25. Harem

—Eat my ass, slave —ordered Jorge, with that calm certainty he had learned to use with them.

It was three in the morning, and after sleeping peacefully for a few hours, the master had woken up wanting to be served and pleased.

—Yes, Master —responded Víctor, bowing devotedly over his skin. His tongue began its task skillfully, tracing the path learned with submissive eagerness. Jorge sighed and buried his face in the mattress, letting himself be adored without hurry, feeling the warm, wet heat of that mouth working with the precision of a devotee in his ritual.

"It's incredible how quickly you learn to serve me."

During the moments when they were free of orders, the slaves tried to learn as much as possible from Álex.

—Yes, Master —whispered Víctor, barely parting his lips for a moment, not fully understanding what his owner was telling him, but without it mattering.

The three new slaves slept on the floor, by his feet, but with one eye open in case their services were needed; they couldn't remain asleep if the Master was awake.

Jorge smiled. He knew the twins competed for his favor. He could tell by every sidelong glance, every controlled gesture, the precision with which they carried out his orders, as if submission was a race in which one could not afford to fall behind. This silent struggle amused him and pleased him equally. He had not yet fucked any of the three.

He raised his hand and with a slight motion called Álex, who obeyed immediately. He kneeled beside him with the automatic elegance of someone who has been trained to react in an instant. Jorge snapped his fingers, and the young man stood up in the examination posture: hands clasped behind his head, legs apart at the right angle, elbows back. Perfect. It was like flicking a switch; no doubts, no hesitations.

Jorge contemplated him with pleasure. He liked to see how Álex's body offered itself without reservation, how discipline had shaped his reflexes to turn him into the precise creature he now had before him. A slight shiver ran down his back, excited by the slave's tongue caressing his anal opening.

Víctor continued with his task, oblivious to everything, devoted only to his duty, still a virgin in the ass, like his brother. His tongue explored every fold with disciplined devotion, with the precision of a ritual that didn't need words. And he knew how to do it well. Not as well as his brother, that was true; Néstor had more smoothness, more grace, more innate skill, but Víctor compensated with his iron determination. Still, Jorge knew that it was precisely this, eating his ass, what Víctor liked least to do. And that's why he chose him. A slave must obey with greater dedication what disgusts him, because pleasing in what he likes has no merit.

As he indulged in pleasure, Jorge pondered. His mind returned time and time again to the same idea, testing it, savoring it like a strong wine that he still wasn't sure he liked: using both brothers at the same time, penetrating one while the other penetrated him. What if he reversed the roles? What if he fucked Víctor, the dominant soul, and let himself be possessed by Néstor, so submissive? In theory, it made sense. But in practice... the idea of being penetrated did not excite him. It wasn't rejection, nor desire: it was simple indifference. Maybe, if he let go, he would end up enjoying it. Or maybe not.

And then there was Martín. Martín was an enigma he hadn't yet solved, a crack in his absolute dominance. That slave bore forever on his skin the indelible mark of his possession, and he knew he was now more submissive and devoted than ever. Jorge liked it, and he liked it too much. But Jorge couldn't afford the weakness of forgetting what had happened; he wouldn't forgive so soon. He couldn't give in too much.

Each of his slaves had their place, their function, their role in that game of desire and submission. Álex, for example, no longer aroused passion in him. His beauty was unquestionable, his obedience impeccable, but the fire between them had extinguished. He used him for bathing, for the most intimate tasks, for translating orders to the newcomers. But nothing more. And Álex knew it. He suffered it. He yearned for a caress, a sign that he still mattered, that his body was still worthy of desire.

But that dawn, while Víctor continued with his tongue working in the darkness, Jorge had a revelation. An idea so obvious that it seemed ridiculous not to have thought of it before.

He signaled Álex to approach to receive a new mandate. Álex, erect and expectant despite the pain in his muscles from maintaining the examination position for so long, approached his owner.

—Order the twins to stand up.

Álex transmitted the order with his clear and submissive voice. The two slaves stood up immediately, firm before their master. Jorge sat on the edge of the bed and watched them with delight. They were magnificent. Identical and different, broken mirrors reflecting the same beauty in opposite fragments.

—Let them kiss —he ordered, his voice wrapped in honey and steel—. But not in any way. Let them devour each other.

And he stayed to watch.

The astonishment was reflected on the twins' faces, and with it, a barely contained repulsion. But obedience was their law, and there was no escape. They turned towards each other, hesitant, and with visible effort, they kissed, standing as they were. Their lips met in a touch that was meant to be fiery, but was only the echo of a forced order. There was no pleasure in that contact, only tension, only the weight of a submission that was becoming increasingly rough. Their arms awkwardly sought a close embrace, as if they needed it to avoid being thrown in opposite directions. It was evident that they avoided touching their genitals, and they did not touch in too intimate areas.

Jorge smiled. He wasn't going to settle for that.

—Have one penetrate the other in my bed —he said, in the calm voice of someone who disposes of another's will as if it were a toy.

Álex relayed the order, feeling in his flesh the shame of being a mere channel for the humiliation.

Néstor, with an expressionless face, crawled to the bed and got on all fours. His member, shrunk by anguish, was barely a shadow of itself. Víctor, on the other hand, tried to force an erection, masturbating with awkward determination. He was ready to comply, though every fiber of his being protested against it.

But Jorge had not finished playing yet. He waited for the exact moment: when Víctor's glans, still halfway between flaccidity and firmness, touched his brother's entrance. Then, he spoke.

—No, not like this. Let Néstor be the one to fuck Víctor.

Time seemed to break. A long and agonizing beat in which Víctor's body tensed like a string about to tear. His breath became erratic, his skin burned with the fever of shame. Néstor, for his part, paled. His sex still did not respond, and now the weight of the order became an impossible challenge.

They tried. They exchanged positions. They awkwardly caressed each other, they kissed with a desperation alien to desire, they licked each other in a feverish attempt to awaken something in their flesh that refused to obey. But the more they urged themselves, the more their own bodies betrayed them.

The silence became heavy, sharp. They knew their Master watched them impatiently. And then, desperation drove them to the worst possible mistake: they tried to deceive him.

Víctor pretended moans, his voice trembling in a false cry of pain. Néstor closed his eyes and twisted his face in a crude imitation of ecstasy. But they didn't know who they were playing with.

Jorge watched them calmly, unmoving, without blinking. He had seen too much. He could distinguish, with the precision of an expert, the flesh that surrendered from the one that only pretended to do so. He had learned this in years of virtual sex, of pornography distilled to the smallest detail. Nobody could deceive him on that.

Although, deep down, he would have never allowed Víctor to be deflowered by anyone other than himself. Nor Néstor. Nor any of his slaves. The order had just been another game. Another ruse to remind them, with each heartbeat, who was the master of their bodies and their destinies. But, game or not, he wouldn't allow any lies in his slaves.

—Bring two stocks and the brazier with coals to heat the iron until it burns! —ordered Jorge firmly; and Álex, without hesitation, ran off, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway in search of the men who were responsible for such tasks.

Víctor and Néstor felt the weight of reality fall on them like a slab when they heard their Master's spiteful tone; they didn't need to know the meaning of his words to understand that their deception had been clumsy. Insufficient. On their knees, with their chests choked in sobs and their eyes flooded with tears, they silently pleaded, with trembling naked bodies and hands clenched in a plea that dared not rise too high.

They expected a torturer. A leather and whip executioner to tear their skin until their very bones pleaded for mercy. But when they saw the stocks and the lit brazier arrive, an even deeper terror froze their blood. They understood without explanation. They understood at the exact moment when the reddish glow of the coals illuminated their faces.

No order was necessary. Without resistance, with submission already engraved in their muscles, they approached the restraints and offered their wrists and neck to be held. The rings and fasteners closed.

Jorge observed the scene with a calm that bordered on indifference. He calculated the time. There was still a long way to go before the iron reached its point of incandescence. A time in which nothing they did, neither pleas nor screams, would change their fate.

He yawned. He settled on the bed cushions with the laziness of a satisfied man. And, without a second glance at the bodies chained at his feet, he fell into a tranquil, deep sleep, as if what was to happen later was but an unimportant formality.

Little over an hour later, he opened his eyes and saw that the red-hot iron seemed ready. He instructed Álex to fetch it and show it to him; indeed, it emitted a golden, almost yellow light.

—Have Martín suck my cock —he commanded the slave to prepare Víctor's penetration, who was to be the first of the brothers to have his ass marked forever. The now favorite slave applied himself slowly to carry out the order; with his hands crossed behind his back, he stuck out his tongue and caressed the head of his owner. His firm lips embraced the gland, still flaccid. Jorge took the opportunity to release a few drops of urine he had inside, which the slave slid inside thanking him with sincere eyes. He gently began to suck his Master's supreme scepter, and far from experiencing any rejection, he noticed that his heart was pounding with excitement as he felt it getting erect, because it was for him, for a slave who now had a name; his Master, his owner, his god, was showing him that he liked what he was doing, him, an unworthy worm who had insulted his master by coming without permission. He would never do it again, he preferred to be castrated on command. Jorge's penis reached the hardness he desired; he withdrew it.

Once it was well shaped, he approached the stocks. He had the slave who was to be scorched moisten his five fingers in his mouth; once done, he pulled them out and gave him a resounding slap. Víctor began to mutter some words and Jorge asked Álex with his eyes.

—He begs for forgiveness and punishment, Master —was the response.

Jorge repeated the slap and then thrust his penis into the slave's throbbing mouth; the penis hardened even more. Without delay, he surrounded the stocks and inserted his member into the young man's anal sphincter, who did his best to relax; he felt sad and regretful. Although he was almost completely immobilized, he could still mildly move his ass, and overcoming the pain, he tried to synchronize with his Master's thrusts, also saying with a voice Jorge found sexy and manly:

—Thank you Master... thank you Master... thank you Master...

Jorge lasted quite a while; Víctor's ass was very tight, imprisoning his member without loosening, but at a certain point, he noticed that it was lubricating significantly; he moved more quickly and noticed that his penis went all the way in well; now he paused briefly to tighten with all his might; that's where it hurt, a lot.

Víctor received his master's cock with full humility, aware of the blessing it was, remorseful and submissive for having disobeyed and, what's worse, having been false. Hopefully his Master was enjoying as much as he was suffering.

At one point, Jorge noticed he was about to climax without remedy. He looked at Álex, already prepared with the glowing iron in hand:

—Now slave! Mark him!

He had moved a bit, leaving the right cheek of the sibling defenseless. This time the iron made a clear hissing sound, and it sank a bit further than with the brute and Martín; there was also more smoke and a more intense smell of burnt flesh.

The slave felt a sharp pain and screamed so much that he injured his throat. Jorge ordered the iron to be removed when he was about to climax; Victor was shaking with desperation, still howling. He was the third marked slave, counting the brute. His brother Néstor whimpered, trembling because he knew he was next; Jorge pulled out his penis, still almost erect, and wiped it on the crying brother's mouth; he saw that the ungrateful just licked and kept whimpering. He glared at him and gave him a tremendous slap as soon as he pulled out his cock from his mouth. Then he heard him say:

—Thank you Master, I am your slave.

He was going to fuck him by marking him, but now he was going to take a little nap.

In the meantime, Víctor kept howling unable to contain the pain. His ass was visibly changing color and swelling. Jorge had a great idea: he urinated on the steaming ass of the slave, trying to bring him closer to the mark; the slave felt some relief at the contact with the liquid, which provided freshness and stinging sensation at the same time.

After ordering Álex to clean up the mess, he lay on the bed and called Martín to his side; the old Russian obeyed, submissive and humble, with tears rolling down his beautiful face. The new slave softly licked his nipples and Jorge indulged in caressing the mark on his ass, still raw.

He instructed Álex to gag Víctor to not hear his cries while enjoying Martín's attention.

How fascinated he was with Martín. His presence was a monument to masculinity, far above Víctor and undoubtedly Néstor. The three had learned to love their Master from the moment they were purchased, but in Martín, the feeling took a different dimension. It was not just submission, nor even simple devotion: he idolized him. Jorge represented for him the embodiment of everything a man should be—mature, self-assured, absolute master of his own destiny and that of others—and he, Martín, had the privilege of making him happy.

The fact that his Master had chosen him first to receive his mark was not at all experienced as a punishment; it was more than an honor: a destiny. Yes, now Víctor also had it, and soon Néstor would join that indelible bond. But he, Martín, had been the first. That meant something. He knew that with time other personal slaves would come, that his lord's harem would expand, but he was determined to occupy a unique place, to be more than a mere servant among many. Because he not only served his master; he understood him, he venerated him. And above all, he loved him.

When Jorge kissed Martín, the whole world dissipated like mist at dawn. Nothing existed beyond the warmth of his skin, the brush of his breath, the way his slave abandoned himself with absolute surrender. Martín was not only beautiful: his chiseled body exuded masculinity, strength, a promise of resistance broken only before his master. Every tensed muscle at the service of a pleasure that was not his, every stifled moan in the dimness of the alcove, was a silent tribute to Jorge's will.

He was learning Spanish with the urgency of someone eager to comprehend every last word of his master, as if language itself were another form of surrender. Álex was teaching him, drowning his own jealousy in the blind devotion he felt for his lord. And he did it well, also talking about likes and preferences; now Martín not only knew how to better respond to Jorge, but how to whisper with the exact cadence that turned his desire into an uncontrollable storm. He knew what caress would provoke a shiver, what word to murmur in his ear when pleasure climaxed.

Jorge let his fingers run over Martín's marked skin, pausing on the still inflamed imprint of his seal. The flesh vibrated under his touch, an echo of pain and submission intertwined. Martín did not tremble: he offered his body with silent pride, with the dignity of one who knows that his surrender is his greatest treasure.

He lay on the sheets, his legs barely open, his breath contained in a thread of anticipation. Every touch with the silk was an exquisite torment, a constant reminder of his recent ceremony. His flesh burned, pain danced with desire, and when Jorge inserted his fingers inside his ass, the groan that escaped his lips was the purest form of surrender.

In the dimness of the alcove, where the air was thick with the scent of wood, incense, and sweat, the battle of caresses continued. Like a sacred dance, a ritual in which each touch was a vow, each moan, a prayer.

At a certain point, Jorge heard a plea from Martín's lips.

—Whip me, Master. I am your slave. Whip me, I beg you.

Jorge was driven mad by desire. He took a leather whip that always lay at the head of the bed while Martín positioned himself, lying on his back.

Swoosh! Swoosh!

The whip cracked against the slave's chest, against his perfect abdomen, against his marble thighs.

With a gesture, he ordered him to turn around and lie face down, his muscular ass displaying the brand freshly imprinted. Just looking pained him, marred so clearly and irre