Totally a fictional story, nothing has to do with reality. Enjoy.
Mohit woke up to the soft hum of his alarm clock at exactly 5:30 AM, just as he did every single morning without fail. The first rays of dawn were filtering through the thin curtains of his modest apartment in Gurgaon, casting a golden hue over the neatly organized room. His bed was a simple queen-sized one, covered in crisp white sheets that he ironed himself every weekend a habit picked up from his mother back in Kashmir. The air carried a faint scent of eucalyptus from the essential oil diffuser on his nightstand, a small luxury he allowed himself to ease the lingering muscle soreness from yesterday's intense leg day at the gym.He stretched slowly, feeling the pull in his hamstrings and quads, a satisfying reminder of his discipline. At 28 years old, Mohit had built a life around structure and self-improvement. As a mechanical engineer by day, working for a mid-sized automotive firm, he spent his mornings in the quiet solitude of his home gym setup in the corner of the living room. It wasn't fancy, just a squat rack, some dumbbells, a treadmill, and a pull-up bar but it was his sanctuary. He glanced at the mirror on the wall, appraising his reflection: broad shoulders tapering to a chiseled waist, veins subtly visible on his biceps even at rest. Years of consistent training had sculpted him into the epitome of fitness, and his Instagram handle, @mohit7x
, with its 108K followers, was a testament to that.But Mohit wasn't vain about it; he saw his body as a machine, one he engineered daily for peak performance. His thoughts drifted to Aisha, his girlfriend of two years. She was still asleep in the bed beside him, her dark hair splayed across the pillow, breathing softly. Aisha worked as a graphic designer in the same city, and their relationship was one of those rare, effortless connections. They met at a mutual friend's party, bonded over shared Kashmiri roots, and fell into a rhythm of easy companionship. Last night had been particularly good after a quiet dinner of grilled chicken and salads (his post-workout meal of choice), they'd made love with the kind of passion that came from genuine affection. Mohit smiled inwardly, recalling the way her hands traced his abs, her whispers of admiration fueling his desire. He was straight as an arrow, no doubts there; Aisha was his everything, the soft counterpoint to his rigid routines.He slipped out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake her. Padding to the kitchen in his boxer briefs, he prepared his morning shake: whey protein from Avvatar mixed with oats, banana, and almond milk. As the blender whirred, his mind wandered to the day ahead. Work started at 9 AM design reviews for a new engine prototype. Then, evening gym session, perhaps a reel for Instagram about mindset during plateaus. His followers loved that stuff: raw, relatable content about pushing through mental barriers. He sipped his shake, feeling the cool liquid energize him, and checked his phone. A few DMs from fans, mostly compliments on his latest post a meme about "when your pre-workout hits too hard." One stood out: from @vikram_obsessed
, a username he didn't recognize. "Bro, your physique is insane. True inspiration. Would love to chat sometime." Mohit liked the message but didn't reply; he got dozens like this weekly.Little did he know, that DM was from Vikram Sharma, a 32-year-old software developer living just a few blocks away in the same bustling Gurgaon neighborhood. Vikram's apartment was a stark contrast to Mohit's cluttered with screens, cables, and an array of hidden cameras he'd tinkered with in his spare time. Vikram wasn't built like Mohit; he was average height, slightly overweight, with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow and eyes that held a quiet intensity. But his obsession with Mohit had started innocently enough, scrolling through Instagram one lonely night. Mohit's reels popped up in his feed: the sweat-glistened muscles, the confident grin, the raw power in every lift. Vikram felt a stir he couldn't explain not just admiration, but a deep, possessive hunger. He wanted that body, not to emulate it, but to control it, to use it for his own twisted pleasure.Vikram spent hours analyzing Mohit's posts, noting patterns: the gym he frequented (Powerhouse Fitness in Sector 14), the routes he jogged, even the coffee shop where he grabbed his post-workout latte. He followed from afar, blending into crowds, his phone always ready to snap discreet photos. In his mind, Mohit was perfect—a straight, virile man with a girlfriend, living the ideal life. But Vikram saw opportunity in that perfection. He fantasized about breaking it down, edging that magnificent body to the brink repeatedly, milking it dry for his own satisfaction. And videos? Oh, he'd record every moment, replaying them in the dark, his happiness derived solely from Mohit's unwitting submission.That morning, as Mohit headed to the gym for his dawn workout, Vikram was already up, sipping black coffee and reviewing footage from a hidden cam he'd planted near the gym entrance weeks ago. "Soon," he whispered to himself, a sly smile creeping across his face. But he was patient; this would be a slow game, building trust, weaving into Mohit's life like an invisible thread.
Mohit's workday dragged on as usual. Seated at his desk in the open-plan office, surrounded by blueprints and CAD software, he focused on tweaking the piston design for better efficiency. His colleagues respected him quiet, efficient, always hitting deadlines. During lunch, he ate his packed meal of rice, dal, and veggies at his desk, scrolling through Instagram analytics. His latest reel had 50K views already; fans commented with fire emojis and "goals." Aisha texted: "Miss you already. Dinner at mine tonight? I'll make your favorite kebabs." He replied with a heart emoji, feeling a warm flutter in his chest. Their sex life was fulfilling passionate sessions where he took charge, her moans affirming his masculinity. No kinks, just straightforward, loving intimacy.As evening fell, Mohit changed into his gym gear: black tank top hugging his pecs, shorts showing off his quads. Powerhouse Fitness was a 10-minute drive away, a no-frills spot with serious lifters. He parked his modest Hyundai and walked in, nodding to the receptionist. The clang of weights and grunts filled the air; this was his element. He started with bench presses, loading 100kg plates, feeling the burn in his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his neck. Unbeknownst to him, Vikram was there too, pretending to do cable crossovers in the corner, his eyes locked on Mohit's form.Vikram's heart raced. Seeing Mohit in person was electric the way his muscles flexed, the determination in his eyes. He adjusted his phone in his pocket, recording subtly. "Perfect," he thought, imagining those strong arms bound, that body writhing under his control. But he bided his time. After Mohit's set, as he racked the weights, Vikram approached casually."Hey, man, you're Mohit7x, right? Big fan of your content," Vikram said, extending a hand. His voice was steady, friendly, masking the obsession beneath.Mohit wiped his brow with a towel, smiling politely. "Yeah, that's me. Thanks, bro. Appreciate it.""I'm Vikram. Follow you on Insta. Your tips on progressive overload changed my game," Vikram lied smoothly, though he'd never lifted seriously. He was building rapport, planting seeds.Mohit nodded, always gracious to fans. "Glad to hear it. Keep grinding." They chatted briefly about form, Mohit sharing a quick tip on grip. Inside, Mohit felt a mild ego boost fans were common online, but in-person encounters reminded him of his impact. No red flags; Vikram seemed normal.Vikram walked away thrilled, replaying the conversation in his mind. That night, alone in his apartment, he watched the footage, zooming in on Mohit's sweat-slicked skin. His fantasies deepened: edging Mohit for hours, denying release, milking him until he begged. But slow, he needed to infiltrate Mohit's life first.
Days turned into weeks, and Mohit's routine remained unyielding. Mornings with Aisha, if she stayed over waking to her kisses, sometimes a quick morning session where he'd pin her gently, their bodies syncing in rhythm. "You're amazing," she'd whisper, tracing his back. He loved the normalcy, the straight-forward pleasure.At work, promotions loomed; he prepared presentations meticulously. Gym sessions were sacred, pushing limits. Instagram grew , a collab with Avvatar brought more followers. DMs poured in, including more from @vikram_obsessed
: "Saw you at the gym. Killer workout!" Mohit replied once: "Thanks! Keep it up."Vikram escalated subtly. He "bumped" into Mohit at the coffee shop post-gym, offering to buy his latte. "Coincidence, huh?" Vikram laughed. They talked longer this time Mohit opening up about Kashmir winters, Vikram feigning interest while memorizing details. Vikram's thoughts were darker: "Soon, I'll have you tied, your cock throbbing under my hands, camera rolling."Mohit felt no unease; Vikram was just a enthusiastic fan. Aisha met him once briefly at a park jog, waving hello. "Nice guy," she said later, as they cuddled on the couch, watching a movie. Mohit's hand on her thigh led to more, his mind fully on her.Vikram, meanwhile, prepared his "studio" a soundproofed room in his basement apartment, equipped with restraints, toys, and high-def cameras. He hacked Mohit's public schedule from posts, planning the perfect moment. Patience was key; the buildup fueled his anticipation. Friday, after a grueling week, Mohit posted a reel about recovery saunas and massages. Vikram DM'd: "Hey, I know a great massage therapist. Free session if you want, as thanks for your inspo." Mohit hesitated but replied: "Sounds good, man. Been sore."
The evening had settled into a quiet hush by the time Mohit arrived at Vikram's apartment on February 20, 2026. Outside, the Gurgaon traffic had thinned to a low rumble, streetlights flickering on one by one. Inside, the air felt deliberately calm sandalwood still curling from the incense stick Vikram had lit an hour earlier, the ambient rain track looping softly through the Bluetooth speaker at a volume just loud enough to mask any small sounds.Mohit stepped into the spare room barefoot, hoodie already unzipped and half-off one shoulder. He glanced around once professional setup, clean lines, no clutter and felt the last knot of workday tension begin to loosen. The massage table looked solid, sheets crisp, a folded towel waiting at the headrest. A small heater in the corner kept the room pleasantly warm against the February chill creeping through the windows."Take your time," Vikram said from where he stood near the side table, arranging bottles. His voice was low, measured. "No rush tonight. You've earned this after the week you've had."Mohit nodded, shrugging the hoodie the rest of the way off and dropping it onto the chair in the corner. Underneath he wore a fitted black compression tank the one he usually wore for heavy lifts because it hugged every contour without restricting movement. The fabric stretched taut across his pecs and clung to the ridges of his abs. He kicked off his socks next, then paused with his hands at the waistband of his gym shorts."Face down first?" he asked."Whenever you're ready," Vikram answered. He didn't move closer yet. He simply watched quietly, intently as Mohit climbed onto the table and settled stomach-down, arms relaxed at his sides, forehead resting in the cradle. The position arched his back slightly, emphasizing the taper from wide lats to narrow waist. Even relaxed, the musculature was evident: thick traps sloping into cannonball delts, the Christmas-tree shape of his lower back erectors visible through the thin tank material.Vikram let several long seconds pass before he approached. He wanted to drink in the sight first the way Mohit's breathing lifted and lowered his ribcage in slow, even rhythm; the faint sheen already gathering at the small of his back from the room's warmth; the powerful lines of his hamstrings and calves disappearing under the hem of his shorts.Finally, he stepped to the head of the table."I'm going to start with your upper back and shoulders," he said, voice soft. "Just let me know if the pressure's off."He warmed a generous amount of oil between his palms scented faintly with lavender and something earthier then placed both hands flat on Mohit's traps. No deep digging yet. Just broad, gliding contact. Skin-to-fabric at first, letting the heat of his palms seep through the compression material. Mohit exhaled audibly, a small sound of approval.Vikram kept the strokes long and unhurried. Palms sweeping from the base of Mohit's neck out toward the shoulders, then back again, thumbs tracing the outer edges of the traps in slow semicircles. He worked the same path over and over, gradually increasing pressure, letting the fabric warm and soften against the muscle beneath. Minutes passed like that pure surface work, building trust through rhythm."Your traps are incredible," Vikram murmured after a while. Not flattery for flattery's sake; genuine awe threaded through the words. "So thick. The way they tie into your neck... it's textbook perfect."Mohit gave a small huff of a laugh into the face cradle. "Years of shrugs and farmer carries.""I can tell." Vikram's thumbs pressed a little deeper now, circling slowly over the knots that lived just below the surface. He didn't attack them. He coaxed. Slow spirals that gradually unraveled tension. Mohit's shoulders dropped a fraction an unconscious surrender.Vikram moved downward in the same patient cadence. Hands gliding along the length of the lats, following the flare from underarm to waist. The compression tank clung stubbornly; the oil made dark patches where it soaked through. Vikram traced the outer edge of each lat with his fingertips, feeling the separation even through fabric the way the muscle curved inward toward the spine like wings folded against the body.He paused with both palms flat at the small of Mohit's back, thumbs bracketing the spine. "This taper," he said quietly, almost to himself. "From here to here..." His hands drifted outward along the iliac crest, then back in, mapping the dramatic V-shape. "It's unreal. The symmetry. The density."Mohit shifted slightly not uncomfortable, just aware. The touch lingered longer than a standard massage would allow, but it still felt... reverent. Clinical admiration wrapped in slow hands.Vikram finally spoke again. "I'm going to lift your tank a little. Just to get to the skin. Easier glide."Mohit hesitated for half a heartbeat, then gave a small nod against the cradle. "Yeah. Fine."Vikram gathered the hem of the tank with careful fingers and peeled it upward—slowly, inch by torturous inch. The fabric dragged against oiled skin, revealing first the deep dimples above the glutes, then the full Christmas-tree etchings of the lower erectors, then the thick bands of mid-back muscle, then the broad expanse between the shoulder blades. When the tank reached Mohit's armpits he paused, letting Mohit lift his chest just enough to slip his arms free. The material came off completely and was set aside.Now Mohit's back was bare. Golden-brown skin glistening under the lamp light, every ridge and valley thrown into soft relief. Vikram exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.He poured more oil directly onto Mohit's skin this time letting it pool in the valley of his spine before sweeping it outward with both hands in long, luxurious strokes. From tailbone to nape, then back down. Palms flat. Fingers splayed. Feeling every contour, every fiber. He traced the erectors with his thumbs, following each segment like he was memorizing topography. When he reached the lats again he spread his hands wide, thumbs hooking under the outer edge, lifting slightly as if testing the weight and resilience of the muscle."God," Vikram breathed. "These lats... the way they flare. I've stared at them in your reels for hours. Seeing them move under my hands..."Mohit stayed quiet, but his breathing had deepened. The sensation was intense in its slowness every pass deliberate, every pause loaded with appreciation. No groping. Just worship. Hands gliding, pressing, circling. Mapping.Vikram spent easily twenty minutes on the back alone revisiting every section, layering sensation. Only when Mohit's muscles felt butter-soft under his touch did he move to the arms.He started with the right tricep ,lifting Mohit's arm gently, cradling the elbow, letting the forearm dangle. Oil dripped along the horseshoe shape, then his fingers followed, stroking from elbow to shoulder in slow passes. He turned the arm slightly to trace the long head, feeling how it tied into the delt. Then the forearm thick, veined, powerful from years of gripping barbells. Vikram's thumb pressed along each flexor and extensor, admiring the corded definition."Your arms are weapons," he said softly. "The peaks on those biceps when you flex... I've screenshotted so many of your curling sets."Mohit let out a low sound half chuckle, half exhale. "You're really into the details, huh?""Every single one," Vikram answered without hesitation.He worked the left arm with the same care, then returned to the shoulders now bare, now slick. He kneaded the delts in slow circles, thumbs digging into the anterior head, then sweeping over the caps. Mohit's breathing hitched once when Vikram's fingers brushed the upper pec tie-in, but he didn't protest.Eventually—after what felt like an eternity of slow, adoring work on the upper body Vikram moved lower.He started at the calves. Hands wrapping around each one in turn, thumbs pressing into the diamond shapes, working upward in long strokes. The hamstrings came next. He poured oil generously along the backs of Mohit's thighs, letting it run toward the glutes before catching it with broad palms. Slow glides from knee to glute crease again and again thumbs following the separation between biceps femoris and semitendinosus. The strokes crept higher each time, but never crossed into intrusion. Just... appreciation. Admiration of the sweep, the thickness, the power coiled there.Mohit's glutes were last on this pass. Vikram placed both hands flat across them palms covering as much surface as possible and simply held for a long moment, feeling the heat, the firmness. Then slow kneading circles. No slapping, no grabbing. Just deep, reverent pressure that made the muscle yield and rebound."Your glutes are carved," Vikram said, voice thick now. "The way they tie into the hamstrings... into the lower back... it's flawless architecture."Mohit shifted again this time a small, restless movement. The slowness was getting to him. The constant attention. The lack of hurry.Vikram noticed.He stepped back for a moment, simply looking. Mohit lay there upper body bare, shorts still on, skin gleaming, every muscle group he'd worked glistening with oil and attention."Turn over when you're ready," Vikram said quietly. "No rush."Mohit took several slow breaths. Then deliberately he rolled.The front of his body came into view.Chest broad and thick, pecs shelf-like even at rest. Nipples dark against the skin. Abs carved in deep relief eight distinct segments, obliques framing the narrow waist. The compression shorts clung low on his hips now, the waistband sitting just below the Adonis belt. A faint happy trail ran from navel downward, disappearing beneath fabric.Vikram didn't speak at first. He just looked. Long, hungry seconds of looking.Then he stepped forward again.He started at the feet lifting one, oiling the sole, working the arch with slow thumbs. Up the shin. Around the knee. Then the quads.He poured oil across both thighs, letting it cascade into the separations. His hands followed palms flat, gliding from knee to hip crease in strokes that lasted ten, twelve seconds each.
Next part soon
