Once I Lock These Arms Around Your Head, Its Over. These Arms Are Like Steel Cables, And Once Theyre

Once I lock these arms around your head, it’s over. These arms are like steel cables, and once they’re wrapped around you, there’s no escape. You can struggle, fight, claw all you want, but all you'll feel is my biceps squeezing tighter. You’ll be trapped, helpless—just waiting to tap out. The only way out is when I decide to let go.

Jason had always been underestimated. His face, framed by glasses and a mop of slightly unruly hair, gave off the distinct vibe of a bookish nerd. Most people pegged him as the quiet type, someone more likely to be found hunched over a laptop than in a gym. But they couldn’t have been more wrong. Beneath his plain clothes was a body built from years of relentless training—broad shoulders, biceps that bulged like iron cables, and a chest that strained against the fabric of any shirt he wore. His physique was that of a powerhouse, hidden in plain sight.

He stepped into the gym one evening, his massive frame dwarfing the heavy bag in front of him. A few guys in the corner glanced his way, chuckling to themselves. One of them nudged his friend. “What’s the nerd doing here?” he whispered, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Jason ignored them. He adjusted his hands - cracking his knuckles. The room seemed to hold its breath as he squared up with the punching bag. His eyes focused, his body coiled with pure, explosive power. He inhaled slowly, his muscles tensing, every fiber of his being honing in on the target in front of him.

Then, without warning, his fist shot forward like a cannon. The impact was so fast, so violent, that the entire gym seemed to shake for a split second. The sound like a gun going off. The punching bag didn’t just sway or bend—it disintegrated. Leather ripped apart, the stuffing inside exploded outward, scattering in every direction like confetti, leaving nothing but a broken chain swinging helplessly from the ceiling.

The gym fell silent. The guys who had been laughing moments before stood frozen, their jaws hanging open. Jason lowered his fist, flexing his massive forearm as if it was nothing more than a warm-up. He glanced at the wreckage of the bag, then casually looked over at the stunned onlookers, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Guess I’ll need a new one," he said calmly, his voice carrying the confidence of a man who knew his strength was unmatched.

As he walked away, the thought hung heavy in the air—if Jason’s fist could do that to a punching bag, imagine what it could do to a person. One punch, and it could be over before anyone even realized what hit them. Jason’s power wasn’t just impressive; it was dangerous. No one in that gym would ever make the mistake of underestimating him again.

Whenever I watch this guy, all I can hear is the sound of breaking bones....

The dimly lit billiard hall was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of cue balls clicking across tables, and the occasional murmur of a game being won or lost. Brock stood near the back, his massive frame dwarfing everything around him. He was a sight to behold—easily towering over everyone in the room by a good fourteen inches, his tattooed muscles straining against the sleeves of his shirt. Every inch of him screamed power, and most people gave him a wide berth.

Most, but not everyone.

At one of the pool tables, a smaller guy was refusing to move, arguing that he had the table reserved. Brock stood there, looking down at the guy with a sharp downward tilt of his head. The difference in their size was almost comical. Brock’s shadow loomed over the shorter man, who barely reached his chest, and yet, the smaller guy wasn’t budging.

Brock raised an eyebrow, his deep voice cutting through the room. “You’re not giving up the table?” he asked, almost amused. The smaller guy crossed his arms defiantly.

“That’s right,” the smaller man replied, his voice full of false bravado. “You’re not just going to walk in and take what you want.”

Brock let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really want to do this, huh?” he said, his tone shifting from amused to something a little more menacing.

Before the smaller guy could react, Brock stepped forward, towering over him even more now, his eyes looking sharply down to make contact. Without a word, he bent down slightly and grabbed the smaller man by the arms, easily hoisting him up into the air with both hands, his powerful grip lifting the guy like he weighed no more than a bag of groceries.

The smaller man’s eyes went wide with shock as his feet left the floor, his body completely suspended by Brock’s enormous arms. He kicked his legs in a vain attempt to get free, but Brock’s grip was unshakable. The room grew quieter as people stopped what they were doing to watch the scene unfold.

Brock smirked, holding the smaller guy up at eye level now, his massive arms flexing effortlessly. “You’re kidding me, right?” Brock taunted, his voice filled with condescension. “Look at you. You’re nothing compared to me. You think you can stand your ground with someone like me?”

The smaller guy squirmed, but it was useless—Brock’s grip was iron. Brock shifted his hold, lifting the man even higher, letting him dangle there like a ragdoll in front of everyone.

“You feel that?” Brock sneered. “You’re weak. I could toss you across this room if I wanted, and you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

The smaller man tried to protest, his voice shaky, but Brock just laughed, the sound deep and resonant. “Pathetic,” he said, shaking his head as if disappointed. “You really thought you could hold your ground against someone like me? I could keep you up here all night.”

Brock let the man hang there for another moment, letting the reality of the situation sink in for the smaller guy—and for everyone watching. He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken understanding that Brock was in a league of his own.

Finally, with a smirk, Brock lowered the man back down to the floor, but not before giving him a slight shake as if to remind him of how helpless he truly was. The smaller man stumbled when his feet hit the ground, looking up at Brock with a mix of fear and embarrassment.

“Now,” Brock said, his voice calm but commanding, “you’re going to walk away and give me the table. Because if you don’t, I can do this all night.”

The smaller man nodded quickly, his defiance completely shattered. He backed away from the table, avoiding eye contact with Brock as he hurried off. Brock turned back to the table, smirking as he picked up a cue stick, the crowd slowly going back to their games—none daring to challenge him again.

The table was his now, just like everything else Brock wanted. And no one in the hall would forget the power he had effortlessly displayed.

Lifting you is easy

I step out of the car, the warm breeze carrying the familiar scent of the countryside as I take in the sight of the family reunion. It’s been a few years since the last one, and I remember it clearly—mostly because I spent that day picking on my younger cousins. Back then, they were all skinny, easy targets, and I was the big guy who loved to show off my strength.

But as I turn around, ready to greet them with the same old grin, I’m stopped in my tracks. Standing in front of me are my three cousins, but they’re not the scrawny kids I remember. They’re shirtless, and each of them looks like they’ve been carved out of stone. Muscles ripple across their broad chests, their arms thick with power, and their abs chiseled like marble. It’s like I’m staring at three walking mountains.

One of them steps forward, a smirk on his face. "Hey, remember us?" he says, his voice deep and filled with confidence. "You used to throw us around like we were nothing. Thought you were the big man at the last reunion, didn’t you?"

The second cousin laughs, flexing a bicep that looks like it could bend steel. "Well, guess what? We’ve been putting in some work, and we’ve been looking forward to this. It’s payback time, big cousin."

The third cousin, the tallest and most imposing of the three, steps even closer, his eyes locking onto mine with a grin that’s both playful and threatening. His shoulders are as wide as a doorframe, and his chest seems to expand with every breath. "You’re not the biggest guy here anymore—not by a long shot," he says, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. "Hope you’re ready to see what it’s like to be on the other side."

Suddenly, the confidence I walked in with feels like it’s evaporating. These three aren’t the same kids I used to push around—they’ve grown into something much bigger, much stronger, and they’re ready to settle the score.

Let me make it clear—any man dumb enough to step up to me is asking to be humiliated. I’ve taken down bigger and badder men without breaking a sweat, and they all end up the same way: on their backs, looking up at me like they just met their worst nightmare.

And it’s not just the brute strength that gets ‘em—it’s the way I own the room. You can feel the fear settle in when I walk through the door. Every guy goes quiet, trying not to make eye contact because they know damn well who’s in charge. They know I could break ‘em down in an instant.

But it’s more than just fear. Every man wants to be me, and every woman? She’s ready to throw herself at me, beggin’ for my attention. And here’s the kicker—even the straight men lust after me like the women do. They might not admit it, but I see the way they look. They feel the same pull, see the same raw power, and deep down, they crave it. They want what the women want, even if it messes with their heads. They see how I fill out these jeans, how I stand tall and command the room, and they can’t help themselves.

It’s not just respect or fear—it’s pure, raw desire. And that’s when I know I’ve already won

Perfection

So, I’m on this flight, and I can feel the guy next to me squirming in the middle seat. You know the type—smaller guy, trying to pretend he’s comfortable, but I can tell the second I sat down, he knew he was in over his head. My shoulders and arms take up half his space without even trying, and he’s got nowhere to go.

But here’s the thing: I can also tell he’s trying to cop a feel. His elbow’s brushing against my arm every now and then, but he’s trying to play it off like it’s nothing. Like I don’t notice. Yeah, right. So, I decide to have a little fun with it.

I casually pull out my phone and snap a selfie, but not just any selfie. I flex my bicep hard, right in front of his face. The peak of my arm is nearly in his line of sight, and I can see him freeze up, trying not to stare. But he can’t help it—his eyes are glued to the sheer size of it. I make sure to flex just a little harder, feeling my bicep swell, knowing there’s no way he can ignore it.

He’s trying so hard not to react, but I can sense the intimidation coming off him in waves. That’s when I lean back, spreading out even more, casually taking up as much space as I can. My leg presses against his, my arm almost draped over the armrest, completely invading his territory. He’s trapped, and he knows it. I don’t even need to say a word to assert my dominance—just being here, taking up all the space, is enough.

Every time he tries to shift or get comfortable, I just flex a little harder or spread out a bit more, reminding him exactly who’s in control. He’s in my world now, and whether he likes it or not, he’s gonna feel the presence of a real alpha for the rest of this flight.