, but like Gods damn gone. The wall was rubble. The foundation, dust. But you know what? Ben wasn’t done. Why should he be? Why should this loud mouth cocky asshole not learn his full lesson? Ben kept his fists moving, methodical now, each strike burying deep into the unguarded belly with sickening ease.

THUD.
Max’s body jolted, his breath sputtering out in a wet gasp.

WHUMP.
The punch slid through what was left of the muscle, sinking so far it made Ben’s knuckles brush the trembling organs beneath.

THUMP.
A choked groan from Max, his head lolling forward, sweat and rainwater dripping onto his knees.

 

 

There was no resistance. Every blow met soft, yielding heat. The flesh didn’t spring back anymore, it stayed dented for a moment before slowly, pitifully swelling out again. Ben felt it with every hit, the body’s helpless recoil, the damage deepening. Max’s breathing was ragged now, each inhale shallow, broken by hitching coughs. His skin flushed and pale all at once, that strange shade that meant his body was fighting to stay upright. Somewhere inside, something was telling Ben this was too far. That this could do real harm, harm that didn’t go away with a few days’ rest.

But that voice was small, and Ben had stopped listening a long time ago.

He landed another punch. Hard. Deeper. Max’s hands twitched toward his gut, then dropped uselessly to his thighs. His legs were starting to splay, his back sliding down the seat an inch at a time. Ben could see it in his eyes now, not just pain, but fear. The kind of fear a man felt when he knew he might not bounce back. When he realized some things didn’t heal all the way.

Still, Ben swung.
Still, the fists sank in.
And still, Max took it, because now he had no choice.

Ben’s fists had fallen into a rhythm, strike, sink, recoil, breathe, each one burying deep into the ruined core beneath him. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Feeling the way Max’s body gave under his knuckles like wet clay, feeling the heat radiating from skin that had taken too much. Then came the punch. It wasn’t harder than the others, not by much. But the moment his fist landed, he knew. The resistance was gone, he already knew this, but this hit? His knuckles plowed through the meat of Max’s gut with almost no push back at all, sinking farther than they should have. The sound wasn’t right either; not the dull, meaty thud of muscle taking impact, but something lower, wetter. And the noise Max made...Gods. It wasn’t a grunt. It wasn’t a groan. It was a broken, breathless whimper that barely made it past his lips before dying in his throat. His head snapped forward, chin to chest, his whole body folding over Ben’s arm as if trying to protect what was left, but there was nothing left to protect. Ben froze, fist still buried against Max’s stomach, feeling the faint, twitching tremor of muscle that no longer had the strength to resist.

His breathing slowed. He looked down.

Max’s skin was flushed an angry red over a stomach that now looked wrong, swollen in places, caved in others, like the shape beneath had shifted. His breaths were short and erratic, each one catching like he couldn’t quite draw it all the way in. Ben pulled his hand back slowly, his knuckles slick with sweat and rainwater, and just stared. Maybe it was the way the last punch sank in. Maybe it was the sound it made. Maybe it was the sound Max made. Whatever it was… Ben knew. He’d gone too far. Ben stared, breathing hard. His knuckles throbbed, but the look on his face wasn’t rage anymore, it was something colder. Like he’d purged something long buried. It felt good... It also took a few moments for Max to even come back. Ben sat there, breathing hard, knuckles still tingling from the beating, and only then realized Max hadn’t moved it.. how long? His head was slumped forward, chin nearly on his chest, breath shallow. When Max’s eyelids finally fluttered open, he didn’t look like the same man who had strutted into the car. His gaze was unfocused, swimming in a fog of dizziness and pain. He shifted slightly, trying to sit upright, but the motion sent a wave of confusion across his face, as if he wasn’t entirely sure where he was or how he’d gotten there.

“Get out,” Ben said again, his voice flat, unshaken.

 Max looked up at him, slow, almost dreamlike. The cocky glint that once sat behind those eyes was gone, replaced by something wide and lost. He didn’t look like a beast anymore. He looked like a scolded dog, unsure if he was about to be kicked again. His hands trembled as they touched his midsection, feeling the damage. His fingers brushed over the heat of swollen bruises, the tender red flush, the strange softness where there should have been iron. The realization hit him like a punch all its own, his fortress, his pride, was ruined. His lips quivered, and for a second, it looked like he might actually cry. Defeated, knowing he was finished, Max slid slowly toward the door. He pushed it open, the cold rain instantly soaking what the sweat hadn’t already claimed. His feet touched the wet pavement, bare and unsteady, and he nearly lost his balance as he stumbled to the curb.

Ben didn’t say another word. He slammed the door, threw the car into gear, and rolled off into the storm without looking back. The taillights smeared into red ghosts in the rain before vanishing entirely. Max stood there in the downpour, shirtless, humiliated, shivering. The water ran down his battered stomach, tracing the dents and bruises like mocking fingers. He had no plan. No ride. No strength left. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like the strongest man in the room. This thought, this realization, this fact.... 

Max took one step toward the sidewalk, then another...and his legs gave out.

He crumpled onto the slick pavement, the cold bite of the asphalt meeting the burning heat of his battered stomach. The storm raged overhead, sheets of rain hammering his bare skin, soaking his hair until it clung to his face in dripping strands. Each breath was a fight, his lungs straining not just against the thick, wet air, but against the sharp, throbbing pain radiating from his gut. Every inhale stabbed deep. Every exhale shuddered. The rainwater mixed with the sweat still clinging to him, running in rivulets over bruises that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. His stomach felt like it had been set on fire from the inside out, each muscle screaming in protest at even the smallest movement. He pressed a trembling hand to his core, feeling the wrongness there, the soft give where there should have been steel. And for a brief moment, through the pounding of the rain and the roar in his ears, a thought surfaced. A quiet, dangerous thought.

Maybe I deserve this.

The storm didn’t care. It kept pouring, drowning the streets, drowning the man sprawled across them. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed without slowing down. Max stayed there, the world a blur of water and pain, unable to get up.

 

 

 

 

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