By Justin I

Now…

Finally, Brock spoke, his voice calm but with an edge of teasing amusement. “So, what do you think, Jaxon? Should I take the straps off and let you go? Or should I leave you here like this? Let someone else come in and find you?”

Jaxon’s heart raced at the thought, panic flashing in his eyes as he struggled to lift his head. His body screamed in protest, muscles aching from the workout, but the idea of being left there—helpless, restrained, and locked cock exposed—was too much. His voice came out in weak, breathless protests. “No… don’t. Just… let me go,” he managed to say, his voice cracking slightly, the remnants of his frustration mingling with a hint of desperation.

Brock raised an eyebrow, considering Jaxon’s plea for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, with a small, almost amused nod, he reached down and finally undid the straps from Jaxon’s wrists. Jaxon’s arms fell limply to the mat, his body too drained to do much more than collapse in relief.

But Brock wasn’t quite done. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small, sleek business card. Without a word, he leaned over Jaxon’s body and placed the card on Jaxon’s chest, the weight of it almost mocking in its simplicity.

Brock straightened up, grabbing his gym bag and tossing it over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. He took one last glance down at Jaxon, lying spent and marked by the jewelry that now adorned his body. With a smirk, Brock gave Jaxon a final nod, his voice dripping with casual indifference. “I wish you nothing but the best, Jaxon. But trust me—this won’t be the last time, You’re mine.”

With that, Brock turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, leaving Jaxon behind on the mat, completely drained, and locked. Left with nothing but the memory of one of the best orgasms in his life and the eventual strong desire to track down his new keyholder.

Before…

Brock pushed open the heavy glass door of the private gym, his thick shoulders brushing the frame as he strode inside like he owned the place. He wasn’t exactly supposed to be here—he knew that. But rules never really applied to him. Not when you looked the way he did. People took one look at his broad chest, his arms that bulged with every slight movement, and they never asked questions. They just let him do whatever he wanted.

The place was small, nothing like the big commercial gyms he was used to, but it had everything he needed—free weights, benches, mirrors. And more importantly, it was quiet. Private. No crowds to distract him, no one to fight over the weights. He spotted the dumbbells in the corner and headed straight for them, his heavy boots echoing on the polished floor.

The moment he stepped in front of the mirror, he peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside without a second thought. His skin glistened under the dim lighting, each muscle sharply defined, perfectly on display. The shorts he’d chosen today—old, frayed jean cut-offs—hugged his thighs, just how he liked. He smirked at his reflection, flexing his chest, watching the way his pecs popped with every little movement. This was his zone. He didn’t need permission. Hell, no one in this neighborhood had the guts to tell him he wasn’t allowed here.

He grabbed the heaviest dumbbells on the rack and started curling, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his biceps swelled with each rep. The weight felt like nothing, but that wasn’t the point. It was about the show, the power, the presence. He could feel the pump already, the blood rushing to his arms, making them look even bigger.

Halfway through his set, the door creaked open. Brock’s eyes flicked to the mirror, catching sight of the newcomer behind him. A tall, lanky guy, definitely not the gym type, dressed in a loose shirt that was clearly meant to hide what little he had to show. Brock barely hid his smirk as he watched the guy hesitate for a second, like he was wondering if he’d stepped into the wrong place.

Brock kept his eyes on the guy through the mirror, watching him shuffle toward the chest machine with an awkward, almost apologetic stride. The guy looked lost, his brow furrowed as he examined the machine like he wasn’t sure if he should even be touching it. He fumbled with the seat adjustment, glancing around as if waiting for someone to come in and show him how it worked.

Brock set the dumbbells down with a loud clank, the sound reverberating through the empty gym. His arms still pumped, the veins popping against his skin, and he stretched his arms slowly, making sure the guy noticed the movement. He could feel the power surging through his body, a heady mix of confidence and control. And right now, he wanted to see just how much control he could have over this newcomer.

He strode across the gym, his boots thudding heavily against the floor with every step, taking his time, letting the guy feel the weight of his presence. When he reached the chest machine, he stood directly in front of the guy, blocking out the overhead lights with his massive frame. Jaxon—if that was his name—looked up, startled at first, then tried to play it cool, but his eyes flicked nervously to Brock’s chest, his mouth slightly open like he couldn’t decide whether to ask for help or bolt.

Brock crossed his arms over his chest, letting his biceps swell against his skin. “You lost or something?” His voice came out low, almost a growl, with just enough edge to make Jaxon shift uncomfortably.

Jaxon blinked and stammered, “Uh, no. Just… trying to figure this thing out.”

Brock smirked. This was going to be easier than he thought. “Yeah, looks like it.” He took a step closer, his shadow completely covering Jaxon now. “You don’t look like you spend much time in a gym.” He let the words hang, watching Jaxon’s reaction closely, trying to gauge whether the guy would stand his ground or crumble under the pressure.

Jaxon straightened a little, trying to hold his own. “I get by,” he said, but the way he avoided Brock’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. This guy wasn’t used to being challenged, not like this. There was a flicker of something in Jaxon’s eyes though—maybe pride, or stubbornness—but it wasn’t enough to match Brock’s presence.

Brock took another step forward, closing the gap between them. He reached down and grabbed the seat adjustment lever, pulling it up with ease, the metal screeching under his grip. “This machine? It’s too advanced for you,” he said, voice casual but with a bite. “Why don’t you start with something easier? You don’t want to hurt yourself.” The smirk on his face was barely hidden now, and he could see Jaxon struggling to decide whether to take the insult or push back.

But there was something else there too, something Brock recognized—a mix of discomfort and curiosity. Jaxon’s eyes flicked to Brock’s chest again, then back to the machine, clearly weighing his options. And that was what Brock wanted. He wasn’t here to crush the guy completely, not yet. He wanted to see how far he could push, how much this guy would bend before breaking.

Brock leaned down, his face just inches from Jaxon’s, close enough that Jaxon had to look up at him. “You ever have anyone show you how to really lift?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You look like you could use some help.”

Jaxon swallowed, his throat bobbing as he glanced up at Brock. For a moment, he hesitated, then nodded slightly. “Yeah, maybe.”

Brock’s smirk widened. That’s what he was waiting for.

Brock stepped back just enough to give Jaxon room to breathe, but his presence still loomed large. “Alright, let’s start easy,” he said, his voice taking on a slightly softer edge, though still commanding. He wasn’t about to go full drill sergeant—yet. He reached for a pair of smaller dumbbells, tossing one into Jaxon’s hands with a quick, precise movement.

Jaxon fumbled for a second but caught it, his face showing a flash of surprise at the sudden weight. Brock couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s not too heavy for you, is it?” he teased, watching Jaxon’s grip tighten as he tried to prove himself.

“I’m good,” Jaxon said, his voice a little more sure this time. He wasn’t completely folding, and that interested Brock. He liked when there was at least some fight left. Made it more satisfying when he took control of the situation.

“Good. Now let’s see what you can do.” Brock positioned himself behind Jaxon, standing close—closer than necessary—but Jaxon didn’t move. Instead, he followed Brock’s lead, raising the dumbbell to his chest, his form shaky but determined. Brock’s eyes traveled over Jaxon’s movements, taking in the subtle signs of effort.

“Higher,” Brock ordered, his voice deepening. “You’re not gonna half-ass it while I’m watching, are you?”

Jaxon raised the dumbbell higher, his face tightening with focus, and Brock allowed a small nod of approval. “Not bad. You’ll get there,” he said, stepping around to face him, watching for any sign of hesitation. Jaxon was trying to keep up, pushing himself, but it was clear this wasn’t his environment.

“You don’t lift much, do you?” Brock asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He could see it in the way Jaxon’s arms shook under the weight, the way his face tightened with focus, straining to keep up.

Jaxon hesitated, then shook his head, still pushing the dumbbell higher as if it would change the answer. “No… not really,” he admitted, glancing down as if embarrassed. But he didn’t stop. Brock noticed that. Despite the clear struggle, Jaxon was determined to see it through.

Brock tilted his head, watching him closely, evaluating him. “Thought so,” he said, stepping in front of Jaxon, his eyes locking onto Jaxon’s form. “Your body’s not used to this. That’s why you’re shaking. You don’t have control yet.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over Jaxon. “But you’re trying. I’ll give you that.”

Brock’s voice dropped lower, taking on a more measured tone. “Keep going. Don’t stop until I tell you.” Jaxon’s eyes flicked up at him, unsure, but something in Brock’s gaze told him there wasn’t an option to quit now.

As Jaxon continued the movement, Brock circled him, watching with a predator’s gaze, his footsteps slow and deliberate, like he was sizing up his prey. He could feel the tension in the air—the uncertainty in Jaxon’s movements, the way he was trying to prove something. It amused Brock, how this guy, out of his depth, still wanted to push himself.

“You don’t need to pretend,” Brock said, his voice quiet but firm as he came to stand right behind Jaxon. “Not with me. You think anyone in here cares how much you can lift? They don’t. It’s just you and me.”

Jaxon’s breath quickened slightly, but he kept his focus, lifting the dumbbell higher with a strained exhale. Brock leaned in closer, his presence almost overwhelming now. “Drop it,” he ordered, and Jaxon let the weight fall into his hand with a grunt of relief.

Brock smirked, tossing the dumbbell aside with ease, the heavy metal hitting the ground with a thud. He stepped even closer, his chest brushing against Jaxon’s back as he leaned in, his voice practically a growl in Jaxon’s ear. “You wanna get stronger?” he asked, his breath hot against Jaxon’s neck. “You want to stop looking like you don’t belong in a place like this?”

Jaxon swallowed hard, caught between the intimidating physical presence behind him and his own uncertainty. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Good.” Brock stepped back, giving Jaxon just enough space to breathe, but the tension was still there, thick in the air between them. “Then you do everything I tell you. No questions. No complaining. You follow my lead, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll turn you into something worth looking at.”

Jaxon hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Brock. The offer hung in the air between them, unspoken but clear. This wasn’t just about lifting weights—it was about control. About seeing how far Jaxon would go to prove himself.

Finally, Jaxon nodded. “Alright,” he said, his voice more steady now. “I’m in.”

Brock’s smirk widened. That was the answer he was looking for.

“Good,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost triumphant. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“On your feet,” Brock commanded, giving Jaxon only a moment’s rest. Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed toward the dual cable machine. Jaxon hesitated for just a second before following, still trying to catch his breath. Brock didn’t even glance back to see if Jaxon was coming. He knew he would.

The cables hung like waiting serpents, the weights clanking as Brock set them up. He adjusted the pulleys, setting them high above Jaxon’s shoulders. As Jaxon approached, Brock turned to face him, crossing his arms over his massive chest, his eyes scanning Jaxon like he was sizing up a challenge.

“This is where we see what you’re made of,” Brock said, stepping closer, his voice lowering but still carrying that same commanding presence. “But you’re not doing it like everyone else.” He smirked and gave Jaxon’s shirt a quick tug, pulling at the sweat-soaked fabric. “First, lose this.”

Jaxon blinked, looking down at his shirt, hesitating for a moment. Brock’s eyes never left him, waiting, watching for that flicker of hesitation to pass.

“Trust me,” Brock said, his voice calm but insistent. “You want to get the most out of this? You take it off. Don’t waste my time.”

Jaxon swallowed, glancing around the empty gym like someone might walk in. But no one was coming. It was just the two of them, and it was clear Brock wasn’t giving him a choice. Slowly, Jaxon reached for the hem of his shirt, peeling it off over his head. His skin was already damp with sweat from the earlier workout, and Brock took a moment to appreciate the sight—Jaxon wasn’t built like him, but he wasn’t completely out of shape either. Lean, but underdeveloped. Something to work with.

“Good,” Brock said, his smirk widening. “Now, we’re going to do this the right way.” He reached for the ankle Velcro straps, the ones typically used for leg exercises, and held them up in front of Jaxon. “Forget the handles. These’ll give you better control, better contraction.”

Jaxon raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. “For my wrists?”

Brock nodded, stepping closer. “Exactly. Trust me on this,” he said, his voice firm and commanding, not leaving any room for doubt. He grabbed Jaxon’s right wrist and fastened the first strap around it, the Velcro securing tightly against his skin. Then, he did the same with the left, pulling it snug. Jaxon’s hands were now bound to the cables, his arms outstretched above his head, his chest already exposed and vulnerable.

“You ready?” Brock asked, his voice low but thick with authority.

Jaxon nodded, swallowing hard as Brock positioned him in the middle of the machine. The cables were taut, pulling his arms back slightly, forcing his chest to open up. Brock stood behind him, adjusting the tension just right. “Now, bring them down and forward,” he ordered, stepping back to observe.

Jaxon strained as he pulled the cables forward, his wrists locked into the straps, forcing his chest to contract harder than it ever had before. He winced, the motion awkward at first, but Brock was there, watching his every move.

“Keep going,” Brock barked. “I said bring them forward. All the way.”

Jaxon grunted, his arms trembling as he forced the cables in front of him, his chest tightening with every rep. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, dripping down his neck, but Brock wasn’t letting up.

“Full contraction,” Brock commanded, stepping closer, his presence heavy over Jaxon’s shoulder. “You’re not done until I say so.”

Jaxon’s breaths came faster now, ragged and shallow as he pulled the cables forward, his arms shaking from the strain. Brock watched, eyes narrowed, as Jaxon’s chest began to swell from the pump, his skin slick with sweat. “You feel that?” Brock asked, leaning in close. “That’s what progress feels like. That’s what control feels like.”

Jaxon groaned in response, his chest burning, his body begging to stop, but he kept going. He had no choice. Brock was right there, pushing him, forcing him to give everything he had.

“Again,” Brock said, his voice almost a growl. “Don’t stop.”

Jaxon obeyed, his arms quivering, his chest muscles stretched to their limit. Sweat dripped from his forehead, trailing down his face and pooling at his collarbone. His breaths were short and desperate, his body on the edge of collapse, but Brock wasn’t done with him yet.

Brock slaps Jaxon’s swelling chest, the impact sending a stinging shock through Jaxon’s body. “Feel that?” Brock says, smirking. “Let’s make those muscles burn.” The sting drives Jaxon to focus harder, gritting his teeth as he powers through the next rep, his skin still tingling from the hit.

Jaxon’s chest was on fire now, the strain almost unbearable. His breath came in ragged gasps as his muscles screamed for release, but Brock’s presence was too overwhelming, his command too strong. Jaxon’s arms wavered as he pulled the cables one last time, his chest contracting so hard he thought it might tear.

Finally, with a strangled grunt, he let the cables go, his arms falling limp to his sides, wrists still bound in the straps. He collapsed back against the machine, chest heaving, sweat pouring off him, his body spent and trembling.

Brock stepped closer, not bothering to release Jaxon from the straps just yet. Instead, he reached out, his large hand pressing against Jaxon’s chest. His fingers dug into the swollen, hard muscle, squeezing just enough to feel the heat and tension underneath. Jaxon flinched, not expecting the contact, but Brock didn’t pull away.

“You feel that?” Brock’s voice was low, almost a growl as his hand moved across Jaxon’s pecs, feeling the pump, the strain. “That’s what hard work does. You’re getting there.”

Jaxon’s breath hitched, still coming in short gasps, his chest rising and falling under Brock’s grip. Brock held his gaze, smirking slightly as he continued to knead Jaxon’s sore, swollen pecs with his strong fingers, almost as if testing the muscle’s limits.

“Not bad,” Brock muttered, his eyes sharp, voice thick with control. He gave one last firm squeeze before pulling his hand back, but left Jaxon bound in the straps, not letting him off just yet. “But you’re far from done. We’ll push those muscles even harder next time.”

Jaxon’s chest heaved, still trembling from the intense set, as Brock’s hand lingered for a moment longer, testing the solidity of his swollen pecs. His gaze flickered over Jaxon’s exhausted frame, sweat dripping down his body, muscles burning from the effort. Brock’s smirk grew.

“We don’t want you messing up those shorts, do we?” Brock said, his tone laced with amusement. He moved closer, his broad body casting a long shadow over Jaxon, who was still strapped to the cables. Without waiting for a response, Brock’s strong hands slid down to the waistband of Jaxon’s gym shorts.

Jaxon stiffened, surprised by the gesture, but Brock moved with purpose. He peeled Jaxon’s shorts down slowly, not exposing anything, just enough to free him from the sweat-soaked fabric and keep them clean from the floor. The air felt cooler against Jaxon’s skin, his legs bare, his body feeling exposed even though Brock wasn’t giving him much choice in the matter.

“There we go,” Brock murmured, folding the shorts and tossing them aside with little care. “Now, let’s see how well you can handle this.”

Brock’s hands moved to the cable machine, adjusting the weight and slowly lowering the cables. Jaxon’s wrists were still strapped in, and as Brock expertly maneuvered the cables downward, Jaxon’s arms were pulled down with them. He instinctively followed the pull, his body sinking lower and lower, his knees buckling until he was kneeling on the padded floor.

The position was deliberate, and Jaxon knew it. Brock’s eyes never left him as he stood tall, looming above Jaxon like a mountain. The tension in the air was thick, the power dynamic unmistakable. Brock enjoyed the control he had, the sight of Jaxon in such a vulnerable state, muscles shaking, sweat dripping, barely able to catch his breath.

“You’re learning,” Brock said, his voice calm but commanding, watching Jaxon’s reaction as he stayed kneeling, hands bound above him. “But you’ve got a long way to go. You don’t get to quit just because it’s hard.”

Jaxon swallowed hard, his body aching, his mind spinning from the physical and mental strain. He was trapped between the overwhelming force of Brock’s presence and his own exhaustion. But Brock wasn’t about to let him off easy. He liked pushing limits, testing what Jaxon could take—and Jaxon knew there was more to come.

Jaxon knelt before Brock, his wrists still bound in the cable straps, his chest rising and falling in exhausted, shallow breaths. The atmosphere between them was charged—Brock’s towering presence dominating the space while Jaxon remained in the vulnerable position Brock had guided him into.

Without warning, Brock’s large hand came down to Jaxon’s head, his fingers ruffling through Jaxon’s damp, tousled hair. It wasn’t a comforting gesture—it was one of possession, a sign of control. Jaxon stiffened slightly but didn’t resist, feeling the weight of Brock’s hand as it slid from his hair down to his face.

Brock’s rough fingers traced along Jaxon’s jawline, moving deliberately through the short stubble of his facial hair. The touch was slow, deliberate, and heavy, a constant reminder of who was in charge. Jaxon kept his eyes forward, feeling the sensation ripple through him as Brock’s hand finally slid down from his face to rest on his heaving chest.

“Now, we’re gonna do another set,” Brock said, his voice low and commanding. His fingers splayed out across Jaxon’s swollen pecs, kneading the hard, fatigued muscle beneath them. “This time, I’m not moving my hands. I’m gonna feel every single rep—make sure you’re doing it right. You’re not half-assing it under my watch.”

Jaxon’s breath hitched slightly at the weight of Brock’s hands pressed firmly against his chest, the warmth and pressure of his grip unmistakable. He nodded silently, knowing there was no point in arguing. He would have to perform the reps with Brock monitoring every contraction, every movement.

“Alright, pull,” Brock ordered, his hands pressing down harder on Jaxon’s pecs. Jaxon strained against the cables, his chest muscles burning as he fought to bring the handles forward once more. Brock’s palms stayed firmly in place, feeling every tremor, every strain of Jaxon’s effort. “That’s it. I wanna feel those muscles work.”

Jaxon groaned slightly as he pulled the cables forward, his body already fatigued from the earlier sets. But Brock wasn’t letting up. His hands pressed harder, squeezing Jaxon’s pecs just enough to make him wince, not from the weight but from the force of Brock’s touch. “You feel that?” Brock growled. “That’s what hard work feels like.”

Jaxon bit back a gasp, pushing the cables forward again. The muscles in his chest quivered, pumped and spent, but Brock’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his fingers dug deeper, his hands squeezing the muscles harder as they contracted, forcing Jaxon to focus on each movement, each rep.

“Keep going,” Brock ordered, his tone unyielding. “I’m not taking my hands off until you finish this set. You wanted to get stronger, didn’t you?”

Jaxon nodded, sweat dripping from his brow, his body shaking under the strain. Brock’s hands remained glued to his chest, pressing firmly, feeling every twitch of the muscle. Occasionally, Brock squeezed harder, the pressure almost painful, making Jaxon wince, his pecs throbbing from the combined effort of the workout and Brock’s unrelenting grip.

“Come on,” Brock barked, his fingers digging into the muscle with brutal precision. “Two more. Push through it.”

“Keep going,” Brock growled, now pinching Jaxon’s nipples between his fingers and twisting just hard enough to send a jolt of sharp discomfort through Jaxon’s already burning pecs. Jaxon winced, biting back a groan, but he didn’t stop. Brock twisted again, a slight smirk on his face. “You’re not done yet, Jaxon. Push through.”

The pain was both a reminder and a challenge, forcing Jaxon to focus, his breath coming in short, strained gasps. Every time his pace slowed or his arms trembled too much, Brock’s fingers tightened, pinching harder, twisting his sensitive nipples. It was unbearable, but it was enough to keep him moving, enough to make him forget the exhaustion in his muscles and focus on the immediate sting.

“That’s it,” Brock murmured approvingly, releasing his grip only when Jaxon’s arms surged with effort again. The pain was a tool, sharp and effective, and Brock knew just how to use it.

“One more,” Brock commanded, his hands squeezing so tightly now that Jaxon felt the muscles in his chest screaming in protest. But he pulled the cables forward with one last burst of energy, his chest contracting hard beneath Brock’s relentless grip.

Finally, Brock loosened his hands slightly, his touch still firm but not crushing. Jaxon collapsed back against the machine, his chest heaving, dripping with sweat, every inch of his body feeling the aftermath of the grueling set.

“That’s better,” Brock said, his voice a deep rumble of satisfaction as his hands lingered on Jaxon’s exhausted pecs. “You did good. But don’t think for a second that this was the hardest part. We’ve got more work to do.”

Brock gave Jaxon’s exhausted body one last lingering look before turning on his heel and striding over to his gym bag. His massive frame moved with a confidence that spoke of someone who knew he owned the room, and Jaxon, still kneeling, watched as Brock rummaged through his bag, pulling out a drink bottle. Jaxon’s chest ached, his muscles beyond fatigued, and his arms hung limply at his sides, so spent he couldn’t even consider moving them.

Brock unscrewed the cap of the bottle with a casual flick of his wrist, and before Jaxon could catch his breath, he watched as Brock added a generous scoop of some powder, blue, into the drink, shaking it up until the powder disappeared into the bright liquid. The bottle sloshed slightly as Brock strode back to Jaxon, his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty gym.

“Here,” Brock said, his voice leaving no room for argument as he crouched in front of Jaxon. Jaxon was still panting, drenched in sweat, his body trembling from the workout. Brock’s hand extended, holding the bottle out in front of Jaxon’s face, but he didn’t give it up easily. Instead, Brock’s eyes narrowed, and without a word, he twisted off the cap and held the bottle himself.

Jaxon tried to lift his arms, but they refused to cooperate. The effort of the last few sets had completely drained him, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Brock. His smirk deepened, seeing the weakness in Jaxon, the reliance he now had on Brock for even the simplest tasks.

“Can’t even lift your arms, huh?” Brock muttered, amusement lacing his voice as he brought the bottle to Jaxon’s lips. “Guess you’re not done until I say you’re done.”

Jaxon obediently opened his mouth, letting the cool liquid spill over his lips as Brock tipped the bottle forward. The cold drink was a relief, the sweetness cutting through the dryness in his throat, but even as Jaxon swallowed, he knew Brock wasn’t going to let him stop anytime soon.

When Jaxon tried to pull back, feeling as though he had drunk enough, Brock’s free hand moved to his shoulder, keeping him in place. “Oh, no,” Brock said firmly, his grip tightening. “You’re finishing the whole thing. You need it.”

Jaxon’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his body desperately needing the hydration, but there was something about the way Brock insisted—something more than just concern for Jaxon’s recovery. Brock’s eyes remained fixed on him, and as he tilted the bottle again, Jaxon had no choice but to drink.

Swallow after swallow, the liquid poured into Jaxon’s mouth, his body both grateful and overwhelmed as he struggled to keep up with the flow. His muscles ached, his throat tight, but Brock wouldn’t relent. “Come on, all of it,” Brock urged, his voice commanding as the bottle’s contents dwindled. “Don’t make me force it down.”

Jaxon winced slightly but complied, gulping down the last few sips until the bottle was finally empty. His chest heaved with effort, his lips sticky with the residue of the drink, and when Brock finally pulled the bottle away, his eyes stayed locked on Jaxon, assessing him, almost satisfied with the result.

“That’s better,” Brock said, tossing the empty bottle aside as if it no longer mattered. He stood up, towering over Jaxon, who remained kneeling, still too weak to move. “You’re gonna thank me later when your body bounces back stronger than ever.”

Brock’s words held a weight to them, a promise of more to come, and as Jaxon sat there, still catching his breath, he knew that he hadn’t just signed up for a workout—he had signed up for whatever else Brock had in store for him.

Jaxon remained on his knees, his body completely spent, his muscles aching from the grueling workout. His breath came in slow, ragged gulps as he tried to recover, but his mind was still reeling from the intensity of the session—and from Brock’s unyielding presence.

Brock didn’t give him much time to rest. Instead, he moved in front of Jaxon, his imposing frame settling down on the floor, legs stretched out on either side of Jaxon’s exhausted body. Jaxon was still kneeling, but now he was enclosed by Brock’s powerful thighs, trapped in a way that didn’t feel threatening, but there was no mistaking the control Brock had over the situation.

Without a word, Brock’s hands reached out, his fingers sliding into Jaxon’s damp hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, far different from the hard grips and dominating commands of the workout. His large hands moved slowly, running through Jaxon’s hair, playing with the messy strands, tugging slightly but never enough to hurt. The movement was rhythmic, almost soothing, as Brock’s fingers combed through Jaxon’s hair with an ease that made Jaxon’s head drop slightly forward in response.

“You did good,” Brock murmured, his voice lower now, almost softer, as his hands moved to massage Jaxon’s scalp. His fingers pressed firmly but carefully, working through the tension that had built up, and Jaxon couldn’t help but close his eyes at the sensation. The mix of exhaustion and this sudden, unexpected tenderness made his head spin.

Brock’s hands slid down to Jaxon’s shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight muscles there, kneading the soreness away with practiced movements. Jaxon’s body responded instinctively, leaning into the touch, his breathing steadying as the tension in his neck and shoulders began to ease under Brock’s strong grip.

Brock shifted slightly, leaning in closer, his legs still framing Jaxon’s body as his hands moved down, finally cupping Jaxon’s face. Jaxon’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Brock’s gaze, but Brock’s expression was unreadable—intense, focused, but not harsh. His thumbs brushed along Jaxon’s jawline, his grip firm but not rough, holding Jaxon’s face like he was evaluating every inch of it.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Brock muttered, his fingers tracing the line of Jaxon’s stubble before his hands slid back to hold Jaxon’s head steady. “But you’ve still got a long way to go.”

Jaxon’s chest tightened, his mind caught between the physical exhaustion and the sensation of Brock’s hands on him, the closeness of their bodies. Brock’s fingers moved again, brushing through his hair, down the back of his neck, then back to his face, holding him as if testing how much control he could exert through touch alone.

“You feel that?” Brock asked, his voice low, almost intimate as his fingers brushed over Jaxon’s cheek. “You know why I’m doing this?”

Jaxon could only nod weakly, the combination of exhaustion and Brock’s touch making it hard to think clearly. Brock’s hands remained steady, firm against Jaxon’s skin, never pulling away. The weight of Brock’s presence was overwhelming, yet there was something calming in the way his hands moved, like a reminder that even in this moment of physical connection, Brock was still in control.

“Because I want you to know who’s pushing you,” Brock murmured, his fingers lingering on Jaxon’s jaw before one hand slid back up to his hair. “And who’s gonna make you better.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Brock’s hands stayed on Jaxon, massaging, holding, controlling—and Jaxon, too spent to resist, let it happen.

After allowing Jaxon enough time to catch his breath and recover from the intensity of the earlier sets, Brock’s mood shifted once again. The tenderness in his touch faded, replaced by the familiar, commanding presence as he stood up and walked over to the weight stack on the cable machine. Jaxon’s body still trembled from exhaustion, but he knew that the reprieve wouldn’t last long.

Brock reached down, increasing the weight, his muscles flexing effortlessly as he adjusted the settings. The clinking of the plates seemed louder than before, the finality of it unmistakable. Jaxon’s arms ached, his chest throbbed from the previous sets, but Brock wasn’t done with him yet.

“Alright,” Brock said, stepping back toward Jaxon with an almost predatory grin. “One last set. You’re going until failure—absolute failure. No holding back.”

Jaxon swallowed hard, his body already protesting the idea of more reps, but he knew there was no arguing with Brock. The imposing man towered over him, waiting, expecting nothing less than full effort. With a deep breath, Jaxon pulled himself back to his feet, shaking out his arms as much as he could. His body was beyond fatigued, but Brock’s presence alone was enough to push him forward.

Brock positioned himself behind Jaxon, close enough that Jaxon could feel the warmth radiating off his broad frame. His massive hands reached around, adjusting Jaxon’s grip on the cables, making sure everything was in place. Jaxon’s chest still felt tight and swollen, his pecs pumped full of blood from the earlier sets, but now they were about to be pushed to their absolute limit.

“Go,” Brock commanded, his voice firm, almost growling.

With a grunt, Jaxon pulled the cables forward, his chest muscles engaging immediately. His pecs bulged, veins popping along the surface as the blood pumped through them, swelling them to near bursting. The sensation was intense, every fiber of his chest working to bring the cables together. His once lean chest was now enormous, each rep making the muscles stand out even more, tight and engorged, stretching his skin as they expanded with the effort.

Jaxon’s breath was ragged, his arms shaking, but Brock’s voice was in his ear, pushing him, demanding more.

“Keep going. Don’t stop until you’ve got nothing left.”

The weight felt heavier with each rep, but Jaxon kept pulling, his chest muscles contracting hard with every movement. His pecs looked massive, veins running across the surface like ropes, his skin shiny with sweat. The once firm, defined lines of his muscles were now swollen to the point where every movement felt like a struggle, his pecs trembling with the effort to keep going.

Brock stood behind him, watching intently, his eyes locked on Jaxon’s quivering chest. Jaxon could feel Brock’s gaze on him, the weight of his expectation pushing him beyond what he thought he could handle. He kept going, even as his breath grew shallower, even as his chest felt like it was about to explode.

Jaxon had barely finished his last rep when Brock appeared behind him, his hands suddenly and firmly grasping Jaxon’s balls. He felt Brock’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of his testicles, gripping them tight, pulling with just enough force to make Jaxon’s eyes widen. The pressure was surprising—part playful, part commanding—but Brock didn’t let go.

“Not done yet,” Brock said, his voice low and edged with authority. His fingers squeezed harder, the grip on Jaxon’s balls painful. Jaxon tried to brace himself, but Brock pulled him in closer, twisting his nuts slightly, making Jaxon’s body tense up involuntarily. “You want to perform? You’ve got to earn it.”

Each squeeze sent a jolt of discomfort through Jaxon’s midsection, but the forceful touch kept him grounded, pushing him to keep going. Every time he faltered, Brock’s hands tightened, his grip almost cruel as he twisted and pulled Jaxon’s sides with purpose. The pain wasn’t overwhelming, but it was sharp enough to send a clear message: there was no stopping until Brock said so.

“Push, Jaxon,” Brock ordered, his hands never letting up. The burning in Jaxon’s muscles was almost drowned out by the pressure on his balls, but it kept him in check. Each painful squeeze was a reminder that quitting wasn’t an option—not with Brock standing over him, forcing him to give more than he thought he had left.

Finally, on the last rep, Jaxon’s body gave out. His chest muscles seized, unable to pull the cables any further. With one final groan, his body collapsed backward, and Brock was right there to catch him, letting go of Jaxon’s manhood.

Jaxon fell against Brock’s solid chest, his breath coming in short, gasping bursts. His entire body trembled, completely spent, his pecs still engorged and pumped from the brutal workout. His crotch screaming with the echoes of the abuse. His head rested against Brock’s chest, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of Brock’s breath as his own breaths came in frantic gasps. The warmth of Brock’s body surrounded him, offering both comfort and dominance in that moment of complete exhaustion.

Brock’s hands came up, steadying Jaxon, holding him firmly against his chest. “You did good,” Brock murmured, his voice low and satisfied, his fingers brushing through Jaxon’s hair as Jaxon’s body sagged, utterly spent.

Jaxon’s chest heaved against Brock’s torso, his pecs still throbbing, his breath shallow as he tried to recover. But even in his exhaustion, he could feel Brock’s presence—the solid, unyielding force that had pushed him to his limit and beyond.

“Rest,” Brock said, his voice softer now as Jaxon lay against him, completely drained. “You’ve earned it.”

After a long moment, with Jaxon’s breath steadying and his body slowly relaxing against Brock’s chest, Brock decided it was time to take control again. His powerful hands gripped Jaxon’s shoulders, and with a firm but fluid motion, he pulled Jaxon off him, his grip never faltering. Jaxon groaned weakly, still too exhausted to offer any resistance as Brock maneuvered him.

Without bothering to undo the straps still secured to Jaxon’s wrists, Brock guided him down onto the mat. His legs, which had been tucked under him, were now gently swung around so that Jaxon was lying flat on his back, his arms still slightly raised by the tension of the straps, but not enough to strain. Jaxon’s chest rose and fell heavily, his breaths slow and labored, the sweat beading on his skin glistening under the dim lights of the gym.

Jaxon’s body was a picture of complete exhaustion. His chest, still swole and pumped, looked massive, the muscles straining beneath his now damp skin. His pecs were fully expanded, the veins across his upper body more pronounced than ever from the blood flow. His skin gleamed, flushed with heat, his entire torso covered in a sheen of sweat that dripped down his defined abs and the V-cut leading into his shorts. His gym shorts, which had ridden up slightly from the movement, clung to his thighs, now soaked with sweat and clinging to his powerful legs. His arms, still secured in the straps, hung loosely at his sides, too drained to do anything but rest limply against the mat. His hair was damp and disheveled, sticking to his forehead, and his face, flushed and shiny, held an expression of pure fatigue.

Jaxon lay there, fully spent, looking as if he had just gone through a marathon, the sweat-soaked clothes and his heaving chest telling the story of the intense physical strain he had endured.

Brock stood over him for a moment, admiring his work, before he knelt down, placing his hands on his captive’s waist, looping his fingers around the waistband. Without a word, Brock pulled down Jaxon’s underwear, his large hand reaching in and pulling out the exhausted man’s dick.

Brock’s body moved with an easy confidence, his muscles flexing with every motion, his broad chest rising and falling from his own post-workout exertion. Brock gripped the now raging hard cock slowly, taking his time, letting the anticipation build. The bright red tip stood out starkly against his tanned skin, and he brought it to his lips, savoring the warmth as it met his tongue. His eyes half-closed in satisfaction as he took the first slow, deliberate lick, then engulfed the entire penis with his lack of gag reflex mouth.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he continued to enjoy his dick, each movement unhurried, deliberate. Brock’s lips closed around the fleshy treat, his tongue swirling around the tip as he let it melt in his mouth. A faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he glanced up at Jaxon, who lay beneath him, completely spent and utterly helpless.

Brock’s broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned into the sexual act. His chest still glistened with sweat, his muscles rippling with even the slightest movement, but his focus remained on the prize in his hand. Each suction was slow, almost teasing, as if he was drawing out the moment, enjoying the satisfaction of the rock-hard cock on his tongue while Jaxon lay panting below him.

The gym was quiet except for the sound of Jaxon’s labored breathing and the occasional soft, wet sound of Brock’s tongue sliding over his penis. He took his time, savoring every inch, the warm liquid of precum running down the back of his throat. There was something almost indulgent in the way Brock pleased Jaxon, as if he was celebrating a victory, knowing full well the power he held over him in that moment.

Jaxon’s chest heaved with each breath, his arms still weak and trembling from the punishing workout. His muscles ached, his body drenched in sweat, but it wasn’t just the exhaustion that weighed on him. As he lay there, sprawled on the mat, feeling Brock suck his penis with an almost smug satisfaction, something stirred inside him—a mix of frustration, jealousy, and indignation.

The pleasure of Brock, relaxed and enjoying his now betraying cock, sent a wave of irritation through Jaxon. The man was becoming a broken straight guy. And now, here he was, indulging in a reward that, in Jaxon’s mind, he now wanted. Jaxon clenched his jaw, glaring down at Brock’s massive frame as he sat below him, calmly sucking and enjoying Jaxon’s dick like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Jaxon’s frustration boiled over. His hands twitched, still too weak to pull themselves free from the straps around his wrists, but he was determined to do something—anything—to stop Brock from doing this act, something that he unexplainably wanted so badly.

“Stop it,” Jaxon muttered through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse from the workout and the effort of speaking. Brock didn’t even look at him, his eyes half-closed in satisfaction as he took another mouthful of cock.

Jaxon’s frustration grew, his muscles screaming in protest as he tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His chest, still swollen from the workout, made it difficult to move without feeling the ache in every fiber of his being.

“I said… stop it,” Jaxon growled, louder this time, his voice filled with irritation but laced with weakness. His body shook with the effort, his arms barely moving against the resistance of the straps. His legs twitched, but his muscles were too spent to do much more than shuffle awkwardly against the mat.

Brock didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge Jaxon’s outburst. He just kept enjoying his penis, taking slow, deliberate gulps, clearly in no rush. The smug look on his face, though subtle, was infuriating to Jaxon. It was as if Brock knew exactly what he was doing—reveling in the fact that Jaxon was powerless to stop him.

Jaxon’s frustration hit its peak. He tried again, this time more forcefully, struggling to pull himself up, his muscles trembling from the strain. “I’m not gay,” he spat, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and exhaustion.

But his body betrayed him. The moment he tried to push himself up, his arms gave out, his chest collapsing back against the mat with a frustrated groan. He was too tired, too drained to put up any real fight. His eyes burned with annoyance, but his body refused to respond, leaving him helpless as Brock continued to savor his treat without a care in the world.

Jaxon’s breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he lay there, defeated. He could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, knowing how pathetic his attempt had been. Still, he glared down at Brock, who finally glanced up at him, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Brock, his mouth wrapped around the tip of Jaxon’s erect penis, let the silence hang in the air for a moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he came off Jaxon’s dick and gripped the stiff as a board appendage lightly, his muscular frame casting a shadow over Jaxon as he spoke.

“Do you want to cum?” Brock said calmly, his voice steady but firm. “You certainly have some business right here that seems unfinished.”

Jaxon’s frustration flickered one last time, but the weight of his exhaustion was too much to fight anymore. He let out a defeated sigh, his muscles aching as he sank back into the mat, his glare fading as Brock stroked him. Jaxon’s body gave into an intense orgasm, shooting thick streams of white. Brock had won this round—again.

Brock stood up from the now messy floor, his massive frame casting a shadow over Jaxon’s exhausted, sprawled-out body. The moment hung in the air, the tension between them thick, as Jaxon’s breathing slowly returned to normal. But Brock wasn’t done yet. Not quite.

Without a word, Brock walked over to his gym bag once again, his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty gym. Jaxon watched from his position on the mat, his body still too weak to move much, his eyes following Brock’s every move. Brock rummaged through the bag for a moment before pulling out three items that gleamed under the dim light: a silver chain with a lock and some small metal. A chastity cage that, once secured, would never come off—no matter how hard Jaxon might try.

Brock approached Jaxon once more, his expression unreadable, calm but with an air of satisfaction. He knelt down beside Jaxon, his powerful hands reaching out with the chain first. Jaxon, still too drained to resist, could only watch as Brock looped the cool silver locking it around his neck. The metal felt cold against Jaxon’s flushed, sweaty skin, and he shivered slightly as the clasp clicked into place with an audible snap.

Then, without hesitation, Brock took the cock cage. Jaxon’s eyes widened in realization, but his body was still too spent to fight back. Brock gripped Jaxon’s limp dick, firm but not unkind, and slid the bracelet into place. The moment the lock clicked shut, Jaxon’s breath hitched. There was no undoing it now. No escape from the permanence of the piece that now sat snugly around his cock, a constant reminder of the encounter.

Brock stood up, his towering figure looming over Jaxon’s prone body, his feet planted firmly on either side of Jaxon’s waist. From this vantage, Brock mentally admired his work. Jaxon—sweaty, spent, and utterly exhausted—now adorned with the silver collar and the inescapable penis cage, as if marked by Brock himself. The jewelry glistened in the soft light of the gym, catching Brock’s eye as he looked down at his handiwork. The sight of Jaxon, broken and breathless, covered in sweat and the gleaming symbols of his submission, brought a satisfied smirk to Brock’s face.

Finally, Brock spoke, his voice calm but with an edge of teasing amusement. “So, what do you think, Jaxon? Should I take the straps off and let you go… or should I leave you here like this? Let someone else come in and find you.”

Jaxon’s heart raced at the thought, panic flashing in his eyes as he struggled to lift his head. His body screamed in protest, muscles aching from the workout, but the idea of being left there—helpless, restrained, and marked—was too much. His voice came out in weak, breathless protests. “No… don’t. Just… let me go,” he managed to say, his voice cracking slightly, the remnants of his frustration mingling with a hint of desperation.

Brock raised an eyebrow, considering Jaxon’s plea for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, with a small, almost amused nod, he reached down and finally undid the straps from Jaxon’s wrists. Jaxon’s arms fell limply to the mat, his body too drained to do much more than collapse in relief.

But Brock wasn’t quite done. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small, sleek business card. Without a word, he leaned over Jaxon’s body and placed the card on Jaxon’s chest, the weight of it almost mocking in its simplicity.

Brock straightened up, grabbing his gym bag and tossing it over his shoulder as he prepared to leave. He took one last glance down at Jaxon, lying spent and marked by the jewelry that now adorned his body. With a smirk, Brock gave Jaxon a final nod, his voice dripping with casual indifference. “I wish you nothing but the best, Jaxon. But trust me—this won’t be the last time. You’re mine.”

With that, Brock turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, leaving Jaxon behind on the mat, completely drained, and locked. Left with nothing but the memory of one of the best orgasms in his life and the strong desire to track down his new keyholder.

It took Jaxon a while to gather enough energy to move from the gym floor. When looked at the business card, he saw that it had Brock’s name and www.LockedByBrock.com printed in bold, stark letters. It was a website Jaxon would soon be visiting.

Metal would like to thank the author, Justin I, for this story! You can find the author on Twitter/X by clicking here