The gym hums at midnight.
Callum isn’t here to train. He’s here to submit. When Rick, the dominant god of the weight room, beckons him into the heat of the sauna, there’s no question. No way back. Only sweat, stretch, and surrender. This isn’t a workout.
It’s a claiming. And Callum? He’ll take every inch.
The gym is near silent.
Midnight hums through the flickering fluorescents, casting long silver shadows across the weight racks. The air is thick, humid, almost syruped with testosterone, protein sweat, and the iron tang of metal. It smells like work. Like bodies. Like want.
Callum lingers at the edge of the weight room, pretending to re-rack a pair of dumbbells far too light for the thickness swelling in his arms. He’s not here to train. Not really. His shirt is already damp, clinging to the shallow V of his core, to the tremble in his chest. He can barely breathe, and it has nothing to do with cardio.
It’s him. Rick.
On the bench, in nothing but shorts and those boots he never unties. Barbell loaded to hell. Arms veined like tree roots. Chest a map of ridges and tension. He’s halfway through a set, slow, brutal reps, every rise of the bar forcing his pecs into flexed hunger. He grunts. A low, unbothered sound. As if the weight means nothing. As if this place is his and Callum is nothing but an afterthought in the corner.
But Callum knows better.
Every rep is performance. A flex of dominance. A strip tease in steel.
He can’t look away.
The bar rises again, and sweat rolls from Rick’s collarbone to the crease of his sternum, vanishing down the valley of muscle like a droplet into sin. Callum swallows. His throat tight. His cock already half hard in compression shorts he should never have worn tonight.
He pretends to check his phone. Stretches like he might do another round of lat pulldowns. But really, he’s watching the mirror. Rick’s reflection is a sculpted shadow, brutal and commanding. And when Callum glances up, just once, he finds eyes waiting in the glass.
Watching him back.
Not blinking. Not smiling. Just seeing.
The bar drops with a clang.
Rick stands.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his tank, pulling the fabric up and over his head, slow and brutal. Revealing everything. Obliques cut like blades. A happy trail darker with moisture. Abs like punishment. Chest kissed by a thin line of hair that points straight down.
Callum's breath catches.
The man is naked now from the waist up. And his cock, barely tucked in his shorts, has room to grow. A lot of room.
Rick walks past the bench. Doesn’t look at Callum. Doesn’t have to. His scent follows him, clean, musky, dominant. And his body glows under the ceiling light, all golden fire and godlike cruelty.
He steps into the next room.
The sauna.
Callum hesitates.
Then follows.
The sauna breathes.
Steam curls along the narrow hallway, softening the tile, fogging the glass. The door swings shut behind Rick, but it doesn’t latch. A sliver remains. An invitation. A warning.
Callum’s pulse drowns out thought.
He moves slow, cautious, like he might spook this beast of a man if he’s not careful. But Rick isn’t prey. He’s the predator lounging in heat, waiting for the moment a body dares to enter his den.
Callum presses his hand to the door. It’s hot. Alive. His fingers shake, just enough. He doesn’t knock.
Inside, Rick is seated on the upper bench. Legs spread. Back against the wood. His body glistens. Skin wet, thick with sweat, veins standing proud like the muscles underneath want to break free. His arms rest wide, elbows draped over the bench behind him. Like a throne. Like an altar.
His eyes lift when Callum steps in.
Not a word.
Just that look. Piercing. Measuring. Dangerous.
The door hisses shut.
Callum stands, unsure where to put his hands. The heat hits his lungs hard. His shirt is already clinging tighter. His mouth tastes like salt and longing.
Rick lets his gaze travel. Neck to thighs. No rush. Just hunger, casual and brutal.
Callum feels it like a hand. Every inch touched without touch.
“Strip.”
One word. Low. Sharp. Absolute.
Callum obeys.
Shirt first, peeled over a chest that isn’t small but feels it in Rick’s presence. Then shorts, sliding down legs that tremble more than they should. His cock is visible now, curved and wanting. It twitches under Rick’s gaze.
Rick says nothing.
He just pats the space on the lower bench with one thick palm.
Callum kneels.
The bench burns under Callum’s knees.
The heat from the wood seeps up into his thighs, his spine, his skin. Everything inside him melts toward that single point of gravity across the room. Rick.
Still reclined. Still watching.
The sauna moans with steam. It slides down Rick’s chest in rivulets, dripping from his nipples, pooling in the grooves of his abs. His shorts are soaked now, nearly transparent. And the shape beneath them is monstrous.
Callum can’t stop staring.
He wants to ask what to do next, but the words don’t come. His mouth is dry. His heart pounds in his throat. He waits.
Rick shifts.
It’s subtle. A lean forward, arms resting on knees, hands flexing wide. And then he’s on his feet, moving slow, so slow, steps heavy and deliberate. Each one a sentence. A command.
Callum doesn’t dare look up.
He watches feet approach. Thick calves, sculpted thighs. The sway of weight, the breath of a man built to dominate. When Rick stops in front of him, the scent hits again, stronger this time. Musk. Leather. Salt.
A hand lifts.
Rick cups Callum’s chin, forces his gaze upward.
Eyes lock.
Callum’s breath catches, held captive in his chest. Rick’s eyes are molten. Distant. Focused. The kind of look that sees straight through you and finds the part you never meant to show.
“Open.”
Another command.
Callum’s lips part.
Rick’s thumb slides past them, wet with sweat. He pushes deep, presses to the back of Callum’s tongue, slow and thick. The taste is pure salt and dominance. Callum moans, soft, around it.
Rick pulls his thumb free and drags it down Callum’s jaw, over his throat. Then he grips his hair.
A gentle tug.
“Up.”
Callum rises, shaky but obedient.
Rick turns, leading him to the upper bench, the hotter space, the center of the heat. He doesn’t look back to check if Callum is following.
He doesn’t have to.
The bench creaks as Rick sits again.
Callum stands before him, flushed and glistening. His cock aches, the pulse of it louder than the whine of the sauna. He wants to kneel again. Wants to beg. But Rick is looking up at him, waiting.
Testing.
“Turn.”
One word.
Callum turns, slow. He faces the wall, hands at his sides, muscles drawn tight. Behind him, silence. Then the sound of Rick shifting. The bench creaks again. A breath, low and steady. Then, touch.
It begins with heat.
Rick’s palms land on Callum’s hips, heavy and wide. The kind of hands that make a body feel small. He doesn’t move them. Just holds. Like weighing him. Like measuring his obedience.
Then fingers slide. Up and in. Tracing the sharp lines of Callum’s waist. The soft skin just above his ass. Knuckles grazing lightly, purposefully. Like a tease, like a threat.
Callum exhales, shaky.
Rick leans forward.
His chest brushes Callum’s back, sweat meeting sweat, heat doubled. His breath is a ghost against Callum’s neck. No words. Just the sound of want, thick and deliberate.
A hand slides to Callum’s lower stomach, fingers splayed.
Rick pulls him back, until the line of their bodies meet.
Callum feels it.
Thick. Heavy. Pressed between his cheeks. Still caged behind soaked fabric, but there. Present. Demanding. His knees weaken.
Rick’s mouth is right at his ear now.
“You been wanting this.”
Not a question.
Callum nods.
“Show me,” Rick says, voice like gravel, like smoke. “Grind.”
Callum obeys.
He presses back, slow. Rolls his hips against the bulge behind him, moaning under his breath. The friction sends shivers through his thighs. His own cock leaks, untouched, aching.
Rick growls low. Approves.
Then both hands grip Callum’s ass. Firm. Unyielding. And spread him, just enough. Air rushes in. Callum trembles.
Rick’s thumbs stay planted as his mouth moves down. Tongue tracing a line from spine to tailbone. Teeth grazing. Heat building.
Then, the first kiss.
Soft. Wet. Dead centre.
Callum chokes on his moan.
Not from fear. From need. From the unbearable press of Rick’s mouth where no one’s touched him before. From the slow, hungry circles of a tongue that knows exactly how to make a man unravel.
Rick groans low, mouth working deeper, wider. Tongue dragging in hard, wet strokes. He feasts like he’s earned it. Like it belongs to him now.
Callum whimpers, hands braced against the sauna wall. His hips roll back of their own accord, desperate to keep that mouth, that tongue, pressed right where it is.
Rick's grip tightens.
One hand spreads him wider. The other snakes between Callum’s legs, rough fingers grazing his cock. Not stroking. Just holding. Owning.
“You leak like a bitch in heat,” Rick growls, voice pressed against skin, thick with hunger.
Callum moans in response.
Rick pulls back only to rise, slow, looming. His chest presses to Callum’s back again, thicker, hotter now, mouth dragging up the side of his neck. His shorts are gone. Somehow, in the fog of it, Rick is naked now, and what presses between Callum’s cheeks is real.
Hard. Heavy. Wet at the tip.
Callum gasps.
Rick’s hand slides up his chest, across his throat. Not choking. Just there. A promise. A question.
“You want it.”
Callum nods, desperate.
“Say it.”
“I want it.”
Rick bites the curve of Callum’s shoulder, just hard enough.
“You’ll take what I give.”
“Yes,” Callum breathes. “Please…”
The head of Rick’s cock nudges between.
Callum’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know if he’s ready. He doesn’t care. His whole body is begging. His mind is gone. There’s only this. Heat. Hands. The stretch that’s coming.
Rick growls again, deeper this time.
