ZACH'S POV:
It's 9:47 PM on a Friday, and I'm alone in my new corner office at HMB Services headquarters.
The office is everything I could have wanted—sleek, modern, powerful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the glittering city skyline, the lights twinkling like stars against the darkness. My desk is massive, all dark wood and clean lines, with a leather executive chair that cost more than my first car. There's a full bar cart in the corner stocked with expensive liquor—Macallan 18, Clase Azul tequila, Hendrick's gin. A huge mirror stretches along one wall near the desk, and through a door on the left is my private en-suite washroom complete with a luxury rainfall shower.
I've been here for four weeks now as Zayn's personal lawyer, and the perks just keep getting better.
I stand up from my desk, stretching my arms above my head. I've been reviewing employment contracts for the past three hours, and my shoulders are tight. I roll my neck, hearing it crack, and walk over to the mirror.
And then I stop.
Because holy shit.
I barely recognize myself.
I'm wearing a tight white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the top three buttons undone, revealing a deep V of tanned skin and the upper curves of my chest. My tailored charcoal dress pants hug my hips and thighs perfectly, the fabric expensive and fitted.
But it's not the clothes that make me pause.
It's my body.
I turn slightly, looking at my ass in the mirror, and my breath catches.
My glutes are... fuck, they're incredible. Round and perky and bubbly, straining against the fabric of my pants in a way that makes them look like two perfect globes. All those training sessions with Marcus—all those "deep glute massages" and "advanced stretching techniques"—have transformed my ass into something that belongs on one of the HMB himbos.
I run my hands over my hips, then cup my ass cheeks through the fabric. They're firm and high, with just enough bounce to be obscene. The pants are tailored perfectly, hugging every curve, and I can see the definition of the muscle underneath.
"Holy shit," I whisper to my reflection.
I turn back to face the mirror fully, and my eyes travel up to my chest.
My pecs.
They've filled out significantly over the past few weeks. They're thicker now, heavier, pushing against the tight fabric of my shirt and creating a visible shelf. There's actual cleavage—a deep shadow between the two mounds of muscle that draws the eye down into the open V of my shirt.
I reach up with both hands and cup my chest through the fabric. The weight is incredible. My "pec tits," as Zayn called them last week, are becoming real. Substantial. Fuckable.
I squeeze gently, and my nipples harden immediately under my palms. They're more sensitive now too—another side effect of all the attention they've been getting.
I unbutton another button on my shirt, then another, until the fabric falls open completely, revealing my bare chest. My pecs are smooth and tanned, the muscles clearly defined. My nipples are small and red, already hard.
I flex my chest, and my pecs bounce.
Holy fuck.
I do it again, watching in the mirror as the heavy mounds of muscle jump and flex. It's obscene. It's hot as hell.
"I'm starting to look like one of the hot himbos," I say out loud, grinning at my reflection.
I run my hands down my chest, feeling the hard ridges of my abs. I've always been in decent shape, but now I'm getting actually built. My waist is narrow, my obliques are defined, and there's a clear V-line leading down into my pants.
My cock is getting hard just from touching myself.
I slide one hand down to cup my bulge, squeezing gently. The fabric of my pants is tight, and my cock is already straining against it, creating a thick ridge that runs down my left thigh.
I'm admiring the view—my growing pecs, my bubble butt, my hard cock outlined in expensive fabric—when there's a knock at the door.
I freeze.
"Come in," I call out, quickly buttoning my shirt back up. I leave the top three buttons undone, though. No point in hiding everything.
The door opens, and Zayn walks in.
And fuck, he takes my breath away every single time.
He's wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece charcoal suit that looks like it was painted onto his massive frame. The jacket stretches across his broad shoulders, the fabric straining slightly over his huge arms. His chest is so thick that the vest underneath creates visible bulk, and I can see the outline of his pecs even through all those layers.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his sharp jawline is covered in just the right amount of stubble, and his piercing dark eyes lock onto mine the moment he enters.
He exudes pure dominant alpha energy. It radiates off him like heat.
"Working late?" Zayn asks, his voice low and smooth. He closes the door behind him and walks over to my bar cart like he owns the place.
Which, technically, he does.
"Just finishing up some employment contracts," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My cock is still half-hard, and I'm acutely aware of how tight my pants are.
Zayn pours himself two fingers of Macallan, neat, and takes a slow sip. He's watching me over the rim of the glass, his eyes traveling down my body in a way that makes me feel completely exposed.
"Good," he says. "Because I have something I want to discuss with you."
He sets his glass down on my desk and pulls out a thick manila folder from inside his suit jacket. He opens it and spreads the contents across my desk.
Headshots. Full-body photos. Dozens of them.
All shirtless.
All gorgeous.
All young men aged 18-25 with perfect bodies—huge pecs, defined abs, narrow waists, thick thighs, and visible bulges in their tight underwear or gym shorts.
"New applicants," Zayn says casually, moving to stand behind my chair. "I want your input on which ones we should bring in for interviews."
I'm still standing, staring at the photos spread across my desk. There's a blond surfer type with a megawatt smile and abs you could grate cheese on. A Latino guy with dark eyes and the most perfect bubble butt I've ever seen. A redhead with freckles and massive shoulders. An Asian guy with delicate features and a body like a Greek statue.
They're all stunning.
"Sit," Zayn says, his voice dropping an octave.
I sit.
Zayn moves closer, standing directly behind my chair now. I can feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine with notes of cedar and leather. There's something else underneath it too. Musk. Pure male musk.
"This one," Zayn says, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the blond surfer. His voice is right next to my ear, low and intimate. "His name is Cody. Twenty years old, lifeguard, completely inexperienced. Perfect candidate for pool maintenance training."
As he talks, I feel something press against my shoulder.
Something thick.
Something hard.
I glance down and see the outline of Zayn's cock through his suit pants, pressed deliberately against my shoulder. It's enormous—easily visible even through all that expensive fabric. And it's rock hard.
He's grinding it against me slowly, subtly, while he talks about the applicants.
"And this one," Zayn continues, pointing to the Latino guy. His cock presses harder against my shoulder. "Diego. Twenty-two, personal trainer, very eager to learn. I think he'd be excellent for our fitness division."
My breathing is getting heavier. I can feel the weight and heat of Zayn's cock through the fabric, and it's making my own cock throb in my pants.
"You seem tense," Zayn says, his voice dropping even lower. "Let me help with that."
His hands land on my shoulders, and I gasp.
His grip is firm and strong, his fingers digging into the tight muscles of my traps. He kneads slowly, working out the knots, and it feels incredible.
"You've been working too hard," Zayn murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the base of my neck. "You need to relax."
His hands slide down slightly, massaging my upper back through my shirt. Then they move to my shoulders again, squeezing and kneading.
And then his fingers find the buttons of my shirt.
He undoes one button. Then another. Then another.
Slowly, deliberately, he opens my shirt, exposing my chest inch by inch.
"Look at these," Zayn says, his voice rough with approval. His hands slide inside my open shirt, cupping my pecs. "Your tits are coming along beautifully."
I moan, my head falling back against his stomach.
His hands are warm and strong, squeezing my pecs, bouncing them, testing their weight. His thumbs find my nipples and circle them slowly.
"Marcus has been training you well," Zayn continues, pinching my nipples lightly. "These are getting so thick. So heavy. Perfect himbo tits."
"Fuck," I breathe.
He pinches harder, and I gasp. My cock is fully hard now, straining against my pants, leaking precum into my boxer briefs.
"I love watching you transform," Zayn says, his mouth right next to my ear. His breath is hot against my skin. "You came to me as a corporate lawyer, all buttoned-up and professional. And now look at you."
He squeezes my pecs hard, bouncing them in his palms.
"Growing these perfect fuckable tits. Building this sexy bubble butt. Getting addicted to cock like a good slut."
His words go straight to my dick. I'm leaking heavily now, a wet spot forming on my pants.
"The new himbos are going to love you," Zayn continues, still playing with my nipples. "You can train them. Show them the techniques. Let them practice on your tight little hole."
I whimper.
"But you know what the best part is?" Zayn asks, his voice dropping to a growl.
"What?" I manage.
"You're mine."
He spins my chair around so I'm facing him, and then his hand is under my chin, tilting my head up.
And then he kisses me.
It's hungry and dominant and absolutely filthy.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, claiming it, and I open for him immediately. He tastes like expensive whiskey and something darker, something purely him. His stubble scrapes against my face as he deepens the kiss, and I moan into his mouth.
His free hand is still on my chest, squeezing my pec, pinching my nipple hard enough to make me gasp.
I reach up and grab his suit jacket, pulling him closer, and he growls into the kiss.
Then he pulls back just enough to shrug off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.
His vest comes next, unbuttoned quickly and tossed aside.
Then his shirt.
Button by button, he strips it off, never breaking eye contact with me.
And then I'm staring at his bare chest.
Holy. Fucking. Christ.
Zayn's body is a work of art. His chest is massive—two huge slabs of muscle covered in dark hair that creates a perfect trail down the center. His pecs are so thick they create deep shadows, and his nipples are small and dark, half-hidden in the hair.
His abs are an eight-pack, each muscle clearly defined and separated. His obliques are sharp, creating a deep V that leads down into his pants.
His arms are enormous—biceps and triceps bulging with every movement, veins running down his forearms.
He's a god.
He reaches down and unbuckles his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops obscenely loud in the quiet office.
Then he unbuttons his pants and pushes them down, along with his boxer briefs.
And his cock springs free.
It's massive. Thick and long and perfectly shaped, with a fat mushroom head that's already leaking clear precum. It's veiny and hard, curving slightly upward, and his balls hang heavy and full beneath it.
It's the cock of an alpha. A king.
And it's pointing right at me.
"On your knees," Zayn says.
I drop immediately.
The floor is hard under my knees, but I don't care. I'm eye-level with his cock now, and the smell of him is overwhelming—musk and sweat and pure male arousal.
"Look at me," Zayn commands.
I look up, meeting his eyes. He's staring down at me with such intensity that I feel pinned in place.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he says, his voice rough. "On your knees, looking up at me with those big puppy-dog eyes. Your shirt open, showing off those perfect tits."
He reaches down and cups my face with one hand, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
"Push them together," he orders.
I reach up and cup my pecs, pushing them together to create a deep channel of cleavage. The weight of them in my hands is incredible, and my nipples are so hard they're almost painful.
Zayn steps closer, and the head of his cock slides into the valley between my pecs.
"Fuck," he groans. "That's perfect."
He starts moving his hips, sliding his thick shaft between my tits. The friction is incredible, and I can feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it glides through my cleavage.
"Spit on it," Zayn says.
I let saliva pool in my mouth and then let it drip down onto his cock, coating the shaft. It makes everything slicker, wetter, and Zayn groans in approval.
"Good boy," he says. "Now squeeze tighter."
I push my pecs together harder, creating more pressure, and Zayn's thrusts get faster.
His cock is leaking steadily now, precum mixing with my spit, making everything slick and messy. The head of his cock appears and disappears between my tits with each thrust, and I lean down to lick it every time it comes close to my mouth.
"Fuck yes," Zayn growls. "Lick that cock. Taste it."
I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting the salty-sweet precum, and Zayn's hips stutter.
"Your tits are perfect," he says, his voice strained. "Perfect fuckable himbo tits. I'm going to train you so well. Turn you into my personal slut."
His words make my cock throb. I'm leaking into my pants, creating a wet spot that's probably visible, but I don't care.
"You like that?" Zayn asks, fucking my tits harder. "You like being my slut?"
"Yes," I moan. "Fuck yes."
"You're going to service all the new himbos," Zayn continues, his dirty talk relentless. "Let them fuck these tits. Let them use your mouth. Your ass. You're going to be their training dummy."
I whimper, squeezing my pecs tighter around his cock.
"But at the end of the day," Zayn says, his voice dropping to a possessive growl, "you belong to me."
He pulls his cock out from between my tits and grabs my hair, tilting my head back.
"Open," he commands.
I open my mouth wide, and he shoves his cock inside.
All the way.
In one brutal thrust, he buries himself in my throat, and I gag immediately.
"Take it," Zayn growls, holding my head in place. "Take every fucking inch."
I'm choking, tears streaming down my face, spit and precum dripping from my chin. His cock is so thick it stretches my jaw painfully, and so long that I can feel it in my throat.
But I don't pull away.
I want this. I need this.
I relax my throat as much as I can and try to breathe through my nose. Zayn holds me there for a long moment, his cock buried completely, his balls pressed against my chin.
"Good boy," he says, his voice softer now. "Such a good boy for me."
Then he starts fucking my face.
Long, deep strokes that make me gag and choke with every thrust. Spit is flying everywhere, coating his cock and my face and dripping onto my chest. My eyes are watering so badly I can barely see.
But I love it.
I love the way he uses me. The way he takes what he wants without hesitation.
"You can play with all the himbos you want," Zayn says, his thrusts getting harder. "Fuck Tyler. Fuck Juan. Fuck Marcus and Randy and Connor. I don't care."
He pulls out suddenly, and I gasp for air, coughing and sputtering.
"But I'm the Alpha here," Zayn continues, stroking his spit-slick cock. "I own this mouth."
He shoves back in, and I take him eagerly.
"I own these tits."
He reaches down and squeezes my pecs hard, pinching my nipples brutally.
"And I own this ass."
He pulls out again, and I'm panting, my face a mess of spit and tears and precum.
"Say it," Zayn commands.
"You own me," I gasp. "You own my mouth and my tits and my ass."
"Good boy."
He strokes my hair gently, and I lean into the touch like a puppy seeking approval.
And that's when it hits me.
I'm slipping.
Slipping into that headspace I've seen in Tyler and Juan and all the other HMB himbos. That eager, puppy-like desire to please. That single-minded focus on making my Alpha happy.
"Stand up," Zayn says.
I stand on shaky legs, and Zayn walks over to my executive chair. He sits down, spreading his legs wide, his massive cock standing straight up from his lap. He picks up his whiskey glass and takes a slow sip, looking every inch the powerful CEO.
"Strip," he says casually.
I unbutton the rest of my shirt and let it fall to the floor. Then I unbuckle my belt, unbutton my pants, and push them down along with my boxer briefs.
My cock springs free, hard and leaking, and Zayn's eyes travel down my body appreciatively.
"Turn around," he says. "Show me that ass."
I turn, giving him a full view of my bubble butt. I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes my cock throb.
"Fuck," Zayn says. "Marcus has done excellent work. That ass is perfect."
I look over my shoulder at him, and he's stroking his cock slowly, his eyes locked on my ass.
"Come here," he says.
I walk over to him, and he guides me to straddle his lap, facing away from him toward the mirror.
"I want you to watch," Zayn says, his voice rough. "Watch yourself ride my cock."
He positions his cock at my hole, and I can feel the thick head pressing against my entrance.
"Sit," he commands.
I lower myself slowly, and the stretch is incredible. His cock is so thick that it burns as it pushes inside, stretching me open inch by inch.
"Fuck," I gasp. "You're so big."
"You can take it," Zayn says. "You're my good boy. You can take every inch."
I keep lowering myself, and finally, I'm sitting fully in his lap, his cock buried completely inside me.
I look in the mirror, and the sight takes my breath away.
My bubble butt is spread wide over Zayn's thick thighs, the muscles of my ass flexing and clenching around his cock. My pecs are heaving with each breath, my nipples hard and pointing forward. My cock is rock hard, leaking steadily onto my abs.
And behind me, Zayn looks like a king on his throne.
"Ride," he says.
I start moving, lifting myself up and dropping back down, and the sensation is overwhelming. His cock drags against my prostate with every movement, sending sparks of pleasure through my entire body.
"That's it," Zayn growls, his hands gripping my hips. "Bounce that ass on my cock."
I watch in the mirror as my bubble butt jiggles and bounces with each movement. The city lights outside create a soft glow, illuminating our bodies, and the visual is so hot I can barely stand it.
"You look so fucking good," Zayn says, his hands sliding up to cup my pecs. "Riding my cock like a good little slut. Your tits bouncing. Your ass taking every inch."
He squeezes my pecs hard, and I moan.
"I'm your good boy," I whimper. "I'm your good boy."
"Yes you are," Zayn says, bouncing me harder on his cock. "My perfect good boy."
One of his hands leaves my chest and comes down hard on my ass with a loud SMACK.
I cry out, the sting mixing with pleasure.
He spanks me again, and again, and my ass is burning and my cock is leaking and I'm so close to cumming I can barely think.
"Kiss me," Zayn demands.
I turn my head, and he captures my mouth in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Our tongues tangle together as I continue riding him, and I can taste the whiskey on his breath.
"I'm your good boy," I whimper against his lips. "I'm your good boy, I'm your good boy, I'm your good boy."
"Yes," Zayn growls. "You're mine."
He stands suddenly, lifting me with him, his cock still buried inside me. He lays me on my back, my legs spread wide.
And then he starts fucking me.
Hard.
Deep.
Dominant.
Animalistic.
His hips slam against my ass with brutal force, and the desk shakes with each thrust. My pecs are bouncing wildly, and Zayn's hands are all over them—squeezing, pinching, slapping.
"Look at these tits," he growls. "Bouncing like a fucking himbo. You love this, don't you? Love getting railed like a slut."
"Yes!" I cry out. "Fuck yes!"
His cock is hammering my prostate relentlessly, and I can feel the pressure building in my balls. I'm going to cum. I'm going to cum so fucking hard.
"You're so sexy," Zayn says, his voice rough with exertion. "So fucking perfect. My perfect good boy."
And then it hits me.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, and I scream.
My whole body convulses, my back arching off the desk, my eyes rolling back in my head. My cock erupts without being touched, shooting thick ropes of cum all over my abs and chest and even hitting my face.
But I don't stop cumming.
It keeps going, wave after wave of intense pleasure rolling through me. My hole is clenching rhythmically around Zayn's cock, and I'm moaning incoherently, completely lost in the sensation.
"Fuck yes," Zayn growls. "That's it. Cum for me. Cum on my cock like a good boy."
He fucks me harder, and the orgasm intensifies. I'm gushing now, my cock pulsing and shooting, covering myself in my own cum.
Zayn leans down and captures one of my nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, and I scream again.
"These tits are mine now," he growls against my skin. "I own these fucking tits."
He grabs both my pecs brutally, squeezing them hard, and I'm still cumming, still riding the endless wave of pleasure.
"Mine," Zayn says again, his thrusts getting erratic. "All mine."
And then he pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss.
He strokes his cock fast and hard, and then he's cumming.
Thick, creamy ropes of cum shoot out, painting my chest and face and abs. It's everywhere—coating my pecs, dripping down my sides, pooling in my navel. There's so much of it, and it's so thick and white and perfect.
Zayn keeps stroking, milking every last drop onto my body, and I'm just lying there, covered in both our cum, completely wrecked.
Finally, he stops, his chest heaving with exertion.
He leans down and kisses me deeply, tasting his own cum on my lips.
"Good boy," he murmurs.
I'm too dazed to respond. My body is still trembling with aftershocks, and I can barely form a coherent thought.
Zayn straightens up and starts getting dressed, pulling on his boxer briefs and pants with practiced efficiency.
"There's a shower in your private bathroom," he says casually, buttoning his shirt. "Clean yourself up. Take your time."
I nod weakly, still lying on the desk, covered in cum.
Zayn finishes dressing, looking as put-together and professional as he did when he walked in. He picks up his whiskey glass and drains it, then sets it back on the bar cart.
He grins and walks out, closing the door behind him.
I lie there for another minute, trying to catch my breath and process what just happened.
Then I slowly sit up, cum dripping down my chest and abs. I'm sticky and messy and completely satisfied.
I slide off the desk on shaky legs and stumble toward the private bathroom.
Through the steam and the frosted glass, I can see a figure—young, muscular, naked.
I pull open the shower door, and my breath catches.
It's Ben.
Zayn's assistant. The gorgeous early-twenties receptionist with the model-perfect face and body.
He's completely naked, water cascading down his smooth, tanned skin. His body is incredible—lean and toned with defined abs and a narrow waist. But it's his ass that makes my cock twitch despite having just cum.
His bubble butt is huge and round and smooth, the two perfect globes glistening under the water. He's soaping it up slowly, his hands sliding over the curves, and the sight is absolutely mesmerizing.
He turns when he hears the door open, and his face breaks into a sexy, knowing smile.
Water runs down his chest and abs, and his cock is half-hard, hanging heavy between his legs.
"Hey," Ben says, his voice smooth and inviting. His eyes travel down my cum-covered body, and his smile widens. "Get in here with me."