20. Quarry

What happened at Asier's estate, in Betia, left Jorge with a strange sensation of vertigo. Everything was moving too fast. It hadn't even been a month since he stepped foot in that country, and yet, his life had been completely turned upside down. He had gone from being a recently retired Spanish teacher, with a predictable and orderly existence, to becoming the absolute owner of a large estate, with men and lands under his command.

The days of forced abstinence, lonely nights, and unfulfilled fantasies now seemed like the memory of another life. Álex was always available, always ready for his pleasure. And Jorge quickly discovered how delicious his caresses were, how exquisite the submission of his mouth felt, how irresistible the sweetness of his kisses was. He could have him whenever he wanted, without restrictions or limits.

But what surprised him the most wasn't that. It was the ease with which he had surrendered to a power he had only imagined before. For years, he had considered the BDSM world as a distant fantasy, an impossible game, doomed to explore it only through forums and stories on a computer screen. And now... now he was issuing real punishments. Not figurative, not negotiated. Real ones. He had grown accustomed to the sound of the whip, to the sight of bodies tense with pain, to obedience without excuses.

And best of all... he liked it.

However, something troubled him. There were many things he needed to clarify with Yusuf. What he had told Lakua was true: in his presence, he felt a constant tension, a dull discomfort he didn't know how to attribute. It wasn't entirely fear or distrust, but there was something about him that sent shivers down his spine. However, his role was crucial, and Jorge could not afford to do without his counsel.

He called for him and waited in the room he usually used as an office, a sober yet comfortable place, directly connected to his bedroom. For a week now, he had ordered to receive some printed newspapers; although the news arrived a day late, they helped him stay informed. At first, he requested a wide variety, but soon grew tired of so much irrelevant fluff. Now he only kept El País and Le Monde, enough to maintain a global perspective. He was lazily flipping through the former when Yusuf appeared at the door, with his usual friendly smile.

—Good morning, elí —he greeted kindly.

—Good morning, Yusuf. Please, sit down. Would you like some tea?

—I appreciate it, elí, but I've just had breakfast. Are you receiving the press in a timely manner? Do you want me to make any adjustments?

—No, no, everything is in order. I called you for another reason. I need information, and I'm sure you can provide it.

Jorge set the newspaper down on the table and looked at him intently.

—During our visit, Lakua brought me up to speed on many things —he continued, in a drier tone—. Some as important as the fact that the Israelis are conspiring against us. You didn't mention that, and I'm sure you knew.

Yusuf's smile faded for a moment, giving way to a tense grimace. But he recovered quickly.

—A few weeks ago, we suffered an attack —he said, measuring his words—. Now we know that the Israelis were behind it, although we are not sure if they acted in their own interest or following orders from others. It could be Israel. It could be the United States. Both want the ketirita, and they want it urgently.

Jorge nodded silently. There were more things he needed to discuss with Yusuf, more revelations that Lakua had slipped in with the precision of a surgeon. She sensed there was a traitor, someone leaking information to the enemies of the country. Lakua trusted Yusuf wholeheartedly, but he wasn't so sure. However, he decided to keep that unease to himself for another time.

—And we... —he said, with a slight sigh—. I am responsible for the majority of the mineral production. I haven't been to the quarry yet, but I think I should see it and meet its supervisors. Is it far from here?

—A cierta distancia, elí, unos veinte kilómetros.

—And how will I get there? You know I don't know how to ride a horse, nor do I plan to learn today.

—You have several options, elí. You can go by car, if you prefer. But since the distance is not that great, you could also travel in a litter, although the trip would take several hours round trip. Another option is a calesa.

—I assume the calesa is a cart, right?

—Yes, elí. Its advantage is that it is much more comfortable than the litter. It can be drawn by horses, mules, or brutes.

Jorge squinted, intrigued.

—That sounds more interesting. How many brutes can pull it? At what speed? I suppose no more than ten kilometers per hour.

Yusuf smiled.

—You can harness up to sixteen brutes, elí. And their speed can be at least twice what you imagine; they can complete the journey in less than an hour if whipped properly.

—Is that possible?

—Yes, elí. In fact, they can reach twenty-five or even thirty kilometers per hour in short bursts. But they maintain a constant speed of twenty kilometers per hour on an ongoing basis. Traveling with brutes is faster than with horses and, of course, much faster than with mules.

Jorge smiled with anticipation.

—Amazing. I can’t wait to try it. Although... I don't know if I would be able to drive the calesa myself.

—That will be done by a vilicus, elí. Managing a team of brutes requires practice, and above all knowing how to use the long whip; it’s a task for a slave.

Jorge leaned back in his chair and let a slow, calculating smile form. The idea of a calesa pulled by sixteen bodies subjected to the whip had an undeniable appeal, like a perfectly orchestrated dance of suffering.

—Perfect —he murmured—. Prepare everything, we will leave right after lunch.

—As you command, elí.

The ketirita quarry extended to the south of Tharakos's lands, near the boundary with the Ngué and Uriel estates. When Jorge decided to head to the mining site, he found a four-wheeled carriage already waiting for him, ready to go. It was a sturdy vehicle, made of dark wood, with a canopy that sheltered a spacious interior, sufficient to comfortably accommodate two travelers. Outside, a narrow bench allowed the driver to handle the reins with precision.

The same sixteen slaves who had carried his litter during the visit to Asier's house were now harnessed to the carriage using an ingenious system of chains that captured their necks and wrists but left their legs free to propel themselves powerfully. Their shoulders still bore the deep marks of previous exertions, darkened by purple bruises. They were completely naked, with genital restrainers and adorned with the orange and turquoise colors of the estate. Jorge watched them with satisfaction: discipline had chiseled their bodies into a spectacle of vigor and submission.

Beside him, the vilicus knelt by the cabin. Within reach rested an unreasonably long whip, whose mere presence promised a journey as efficient as it was entertaining.

Yusuf greeted Jorge with a nod as he mounted his horse. Jorge got into the vehicle, pleasantly surprised by the comfort of the seat as he settled in; the vilicus took a seat on the bench and took the reins. The elevated position of the master provided him a perfect view not only of the pulling slaves but also of the vilicus, who was standing at attention, awaiting orders. Yusuf positioned himself next to the calesa.

—Elí, please notice that there is a button to the right of your seat —he said, pointing to a red wooden circle nearly the size of a fist that protruded from the side of the interior bench.

Jorge observed the object, curious, awaiting the explanation.

—It is a stimulator, elí. If you press it, the genital restrainers on the slaves will activate, causing a slight shock. They will feel it as a mild pressure, a stimulus indicating they must push harder. The vilicus, however, will experience a much more intense sensation, a jolt that will make him understand he needs to increase speed.

Jorge smiled, like a child with a new toy.

—Can I try it now? —he asked with a mix of excitement and a hint of shyness.

—Of course, elí. You are the master —Yusuf replied with a slight nod.

With a sense of nervousness, Jorge gently pressed the button with the palm of his hand. A faint bell rang followed by an electrical crackle. The harnessed slaves did not move, but the vilicus shuddered slightly, a gesture that denoted the force of the stimulus.

—Very good, elí —Yusuf commented, observing closely.

—I don't see any wires connected to the restrainers —Jorge said, intrigued—. How is that possible?

—The technology is simpler than it seems —Yusuf explained—. The zayak's control responds to the pressure and the time it is applied. The harder you press, the greater the shock. And the intensity will be maintained as long as the button is not released.

Jorge nodded, pensive, before asking:

—Can it cause severe harm to the slaves?

—No, elí. It is calibrated so that even at maximum intensity it does not cause serious damage. The vilicus and the brutes can withstand it without suffering harmful effects —Yusuf replied calmly, knowing what Jorge was trying to confirm.

—And the device is called... zayak? —Jorge asked, repeating the word with a slight smile.

—That's right, elí; zayak can be translated as "stimulator."

—I like it. Zayak has a nice sound.

And, without waiting any longer, Jorge pressed the button firmly. The bell rang again, followed by the simultaneous scream of the slaves and the vilicus, the latter trying in vain to maintain composure but showing the pain of the shock. Jorge observed the scene, pleased with the result, his face illuminated by a satisfied smile.

—Understood —Jorge said, leaning back against the padded seat, enjoying the feeling of power emanating from every action he took—. Well, let’s set off.

The whip cracked in the air, and the slaves needed no further order to get moving. The muscles in their legs tensed, their naked torsos leaned forward, and the calesa glided over the path with a rhythmic sway. Jorge felt the pull of the start in his back and settled in pleasure into the cushioned seat, enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him.

As Yusuf had promised, the vehicle moved with surprising speed. Under the scorching sun, sweat began to bead on the bodies of the brutes, sliding in fine threads down their shoulders, their backs, and the valley of their spines. Jorge took a sip of lemon water and ran his tongue over his lips, his gaze fixed on the choreography of muscles tensing and relaxing with each stride. The vilicus, from his seat, confidently directed the pull with brief and sharp orders that the slaves obeyed immediately.

Jorge rested an elbow on the armrest and let his hand lazily slide down to the zayak. He caressed it with his fingertips before pressing it. A bell toll echoed in the air. Immediately, the vilicus straightened up, and the whip fell furiously on the backs of the slaves. The bodies shook with a brutal tremor, pants turned into gasps and the pace quickened. Jorge felt a stab of delight.

But it wasn't enough.

He pressed the button again, this time with more intensity. Another long bell, and the vilicus increased the force of the blows. The muscles of the brutes tensed to the maximum, their backs arched, and the cracking of the lashes mixed with the staccato sound of their breathing. Jorge leaned back with a satisfied smile, savoring the scene, the muscular buttocks from which blood and sweat dripped marking their fibers; the calesa was flying.

Minutes later the road began to incline and the carriage inevitably slowed. The brutes lowered their heads, the tendons in their necks stood out like strings, their legs trembling as they pushed against the ground. Fatigue started to show in their bodies, in the trembling of their calves, in the sheen of their reddened skin. Jorge waited for the gasps to become more audible, more desperate. Then, without rush, he let the palm of his hand drop forcefully on the zayak and maintained the pressure.

The bell was sharp, almost desperate.

The vilicus screamed feeling his genitals burn and raised the whip with both hands before unleashing it furiously on the brutes. A chorus of moans and screams rose into the air. Their legs faltered, but they pushed with one last ounce of energy, compelled by the searing pain in their backs and the unbearable sting of the zayak in their groins. Jorge exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into his seat, feeling a warm current travel through his body. It smelled of power.

Yusuf glanced at him and gave him a conspiratorial smile. Jorge returned the gesture and, for a moment, allowed his finger to rest again on the button, enjoying the anticipation.

The day promised to be magnificent.

It was not yet five when the calesa crossed a stone wall and glided over a surface of perfectly aligned slabs. The vibration of the carriage changed immediately, leaving behind the roughness of the dirt road to glide smoothly over the well-paved surface.

Jorge straightened slightly and looked around. The square was wide, solid, built with a clear purpose: to impose order and discipline. But what caught his attention the most was the presence of numerous guards positioned strategically, their postures rigid and alert. They were not slaves, that was immediately evident. They wielded automatic weapons with the familiarity of those who have wielded them many times, and their dark uniforms contrasted with the naked, sweaty skin of the brutes still chained to the calesa.

Jorge stepped down calmly, letting his footsteps resonate with authority on the stone. As soon as he touched the ground, he felt the stares fix on him: the soldiers scrutinized him with the coldness of those trained to measure men and threats in a single glance. There was no servitude in their gestures, only discipline. They were a different force, separate from the mass of slaves who were still panting, chained to the calesa.

He remembered what Yusuf had told him about them. Professional soldiers, recruited at a high price, a perfect machine devouring funds month after month. But what did it matter? Keeping them was an insignificant luxury compared to the endless wealth of the estate.

A dry wind swept through the square, lifting whirlwinds of pale dust that mingled with the iron scent of the quarry. Jorge inhaled deeply. It smelled of open stone, of slave sweat, of tanned leather and oils. Above all, it smelled of power.

The constant clanging of metal against stone rose into the air, like a brutal, monotonous, endless symphony. That incessant rhythm was the very heartbeat of exploitation, a sad yet glorious hymn, the echo of relentless servitude. Jorge paused for a moment, allowing himself to be enveloped by the sound. Then, he smiled and moved forward.

A small, insignificant-looking man rushed forward and greeted him with an almost exaggerated respect, bowing his head repeatedly in a servility that bordered on theatrical.

—Sharos, Tharakos —he pronounced as soon as he could, with a high-pitched voice that barely concealed a contained tremor.

Next to Jorge, Yusuf dismounted from his horse and hurried to whisper to him:

—He is the bactani of the quarry, elí. Like all your employees of a certain level, he has learned Spanish.

Jorge looked at him for a moment before responding. He was nothing more than a minor cog in the vast machinery of the estate, a dispensable part in case of failure. Even so, he returned the ritual greeting with his hands and offered a measured smile, just enough to convey to him the assurance that his existence still held value, because the proper exploitation of the mineral was crucial for everyone.

A few steps away, two men stood rigidly, arms crossed and heads down. They were dressed in an unusual neatness for a place that seemed covered in dust and sweat.

—They are the veterinarians, elí —Yusuf clarified in a neutral tone—. They take care of the health and care of the slaves.

Jorge observed their expressionless faces. They were not doctors but technicians of an unyielding industry, men who knew exactly how far a body could be pushed without collapsing, who calculated the precise balance between exhaustion and survival.

On the sides of the square stood hastily constructed buildings, barracks made of rough wood, darkened by time and smoke. There lay the lives of the brutes, confined to a routine of exhausting work, with minimal breaks barely enough to recover their bodies. There was nothing beyond that. No true rest, no hope. Just identical, monotonous days until the wear and tear rendered them useless.

The wind carried with it a distant echo of clanking shackles and muffled moans, a constant murmur that seemed to be part of the very landscape. Jorge inhaled the air with delight, sensing the metallic mixture of mineral dust, sweat, and living flesh.

Alongside Yusuf, he walked through the compound, observing with interest the meticulous process of extracting the ketirita. On the mountainside, the galleries opened like the jaws of a beast devouring the rock. There were no reinforcements or supports: the hardness of the material allowed the tunnels to support themselves... except when they didn't. Collapses were inevitable, though rarely a cause for concern; there were always more slaves to replace those left buried.

Outside the galleries, crews of wildly naked brutes, covered in dust and sweat, smashed the extracted stones with metal hammers, striking with merciless and rhythmic cadence. The fragments were then sifted using special sieves that separated the ketirita flakes from the waste. Beyond that, machines roared, processing the mineral until pure ketirita was extracted.

Jorge checked with satisfaction that all slaves were completely shaved due to the harsh electrolisis treatment; their clean scalps and the total absence of hair, as well as their athletic build, made them look very similar to each other, something that thrilled their owner, who internally congratulated himself on the wisdom of his decision. The slaves worked in shifts of four hours, after which they were granted two hours of rest, just enough to allow them to ingest their food pellets and regain energy by dozing off before being returned to the stone; thus, they worked sixteen hours a day and replenished for eight. The quarry always had slaves on duty, keeping the activity alive without a single moment of cessation, neither day nor night. The veterinarians took care of stitching up the most serious wounds and determining if any of them needed to be removed from work temporarily, although that was rare: a brute that could still breathe could keep working.

Since these slaves had been acquired recently, their magnificent bodies were quite intact, although most appeared covered with a thick crust of dust adhering to sweat and, in many cases, dried blood. Despite that, Jorge found them beautiful in their suffering, in that mix of resistance and absolute submission.

He smiled, pleased. Accompanied by Yusuf and the bactani, he quickly toured the premises while hearing data and figures that actually did not interest him: he would look at the statistical graphs later; he was sure that with his scientific training, he would capture the information much better on paper than with such verbiage. But in the distance, the silhouette of an enormous empty stone wheel caught his attention.

—What is that, Yusuf? —he asked while pointing at it with a gesture.

—It is the wheel of pain, elí; it hasn't been used in some time, but it is still in good condition.

Jorge headed towards it immediately. When he arrived, he examined the artifact closely: a massive stone wheel crossed by eight large beams placed like spokes protruding from it. Each of these spokes had rings to hold two slaves by the wrists. At that hour, a relentless sun beat down on the area. Yusuf and the bactani waited attentively for any indication from Jorge, who asked the latter:

—Does moving the wheel achieve something practical? Does it serve any purpose?

The employee had a bit of trouble understanding the question; it was evident he did not know Spanish well, but Jorge wanted to hear the answer from his lips; after a few moments, he replied:

—No, elí, just pain for your power and pleasure.

At that moment, the sound of a kind of tuba marked a shift change, a group of exhausted slaves who had been breaking stones since morning made way for their relief and were preparing to receive pellets and recover before embarking on their new shift, eager to now have the two hours of rest; the veterinarian began to examine the outgoing slaves at their stall.

Jorge made his way toward the shack, aware of the impact his presence would have there. Indeed, as soon as he entered, the slaves immediately fell to their knees and bent forward until their foreheads touched the ground; the silence was so absolute that one could hear the flight of a fly. Through Yusuf, he ordered them to stand up; there would be about thirty of them. Among them, he selected the sixteen he considered the strongest, although all exhibited tremendous muscular development. He ordered that they be quickly cleaned and come to the wheel without their genital protectors; he moved ahead and was pleased to see they had placed a lounge chair just a couple of meters from the wheel; there he could undoubtedly enjoy the spectacle.

The bactani immediately instructed a clean slave to hold a huge, heavy fan that created excellent shade while moving the air; although it might seem like a light exercise, maintaining the wooden stick aloft and moving it very slowly to provide shade and create a gentle breeze quickly turned into a heavy and painful task, and his muscles tensed as much or more than with practices that seemed harsher. Furthermore, he had been forbidden to stop even for a moment, much less to set the pole on the ground to rest.

The slave felt deeply honored and proud to be serving directly his Master, something unimaginable for a mere brute. Jorge patted the man's pectorals before settling comfortably in the lounge chair; he first entertained himself by caressing and then hitting the poor slave's testicles and penis, checking that he remained unflappably focused on providing him with cool air; even when Jorge landed a tremendous punch directly to his balls, he only flinched momentarily and let out a brief complaint; but he continued his labor stoically.

After a while, the slaves arrived, and freed from the filth, they looked impressive. He instructed them to be told the following in their language: “Master Tharakos wishes to test the endurance of his slaves; however, he grants you the choice of being chained to the wheel and whipped to the limit or returning to the veterinarian now. Kiss his foot and march towards torment or return to the rest tent so another can replace you.”

Immediately, they all approached in line and kissed Jorge's foot, one after another; without hesitation, they headed toward the wooden masts, docilely placing their wrists inside the rings. Their naked bodies shimmered under the terrible sun, but Jorge’s strong erection was mostly provoked by that unanimous attitude he hadn’t expected. At a sign from Jorge, a vilicus secured the metal rings, imprisoning the slaves' wrists; he had ordered to whip using maximum force, wounding the skin until it bled. Under the slaves' feet, the ground was dirt spread with a layer of fine gravel with sharp edges that embedded into their hardened soles. To start the movement, they would need to press down heavily with their feet; they would soon bleed too. Jorge gestured for the rotation to begin, and the whip started to lash the backs of the slaves closest to the vilicus, who eagerly pushed with their beam to escape the pain; but this, of course, only left two new backs within reach of the spiked leather. Everyone tried to avoid their flesh burning as it tore, executing a painful dance from which no one could escape. It was a magnificent sight, the sweaty bodies gleamed and the wails of pain followed the crack of the whip. After they had made a few turns, Jorge called the bactani to give further orders.

—Call another vilicus, let them whip simultaneously; I want more speed on the wheel. And let them whip the butts too, not just the backs.

—Yes, elí, as you command —the little man said.

Soon the rotations resumed; incorporating another whip certainly resulted in the spins beginning to speed up.

After twenty minutes, the first slave fainted. On the wheel, everyone was bleeding profusely, and even the vilicus were sweating and gasping, exhausted; the smell of sweat and blood mixed was spectacular and very exciting for Jorge; soon more slaves began to fade, although they tried to regain themselves.

Their butts had a purplish hue due to the lashes and blood, and the vilicus kept punishing all, whether conscious or unconscious. Each slave that fell inert represented a dead weight for their companions to drag and less push; Jorge began to speculate about when the wheel would stop, which occurred when six slaves were already dragging and only ten were pushing. With the heavy stone stopped, the vilicus took to whipping only those left standing, thus managing to get the wheel to start and make two more agonizing turns, but then two more slaves fell, and Jorge realized it was impossible to continue. The master ordered that they carry all to the veterinarian to recover them if possible, and those who had not lost consciousness staggeringly kissed the master's foot, and were instructed by the bactani to say:

—Thank you, Master.

It was the first time they had spoke and touched their Master, and they would always recount it as something terrible and memorable.