22. Owner and lord

The first lights of dawn filtered through the mansion's windows, tinting the rumpled sheets where Jorge had spent a sleepless night in a pale golden hue. Outside, the world continued to turn with cruel indifference. His dream empire was crumbling, his dominion was falling apart, and with it, all the promises of a golden future.

He had been a fool. An idiot. For weeks he had intoxicated himself with the sensation of power, with luxury, with the illusion that this paradise was his. But the curtain had fallen, and behind the lavish scenery, only rubble remained. With the interference's failure, his enemies knew all the secrets of his world, and he, like a misplaced chess piece, could be swept away at any moment.

He might even lose his life.

That idea churned in his gut. He had heard stories about what happened to the defeated in these power games. He wouldn't be able to discreetly vanish with a kilo of gold in his pocket; he had nowhere to flee, and he didn't even retain his Spanish nationality. He was trapped. All those who had exuberantly bid him farewell the night before, those who had shown a moving unity, had cast him aside as if he were an intruder, a condemned usurper.

But with the daylight, he resolved that it was pointless to dwell on things. Everything was going to end... or not. It was useless to torture himself with when or how. There was only one certainty: the present. And as long as he had the present, he would do with it as he pleased. If his days were numbered, he wasn't going to spend them trembling in a corner; in fact, nothing and no one would prevent him from indulging one last time. He would go to the slave market and take a few; he would fuck them that very morning if he so wished. Surely among young submissives, his spirits would lift.

He called Yusuf after breakfast.

"Get the slaves hitched to the carriage; I’m heading to Tauride immediately. I’m going to buy slaves. Eukario should accompany me."

His steward bowed his head with the same unbreakable submission as ever.

"Yes, elí, as you command."

As his attendant disappeared to fulfill the order, Jorge gazed at the beautiful peaks that faded into blue in the distance. Outside, the morning breeze caressed the palm trees, and their elongated shadows blurred on the grass. He took a deep breath.

Yes. He would make the most of his time. And he would do it his way.

Jorge donned an extremely fine orange linen tunic, a garment so light it barely grazed his skin. It clung gently to his torso and, as he walked, opened in subtle undulations; on his feet, white leather sandals embraced his ankles elegantly; he looked at himself in the large mirror of his chamber and felt attractive. He had slept little, but his fatigue dissipated as soon as he felt the morning breeze and beheld the spectacle awaiting him.

In front of him, on the golden sand, the slaves awaited, chained in two rows of eight, their wrists bound by thick dark metal shackles. Their necks were also encircled by iron rings, marking their condition as absolute possessions. The vilicus, prostrated with his forehead to the ground, awaited orders from his master with the submission of a well-trained animal.

Jorge advanced slowly like a king inspecting his domain. His eyes traveled over each inch of flesh offered before him, stopping at the details that made those bodies worthy of his desire. All were young, with smooth skin and toned muscles. Their torsos were marked by effort and discipline, with firm pectorals rising and falling with the rhythm of their strained breath; their abdomens were a succession of planes and reliefs where the light played, delineating each fiber with almost obscene precision.

Jorge reached out his hand and traced his fingers over one of their collarbones, feeling the bone beneath the skin, the slight tremor that coursed down the slave's back at the contact. He followed down his chest, exploring the hardness of his muscles, the soft curvature of his pecs, and the slight resistance of his nipples, hardened by the morning's chill or perhaps by the tension of submission.

One of the slaves caught his attention above the others. His body seemed sculpted by the most rigorous of gods, a perfect harmony between strength and beauty. His shaved head gleamed in the sun's reflection, his shoulders were broad, and his back spread into a fan of defined muscles, crisscrossed by fresh scars. Jorge slid his fingers over those marks with a perverse pleasure, following each line with an almost loving attention.

"Beautiful scars..." he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

The slave dared not lift his gaze, but his breathing grew denser, more audible.

Jorge pinched one of his nipples with a measured pressure, enough to make the young man shudder.

"Mmm... responds well," he remarked with amusement.

He released the nipple and continued his exploration, tracing the curve of the back, descending down the narrow waist, to where the back dipped into two symmetrical grooves. His hands rested on the firm buttocks, kneading them slowly, feeling the smoothness of the skin and the contained strength of the beautiful rear; he smacked it with a loud slap.

The slave pressed his lips together, but his body betrayed his restraint with a slight arch, a minimal involuntary incline toward his master’s touch.

Jorge smiled, pleased. He stood up and, with a simple gesture, indicated that it was enough.

With a kick, he ordered the vilicus to climb onto the driver's seat. Then, with the same languid calm, he took his place in the carriage. His fingers played with the edge of the zayak before plunging it with a hard and prolonged pulse.

"Forward!"

The crack of the whip sliced through the air, and the caravan set off toward Tauride. As the carriage moved on, Jorge leaned back with languid pleasure, allowing the warm wind to glide over his skin. The music of the chains and the rhythmic sound of his slaves' bare feet reminded him, with each step, that he was still the owner of something beautiful in this crumbling world.

Once in the city and on his way to the bazok zunok, Jorge surrendered to the delight of the scene surrounding him. The bustle of the streets was intoxicating, a symphony of deep voices, hoarse laughter, and the clatter of sandals against stone. Life flowed with the carefree cadence of a market in full swing, and everything seemed to pulsate with an energy that only men could breathe into it.

Not a single woman was in sight. There might be some hidden inside the houses, behind drawn curtains and rooms barred to public pleasure, but the truth was that everything in sight belonged to men. His eyes wandered over bronzed skin, over the naked torsos of workers hauling goods, over slaves waiting alongside litters with the docility of well-tamed beasts. He couldn't imagine anything more beautiful or perfect.

The carriage moved over the cobblestones with cheerful lightness, adapting its rhythm to the city's traffic. Around him, carts pulled by robust oxen advanced with their unwavering tranquility, while naked slaves drove small loading platforms on foot. Jorge allowed himself a satisfied smile as he watched his own slaves, those pulling his vehicle, sink their bare feet into the dirt of the street. The stone surface was mostly clear thanks to the tireless work of cleaning brigades, but the reality of a bustling city couldn't be entirely hidden: the droppings of horses and mules formed little viscous traps where feet slipped and got smeared without remedy.

The air smelled of spices and sweat, of tanned leather and roasted meat from the food stalls. And, above all, the penetrating aroma of horse dung floated, an unmistakable organic perfume that permeated every corner. Jorge, far from finding it unpleasant, considered it part of the city's charm, the stamp of authenticity of a world that had not yet been tainted by the absurd modesty of cleanliness.

He pulled a very fine handkerchief soaked in sandalwood from his tunic and brought it to his nose, inhaling with delight. His lips curved into a languid smile.

"Yes..." he murmured to himself, feeling an inexplicable pleasure—"Everything is perfect."

And with that certainty, he continued his advance toward the bazok zunok, the heart of the city and the goal of his longing. He was greeted by the same bactani from his first visit; a small, attentive figure, dressed in a pristine tunic and sporting a helpful smile that never seemed to entirely fade. It was curious how everything remained the same when only a breath separated civilization from its absolute collapse. But the news of the anomaly's failure was still unknown among the populace, and life in Tauride flowed with the same illusory stillness as always.

However, Jorge knew the truth. And that made the city’s spectacle—its order and apparent stability—seem all the more delicious. He walked through a world of men, a universe of bare skin and submitted bodies, and soon he would acquire what he desired.

"Good morning, elí," the bactani greeted him with his characteristic pronunciation.

"Good morning. I'm interested in buying a personal slave."

"Of course, elí, of course..."

Jorge barely listened to him. His eyes were already scanning the path he knew from his first visit. At that time, he had only explored the first of the four sections of the personal slave market. Now, he wanted to see them all.

"Eukario, come with me. Can you handle wrapping up the purchases I indicate?"

"Of course, elí; I have your written authorization to carry out all the paperwork. I will also ensure that the slaves I buy are taken to the house and presented before you as ordered, suitably depilated."

Jorge smiled. His interpreter's efficient obedience was a pleasure in itself. Very few people wandered through the bazok at that moment, many fewer than on Jorge's first visit, which felt pleasantly comfortable.

He moved toward the fourth section, where he only found a couple of forty-year-old slaves who barely earned a glance. They were nothing interesting. He continued on to section three, without too many expectations, but there his attention was immediately captured.

For sale was a slave of imposing physique. He had neither the languid beauty of an ephebe nor the delicacy of a submissive trained for pleasure, but there was something in his bearing that captivated. He looked almost like a brute, an animal carved from muscle and fiber, standing nearly two meters tall, with a presence so fierce that it seemed impossible he was for sale as a personal slave. He had quite a bit of body hair, though not too dark, and his genitals hung with proud weight between his firm thighs.

Jorge ran his gaze over his body, noticing the tension in his jaw, the powerful arc of his back, the way his shoulders remained rigid, as if he still struggled to fully yield. His dark nipples hardened as Jorge touched them, and the marks of old punishments etched into his skin testified to his rare history. Scars from whips, even if nearly invisible?

Intrigued, he reviewed his file. Thirty-two years old. He had never had an owner.

Jorge raised an eyebrow. That was almost unheard of.

"You've never had a master?" he asked, his voice laden with curiosity.

Eukario translated the question into ketirí, and the slave answered immediately, with his head bowed.

"No, elí."

"Why not? Aren't you a bit too old to be for sale for the first time?"

There was a pause. The slave swallowed hard before responding.

"I have not responded well to the soma until now, elí. My instructors could not sell me before. But if I am not bought immediately, I will be classified and sold as a strong slave. It is what I deserve, elí."

Jorge sensed something in his tone. A hint of desperation?

"Aren't you docile?"

"Now I am, elí. But I tried to escape years ago. I was punished. I was re-educated. I have received special soma treatment, but no elí has wanted to take me. Thank you for speaking with me, elí."

Jorge stared intently at him. He analyzed him. His eyes roamed over his marked skin, his perfect musculature, his expression a mixture of submission and pride.

"I’ll buy him."

Eukario blinked, surprised, but did not reply. Inside, he would never have chosen such a slave for his master. But orders were not to be questioned, let alone debated.

The slave, upon knowing through Eukario that he was being bought, immediately fell to his knees. His eyes watered, but he did not dare to cry fully. He also did not dare to touch his master.

Jorge enjoyed the spectacle. He allowed himself a moment to revel in the image: that of such a large, strong man diminishing before him, submitting with desperate pleasure.

Encouraged by what he had just done, Jorge entered the second room. The atmosphere there was almost sacred. The naked bodies, exposed in narrow stalls, lined up like Greek statues in their niches, perfect in their symmetry, in the softness of their muscles, in the shiny polish of their carefully treated skin. There were thirty in total, each more beautiful than the last, designed for contemplation and delight.

Jorge slowly surveyed the scene, enjoying the sensation of being the absolute center of attention. All the slaves gazed at the ground with contained longing, suppressing their forbidden desire to lift their eyes. He stopped before one who, according to his file, knew how to speak Spanish. The young man swallowed and slightly parted his lips, as if awaiting instructions.

"What is your name?"

"Elí, my name is whatever you wish to give me, elí."

A pleasurable shiver ran through Jorge. That answer was the only correct one. But he was struck by the familiarity with which the slave addressed him; he asked Eukario.

"Why does he address me so informally?"

"Slaves do not use rules meant for people, elí. They know how to speak, but they do so directly, like children. If it bothers you, they can be ordered otherwise."

"No, no, it was something that intrigued me; it seems natural to me. Just as they do not use utensils or clothing, of course," Jorge reflected.

"What a pity that all this order of things is going to be lost forever," he thought.

The files listed the physical characteristics of the slave and certified their good health, specifying vaccinations and analytical data; they also mentioned the languages spoken, training in massages, sweetness of character, flexibility, agility, capability for dance, sexual skill...

If asked directly, this last quality was what they most emphasized; almost all spoke proudly of their training to procure pleasure. Their former owners had documented their talents in writing: excellent in bed, obedient, unreservedly devoted, special skill with the tongue, submissive but proactive...

Jorge felt a pang of disdain. Those judgments told him nothing; they were the preferences of other men, not his own. And the idea that those bodies had passed from hand to hand, used until their owners grew tired of them, was frankly unpleasant; it was evident that he did not share the general custom of ketirí masters.

He stopped before one of them, a young man with a brown complexion and lively eyes, who kept his gaze lowered with discipline, but whose trembling fingers betrayed his hope.

"Why did your master let you go?" he asked without emotion.

The slave instinctively bowed slightly, just a few centimeters, but enough to show his absolute devotion.

"My previous owner used me for almost eight months, elí. Then he grew tired of me and had me sold; but he was very satisfied with me, elí."

The tone was one of timid pride, almost as if he awaited a gesture of approval from Jorge. Eight months. And now he was back, waiting for the next. Jorge looked at his file coldly. His last master had been Peyo Uriel, whom he remembered perfectly; a man of capricious tastes, who had been at the tumultuous meeting the night before. The slave seemed proud of the time he had served. Jorge noticed a nuance of competition, almost as if he expected his response to make him more desirable.

But what truly caught his attention was the price; until now, he had not focused on that.

"Eukario, have slave prices gone up? I thought their value was fixed."

Eukario shook his head.

"There has been no increase, elí. It happens that the standard price is for new slaves, those who have not yet had a master. When a slave is returned to the bazok, the State buys them back at that price—now it’s ten talents—but then puts them up for sale with a higher margin. The longer they have been owned, the more they are worth. Education under a master improves them; and it is only fair that the State benefits."

Jorge twisted his expression.

"This particular slave, elí, has had several owners already; the last was Peyo Uriel, but he was the third to possess him. That is why his price is higher than ten talents."

Third. Jorge set the file down with indifference. He was not interested. None of them interested him.

The slave bit his lip, and a slight tremor in his knees betrayed his contained disappointment. He dared not protest, nor look him directly in the eye, but his rapid breathing betrayed him. Jorge remained unmoved.

"And what happens if no one buys them?"

Eukario shrugged, with an almost mechanical indifference.

"It is considered a failure of the system. If a personal slave spends a year on sale without a buyer, they are sent to hard labor. But it is very rare for that to happen."

The slave shuddered. For the first time, his eyes rose slightly, shining with sudden, mute panic.

"In fact, the slave you bought earlier was about to be sent to the brute section, elí. In a week, they would have condemned him to that. If a slave is not sold, it is the slave's fault, and they are made to pay for it."

Jorge smiled to himself. The more he learned about the system, the more he liked it.

That revelation made his recent purchase even more pleasurable. He had snatched a slave from the abyss at the last moment. Now he belonged to him completely.

The slave before him pressed his lips tightly, suppressing an involuntary sob. His body leaned slightly as if still holding on to a last hope of being chosen. Jorge did not look at him again; he was not worth it. All the slaves in the second room had been touched; all had served others, which automatically made them useless to him.

With some annoyance, he moved toward the first section. He already knew it from his first visit. Had any new ones come in? If he didn't find what he was looking for... well... he could always settle for what he had already acquired. The truth was that he was dying to try it out.

In the first section, most of the boys for sale were novices: virgins; at least that made them candidates. Some were very young, barely of acceptable ages, and they even looked younger than their files indicated. Jorge smiled. Here, at last, was something worth having. He recognized some of the boys he had seen before, but there were others new. Instead, he missed the slave who spoke Spanish with whom he had conversed; he imagined he would have been sold.

He liked two boys around twenty years old who were for sale, one next to the other: both were harmoniously muscular, with beautiful round chests, average-sized genitals, and rounded booties, and very fair skin. They also had little body hair and honey-colored eyes. Jorge was trying to decide which one he liked more and decided to check each one's file; the first spoke languages (Hindi, English, Arabic), was a good conversationalist, skilled in household tasks and very willing in bed, his aptitude for oral sex and his qualities as a passive were most notable. The second spoke the same languages, gave excellent massages, was a great athlete and dancer, and as a lover in the active role, he excelled in bed. Although Jorge was entirely active, and thus the first was a better fit for his practices, he fantasized about being penetrated by the second; after all, given the size of his not excessively large penis, it invited such an experience, especially now, when it was precisely the time and circumstance to try any sexual pleasure. So he couldn't decide. He made the choice to speak with them through Eukario.

"Why should I buy you instead of the slave next to you?"

The first, with eyes sparkling with excitement and body tense like a bow, answered without hesitation:

"Oh, elí... I'm very sweet and devoted, I will make you very happy. I will belong to you with every breath of my being. I will beg every day for your gaze, for your touch, for any desire you wish to fulfill in me."

Jorge caressed his unblemished skin with his gaze, the softness of his slightly parted mouth in trembling breath.

"Would you like to be whipped?"

"Oh, yes, elí, I wish you were my Master. I beg you to whip me; I desire to feel your strength, I want to know that I please you. My only pleasure is giving it to you; my only desire is to adore you, to live for you, to serve you in everything you wish, without questions or doubts."

Jorge felt an immediate erection... but wanted to give the second one a chance; he asked him the same thing and listened to his response.

"Elí, take me. I am strong and resilient. I will obey you blindly and love you madly. I do not exist without a master, I do not know how to breathe without receiving orders."

"Would you like to be whipped?"

The slave lowered his gaze and swallowed hard, his chest heaving rapidly.

"I do not like it, elí, I am very afraid of pain... but if you command it, I will accept every blow with gratitude. I will suffer for you, I will cry for you, I will scream just to please you. If it pleases you or excites you to do so, then I will be happy feeling it. There is nothing I wish more than to give you my body and my will."

"Will you love me?"

The second slave knelt without hesitation and pressed his forehead to the ground, trembling with emotion.

"I already love you, elí. Give me the opportunity to prove it. I am yours even if you do not choose me, even if you never possess me, even if you never look at me again. I am nothing without a master. I do not want to be anything without you."

Both were undoubtedly well-trained. They were different, yes, but... at the same time, so alike! He checked the exact dates and places of birth... they were identical. Then he had a suspicion.

"Are you brothers?"

"Yes, elí, we are twins," they replied simultaneously.

They were certainly not identical, but of course, that accounted for their many things in common. Now Jorge was clear: brothers and virgins. They had to be his.

"I’ll buy both of them."

He burned with desire to have these three young men in his bed and break away from the familiar monotony of Álex. He needed it, and he needed it soon. He left the area, feeling impatience seething within him, and urged Eukario.

"Have them brought to my house immediately. Will they be ready today?"

The attendant, mindful of his master's urgency, bowed with submission, carefully choosing his words to avoid displeasing him.

"No, elí, it is not possible. I will now proceed with the purchase paperwork, which will be a little more complicated since the bazok is not open for registrations."

Jorge frowned.

"But he practically belongs to me!"

"Yes, elí," Eukario said humbly, daring not to raise his gaze; "but the procedures are inevitable; even if it were the hegemon, the process would be the same. And also, there is the process of depilation by electrolysis, which will take several hours. Between that, the paperwork, and the veterinary review, you will not have them in the big house before noon tomorrow, and that’s pushing it to the maximum."

Jorge exhaled slowly, controlling his impatience. He did not want to appear anxious.

"I understand. You know we do not know how much time we have left before... well, before anything happens; that is why I am in such a hurry. But if we must wait, so be it. I just ask that the waiting time be minimal."

"I understand very well, elí. And I will do everything possible to please you."

Jorge left the building after receiving the bactani’s blessings for his purchase. He also promised that he would expedite the processes to have his new slaves reach the grand house of Tauride as soon as possible.

Aboard the carriage, he reclined comfortably and took hold of the zayak in his hands. With delight, he traced its feel between his fingers while his eyes were caught by the view of the brutes pulling the carriage. One of them, the one he had caressed before leaving for Tauride, had an imposing body, sculpted from servitude, a machine of flesh and obedience. His broad back, glistening with sweat, moved with a delicious cadence as they advanced. Jorge compensated for his frustration by cruelly pressing the zayak: the carriage sped at maximum speed, and the vilicus howled in pain from his scorched testicles. The stones punished the bare feet, reddened and filthy with dust from the road, but Jorge's preferred brute did not falter. Every muscle in his body responded with dedication, with a steadfast will to submit, to serve. Jorge repeatedly pressed the zayak with all his strength.

The sway of his rounded, powerful buttocks seemed to beg him with every jolt of the march.

He couldn’t help but smile.

Then he remembered that he had ordered a branding iron for slaves with the initial of his house. The thought made him shiver. It was time to use it.

When he arrived home, he called for Yusuf.

"Good afternoon, elí. I hope you had a good purchase at the bazok, as you wished."

"Yes, dear friend. Three personal slaves will soon join the household. I hope you managed the estate without any trouble during my absence."

"There was no problem, elí," Yusuf replied with a bow.

Jorge looked at him intently.

"I want to ask you some questions, and I would like clear answers."

"I will give them to you, elí," the attendant assured.

Jorge approached slowly, savoring the moment, feeling the power of his words before speaking them.

"I have taken a fancy to one of the brutes dragging the carriage, and I want him in my bed tonight. Is there any risk in that? Or any prohibition?"

Yusuf smiled respectfully, barely bowing his head.

"Nothing is forbidden to an elí with his slaves. And what you will do will be a great honor for him."

Jorge toyed with the ring on his finger, as if weighing his next declaration.

"I want to brand him. I want to do it right at the moment I penetrate him and spill my seed inside him."

Yusuf lowered his head with a slight glimmer of envy in his dark eyes.

"It is a grand gesture, elí. By branding a slave, whether brute or personal, you seal his fate. He will not be able to be sold again. He will be yours forever."

Jorge smiled. That was how it should be.

"I did not know that. Perfect. Tell me, then, if he cannot be sold, what will happen to him if I die?"

"He would be sacrificed immediately. Slaughtered. It is the highest fate of any slave."

Jorge nodded, pleased by the solemnity of the destiny that awaited his new possession.

"And the language won’t be a barrier? I would like to be alone with him, but I do not want to take any risks."

"As for the language, do not worry, elí. He will serve you with all his senses ready to obey in whatever manner you command. And regarding his safety, he should fear nothing; he would let himself be killed by your hand without opposing a muscle. His entire life has been prepared for servitude, and the brutes are completely imbued with soma. He won't even hesitate."

Yusuf paused briefly before continuing.

"I will give the appropriate orders to have a brazier brought to your chamber if that is where you wish to brand him. Who commands the branding?"

Jorge tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Well... I was thinking of doing it myself," he improvised, although he hadn’t really thought the matter through.

Yusuf nodded respectfully, but his tone took on a slight persuasion.

"As you wish, elí, but I advise that at that moment you enjoy the jolts the brute will make. It might be more practical for him to be restrained and for another slave to apply the iron. A vilicus, for example."

Jorge pondered for a few seconds.

"The restraint sounds good. And Alex could apply the iron, right?"

"Yes, of course, elí. In reality, it is very simple: just wait until the iron is completely red hot and then press it firmly against the buttock. An instant is enough, although it would be better to hold it there for a few seconds so that the mark is deep."

Jorge smiled, savoring the idea.

"Then locate the slave. Let the vilicus tell you who he is; I caressed him before leaving for Tauride. And make sure everything is ready in my room as we discussed. Tonight, I will have my fun."

He spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the sun to set, feeling delicious anticipation with every passing minute for what was to come.

He dined lightly and, after bathing, checked the bedroom with an almost ritual calm. Everything must be ready for the night. The enormous brazier under the open window crackled with a reddish glow, casting shadows on the walls with every spark that erupted. Among the embers, the branding iron waited, submerged in the glow, the long wooden handle peeking out like a scepter of dominance. In a little while, it would shine like the sun at its zenith, ready to seal his possession over the flesh of the beautiful brute he planned to enjoy all night long.

Near the bed, a heavy stockade of wood and metal awaited its purpose. Three openings in its structure would capture the slave's neck and wrists, ensuring his total defenselessness. It had taken two vilici to place it in position, but now it was firmly anchored to the ground, immobile as an altar. Jorge surveyed the room with satisfaction. Everything was in its place.

Álex, always attentive, approached as soon as his master entered. He knelt with the reverence of one expecting nothing more than to serve, and, with his lips brushing against the skin of Jorge's bare feet, whispered devotionally:

"I am your slave."

But Jorge did not pay him any attention. He knew that Álex had seen the preparations and understood the flicker of anxiety that vibrated in his pupils; he mistakenly believed that all of this was for him. Jorge smiled briefly, condescending, observing him leisurely. Álex wanted to say something, but, as a well-trained slave, he did not dare interrupt his master's thoughts without permission.

"What is it, slave?" his master asked, with a gesture of understanding, enjoying his unease.

Álex bowed even lower, his lips glued to the ground.

"Master... thank you, Master."

Poor idiot, he thanked him thinking he was invited to the party that night. Jorge took note once more of the perfection of the Russian, that homophobic tough guy, once proud and defiant, now reduced to utter servitude, marked for life with five scars proclaiming his fate, forever chained to the desires of his Master.

He had considered keeping him out of the bedroom and only calling him when he needed to apply the hot iron to the brute, but he thought better of it. It would be infinitely more humiliating to make him witness everything. To see, without the right to touch or be touched, how he took possession of the body of the new young man, fresh meat that would elevate the bar of pleasure. Perhaps afterwards he would not even deserve to remain in the grand house. Why not send him with the brutes as well? Let him share in the fate of those load animals who were nothing more than muscles and obedience.

Jorge dismissed that thought for now. There were more immediate pleasures to attend to.

Without any shame, he evacuated his bowels before Álex. He did not do it with indifference, but with a hint of disdain, as one who reminds a slave of his true place.

"Clean it. With your tongue."

Álex did not hesitate. He knew what that order meant. Every time he slipped his tongue into his master's anus, every time he devotedly traversed the dirty skin, Jorge felt disgust for him. Absolute disgust, revulsion; he would push him away from his bed after kicking him in the balls.

He knelt reverently and slid his tongue with a sweetness that bordered on the mystical. He did not think of the dirt or the humiliation. Just the contact, the intimacy, the opportunity to serve. His tongue worked slowly, meticulously, tracing every crease with patience, dedication, as if his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. Every second spent in contact with his Master was a gift.

The hardness of the ground marked his knees, but he barely noticed it. His hands, submissively resting on Jorge's thighs, trembled slightly, not out of fear, but from excitement. He was doing well. He knew that. And if his Master reacted with disdain, if he pushed him away with a grimace of contempt, if he slapped him with a sharp crack of the hand on his cheek or with the sole of his foot on his chest, then… then he would have achieved something even more sublime. Because any reaction from his Master was better than indifference.

When he finished his task, his tongue still warm and numb, he withdrew with his head lowered, awaiting the verdict. He felt the moisture between his legs, his body responding on its own to the contact, to the act, even if it was not desired, even if it did not matter. But Jorge paid him no further attention.

The Russian stood up without protesting, fully aware that his Master would not use him that night. And Álex, dead from the pain, knelt in the bathroom alone, performing the gesture of opening his legs and arching, presenting his defenseless testicles to nowhere, and bitterly cried over the absence of that intense pain that he was not to experience this time. He understood that the aromatic preparations, the stockade, the brazier, the red-hot iron... were not for him. Tonight there was new flesh. And he, Álex, was just another piece of furniture in the room.

In these weeks, Álex's mind had changed irrevocably. It was not only the soma that was molding him; it was he himself who, in his attempt to deceive the lie detection systems, had opened the door to his own destruction. He had envisioned himself in love. He had pictured himself as the perfect slave, devoted, surrendered, submissive. And soma, with its ruthless power, had frozen those feelings, had crystallized and amplified them to infinity.

The hatred of his past still slept somewhere in his mind, but overwhelming love for his Master stifled it with ease.

He loved him.

He loved him with the unshakable certainty of a fanatic, with the overflowing passion of a believer before his god.

His happiness was his only goal, his only purpose.

Every order he received was pure ecstasy.

Every blow, a revelation.

Every whip strike, a blessing.

Being touched, kissed, possessed... the pinnacle of happiness.

But nothing, nothing surpassed the absolute fulfillment of feeling his Master climax. And for it to happen while he was being whipped, while he was being punished, while Jorge inflicted the most intense pain upon him, was a privilege as absolute as when he granted him the sweetest caress.

He would give anything for that bliss.

The air he breathed.

The blood from his veins.

Anything.

Miceros, the steward, appeared somewhat discreetly in the bedroom.

"Elí, the brute you ordered to bring is ready. Do you want him to be presented?"

Jorge felt a slight shiver run down his spine. He held his breath. He was aware that this slave was different from Álex: a beast of flesh and muscle, trained to drag the carriage with a naked body, marked by the whip and obedience. He had imagined this moment many times, but now that it was about to happen, the eagerness to dominate him mingled with the respect that the contained power instills.

"Yes, let him come," he said in a firm voice, though he tried to disguise the fact that his heart was pounding—"You can withdraw."

Miceros bowed his head and disappeared without a sound.

Jorge took a deep breath.

The slave entered the room. He moved with a heavy but contained step, in a way that denoted effort to seem docile. He was completely naked, without the genital restrainer. His skin had a uniform tanned tone, with the whitish marks of hardly noticeable scars over the perfect smoothness left by electrolysis. Not a single hair remained on his body, which made his musculature stand out even more, almost exaggerated.

A meter away, he knelt with a clumsy movement, as if he were not accustomed to delicacy. He crossed his hands behind his back and, after a moment of doubt, kissed Jorge's feet.

Jorge felt a shiver.

It was not just the gesture. It was the way the slave had hesitated before doing it, the way his immense chest had expanded as he took a breath before insecurely pronouncing the newly learned phrase:

"Master, I am your slave."

The voice was deep, vibrant, but there was something in it, a barely perceptible hint of vulnerability.

Jorge stood up calmly, ensuring his posture conveyed absolute control. He grabbed the slave's arm and pulled him firmly.

He rose immediately, although his movement was somewhat stiff, as if he feared doing it too quickly or too slowly. Instinctively, he adopted an examination posture, with hands crossed behind his back and feet apart. His gaze was lowered, but Jorge noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard.

His body was impressive. The depilation had left his skin like polished marble, and every muscle was exquisitely defined.

His face was beautiful, almost inhuman in its perfection: dark, large, slanted eyes, expressionless but vibrant; high cheekbones, a strong jaw, thick lips. His shaved skull enhanced the impeccable geometry of his face.

His neck was thick, strong, like that of a bull, but what stood out most were his shoulders and arms, monumental, as if they had been sculpted to carry weight their entire lives. The right shoulder showed a deep mark, almost healed, left from the litter used to carry him in Asier.

Jorge traced his fingers down the slave’s torso, outlining the fine scars crossing his skin, remnants of the whip he had felt while pulling the carriage. He noticed that the slave held his breath when his hands grazed the most recent one, still slightly reddened.

He liked it.

His chest was so perfect it seemed the work of a sculptor, and the right nipple was split in two by an obvious lash mark. Jorge pressed it between his fingers with curiosity.

The slave shuddered. A barely perceptible tremor coursed through his abdomen; his breathing became more irregular, but he made no move to pull away or protest.

His gaze descended to his belly. Every muscle was marked with absolute perfection, down to the large, deep belly button that looked like a button waiting to be pressed.

And then there were the legs. They were pure power. Huge, taut, a display of contained strength.

And his ass... Jorge passed both hands over his glutes and squeezed. Hard as rock.

He was a slave born for endurance, but there was an implicit delicacy in his submission, a surrender that made him all the more attractive.

However, when he glanced down at his feet, he noticed the difference. They were hardened, rough, deformed from the traction, with visible calluses on the heels and the skin darkened from constant friction against the ground. Jorge touched them with his own, and the slave seemed to shrink by a millimeter, as if that imperfection embarrassed him.

Jorge pondered the beauty before him, and how the cruel marks left by the carriage, the litter, and the whip were not tarnishing that body but adding to its allure.

Then he remembered Álex. His Russian was whimpering in the bathroom, abandoned, relegated to a secondary role. Jorge felt a pang of amusement.

"Come here and watch how we love each other, slave," he commanded, addressing Álex.

Álex's sobs intensified for a moment before he obeyed. He appeared in the room with red eyes, trembling lips, and a body tense with distress.

He positioned himself very close, almost adjacent, close enough to feel his Master's warmth, far enough away for his presence not to matter. Tears flowed freely down his face; and yet, his voice came out firm, clear, as if it were the only absolute truth in the universe.

"Yes, Master. I am your slave."

Then Jorge grabbed the brute by the balls with one hand and placed the other on the back of his neck, making him lower his head, as he was quite a bit taller than him. And he kissed him. The slave had never felt the softness of another's lips on his own, nor the tingle of a tongue penetrating his oral cavity. He was unprepared for such ecstasy; all his bodily strength evaporated instantly, and he felt deliciously dizzy; he could not explain how he was still standing. He knew then, for the first time in his life, what pleasure was. Jorge noticed that the penis he was gripping with his hand began to harden, and far from getting angry about it, he began to massage it vigorously while increasing the intensity of his kiss; he also had an erection, but the brute's was incomparably more urgent. They had been kissing for barely a minute when a stream of milk shot onto Jorge's hand. The brute, though ignorant of everything regarding sex, immediately felt he had committed something unforgivable, and fell to his knees while crying like a child with his face to the ground.

Jorge knew a slave could not climax without permission, much less before his master, but he felt so flattered by the slave's lack of control that he did not want to punish him at that moment. He smiled and ordered Álex:

" lick it, slave," extending his cum-soaked hand.

Álex prepared to do so, glad to at least participate in this way and be of use; but his relief ended when he received the next order.

"And clean the other slave with your tongue."

Álex felt his soul breaking; but he did it.

Jorge gently lifted the slave from the floor as he completely undressed, letting the garment he wore fall onto the carpet. He led the brute to his well-padded bed and laid him in the center; the slave still trembled, lying rigidly on his back, his chest rising and falling in barely contained sobs. Jorge lay down on top of him, his sex pressed against that of the brute, his hands greedily and uncontrollably roaming over the fleshy landscape over which he rested. He noticed that the slave did not attempt to change position, no matter how much he dug his knees into him or crushed his balls with his maneuvers; he only whispered again:

"Master, I am your slave."

And Jorge went wild with desire.

He kissed him frantically. Instinctively, his hand sought the slave's anal cavity, and the slave responded immediately by lifting his pelvis slightly to make it easier for him to reach. He thrust two fingers inside him without lubrication or warning, and the brute felt the penetration in his virgin ass with pain and pride—those were his Master's fingers! Almost immediately, he became hard again. Jorge was also tremendously excited. A mere slight physical indication from him made the slave turn, bend over, lean in, always attentive to the slightest suggestion. He flipped him onto his stomach. Once again, he humiliated Álex, relegated to mere spectator, to bring him anything he could think of.

"The dildo," he impatiently requested.

Álex brought what the Master asked, feeling inevitably how his anus trembled automatically in an inevitable reflex, giving him a bitter sensation of absence.

Jorge thrust the dildo into the slave's ass and enjoyed watching him writhe in pain. It was curious. He could endure lashes and grueling efforts unmoved, but he was not trained to control anal pain. Wonderful.

He used a metal whip, the most painful, and lashed the slave's ass in cruel bursts alternating with passionate kisses: he was driving the slave insane. He no longer allowed him to cum again; he grabbed his penis when he felt it pulsing forcefully and shaking his head as he looked him in the eye; his Master's direct gaze and his unmistakable gesture of reproach produced the slave's automatic inhibition, causing him to lose his erection for the moment. At other times, he directly struck his testicles, which he found difficult not to defend with his hands, nor by changing position; this delighted Jorge. On the other hand, he did cum twice: once in the slave's mouth, who eagerly swallowed the semen with grateful submission, and another in the crack of his ass but without true penetration. After that second time, the master knew he would have to wait a few hours before achieving a good erection... in fact, at sixty-five years of age, cumming three times in one night was quite the feat.

But that third time was going to be memorable. He let time pass in delicious moments, sometimes dozing off, sometimes engaging in gentle amorous maneuvers, kissing each other’s lips, caressing, riding the slave throughout the room like an obedient mount.

Jorge had drifted into sleep when a gust of cool wind jolted him out of his stupor. A protective arm wrapped around his chest, and the image of the bed was that of two tender lovers resting from their amorous contest; attentive eyes would have noticed unmistakable marks on one of their bodies, and remnants of semen, sweat, and blood among the rumpled sheets. It was time for the final pleasure.

With a precise knee strike, Jorge lifted the brute from the bed. He led him by the hand to the stockade that awaited nearby and indicated with gestures for him to position himself in it. The slave obediently bent at the waist, placing his neck and hands in the prepared places for receiving them; with a swift motion, Jorge turned a metal clasp on them, locking them into place with fasteners. The enormous weight of the furniture prevented the one trapped in it from stirring appreciably. At that moment, the brute was the only one unaware why and for what purpose he was restrained.

Jorge wanted to have everything perfectly set. He started by thrusting the dildo into the slave's ass to ensure it was suitably dilated; this time he did not stop halfway, as he had done before, but pushed it completely inside. Since it had a conical shape, the slave's ass opened so wide that a fist would fit perfectly inside; the slave felt