23. Marks of slavery

Jorge was in very good spirits after the night session with the brute; he had finally fucked someone other than Álex. During breakfast, he remembered the detailed "service sheet" they had offered him at the Sunrut hotel... it seemed like it had happened in another life, but it was only a month ago. The thing is, he thought about piercing the brute slaves' nipples with welded steel rings. He wanted to do a test with one of them, observing closely the process and its result; he sent for Miceros to bring him the slave who had just been marked for that experiment, so he could also check on how the buttock mark looked.

The young man arrived accompanied by a vilicus; he limped from the pain of the iron and especially from his anal tear. He was still very handsome, although Jorge no longer looked at him with desire; instead, the slave trembled with excitement and joy. Through Miceros, he ordered the vilicus to show him how the piercing was done.

The vilicus had brought the necessary tools. He clamped the intact nipple of the slave and with an awl he penetrated it from below its apex; the iron went in and out through the flesh and the blood began to flow abundantly. With another conical pin it enlarged the hole and took an open metal ring so thick that Jorge didn't think it would fit through the newly made hole, but the flesh yielded to the skill and strength of the vilicus: the ring was inside, and it was so tight that the blood almost stopped flowing; the slave contained the pain with difficulty. With pliers, he closed the ring completely, and after Jorge moved away enough, he used a welder to permanently join the ends. The ring heated up a lot, but it was so thick that it didn't cause deep burns on the nipple, although it did cause quite a bit of pain. Immediately he repeated the operation with the other one; he had to be more skillful because this nipple was split by a whip, as Jorge had checked with delight. Finally, the slave was ringed, and received an injection in the buttock of a preventive antibiotic. Jorge checked that the rings no longer had openings, but he didn't dare to pull hard on them to avoid tearing the wounded nipples, although he would do it as soon as possible. He examined with attention the brand of the red-hot iron: a perfectly framed T within a circle. It must still hurt like hell, judging by how he trembled when he pressed and whipped the area; but the brute didn't dare to avoid the blows.

Jorge was impressed; the operation had lasted only fifteen minutes. He ordered that all the brutes in the house at that moment be brought in, and that the vilicus immediately ring them in his presence; there turned out to be twenty of them. He dictated a new law to Eukario:

—New order. All the strength slaves will be immediately ringed on the nipples with thick steel rings.

—Noted, elí. From now on it will be done right away, at the time of their depilation.

—Make sure they get it done immediately to the ones I own in the quarry and any other place.

—As you order, elí.

He greatly enjoyed this impromptu ceremony.

That day he had to present his recent acquisition: the three personal slaves bought at the bazok. His libido was appeased after the intensity of the previous night, but he knew that come nightfall he would celebrate the new company. Especially the brothers. Their symmetry and youth made him suspect they would be extremely useful in bed.

He settled into his chair and unfolded the newspaper of the day, enjoying the momentary illusion of normality. However, what they announced was not the arrival of his slaves, but something completely unexpected: the Very High Kamar Abumón and the Very High Lakua Asier had arrived at his house.

Jorge felt a slight shiver. In a hurry, he left the newspaper on the table and called Miceros. His casual attire was not suitable for receiving what were practically the highest rulers of the country, so he allowed his butler to arrange a tunic suitable for the occasion.

It was time for lunch. He ordered that the large dining table be prepared, with an exclusive setting for three. They were his honored guests, and even though everything indicated that the end was near, he would not give up prematurely. If everything was going to collapse, they would find him standing, not on his knees.

The newcomers had a grave, almost funereal air. After a brief and cold greeting, they took their seats. Jorge, in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere, offered them a carefully selected menu, exclusively based on Spanish cuisine.

—Dear friends, let me offer you a banquet worthy of the occasion: fresh salads, chicken broth, scrambled eggs, blood sausage croquettes, Manchego vegetable stew, cod a la pilpil, and, of course, lean potato omelets. I have all the chefs excited! —he joked with forced joviality, raising his glass.

Kamar nodded politely.

—Surely everything is delicious —he admitted, although his tone was neutral, lacking enthusiasm.

Lakua just smiled vaguely before picking up her glass.

They toasted with a sherry wine, raising their glasses to the future of Ketiris, although the words rang hollow.

Lakua was the first to break the uncomfortable silence:

—Where is Yusuf?

Jorge placed the glass on the table calmly.

—This morning he went to the quarry, making sure everything was in order. I imagine he must have returned by now. He could join us for lunch.

The two guests exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance, but Jorge caught it. Something was not right.

—Yes, it would be good for him to be here —Kamar conceded, deliberately speaking slowly. Then, without taking his eyes off Jorge, he added—: Tell me, Jorge, have you informed him about what was discussed in the Council?

Jorge felt a pang of alarm.

—Actually... no, the truth is —he admitted, choosing his words carefully—. I thought it was information that shouldn't be spread. Should I have told him?

Lakua inclined her head slightly, with the inscrutable expression of someone who already knows the answer.

—He's your right-hand man, as he was Benassur's —she said neutrally—. It wouldn't have been a bad idea to tell him. But regardless, we're going to explain it to him now.

The air had become heavy. Jorge felt that something in the conversation didn't add up, like a forced gear in a perfect machinery. Why were they really there? Why did their attitude remind him more of judges than allies?

Jorge immediately had Yusuf located. It didn't take him more than fifteen minutes to arrive, hastily and with the restless gesture of someone who had been summoned without warning. Just as he sat down, Kamar spoke, bluntly.

—Yusuf, you must know that a couple of days ago there was an attack on our interference system —he announced firmly—. We are certain that an Israeli group carried out the operation. They are probably still hiding somewhere in Alfar.

Yusuf's face lost color. His reaction was silent, but the rigidity of his posture gave him away.

—The method used already made us suspect it was Israeli technology —continued Kamar, observing him closely—. A corrosive agent activated with fluorine gas. The chemical reaction not only destroyed the device, but the entire surrounding structure. Even now we can't get close without risk. Impressive, don't you think?

Yusuf swallowed before responding.

—But... it could also have been the Russians. Or the Chinese. Even the Americans... —he ventured in a weak tone, as if testing the ground.

Lakua let out a brief laugh.

—No, dear —she said sharply but softly—. We found their boat with military gear. We believe there were three marines, maybe four. And certainly Israelis. There is no doubt.

The impact of those words seemed to shrink Yusuf in his seat.

—And now what? —he murmured, his voice barely a whisper—. Has the interference been restored? What will happen?

Kamar and Lakua exchanged a glance. It was Lakua who spoke.

—Luckily the interference has never stopped working —she announced with deliberate slowness, savoring the shock reflected in the faces of Jorge and Yusuf.

Jorge sat up in his chair.

—What do you mean it has never stopped working? At the Council you said something different!

Lakua held his gaze with a slight smile.

—Yes, dear, I did. It was painfully necessary.

She settled back in her seat before continuing.

—Look, after the attack a few months ago, I knew we had a traitor among us. Nobody believed me. But if my suspicions were true, a new attack was just a matter of time. And what did I do? I created a network protection system.

She paused, enjoying the perplexity in the eyes of Jorge and Yusuf.

—Now the interference works with nodes. Like the internet. If one node falls, the rest replaces it. It's virtually impossible to deactivate. But of course, I kept quiet. Because if the traitor acted again... I would catch them.

The ensuing silence weighed like a stone.

—At the Council meeting, we watched each of the attendees carefully. No one deviated from their role —Kamar assured calmly—. Everyone had to believe that the attack had been a success, because only then would the traitor reveal themselves... but it never happened.

—And now what? —Jorge asked, uneasily. —Do you no longer suspect me?

—You or anyone else will never be completely free from suspicion, until we catch the culprit —Lakua replied, with a look that brooked no arguments—. But you have to understand that if we are revealing all this to you, it's because we trust you.

—As soon as we noticed a node had fallen we set a trap to catch the culprits and started patrolling the nearby waters —continued Kamar, pointing with a firm hand—. We believe the marines have not had time to flee the country. Furthermore, we suspect they are hiding near Tauride. If we manage to find them, we'll discover many things... among them, who betrayed us.

—You're not going to inform the other owners of the estates that we are still protected and that there is no danger for now, are you? —Jorge wondered, with a hint of distrust.

—By now, all owners already know —Lakua smiled, hinting at a slight sarcasm—. Imagine how useful it would be for you if you could capture the three marines.

—I hope it happens like that. We'll be on high alert, and we'll inform our soldiers. Do you understand, Yusuf? —said Jorge, looking at his employee.

—Of course, elí. I'll be very careful. I'll take care of it personally.

Jorge enjoyed dinner with almost excessive pleasure, while in his mind a promise was brewing: to capture those three soldiers and crown himself as the savior of Ketiris in the next Council meeting. But, at the same time, something had changed in him. From that moment on, he became more suspicious, observing every detail with renewed distrust. He began to imagine, over and over, what would happen if the culprit, the traitor, turned out to be someone completely beyond suspicion. What if it were Lakua? Or Kamar? Could they both really be beyond all reasonable doubt? And the list didn't end there... Peyo Uriel and Kyrios Ngué, the owners of the estates bordering his, those who were so interested in meeting him on the first day at the bazok... and why not Yusuf, always apparently lacking in ambitions? Why not Eukario, with his innocent air? Or Miceros? Or Taruk? No, he couldn't continue with that spiral of suspicions, with that paranoid reasoning he wouldn't get anywhere. He would have to be very careful, mistrust everything and everyone. That was for sure.

However, dessert was a resounding success: a recipe he had prepared himself days ago in front of the astonished chef, so that he would learn to do it properly: honey-soaked French toast with milk, cinnamon, and lemon. Both Kamar and, especially, Lakua, made him promise that he would always offer them that delicacy.

The two landowners concluded their visit in the mid-afternoon, satisfied and relaxed after sharing an aromatic tea served in fine cut glass cups. The table, adorned with silver filigree, still preserved the sweet scent of honey and cinnamon from the French toast, whose presence had been zealously requested again with enthusiasm. The shadows of dusk began to creep into the room as Miceros approached Jorge with the cadence of someone bringing news worthy of savoring.

—Your slaves have arrived —he announced with a calm voice—. All three of them. Shaved, perfumed, and ready.

Jorge felt a different kind of heat kindle inside him, an anticipation that ran through his body like a pleasurable shiver. He remembered what they were like. The rebellious big guy rescued from his fate as a brute; the twenty-something twins, active and passive. Delicious. His forever.

—Taken directly to my bedchamber —he ordered calmly, although his pulse quickened with the mental image already forming in his mind.

Yusuf discreetly left, assuring him that the troops would be on high alert in case the fugitives came in sight. But Jorge barely heard his final words. His thoughts were already far removed from the external threat.

As he entered his bedroom, the reviewing voices immediately fell silent. The four slaves knelt with humility, their foreheads bowed to the ground, in a perfect image of reverence. Jorge observed them with satisfaction.

He allowed himself a moment to plan the night. He wasn't in a rush. The desire was there, vibrant, but he wanted to savor it calmly; he didn't need to possess all three that night. He was intrigued by the idea of trying the brothers, there was something fascinating about the symmetry of their bodies, the idea that those two boys, raised together, would now also share the duty of giving him pleasure.

Finally, he made a decision. He lay down on the bed, with the languor of someone who knows that the whole world revolves around their desire. With a calm but firm voice, he ordered:

—Let Victor and Nestor give me a four-handed massage.

Álex, always diligent, translated the order. The brothers reacted immediately, as if they were eagerly awaiting the chance to touch him. There were no questions, no doubts, just absolute obedience.

They glided onto the bed with grace, pouring scented oils into their hands before plunging them into their master's skin.

Their palms traversed his back with firmness, with the skill of those who had been trained in the art of massage. One concentrated on the feet, kneading them with devotion, while the other worked the shoulders and neck, pressing each point with precision.

The heat of their hands, the synchronized rhythm of their movements... Jorge felt his body yield to the pleasure of relaxation.

Gradually, the massage turned into a perfectly synchronized choreography. The brothers' hands descended and ascended in a sway that bordered on the sensual, but without rushing. Their fingers glided oils over his back, his buttocks, his arms... it was a worship of his skin, a celebration of his body.

At some point, his initial erection dissipated, but he didn't care. There was something superior in that moment of surrender.

When their bodies subtly hinted that he should turn over, Jorge didn't resist. He let them.

The slaves continued their work, skimming his chest, his sides, his thighs... saving the center of his desire for last, as if they knew that was a prize they hadn't won yet. The pleasure was absolute.

—Let Martin drink my milk —he ordered Álex, who immediately relayed the command.

Martin knew what he had to do, he had studied it, rehearsed with molds and plastic simulations. Finally, he was going to suck a cock. He approached the bed, occupied by three bodies, and humbly bowed down until his Master's glans was right under his nose. For a moment he remembered why he had run away from the training farm many years ago: precisely because he was repulsed by the idea of putting a penis in his mouth, even if it was a simulation. But everything changed when it came to his master's penis: his Master. He delicately licked the glans, pulling back the skin that covered it using only his tongue and lips; Jorge began to ignore the sensations of the hands massaging him and focused on the pleasure given by the thirty-year-old. His penis, not very large, disappeared engulfed inside Martin's throat, who managed to reach and caress the testicles with the open lower lip. The entire member was covered in saliva, and it slid frictionlessly in the young's cavity; Jorge began to pant in time with the blowjob, writhing with pleasure. The two twins stopped their massage shortly after, aware that their movements were interfering with their master's pleasure. Jorge pulled Martin to climb onto the bed, and hurriedly pulled his dick out of his mouth: he didn't want to come just yet. He barely managed to grab him by the hair and dragged his head up to his level.

Jorge was lying on his back on the bed, and Martin laid over him, their sexes in contact, their mouths in an endless struggle. The master inserted two fingers into the slave's ass, who allowed himself to be stretched to the maximum to make it easier to be fucked by his Master; he felt terribly guilty and deserving of the punishment that was about to come. As soon as Jorge felt his penis inside, he ordered Álex the same as before:

—Place the iron on him. Let it burn deep.

—Yes, Master —answered the Russian grabbing the brand carefully by its handle.

It was easy. Feeling the red-hot iron on the buttocks, the slave instinctively tried to lean forward, but advancing a few inches he could not continue; his butt would then press against the metal, which destroyed all layers of skin and permanently damaged the flesh, forming a permanent scar.

—Now, slave —ordered Álex. And he pushed with malice.

The scream shook the night.

Jorge didn't allow Álex to remove the iron until many seconds later, and then Martin writhed in desperation... the master's penis received a vigorous and unpredictable massage while the ass was extraordinarily lubricated by the extreme heat. The result was a unique pleasure.

Jorge emptied his seed into Martin and snapped his fingers for the brothers to clean off the remnants adhered to his penis; terrified by the omniscient power of his Master, both competed in humility and obedience to please him.

Finally Jorge lay down with one brother on each side. He ordered them to lick his body, and this way he fell into a deep sleep, overcome by the emotions of the day